Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  As the British officers left the tent, each slowed to peer south across the big road junction. The sounds of their own soldiers prowling the streets of Trenton drifted to them on the night air, and each of them reached to turn up his overcoat collar against the north breeze that was becoming steadily colder. They slogged through the hardening mud to their horses with one unspoken thought in each of their minds.

  Will he be there in the morning?

  South and east of them, across the Assunpink, out of range of the British cannon, General Washington stood at the head of a long conference table in the library of the two-storied home where General St. Clair had established his headquarters. Before him sat his general officers, keenly aware that Washington was impatient with the late arrival of Brigadier General Arthur St. Clair. They sat in silence, tightlipped, eyes diverted, waiting.

  Nothing could be more clear to them than the fact General Washington had brought the Continental army to a place that had become a death trap. With a powerful British force at the other end of Trenton, poised to crush them to oblivion at any moment, each officer was harboring dark questions about the judgment of their commander in chief. They turned at the sound of horses approaching, and moments later a sturdy rap came at the door.

  General Washington spoke. “Enter.”

  Major Robert Harrison, a new officer on his staff, opened the door to announce, “Sir, General St. Clair has arrived.”

  “Show him in.”

  St. Clair took the empty chair on the near side of the table and turned towards Washington, waiting, and Washington did not hesitate.

  “We have little time. General Cornwallis and most of his force is camped on the small rise at the north end of Trenton. He has five thousand five hundred seasoned troops with about twenty-eight cannon, and two thousand five hundred more men in reserve, all of them ready to fight. We have twelve hundred seasoned troops, with about three thousand four hundred green militia who have never seen battle.” He paused to let the information settle into the officers.

  “Cornwallis is going to attack. The only question is, when? Should he attack now or in the next few hours, we will be hard-pressed to survive.”

  He stopped to unfold a map and spread it on the table, and nodded to General John Cadwalader. “General Cadwalader made this map based on information received from reliable spies. It shows all of the roads between here and Princeton, and how the British were disbursed until this morning when General Cornwallis marched out. Take a little time to make yourselves familiar with it.”

  He stopped. The clock on the mantel ticked steadily in the silence as the officers intently studied the rough drawing. Then, one by one, they leaned back in their chairs and turned once again to General Washington.

  “We must decide. Shall we remain here? Or shall we retreat down the Delaware and hope to cross into Pennsylvania somewhere? Or shall we try to find a way to take the initiative—to attack them?”

  Dead silence settled. Sullivan leaned forward. “Sir, did I understand you correctly? You’re suggesting we attack them?”

  “That has been in my mind for some time.”

  St. Clair interrupted. “Surprise them at Brunswick or Princeton? They would never expect it.”

  Washington nodded. “I’ve had a patrol of Philadelphia Light Horse and two scouts around Princeton for two days reporting on British strength and movement. General Cornwallis didn’t leave much of a force behind to defend Princeton. There are substantial stores kept there—food, clothing, munitions.

  He paused and an intensity came into his being that struck an awe into the officers. “Our victory at Trenton shocked the British, but far more important, it lifted the spirit of our countrymen beyond anything we could have hoped. An attack now would not only avoid the appearance of a retreat, it would add to what is already a tremendous surge of commitment to the cause of liberty.”

  Again he paused, and no one moved or spoke as he went on. “Let me direct your attention to the map.” He laid a forefinger on the spread paper. “We are here, with Trenton just across the creek, here.” His finger shifted as he spoke. “North of Trenton is the Princeton Road, which is the one used by General Cornwallis to get here today. Over here to our right, east of us, is the Quaker Road. It also connects Princeton and Trenton. Princeton Road is the better of the two roads, but Quaker Road is passable. It runs here, easterly past Sand Town, then angles north here, across Miry Run and past the Barrens. It crosses a road here, and then crosses the Assunpink here, before it angles westerly a bit, on towards Princeton, where it crosses Stony Brook, here.”

  He paused in the silence and waited until every eye was on him. Then he tapped the map.

  “The single most critical factor in any assault we may make on Princeton is right here.”

  Each man half-rose from his chair to pore over the place where Washington’s forefinger had come to rest.

  “About nine hundred yards after Quaker Road crosses Stony Brook, you see that the road forks, here. The left fork continues on nearly due north, parallel to Stony Brook, to connect with the Princeton Road, here, just north of Worth’s Mill.” He retraced the road, back to the fork. “The right fork of the road, here, angles off to the northeast, and proceeds behind three prominent farms, across Frog Hollow Ravine, and on into Princeton. The farms are owned by Thomas Clark, William Clark, and Thomas Olden.”

  Once again he paused for a moment. “Now, notice. By coming behind these three farms, the road is also behind all the fortifications, all the breastworks, all the gun emplacements built by the British, and there is a large stand of trees that hides the road from almost everything to the west. This road will allow us to bypass most of the British defenses and troops undetected, and still reach Princeton.”

  The officers raised their heads, eyes narrowed as the stunning realization reached into them.

  He intends to attack Princeton!

  “In the past few days I’ve talked with Colonel Joseph Reed, Philemon Dickinson, and General St. Clair about the feasibility of using the route I’ve just shown you to reach Princeton. Each of them is familiar with the area, and agreed it could be done.”

  General St. Clair nodded his head once.

  “I’ve also asked a few of the local residents to be here tonight to answer questions about the idea.” He turned to his aide. “Major Harrison, are they here?”

  “Yes, sir. Waiting.”

  “Show them in.”

  They entered the room hesitantly, five civilians in a military world, keenly aware of their lack of proper military protocol. They felt the tension in the room, and stood with nervous eyes darting from one officer to another, finally settling to stare at General Washington, wishing they were home among their own.

  “Thank you for coming. I have asked you here because we need some critical information you may have about the nearby countryside. Perhaps the best way to proceed is to let my staff of officers pose questions.”

  They began immediately. What are conditions on Quaker Road at this moment? Will it support cannon? wagons? What obstructions? Is it flooded at any place? Have you seen any British soldiers on Quaker Road today? yesterday? Are the bridges passable? Is the road east of the Clark and Olden farms shielded by trees?

  One at a time the local farmers answered. Quaker Road was muddy when we came in this evening. Cannon and wagons will have trouble with the mud unless the weather changes. It is not flooded. There were no British soldiers on the Quaker Road today, or yesterday. The bridges are all passable. The road behind the three farms is not generally visible from the west.

  The questions ceased and General Washington brought his full attention to bear on the group of farmers. “Should we decide to march to Princeton, would you consider acting as our guides?”

  For a moment all movement in the room ceased. The officers turned startled eyes to Washington, stunned at what he had revealed to the civilians without first stating it openly to them. The five farmers stared at Washington while their minds went nu
mb. Guide the Continental army on a night march to Princeton?

  One of the farmers stammered, “Sir, uh, our wives and families—they won’t know.”

  “I’m sorry for that. We need you.”

  The men looked at one another for a moment, shrugged, and turned back. “We will do it.”

  A sigh escaped the officers. Washington turned to Major Harrison. “Would you see to it these men receive a good supper and are allowed to rest until further notice? And bring in the two scouts.”

  Harrison led the five civilians out, down the hallway, to a sergeant at a desk in the parlor. Major Harrison spoke. “The general has ordered these men fed and given a place to rest until further orders.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  Harrison turned and walked back down the hall to a small room next to the library, and opened the door. Billy and Eli stood as the door swung open.

  “General Washington is waiting.”

  They left their weapons behind and followed Harrison back into the library. They both quickly glanced at the officers, then faced General Washington. The officers stared at Eli’s beaded buckskin shirt for a moment.

  “Gentlemen, I present Corporal Billy Weems and Private Eli Stroud. They spent the last two days scouting between here and Princeton. I have a few questions.”

  He nodded to Billy. “Did you see General Cornwallis march his force into Princeton from Perth Amboy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he disperse any of his command on Quaker Road?”

  “No, sir. There were about one thousand, and they all marched on into Princeton.”

  He shifted to Eli. “When General Cornwallis marched out of Princeton, did he disperse any of his troops east, towards Quaker Road?”

  “No. He left about a thousand on the south edge of Princeton, and another fifteen hundred at Maidenhead. None went east to Quaker Road.”

  Washington tapped the crude map at the fork of the Quaker Road, above Stony Brook. “Do you recognize this area?”

  Eli studied it for a moment. “Yes.”

  “Can the right fork of this road be seen from the west?”

  Eli’s answer was firm. “Not right there. There’s trees and a few low hills on the west side of the road. Further north there’s a place or two where someone on the Princeton Road could see, but not at the fork.”

  For a moment Washington lowered his face to stare at the table. “What were weather conditions outside when you entered this building?”

  Eli answered. “There’s a cold north wind rising. The mud’s setting up hard right now. If the wind holds I expect by midnight it’ll be frozen solid out there.”

  Washington turned to his officers. “Do you have any questions?”

  There were none.

  A hush settled over the room for a moment before Washington spoke again. “Thank you. You are both dismissed.” He turned to Major Harrison. “Would you show these men out?”

  As they stepped out the back door into the chill of the rising north wind, Billy turned to Eli, eyes wide in the darkness. “He intends marching on Princeton, probably tonight!”

  Eli nodded. “The way he was asking about Quaker Road, and the right fork up above Stony Brook, it sure sounds like it.”

  Behind them, inside the conference room, Washington again faced his officers. “Let me be blunt. We will be defeated if we remain here. We cannot cross the river. Our only choice is to move. If we move, we have only two choices. Go southwest along the Delaware and hope to find a place to cross the river, or move northeast around General Cornwallis’s forces and attack Princeton. The risks are about the same no matter which way we go because we will be a marching army, which as you all know is very nearly a defenseless thing.”

  He stopped and for a split second his officers saw the deep anxiety in his eyes. “The question is, can we move northeast without being detected? I think we can. If we leave a small command of men here with orders to keep large fires burning all night, make a show of going out on patrol, and create considerable noise digging trenches, I believe we can deceive the British with the illusion that our entire force is still here. The men left behind will stop just before dawn and come to join us.”

  Again he stopped for a moment while his officers sat in rapt silence.

  “If we wrap the wheels of the cannon carriages with blankets and canvas, and if the ground freezes as I expect, they can be moved quietly. The heavier baggage wagons that will make noise can be sent down to Burlington where General Putnam will cross them over to Pennsylvania and safety.”

  Washington waited while comments went around the table.

  “There’s terrible risk. If the British discover we’re no longer here, or if one of their patrols happens onto us while we’re on Quaker Road, they’ll have cannon and cavalry there before we can set up any appreciable defenses. If we have to fight Cornwallis’s entire command in open country without trenches and breastworks, we will be defeated. I want no man here to think otherwise. If we agree to do this, we could lose everything. Everything.”

  Washington stopped. Tall, dominant, his face was set like granite, eyes glowing like blue-gray flecks of light. A strange feeling came creeping into the officers around the table, and they eased back against their chairs, silent, vaguely aware something rare was happening. The room seemed charged with a quiet spirit. It rose above their fears, their deep anxieties, to settle their minds. They were awed by the sure conviction that powers far beyond those of men were in motion.

  St. Clair broke the silence. “It’s obvious we can’t remain here, and if we have to move, it might as well be to attack. That’s the last thing they expect. It can be done.”

  Washington asked quietly, “Are we agreed?”

  “We are.”

  “Then let us work out the details of your commands, and your orders.”

  At midnight, over ground frozen solid by a frigid north wind, one hundred fifty baggage wagons, together with three of the heaviest cannon, rumbled away from Trenton, southwest towards Burlington. Five hundred men fed split fence rails to great fires along the south bank of the Assunpink, then bowed their backs into digging trenches with picks and shovels while the north wind whipped the vapor from their faces. With a black sky dimly lit by a few stars, the rebel army began slipping away, light infantry leading, and a company of Philadelphia militia following. The cannon, with wheels wrapped for silent travel, moved next, followed by General Hugh Mercer’s brigade.

  Colonel John Haslet walked beside Mercer’s horse. Haslet’s legs were swollen and painful from nearly freezing during the crossing of the Delaware on Christmas night. In his pocket were written orders from General Washington, relieving him from combat duty to return to Delaware to recruit a fresh regiment. Haslet had requested permission to stay with the army for just one more battle, and Washington had consented.

  Behind Mercer’s brigade marched St. Clair’s brigade, then General Washington, followed by the bulk of the army. Three companies of Philadelphia Light Horse infantry brought up the rear. So silently had the army left the banks of the Assunpink that some of the American rear guards and sentinels were unaware when they passed.

  On the north side of the creek, a British patrol crept close to the Queen Street bridge to peer south at the American fires in the freezing darkness. The sergeant watched for a time, then moved his patrol east more than a hundred yards along the creek bank and whispered to his corporal, pointing.

  “See ‘em diggin’ over there in the firelight? Hear ‘em? Won’t do ‘em much good in the mornin’ when we come marchin’.”

  In full, freezing darkness the civilian guides led the Americans past the five log buildings of Sand Town and moved on northeast, then angled north to cross the bridge that spanned Miry Run. One mile later they marched past the wastelands called the Barrens, then continued on to cross the Quaker Bridge over a branch of the Assunpink Creek. Yesterday’s mud was frozen solid as rock. Strips of blankets wrapped around feet were soon torn lo
ose and unraveled. Once again blood lay in the places where the soldiers walked.

  Where the road had been cut through groves of trees, the stumps were invisible traps. Cannon wheels thumped to a halt when they struck a stump, and the men who followed, unable to see either the stump or the stalled gun, stumbled into them. The soldiers fell time and again, but rose wearily to back the gun up to work past the stump, hoping to see the next one in time.

  Horses slipped on the icy ground. Some fell. Two broke legs and threw their heads, voicing their pain. Instantly soldiers were all over them, clamping their muzzles shut to silence them while others quickly cut each suffering animal’s throat; they dared not fire a musket to end the pain more quickly. They stayed on the animals until they were no longer moving, then moved on.

  Men marching a short distance from the column broke through ice on small ponds and in low places. They thrashed on through, soaked sometimes over their heads, and continued the march, clothing freezing stiff as they went.

  Colonel Edward Hand’s command had fought the delaying action against Cornwallis the entire previous day, and with no rest was marching, exhausted. Cadwalader’s command, along with Mifflin’s command, had endured a forced march the previous night, and were now in their second night of marching with no sleep. Fatigued, bone weary, they plodded on. When a cannon jolted to a stop against a hidden stump, men fell asleep in the few minutes it took to free the gun. Nearby soldiers lifted them to their feet and helped them stumble on.

  Sergeant Joseph White, who had rescued his beloved cannon from the battle at Trenton, was walking beside his big gun with Captain Benjamin Frothingham at his side. Three times in one hour, White fell asleep while walking, and tumbled to the frozen ground. Each time, Frothingham set him back on his feet. “Sergeant, you are the first person I ever see sleep while marching.”

  Just before three A.M. a whispered rumor spread like wildfire. “We’re surrounded by the British!” Sixty raw militia in Mifflin’s command gasped in terror, and without a word broke from the column, pounding off into the frozen countryside running east, then back south, hoping to reach Philadelphia before the redcoats or the dreaded Hessians caught them. Those remaining in the column listened until there was no more sound, then turned their faces north and continued their struggle in the night. Those who fled were never seen again.