Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  “Fire!” shouted White, and the two American cannon blasted first.

  Cannister shot ripped into the British lines as Mawhood shouted, “Fire!” The British guns boomed back at the Americans.

  White smoke rose in the still morning air as the guns on both sides roared and the musket and cannister shot whistled. Mercer sat his big gray gelding, sword in hand, directing the fire of those near him while the British fire tore into the trees and brush and the American line all around him.

  Captain Truwin came dodging in from Mawhood’s right. “Sir, we’re outnumbered. We don’t have enough muskets and bayonets to hold the right flank.”

  As Truwin spoke, Mawhood shouted his orders. “Attack! Bayonet charge!” The entire British line, red coats and white breeches and belts bright in the sun, surged forward. In seconds they covered the forty yards separating the two lines and were in among the Americans, cursing, slashing with their bayonets, pounding with the iron-plated butts of the ten-pound Brown Bess muskets.

  Outnumbered, too few muskets, too few bayonets, the American line sagged back under the onslaught, and then it broke. Still mounted on his gray horse, Mercer rode among them, shouting, “Stop! Form a battle line!” He whipped them across their backs with the flat of his sword, but they dodged around him in their blind run from the din of the muskets and their fear of the flashing bayonets.

  Mercer heard the hit and felt the sick give as his big gray horse went down rolling, its right front leg broken by a British musket ball. Mercer hit the ground on his right side, his sword flying, and lay for a few moments, stunned, disoriented, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs before he struggled to his feet. He searched for his sword, then once again ran among his men, slapping them with the flat of it, shouting for them to stop and form a battle line, but there was no way to stop the rout. He was swept up with them, moving down the hill towards the William Clark farm.

  The British regulars, filled with a surging lust to avenge the loss of Trenton, saw their opportunity. They ran in among the rear ranks of the Americans, lunging with their bayonets, swinging their muskets, cursing, shouting, laying waste to every American they could reach. A young lieutenant, dragging a broken leg, tried to hide beneath a wagon near the farmyard. Two red-coated regulars jerked him out and held him while others drove their bayonets through him. Lieutenant Bartholomew Yeates, bleeding from a musket ball in his shoulder, turned to face the British as one redcoat clubbed him with his musket; he went down, where others plunged their bayonets into him thirteen times before they swept on.

  Captain John Fleming shouted to his Virginians, “Dress the line!” A British regular shouted back at him, “We will dress you,” and shot Fleming dead.

  With his sword still in his hand, General Mercer suddenly found himself alone, near the Clark barn, surrounded by shouting regulars. The British recognized him to be an officer, but with his heavy overcoat covering his shoulder epaulets, they did not know his rank. Some thought him to be General George Washington.

  “Surrender, you cursed rebel!” one shouted. Mercer ignored him, braced his feet and swung his sword at the nearest redcoat, then advanced, slashing with each step. They knocked his sword from his hand, then swung the butts of their muskets at him. One crushed his head and he dropped to his knees, unconscious, and the regulars drove their bayonets into him again and again. He toppled over onto his side and did not move, bleeding from his nose and ears, and from countless bayonet wounds. The regulars backed up and looked, then left him for dead while they plunged off to storm the two American cannon that had been wheeled into place.

  Captain Benjamin Frothingham and Captain Daniel Neil were frantically helping their two cannon crews load the guns and bring them to bear on the shouting mob of red-coated soldiers surging up the incline at them with bayonets lowered. Desperately Sergeant Joseph White slammed the rammer down the barrel to seat the charge of powder, jerked the rammer out, and reached for the ladle filled with grapeshot. British musket balls were spanging off the cannon amid the din of the oncoming regulars. Captain Frothingham was gauging time and distance, and he knew it was too late.

  “Stop!” he shouted to his crew. “Retreat! Leave the gun! Now!”

  White threw down the ladle and grabbed the two privates in his crew and shoved them ahead of him as he broke into a run. Frothingham drew his sword and waited until they were clear before he followed, sprinting to catch up.

  Captain Daniel Neil heard Frothingham’s shout and was giving the command to his own cannon crew to retreat when a British musket ball punched through his left arm. It twisted him sideways and backwards, and for a moment he clenched his teeth against the shock and pain. When he turned back, the first rank of charging regulars were a scant six feet from the muzzle of the gun.

  Too late!

  In the next five seconds, Captain Neil and his crew were dead on the ground. The regulars dragged their bodies aside and quickly swung the two American cannon around. Trained hands finished loading them, and brought them to bear on the backs of the Americans, who were running in chaotic retreat towards some woods near the home of William Clark, half a mile away. The two guns boomed and the grapeshot tore into the rebels. Colonel John Haslet, the last surviving American soldier of the proud First Delaware Regiment which had been disbanded December 31, 1776, had followed Captain Frothingham and Sergeant White in their retreat from the two cannon. In his pocket were the written orders of General Washington, relieving him of combat duty to return to Delaware to raise a new regiment.

  As Haslet approached the barn on the Clark farm, he slowed and turned to what remained of Mercer’s command. “Stop!” he shouted. “Form a battle line at the top of the slope! We can hold them if—”

  He never ended his sentence. A British musket ball struck him in the forehead and he dropped where he stood.

  Frothingham and White had reached the woods beyond the Clark farm and stopped for a moment, gasping for breath. They turned to look back at the battlefield, and stood transfixed. The Americans were in a wild, terrified stampede away from the advancing British, who were firing with every musket, bayoneting men who were wounded on the ground, and blasting grapeshot from their four cannon.

  “Where’s Sullivan? Cadwalader? Greene?” Frothingham cried in anguish. “They’ve heard the battle. Where are they?”

  To the northeast about one mile, General John Sullivan had continued his hurried march towards Princeton, when his advance skirmishers came galloping back. “Sir, there’s a major British force straight ahead, blocking us.”

  Sullivan looked north for a moment. “How far?”

  “Just over one-quarter mile.”

  “Have they seen us?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “No way to tell, sir. They’re in a battle line, like they’re waiting.”

  Sullivan considered for a moment. “We don’t know what we’re up against, so we will wait for—”

  At that moment the distant sound of muskets reached him as Mawhood’s regulars fired their first volley at Mercer’s command. Sullivan twisted in his saddle, peering back to the southwest while his entire column fell silent to listen. The firing increased, and suddenly the heavy, unmistakable boom of cannon mixed in with the musket fire, and it grew hot, held for a time, then lessened.

  Sullivan’s eyes narrowed as he worked with the sudden rush of thoughts and fears. That’s Mercer. What’s he run into? Whose cannon are firing? Someone’s in retreat—who? Who? He straightened in his saddle to look north towards Princeton. Who’s up ahead? How many? If we’re outnumbered, an attack on entrenched troops would be a disaster. Until I know how many, I have to wait. He turned once again to peer back towards the southwest. If I go back to support Mercer, I run the risk of the British up ahead following me and coming in on my flanks. Cadwalader and Greene are both behind me. Maybe they can go to support Mercer.

  Caught between the need to attack the British to the north, and the compulsion to go back
to the southwest to support Mercer, Sullivan made the only agonizing decision he could, hating the wrenching pain inside.

  “We wait right here to hold that British force ahead where they are.”

  Behind and west of Sullivan’s command, General John Cadwalader was struggling to keep his command of raw troops moving forward as a column. They were strung out through the trees, indifferent to his shouted orders, seeing no need to form in ranks to march when they could move just as well in small groups. Behind him, Colonel Edward Hand led his group of Pennsylvania riflemen, Billy and Eli in the first rank, followed by Colonel Daniel Hitchcock and his veteran regiment. Further back, General Nathanael Greene led his command, watching to the west for the first sign of red flahses in the wooded hills.

  Cadwalader, Hand, Hitchcock, and Greene all heard the eruption of musket fire, then cannon, over the hill just west of them, and jerked their mounts to a halt. Their commands stopped all movement, all sound, as they listened, wide-eyed, with the question hanging over them.

  Who’s beaten? Retreating?

  Cadwalader’s command was nearest to the fighting, and he wasted no time. Riding his horse among his men, he personally gave the orders. “Fall into ranks in marching order. We’re going over that hill.”

  Fourteen days earlier, nearly every man in his command had been a civilian—a farmer, merchant, silversmith, baker, or shopkeeper—without the slightest hint of how soldiers conducted themselves or how battles were fought. They stared back at him, confused, hesitant. He reached down to grasp some of them by the shoulder. “You, go there. You, go here.”

  Quickly he shoved and pushed until he got them organized into position, then gave them the order, “Forward. Follow me.”

  As he started them forward, General Nathanael Greene saw Captain Joseph Moulder coming up from the rear of the column with his two cannon. He spun his horse and loped back to Moulder and pointed up the hill.

  “Captain, move those two guns and crews up to the crest of that hill and commence firing as you see the need.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ahead of Greene, Cadwalader was having trouble holding his mount. With the incessant blasting of the muskets and cannon growing louder, the horse was prancing, throwing its head, nervous. Cadwalader held a tight rein, looking constantly over his shoulder to be certain his men were following. They rounded the hill just below the tree line, and came into the little valley.

  Cadwalader shouted his next order. “Form a battle line behind that fence!”

  The men spread out behind the fence, and for the first time had a clear view into the valley. The entire command stopped in their tracks, wide-eyed in horror.

  Before them, in the bright sunlight of the beautiful morning, the entire panorama of a bloody, heart-wrenching, lost battle lay before them. Dead and wounded Americans dotted the land. Live Americans were in a blind, mindless stampede east, up the hill, to escape the musket balls and grapeshot and bayonets of the red-coated British. The regulars were in full battle fever, swarming after them, pausing only to bayonet wounded Americans where they lay with their hands up, shouting their surrender. Groups of the redcoats were gathering around wounded American officers to slash at them, driving their bayonets into them again and again with a hot, blood-lust to kill. The sound of British muskets and cannon was deafening, interrupted only by the shouts of the swarming red horde, and the screams of the terrified, wounded, and dying Americans.

  When Cadwalader’s men rounded the hill, the movement caught Mawhood’s eye and he stopped for five seconds to consider.

  Reinforcements! Who are they? How many? If I engage them and lose, there will be no support for the fortieth up north. I can’t chance it.

  He shouted his orders. “Have the drummer sound parade ranks! Get those four cannon over onto that knoll.” Instantly the drummer began the familiar drumroll, and the British soldiers, scattered all over the valley, slowed and stopped, then turned to form in ranks with their commander. The four cannon, two of them the ones the British had taken from Captain Frothingham and Captain Neil, were moved up to the small knoll.

  While Mawhood’s men were re-forming their battle line and waiting for their cannon to get into a support position, Cadwalader’s men shook themselves as though to escape from the worst nightmare they had ever seen, then turned on their heels and ran. There was no power on earth that could stop them as they crested the hill and piled into the companies coming up, turning them back, sweeping them along in the panic. Mercer’s remaining men mixed with the other regiments. No one paid any heed to their shouting officers as they ran blindly to escape the holocaust behind.

  With his regulars regrouped into a new battle line, Mawhood looked towards the knoll to his left. While he watched, his four cannon wheeled into position, muzzles trained on the retreating Americans. He waited for a few more moments, puzzled by what the Americans had done.

  They came around the hill, looked, and disappeared. Where are they? Setting up an ambush?

  Mawhood had not seen Captain Joseph Moulder wheel his two guns out on the crest of the hill to the east, load them, and bring them to bear on his poised regulars.

  Mawhood drew a deep breath. We’ve got them on the run and I don’t intend letting them rally. We’ll attack. If they’ve set up an ambush, we’ll handle it when we see it. He turned in his saddle, sword raised, to shout out his next order. “Follow me. We’re—”

  His words were cut off by the first booming blast of Moulder’s two cannon. Grapeshot came whistling, knocking into his regulars, clipping branches from the brush and scrub trees. Shocked, Mawhood jerked around to stare east at the crest of the hill, fumbling in his mind to understand how the rebels had gotten guns up there and how many there were. The entire British line flinched when Moulder’s guns blasted a second time and the grapeshot tore into them. They held their position, looking at Mawhood, waiting for him to give them an order that would get them out from under the muzzles of the two cannon on the ridge. Mawhood stared at the guns, unable to count them, but behind them he saw movement, and men coming forward beside the cannon.

  At the guns, Moulder was all alone with his two crews. “Fire as fast as you can,” he ordered, and leaped onto his horse. He galloped off to the north to where six Americans were running away. He stopped them and pointed back towards the guns. “Get on back there! Give those men some support!” The soldiers nodded, but the moment he turned, looking for others, they spun and were gone, running away. Moulder rode back to another group of men, ordering, pleading, threatening, but no one was willing to join his cannon crews. Alone, his cannon were holding Mawhood’s entire command at a standstill, but one thing was crystal clear, the moment Mawhood realized there were only two cannon and very little else, he would storm the guns, cross the crest of the hill, sweep down the east side, and destroy what was left of the commands of Mercer, Cadwalader, and Greene.

  A young lieutenant on the east side of the hill turned to Thomas Rodney. “Take some men and get up there to support those cannon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hastily Rodney gathered fourteen men, took a determined breath, and led them running to a small depression where thirty terrified Philadelphians cowered in the trees. “Come on,” he shouted. “We’ve been ordered to go join the cannon on the hill.” Hesitantly, the Philadelphians came to their feet and Rodney led them all at a run towards Moulder’s guns.

  They crested the hill and British musket balls came whistling thick. One ripped through Rodney’s overcoat at the elbow, another tore the insole of his shoe, and a third punched a hole in his hat. Not one man stayed with him as he plunged on to dive in behind Moulder’s cannon.

  Through narrowed eyes, Mawhood studied the cannon and the lack of a line of soldiers to support it, then shifted to stare hard at the woods, struggling with a hard decision.

  I think we’re facing just two cannon. Just two cannon! No support. And those men who came out of the woods have gone and no one has returned. If I’m right we can end this in five minu
tes by storming—

  His thoughts got no further.

  From the north, near where Sullivan’s column had stopped to prevent the British fortieth and fifty-fifth companies from coming in behind the Americans facing Mawhood, General George Washington came storming on his tall white mare at a stampede gait. The general’s cape was flying behind him as he leaned forward in the saddle, spurring his mount at every stride. The horse’s drumming hooves were fairly flying, neck extended, ears laid back, forelock whipping in the wind. With every stride, Washington was distancing five of his aides and staff, whose mounts had no chance of staying with the horse, or the horsemanship, of the general. Behind the aides and staff came the veteran Virginia Continentals, and beside them, Colonel Edward Hand and his regiment of Pennsylvania riflemen, running as hard as they had ever run in their lives. Billy and Eli were two steps behind Hand, the entire regiment howling like men from the infernal pit.

  Washington swept in from the east, behind the hill where Moulder’s cannon were still banging away. He spurred his laboring horse up the slope, took one look, and knew instantly what had to be done. He spun the horse and plunged back down the slope at an angle to the northeast and hauled his horse to a stiff-legged halt in front of Hand’s regiment and the Virginia Continental militia. Washington’s orders were abrupt, final.

  “Form up here and get ready. When I move the Pennsylvania militia up the hill, move your men around the north side of the hill and attack”

  He did not wait for a response. He reined his horse around and in three jumps the mare was once again at racing stride. Washington pulled her to a skidding halt in front of a group of terrified Pennsylvania militia cowering on the east side of the hill. The men looked at him dumbstruck, unable to believe their commander in chief was before them, sitting a sweating, blowing horse. They feared what was certain to be an outpouring of his anger and wrath.

  Washington stood tall in the stirrups to shout, “Parade with us! There is but a handful of the enemy, and we will have them directly!”