Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  With the first gray of morning, Washington tapped spur to his mount and loped it forward beside the column, and reined in beside Mercer. He drew him to one side and quietly issued orders.

  “The bridge across Stony Brook isn’t far ahead. When we’re across and come to the fork in the road, take your command on the left fork. Go west to where the Princeton Road crosses Stony Brook and destroy the bridge. That should slow Cornwallis when he comes, and at the same time stop anyone from Princeton escaping to the south.”

  Mercer bobbed his head. “Yes, sir.”

  Washington rode back to his place beside his staff with deep concern nagging. How far behind is Cornwallis? Did he find out we were gone in the night? There should have been British patrols, but there are none. Why? Are we marching into an ambush?

  Doggedly he moved on with his column, every nerve singing tight as daylight came creeping. He drew out his watch and drew a deep breath.

  Past six A.M. Two hours behind schedule and we haven’t reached Stony Brook. We’ll have to take Princeton in broad daylight! Where’s Cornwallis?

  He slowly let out his held breath, but showed no outward sign of concern as they moved on.

  The sun broke above the eastern skyline clear and bright in a cloudless sky. A thick frost covered every blade of dried grass, every barren tree, every fence post and rail, sparkling in the brilliant light. The Americans crossed the Stony Brook bridge, and nine hundred yards north, General Hugh Mercer and his three hundred fifty men separated from the main column, marching left at the fork, while the army continued straight towards Princeton on the right fork of the road. General Washington watched Mercer’s men until the trees cut them off from view, then turned his horse and studied the roads south, watching for any movement that could be Cornwallis coming to trap them.

  There was nothing.

  Where is he? He has to know by now.

  At that moment, nine miles south, General Charles Cornwallis paused at the flap of his tent to be certain his gold-trimmed hat was cocked at the proper attitude, tugged briefly at the sleeves of his heavy overcoat, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the early shafts of golden sunlight. Frost crystals glittered everywhere, and for a moment he paused, struck by the beauty of the winter’s morn. His staff joined him as he strode to the crest of the hill and extended his telescope. He moved it slowly across the ridge of the Assunpink Creek at the south end of Trenton, lowered it, and the most peculiar expression his staff had ever seen crossed his face.

  Quickly he raised the telescope and once again glassed the enemy lines for more than a minute. Again he lowered the glass, and turned to General James Grant.

  “There isn’t an American cannon or a soldier in sight! Where have our patrols been all night?”

  “They’ve reported every hour. The rebels have been digging the entire night.”

  “Send a mounted patrol down there immediately. Have them report back to me. We’ll all wait.”

  They watched ten mounted cavalry race their horses the length of King Street, east to Queen Street, pound across the Assunpink Bridge, and wheel left, holding their racing pace for five hundred yards. The sergeant in charge pulled his mount to a sharp, sliding halt on the frozen ground, wheeled around, and returned to pull up before General Cornwallis. He was breathing heavily from his frigid run, his horse blowing hard.

  “Sir, they’re gone. Not a man, not a cannon, not a wagon in sight. Only fresh mounds of dirt all up and down the creek bank and fires still smoking. Their tracks go east to the Quaker Road.”

  Cornwallis threw both hands in the air. His face went white as the frost, then flushed red as he stammered for words that would vent his wrath. Beside him, Grant stared at the sergeant in disbelief, then barked, “Gone? What do you mean—gone?”

  “Gone, sir. There is nothing down there.”

  Cornwallis could hardly contain his fury. He clamped his jaw closed against his overwhelming need to condemn them both, turned on his heel and walked ten paces away to try to bring his rage under control. For ten seconds that seemed an eternity, Cornwallis’s staff stood in fearful silence, trying not to stare at him. His breathing became labored as he fought to force his brain to rise above the shock, and begin to function.

  Destroyed! He has destroyed me! Never in my military career has an enemy officer humiliated me as Washington has. With the king and the cabinet and the French and the whole world watching, he has made me appear to be an incompetent, blundering nin-compoop!

  A life filled with the habit of strict military discipline took over. Cornwallis turned on his heel and called out orders. “Form your commands into ranks immediately for marching double time! If we catch him before he reaches Princeton, we can still destroy him. Move!”

  Nine miles north of Cornwallis, on the Princeton Road south of Worth’s Mill, British Colonel Charles Mawhood sat straight in his saddle, his fresh officer’s uniform sparkling red and white in the brilliant sunshine of the beautiful winter’s morning. His black, goldtrimmed hat was tilted slightly over his right eye. He held a tight rein on his brown mare, who was feeling the lift in the mood of the day and wanted to run in the bright, frosty world.

  Mawhood felt good. The days and nights of agonizing tension following the catastrophic defeat at Trenton had ended with the arrival of an enraged General Lord Charles Cornwallis with his one thousand regulars and additional troops from Brunswick. When Cornwallis marched them all out of Princeton to pin Washington against the Delaware and destroy him and his rebel army, he had ordered Mawhood to remain behind with the seventeenth, fortieth, and fifty-fifth regiments to defend Princeton against any possible attack. With Cornwallis poised to annihilate Washington, a heady sense of relief pervaded the defenders of Princeton. Mawhood saw no need for night patrols, and had ordered them cancelled.

  There was no British patrol, not one British soldier watching the Quaker Road.

  Then, in the dark hours before dawn a messenger had ridden a tired horse into Mawhood’s camp to deliver new written orders from Cornwallis: Leave a small company of troops behind to defend Princeton, and bring the balance of your column down the Princeton Road to join our forces in our assault on the American lines.

  Mawhood had jubilantly leaped to his feet when he read the orders, and fairly bellowed, “We’re going to join General Cornwallis! We’ll have our moment!” He and his command were to become part of the grand battle that would end the war and be written gloriously in history books forever.

  Quickly he roused his officers. “General Cornwallis has ordered us to march to Trenton to join him. The fortieth regiment is to remain here to defend Princeton. The fifty-fifth and seventeenth regiments are to have finished breakfast and be in ranks, ready to march in one hour. Have the drummers sound reveille.”

  There was nearly a jaunty spirit among the regulars as they finished their breakfast and packed their knapsacks for the march. Clearly, the action would be a farce! Two hours of heavy cannon bombardment, then two volleys from five thousand muskets, and a bayonet charge down over the ridge across the Assunpink at all possible fords. Overrun the exhausted, ill-equipped, untrained farmer rabble that composed the American army. End the rebellion in one final, decisive, crushing collision of the two armies. Then it would be, “Pack your knapsacks, boys, and go home to England! The conquering heroes!”

  So buoyant had Mawhood been as he led his column south out of Princeton that he had allowed his two pet spaniels to follow for a distance, barking their joy at being free to run among the soldiers and nip at the hocks of the horses. Stepping lively on the freshly frozen ground, they marched southwest on the Princeton Road, past the farms of Thomas Olden, William Clark, and Thomas Clark, across the Stony Brook bridge, past Worth’s Mill in the ravine, and climbed the slight rise south of the mill. Mawhood had eyes only for the road ahead, and no reason, nor inclination, to glance either to his left or right.

  It was about ten minutes before eight A.M., January 3, 1777.

  A little over one mi
le nearly due east of Mahwood’s southbound column, American Major James Wilkinson, riding with General St. Clair and the northbound American column, caught a flash from his left, and turned in his saddle, eyes narrowed as he searched to the west. There! Again! Puzzled, Wilkinson reined in his horse to peer intently. He cupped his hands around his eyes to cut the sun’s glare off the patchy snow, and a moment later the flash came again.

  Wilkinson’s eyes popped wide. Sunlight off bayonets! Over a mile away. Mercer? Can’t be Mercer. Too far. He studied the movement, and his breath shortened. They’re going south—the wrong way! They’re British! Marching towards Trenton!

  At that moment he saw two dots break from the rear of the British column. The two mounted horsemen jumped their horses over a split rail fence, ran them down the gentle slope more than one hundred yards, and pulled them to a stop. They shaded their eyes with their hands, peering into the early morning sun. Then Wilkinson saw them spin their mounts and kick them back up the hill at stampede gait, straight for the officer leading the column.

  Mawhood heard the pounding of horses’ hooves at the same moment he heard the frantic shout, and turned to look. The two cavalrymen hauled their winded horses to a skidding halt and the one in the lead turned to point, arm extended, eyes wide.

  “Sir, there’s a rebel column moving north towards Princeton on the back road east of town.”

  Mawhood’s jaw dropped open for a split second. “What? Where?”

  “There, sir.”

  The entire British column had seen the two cavalrymen race their horses to the head of the column. They stopped in confusion as Mawhood shielded his eyes and peered east, into the sun, across the wooded hills and valleys until he saw the movement beyond the trees.

  “How many?” he asked the two riders. “Did you see exactly how many?”

  “No, sir. But it is a sizable force.”

  For three seconds Mawhood sat in his saddle while his mind raced. Who are they? Washington? the rebel army? Impossible. It has to be a smaller force. But who? How many? He peered back towards Princeton. The fortieth is back there alone in Princeton and they don’t know a force is coming at them. I can’t risk it.

  He pointed at the cavalryman nearest him. “Return to Princeton now, as fast as you can. Warn the fortieth regiment. Tell them we’re coming.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man slammed his spurs into the flanks of his horse and was gone.

  Mawhood stood in his stirrups to crack out orders to officers who stood wide-eyed, rooted for a moment. “Turn the column! Double-time back to Princeton! Move!”

  Tough British discipline rose above their surprise as the troops turned and started back down the hill they had just climbed, moving at double time.

  To the east, across the mile distance separating the two opposing forces, Major James Wilkinson called to General St. Clair. “Sir, there’s a British column moving north on the Princeton Road, double time. They were headed south until they saw us.”

  Instantly St. Clair’s head turned west, probing. “Have they seen Mercer?”

  “I doubt it, sir. There’s trees between him and them.”

  St. Clair’s response was instant. “There’s nothing we can do about it right now except move ahead. Mercer will take care of his command.”

  At that moment, General Hugh Mercer’s advance skirmishers, working through the trees at the side of the left fork of the road, saw Mawhood’s regulars for the first time, running across the Stony Brook bridge and up the slight incline back to Princeton. They stopped in their tracks, and Captain Markus Beebe turned to Sergeant Calvin MacHenry. “Get back to General Mercer as fast as you can and tell him the British are on the bridge, headed back towards Princeton on the double.”

  “Yes, sir.” MacHenry spun on his heel and ran back through the trees, crouched low, paying no heed to the branches that reached to snag his clothing and face. Mercer’s column, marching on the road, heard the thrashing in the trees and instantly dived from the roadbed into the brush and trees, rifles and muskets at the ready. They recognized the sergeant, and Mercer stood.

  “Sir, there’s a British column on the bridge right now, heading back towards Princeton on the run.”

  “How many? A patrol?”

  “No, sir. Several hundred. Maybe over a thousand.”

  Mercer looked west up the road while his mind raced. If the British are on the bridge, I can’t reach it to destroy it. Sullivan and St. Clair and Washington are to the east, a British column to the west, both moving north, and they’re going to collide somewhere up there. If the British get there first, they may be able to ambush our army. If I can catch the British and engage them, I might be able to hold them until Washington and the army can get set.

  “Sergeant, get back to Captain Beebe and tell him to catch up with us as fast as he can. We’re going to cut straight north and try to catch the British before they have a chance to attack our column to the west.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mercer turned and gave hushed orders to his officers. “There’s a British column on the bridge, headed for Princeton. We’re going to move straight north from here to try to catch them before they have a chance to attack our column to the west.” He turned to two of his scouts. “Go to the crest of that hill and try to locate Washington and St. Clair, then report back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mercer led his men due north, off the roadbed to a steep bank, sixty feet high. Snow that had partially thawed the previous day, then frozen overnight, covered the ground. He turned and called orders to the two cannon crews.

  “Get ropes on your guns and move them to the top of the bank.”

  Captain Benjamin Frothingham turned to Sergeant Joseph White. “Let’s go.”

  Captain Daniel Neil, commander of the other cannon and crew, turned to his men. “Get the ropes.”

  While the men struggled, slipping, sliding on the crusted snow, moving the two big guns up the steep bank, the two scouts reached the top and anxiously turned their faces to the east, searching for Washington and the main column. Suddenly one jerked his arm upward, pointing. “There! See them? That’s Sullivan’s command, and Washington’s right there behind.”

  “Let’s get back down and report.”

  As they turned, a movement ahead and slightly to their left caught their eye and they stopped. Five hundred yards away, near an apple orchard, sat a lone British cavalryman, looking straight back at them. For a moment that seemed forever, the two Americans and the lone British soldier stared at each other before the British regular jerked his horse around and galloped off towards the home of Thomas Olden, which lay where the Princeton Road made a slight, gentle curve to the right, directly towards Princeton.

  The British cavalryman caught up with Mawhood and brought his horse to a sliding halt. “Sir,” he panted, “there is an American force coming up on our rear. If we engage the American column to our right we could be caught in a trap.”

  Mawhood’s face went white. “How many?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Hundreds.”

  Mawhood’s shoulders slumped. What had been simple was suddenly complex, tearing him inside. If I turn on the Americans behind me, I leave the fortieth regiment without help to face the American column to the east, which is the bigger of the two. If I go forward to help the fortieth, I leave the force behind me untouched to attack me from the rear and give support to the Americans off to the east. What do I do?

  He set his jaw and shouted his orders. “Companies three, five, and six of the fifty-fifth, march on towards Princeton double time and support the men in the fortieth. The rest of you in the fifty-fifth and seventeenth, bring two cannon and follow me. We’re going after the Americans behind us.”

  He turned to Captain Truwin of the Philadelphia Light Horse Company. “Take your first and second companies and engage the force coming in behind us until we can get there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Truwin led his men out at a high lope, into the barren
fields and orchards of the farm of William Clark, then slowed to a canter, standing tall in the stirrups, watching for movement. It came suddenly.

  “There! Coming into that orchard! Americans with two cannon. Form a skirmish line and prepare to dismount and fire!”

  South of Truwin, Sergeant Joseph White and his cannon, with some of the advance skirmishers, was ahead of Mercer. A heavy stand of trees and a short, steep bank were between them, and they could not see each other. As White and those with him moved into the orchard, Captain Truwin shouted, “Fire!”

  The first British volley tore into the trees too high. Not one American was touched. White and those with him instinctively ducked as the musket balls whistled into the overhead branches, and they paused to peer at the enemy. The bright sunlight reflected off the British muskets and bayonets, and their breastplates, and it seemed to make the redcoated soldiers larger than life, striking an awe into the crouching Americans.

  The thunder of the first British volley reached Mercer and stopped him in his tracks. From his position he could not see the field of action and did not know which side had fired. Without hesitation he shouted, “Stop! Form a battle line and move forward, double time.” His command came over the hill, into the orchard, shooting as they ran forward to the picket fence at the edge of the fruit trees. Captain Truwin swallowed hard when he realized he was outnumbered, and when Sergeant White and Captain Daniel Neil wheeled their two cannon into place and loaded, Truwin shouted his next order.

  “Fall back. Keep firing.”

  Behind him, Colonel Mawhood’s command came pouring over a rise, and wheeled their two cannon into place forty yards from the two guns of White and Neil.