by Ron Carter
The men circling the fire watched him go, and they swallowed hard and avoided meeting the eyes of each other as the brothers disappeared in the milling throng. A shouted order brought their heads up and they saw the gold braid on the tricornered hat of a major striding towards them through the litter, and they fell silent to listen as he cupped his hand to his mouth to shout again.
“General Washington just arrived! Move back! Get away from the river, over the rise. The British will be in Trenton in one hour with cannon. Back! Move!”
Every eye moved up and down the riverbank looking for Washington, but he was not to be seen in the chaotic disarray of six thousand soldiers and their gear and weapons, and the shoulders of every man on the riverbank slumped. Enough British cannon on the far bank could cut them and everything they had to pieces in half an hour.
Billy drew a great breath and brought his head up. “Let’s get at it. Muskets and blankets first. We can’t fight without muskets, or if we’re frozen dead.”
One man, bearded, dark, surly, his tattered light summer jacket hanging from thin shoulders, raised his face. “You an officer?”
Billy shook his head. “No. Corporal Billy Weems, Boston Regiment, Company Nine.”
The man shook his head and tried to speak, but could not, and he tried again. “Can’t go no farther.” Suddenly a sob racked his body and he turned on Billy, his voice rising hysterically as he spoke. “You got no right givin’ orders—no right—I’m from North Carolina and you got no right—” Suddenly his hand was under his coat and then it was raising a knife and, wild-eyed, he lunged at Billy.
Billy’s movement was a blur as he caught the upcoming hand just behind the wrist and his fingers closed like a vise. He reached with his other hand to take the knife from the numb fingers and throw it into the snow. A high, thin, choking whine came from the man as he jerked to free himself, and he raised his other hand to tear at Billy’s throat. Billy caught it and stood there, face-to-face with the man, who wrenched his body to break away. Billy stood solid, holding both hands, waiting while the man slowly settled, and his head tipped forward, and his whole body began to shake, racked with silent sobbing.
Those nearest had backed away, startled, staring wide-eyed, and they watched as Billy slowly lowered the man’s hands and let them go. Billy reached to pick up the knife from the snow, and he slipped it back into the belt sheath and straightened the filthy, ragged coat. He picked up a rolled blanket and tucked it under the man’s arm, then caught the straps on three knapsacks, and quietly spoke to the man who stood beaten in body and soul with tears frozen on his cheeks and in his beard.
“Come on,” Billy said quietly. “I’ll help.”
Billy lifted the man’s arm around his own shoulders, slipped his free hand around the man’s waist, and started west, through the crusted snow, half carrying the man who clutched the blanket under his arm and stumbled along beside Billy. The others followed, and the south end of the camp was moving. They dropped the baggage in the snow behind the low rise that hid it from the river, and returned for the next load, eyes searching across the river for the British.
On the third trip back to the riverbank, Billy walked to the nearest cannon and gave some hand signals and nine men came and they lined up, five on each side. Two grasped the handles on each of the carriage trails and lifted, while two more seized the spokes in each of the fivefoot wheels, and the last two grasped the barrel. On Billy’s signal they turned the big gun around and started west up the slight incline when a nasal voice came twangy in the frigid air.
“All right, you lovelies, let’s hide these guns in the trees on the rise and get ready to give the British a welcome.”
Billy stopped dead in his tracks and turned. “Turlock? Sergeant Turlock?” He stood with his mouth gaping open as he stared, searching in the throng, and suddenly the bandy-legged, feisty little sergeant was there. Bearded and hollow-cheeked, his long hair was held back by a leather thong. His head was thrust through a hole in a blanket that was tied at his waist with rope, and his feet were bound in rags. The little man stopped to stare back at Billy, and suddenly his eyes opened wide.
“Weems! Billy Weems!” Billy heard the warm sound of recognition in the voice, and the men handling the cannon set the carriage trails on the ground. Billy strode quickly to Turlock and impulsively seized the little man by the shoulders.
“Sergeant! I thought… you’re not dead? Long Island?”
Turlock’s grin showed through his long, matted beard and his sunken cheeks crinkled as he grasped Billy’s arms. “No. Taken prisoner. You?”
“Crossed over to Manhattan with the army and been with it since. Captured? You got away?”
Turlock nodded. “Seen any of the rest of Company Nine?”
“No. Lost track of the whole regiment when we made our run from Fort Lee.”
“Where’s your friend? The Indian?”
Billy shrugged. “Eli? He’s not Indian, just raised by them. He took his rifle and left a few days ago. Doing something for General Washington—couldn’t say what. Hasn’t come back yet.”
Turlock backed up a step. “Looks like you missed a few meals, and forgot your winter clothes.”
Billy shook his head. “This is as bad as anything I ever saw. You’ve missed some meals yourself.”
Turlock shrugged. “Soldierin’ ain’t what it used to be.” He looked at the men waiting by the cannon and spoke to Billy. “Let’s get that thing set up. The British’ll be across the river before long.”
“You got orders?”
Turlock shook his head. “Can’t find an officer that’ll listen. If we hide ten or fifteen guns in the trees right at the crest of the rise to the west, and cut willows to cover them, we can stop the British long enough to buy an extra hour or two. Save some men and some of the baggage and food, what we have of it. If some officer doesn’t like it, I’ll talk to him.”
Billy turned back to the crew waiting at the cannon. “We’re going to move it up there”—he pointed—”right at the crest of the little rise and turn it towards the far bank of the river and cut willows to hide it. That way we can fire at them and pull it back where they can’t hit it.”
While they worked the heavy gun through the trees and snow to the crest of the incline, Turlock turned and barked orders to men near the next cannon, and minutes later it was moving west, while he moved on to the next gun. Half an hour later they had fourteen cannon spaced ten yards apart on the rim, wheels blocked, nearly hidden with cut willows and brush, each with a crew, hugging themselves for warmth, blowing on numb hands. Turlock set the sighting quadrant in the first barrel, motioned to Billy, and Billy twisted the heavy elevation screw at the rear of the cannon to lower the muzzle. Twenty minutes later they had all fourteen guns sighted in for eight hundred yards. Turlock shouted to the crews and they gathered behind the center cannon.
“Corporal Weems takes the cannon on the south end of the line, I take the one on the north. The rest of you stay with the one you’re assigned. I got them all sighted in to clear those islands in the river and hit the far bank up high, where we’ll first see their cannon. When you see them on the far bank, shout to clear our men from our field of fire so we don’t have to shoot over their heads. The idea is to let the British get their guns out in the open, and then we got to scatter their crews before they can get set or loaded. It’s too far for grapeshot, but not for cannister, so load with cannister. When you run out of cannister, load with solid shot and try to hit their guns. Don’t shoot until I do, and then pick your targets and load and fire as fast as you can. And don’t forget to sponge after every shot. We don’t need any dead or one-armed cannoneers.”
The gun crews walked back to their stations and stood peering in silence across the river, waiting, watching, calculating how much longer it would take to get all the equipment moved inland past the rim and into the woods, where British guns could not reach it. It seemed the American soldiers around them were moving at half-speed, and th
e gun crews found themselves mumbling under their breath, “Move. Move. Hurry!” while their eyes never left the far riverbank, and they continued making time calculations.
One more hour. Just one more hour.
At that moment the sound of a thousand voices rising along the riverbank brought their heads around, searching, and they saw General George Washington riding a long-legged bay gelding south at a canter, towards the ferry. The men had stopped for a moment to open a way for him, and he was calling to them as he rode, but he was too far from the cannon crews for them to understand the words. The men raised their fists in the air and answered, and he moved on, down to the ferry and stopped, then turned and retraced his path back to the north end of camp while all the officers broke away and trotted after him, gathering around him for orders.
The soldiers heard the British before they saw them. The sun was two hours high, turning the countless frost crystals on tree branches and willows into diamonds, when the militant sound of fife and drum came drifting across the Delaware. Instantly Billy and the other men on the fourteen cannon leaped forward shouting to the soldiers in front of them, “Clear out! Get out from in front. We’re going to open fire with cannon from here!”
It took ten seconds for the startled army to understand, and then they instantly grabbed what baggage they could and scattered, working west into the trees and timber, behind the cannon.
The first flash of brilliant red showed from across the river, and then the British were there on the southwest edge of Trenton, mixed with the blue-coated Hessians, wheeling their horse-drawn cannon forward to form a line on high ground away from the riverbank, where their shot would clear the low islands in the river. Turlock crouched behind his cannon, smoking linstock in hand, waited two seconds, then smacked the spark onto the touchhole. One second later the big gun bucked and roared, and three seconds later the other thirteen remaining guns thundered, and a pall of white smoke drifted into the clear blue winter sky. Turlock held his breath and watched long enough to see the spread of hundreds of one-inch lead cannister balls kick snow and dirt all around the cannon and British crews. For a moment the British army stood stock-still in astonishment as men groaned and staggered backwards, stumbling, falling, and a dozen horses went to their knees.
“Reload!” screamed Turlock, and fourteen wet sponges plunged down the cannon barrels to kill all lingering sparks, followed by the powder ladle, dried grass, and the next open-ended metal cannister tube stuffed with one-inch lead balls. Once again the smoking linstocks hit the touchholes, and the cannon roared and the shot whistled across the river to rip into the stunned British. They turned and scrambled back from their guns, looking for anything they could crouch behind to escape the onslaught.
Billy watched long enough to be certain the British crews had left their guns, then loaded a solid shot cannonball and crouched behind his cannon, lining it on a British gun carriage. His first shot plowed into the frozen ground twenty feet short, throwing snow and black frozen earth forty feet in the air. The second one smashed a wheel off the gun carriage, and the cannon dropped at a crazy angle and then came to rest on its side, muzzle buried in the snow and dirt. The other American gunners loaded solid shot and three more British gun carriages jumped and then settled, useless, axles or wheels broken and splintered.
While they were reloading, they saw the British roll more guns into sight. The Americans jammed cannister shot into their own barrels as they watched the white smoke billow from the cannon across the river, and then the British were straining desperately to pull their guns back, out of sight to reload and fire again.
The thought flashed in Billy’s mind—too fast, they didn’t have time to aim—and the Americans shoved their linstocks against the touchholes, and their own cannon roared as the incoming British cannonballs plowed into the frozen ground at the river’s edge, fifty feet short of the nearest Americans still moving their baggage and food stores inland. It threw clods and ice shards high, and then the sound of the cannon came rolling past.
The American cannon crews were standing bolt upright, holding their breath to see if their own cannister would reach the British before they could roll their cannon back out of sight, and in that instant the cannister shot struck. For a moment the British guns and crews disappeared in a shower of snow and dirt while all up and down the line redcoated men stumbled and dropped while others abandoned their guns and sprinted for cover. Billy and the American cannoneers were not aware they had thrust clenched fists into the air, nor did they realize they had raised a shout of defiance that reached across the river, and that it was swelled by the voices of hundreds of men who had paused in their frantic work long enough to watch the hated redcoats go down under the hail of cannister shot.
Billy glanced down the incline at the scrambling Americans and made an instant calculation—fifteen more minutes and our men will be clear—and at that moment Turlock’s high voice came cracking.
“Reload! Keep firing!”
They hit a rhythm, and the heat waves rose from the gun barrels into the frigid morning air. The British retrieved enough guns to fire sixty rounds, half of them cannister. One cannonball hit one of the great, empty stew kettles with a resounding clang and blew it wide open. One charge of cannister shredded an old, frayed tent, while one errant lead ball ripped through the coat of an American to leave a gray welt across his back, but it did not draw blood. There were no other injuries or damage as the last of the Americans scrambled over the low rise to safety.
“All right, you lovelies, cease fire and get these guns back!”
The gun crews grabbed their rammers and sponges, slammed the ammunition boxes closed, jammed the lids on the budge barrels of powder, grabbed the handles on the gun carriage trails and the spokes of the great wheels, and threw their backs into moving the big guns backwards, crunching through the snow, over the crest of the low rise, out of sight of the river and the British cannon beyond. They stopped and dropped their gear and slumped into the snow, fighting for breath as they lay on their backs, eyes closed, exhausted. Their breathing slowed and they sat up, all heads turning north at the sound of an incoming horse.
The rider reined in his horse, stiff-legged, slipping on the frozen ground and snow. He wore the gold braid of a major on his tricornered hat. His cape covered his shoulder epaulets. He held a tight rein on his horse, vapor rising from its nostrils as it worked its feet, wanting to run in the cold.
“Who fired the cannon? Colonel Knox wants to know. So does General Washington.”
Turlock was on his feet. “I was responsible, sir.”
“You an officer?”
“No, sir. Sergeant Alvin Turlock. Boston Regiment.”
Billy rose to stand beside Turlock as the major continued.
“Colonel Henry Knox is in command of those cannon. You knew that?”
“I didn’t know who was in command, sir. I lost track back at Long Island.”
“Lost track? How?”
“Captured. I just caught up yesterday.”
The major looked at the gun crews, exhausted, filthy, ragged, staring at him, waiting. He counted the cannon and straightened in his saddle, and Billy saw the surprise in his face. “Only fourteen?”
“That’s all we had time for, sir.”
“Against more than sixty?”
“We weren’t counting, sir.”
The major looked past the cannon, at the remains of the Continental army, sitting on their baggage or in the snow, trying to find the strength to rise and start fires and search to see if their blankets and knapsacks were among those that got over the rise. He looked back at Turlock.
“Who gave you orders?”
“No one, sir. Things was pretty mixed up and I couldn’t find no officer to get orders, so I just gathered some men, and we covered our soldiers with the cannon while they got off the riverbank.”
The major hesitated and wiped at his mouth. “Colonel said to tell you next time get permission first.”
Turlock’s eyes were steady. “Sir, next time I’ll see if I can talk the British into waiting while I come find him.”
A faint smile flitted across the major’s face. “Maybe he’ll forgive it just this once.” His eyes dropped for a moment while he made up his mind. “General Washington said well done. Carry on, sergeant.” He reined his horse around and was gone. Turlock watched him ride out of sight before he turned back to Billy.
“Officers,” he grunted, and turned to the cannon crews. “You did good. Saved some men and gear. Get on back to your companies if you can find them.” He turned back to Billy.
“We better get firewood and …”
He got no further. Sixty British cannonballs tore crashing through the treetops above their heads, and men for five hundred yards dropped to the snow as the balls whistled on past to plow into the frozen ground one thousand yards farther west. Shattered tree limbs and branches came falling like rain, and then the sound of the big guns rolled over the rise while the echo rang up and down the river. Everyone remained on the ground motionless, peering up at the shattered treetops, and thirty seconds later the second volley came ripping to fall harmlessly more than a half mile distant, followed by the roar and the rolling echo.
Turlock recovered from the shock and stood, safely hidden by the rise in the ground. “Wastin’ powder and shot to try to scare us.” He shook his head.
Five more times the big British cannon blasted, and the trees above the heads of the crouched Americans shook as the heavy balls sent white shards and branches and even whole limbs showering. Then the heavy guns fell silent and Turlock moved to the rim to peer cautiously, Billy by his side. They watched as the red- and blue-coated soldiers across the river seized the trails and spokes of the gun carriages and moved the cannon away from the river, out of sight. They backed away from the rim before he rose to pound the snow and dirt from his coat. He studied the scattered litter of broken branches and limbs, and a wry grin showed in his beard as he looked at Billy.