Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

  preceded them.

  “Bring that gun in position over here,” Hadley shouted. Will

  guided the horse through the lines and slipped easily from the saddle

  to the ground. “Your cannon will be part of this three gun battery

  loaded with canister to greet our British and Hessian guests when they

  assault the bridge.” Will assumed he was talking to Sergeant Merriam. “You Sergeant,” Hadley said to Merriam, who had moved back to

  occupy the entire saddle, “will be up the top of the slope with a twelve- pounder. We need your skill to lob cannon balls at the enemy when

  they establish themselves in the town’s brick buildings.”

  “So, Will.” Hadley said smiling, “May Sergeant Merriam ride

  your horse to his position? You are to be gun commander of this

  cannon.”

  Will protested. “I cannot command a gun crew,” thinking of how

  well he and Tyler, Chandler, Webb and Merriam worked together. “As a soldier you are forbidden to disobey an order,” Hadley

  said affecting a brusque tone. “For your bravery in helping to seize

  the cannon on King Street, you have been promoted to Corporal and

  made commander of this fine captured Hessian piece. Tis by order

  of Brigadier General Henry Knox, himself promoted by General

  Washington following our victory at Trenton.” He removed his

  tri-corn and affected a mock bow. “I too was promoted to Captain

  Lieutenant,” Hadley said with some pride. “For that very same

  encounter with this cannon.” He patted the brass barrel running his

  fingers over the embossed coat of arms of the Landgraf of Hesse. I do not know how to command men, Will thought. Why would

  they follow me? He began to protest again but Hadley would have

  none of it. He handed Will a leather pouch with a shoulder strap.

  “These are your quills, the pricking wire and slow matches. Try one

  match out to time the burn.” He put his hand around Will’s shoulder. “General Knox has confidence in you. Your crew are all experienced men from our own Regiment. They know their roles. Do several dry runs to get them comfortable with each other and you with them. When the British arrive, wait for orders to fire.” He patted Will on the

  shoulder. “You will do fine.”

  Will tried to smile, to say he would do his duty and live up to the

  General’s expectations of him. But all he could think of was he was

  now responsible for aiming and firing the cannon. Chandler would

  have told him to keep busy and concentrate on what needed to be

  done. Fear and worry would be overwhelmed by the tasks immediately

  at hand. 4

  His cannon, one of three in the battery, was in the center, at the

  first line of defense. Looking down, Will saw it was well placed to

  cover the narrow stone bridge across the creek. The guns could also

  easily be turned to fire on any of the enemy who sought to wade across

  the Assunpink on either side of the bridge. The three cannons were set

  about ten yards apart with no earthen works in front so the muzzles

  could be adequately depressed. To his right and left, there were other

  batteries of three guns each. He counted a total of twelve cannons that

  could be brought to bear on the bridge.

  “This battery will fire only grape shot. You will need to give the

  cannon balls to the batteries higher up,” Hadley said, addressing Will,

  Sergeant Otis and another Corporal Will did not know. “Take any

  spare canister from those batteries. Get your powder boxes and side

  boxes situated, then sight in on the bridge,” Hadley instructed. Sergeant Merriam leaned down from the saddle and beckoned

  Will closer. “There is nothing to the aiming, lad,” he said quietly. “You

  will be firing grape shot. The canister will spread out and do its bloody

  work for you, like shooting a fowling piece at ducks.” He clicked his

  tongue to get Big Red to move. “Tell your horse to be gentle with an

  old man,” he squealed in fright, turning awkwardly in the saddle. “I

  cannot afford to be thrown before the British arrive.”

  Will watched Big Red pick his way sure-footedly up the steep

  path, with Merriam leaning far forward over the horse’s neck, fearful

  of sliding backwards. Will turned to his crew. “You two. Take one side

  box with cannon balls. You,” he said pointing to a short thick-set man, in a ragged blue uniform, “and I will take the other. Up to the next line and exchange the balls for grape shot. First pair down, start digging an earth wall for the powder boxes.” He turned without waiting to see if the men were following his orders and grabbed the rope handle of the side box. They moved past the lines of soldiers steadily digging into the soft muddy earth. Will estimated it was almost two in the afternoon and there was much to be done.

  Bant exhaled slowly to steady his arm. He was used to firing at distances of more than one hundred yards. He could feel the men on either side of him tensing like snakes coiled and ready to strike. Fifty yards away, the green clad Hessian Jaegers, with their short barreled rifles, followed by whole companies of British redcoats had crossed the creek in a broad line and were angling forward to reform on the muddy road. He watched several soldiers in front of him slog through the brown slop that came midway up their calves. They were almost thirty yards away. As they struggled through the muck, their lines became ragged. Now, they were closer to twenty yards. He could see the pewter buttons on their jackets. Bant sighted on the forehead of one Redcoat and tightened his finger on the trigger. With relief, he heard the shouted command and fired.

  The noise of almost six hundred rifles exploding simultaneously together with the roar of the cannons was deafening. Bant reloaded as quickly as he could, terrified a Redcoat would appear on the other side of the log and spear him with a bayonet. When he looked up, the British forward ranks had disappeared. The field was littered with the twisted bodies of men, the red of their blood indistinguishable from the cloth of their coats, some still moaning in agony, others lying grotesquely contorted and maimed in death. Through the smoke he saw the remnants of the advancing troops. They had fled back across the creek and onto the road, breaking up the crisp units of the oncoming marching troops.

  But in less time than Bant thought possible, the British had brought up artillery. Their cannons emitted darts of orange flame surrounded by puffs of white grey smoke as the British guns engaged the Americans batteries. Ignoring the incessant roar, Colonel Hand walked calmly among the men of the Regiment.

  “The artillery duel will give us a respite. After that, the British will form up in battle order and march at us again. Wait for my order,” he said softly. He paused in the midst of a cannonade from the American guns. “We will begin firing at seventy five yards. Pick off officers where you are able. Reload and fire at will but harken for the order to fall back. We will retreat through the woods and make another stand closer to Trenton.” The men nodded and Bant found himself doing so also. He felt he was part of the Regiment now and no longer an outsider. He looked to his left at McNeil who gave him a small smile. Bant acknowledged with a slight nod.

  After what seemed to Bant only a brief passage of time, the cannons fell silent. Fresh British regiments formed up in battle order in the open, muddy fields on either side of where the bridge had been. Bant heard the drums beating, the high-pitched tone of the fifes and a strange wail of a noise as the Redcoats advanced. Beyond them, along the road, stretching back for miles, Bant could see soldiers and cavalry, and behind them wagons, all waiting to descend on Trenton. He had never seen so many troops before.

  The Redcoats waded across the creek and advanc
ed in perfect order, their regimental colors limp in the windless warm afternoon. Bant caught sight of a mounted officer on the side of one of the marching companies, about one hundred yards out. He could make the shot, but decided to wait. He was sighting in on the officer’s throat when the man threw up his arms and fell backwards off his horse. Bant had not heard the order to fire and another had beaten him to the kill. There was more sporadic rifle fire and a few others fell. Whether or not they were officers, Bant could not tell. He held his fire until the front line was around sixty yards out and took out the flag bearer, a huge man with the wooden staff held snug in the leather cup of his white cross straps and a large sword on his waist. Bant watched with satisfaction as the man went down as if he had been poleaxed. The Regimental colors fell in the mud. Once again, the British retreated across the shallow creek.

  They reformed again and sloshed through the creek water in a long extended line. Even Bant could see the Americans would be outflanked and surrounded. There simply were too many of them. Colonel Hand ran along their line.

  “I need volunteers as skirmishers to delay their advance. The rest of the Regiment, fall back through the woods.”

  Bant stayed behind with about two dozen others. He shot one of the advancing Jaegers, probing to discover if the Americans were still there in force. The other skirmishers fired off a round and the Hessian scouts retreated. Together with McNeil, he scampered back through the woods, found an impenetrable bramble of bushes overlooking the road and hid. They ambushed another scouting party, killing two before dashing off through the woods again.

  They found their Regiment dug in on the south side of a fairly steep ravine. Bant, McNeil and the others filled in the line in the woods and waited. Behind them, less than half a mile away, were the houses of the upper part of Trenton. To their left was a battery of artillery and beyond them, behind a rail fence in an open field, more American troops. The air had turned colder as the sun dipped lower in the clear sky. Bant thought it was somewhere near four o’clock.

  The British came down the road. Their extended column of troops and baggage train of wagons, stretched for miles, intermittently blocked from Bant’s view by trees and curves in the road. But as far as he could see in the distance, there was a red mass of uniformed men progressing slowly but inexorably toward Trenton.

  The American cannons fired first at the lines of troops within range. The battery of six guns was at an angle to the road. The round shot tore huge swaths among the men down the length of the column. The British retreated briefly, reformed in a broad battle line and waited. Bant watched as their field pieces were brought up, laboriously dragged through the mud into position and began firing on the American battery. The front lines of Hessians and Regulars began to advance on the American lines, firing their muskets in steady volleys. Behind them, more troops formed up in the fields, flanking the American position. Bant picked off one Hessian who he thought was an officer, and another in a conspicuously clean uniform.

  While he was reloading, Bant heard the order to fall back. He replaced his ramrod, stood up and was surprised to see the Hessian front line was within thirty yards. He scurried back through the woods, past others soldiers forming a rear guard, and onto the muddy road. At the top of the town he glanced back. The advance units of Hessians, Jaegers and red-jacketed Light Infantry were sprinting forward, followed by columns and columns of troops. He raced down one of the broad main streets, a few paces behind McNeil and other riflemen. Continentals moved forward to meet them. They formed a line, three deep and as Bant and the others from Hand’s Regiment passed through, they fired their muskets in a concentrated volley, briefly halting the oncoming Hessians.

  The Continentals and the troops of Hand’s Regiment mingled in a rush through the fields at the bottom of Trenton to escape across the creek. Bant heard a cannon ball fired by an American battery strike the end of the paved street behind him and bounce on the stones, plowing into the enemy’s ranks. His last glimpse up the street was of a black-frocked civilian being forced out of a house by several Hessians at bayonet point. Bant scurried onto the bridge, slightly wider than a wagon, the citizen’s scream chasing after him. He was jostled against the west rail of the stone sidewall by the crush of troops eager to reach the safety of the American lines. 5

  The men of Hand’s Regiment, clambered up the muddy slope above the creek. Cannons further up the incline fired at British troops massing on the flat and muddy fields on the American’s right flank. Bant looked down and saw they were directly opposite the stone bridge. Colonel Hand moved among his men, instructing them to fill in the first line of Continentals, hidden behind the freshly dug earthen walls. Bant looked for a place where he could have a good sight line on the bridge.

  “Bant.” He heard a voice call his name. Looking up, he recognized Will Stoner, the artilleryman who had rescued him at the Raritan. Together they had buried poor Jacobus Brouwer at Kingston before Bant had joined a militia to raid British posts scattered in southern Jersey.

  Will was standing next to one of three polished brass cannons, directly opposite the bridge and along the line of the newly dug trenches. Bant felt uneasy being too close to the artillery. They would attract the counter-fire of British batteries. He tentatively raised his hand in greeting and took his place on the line. Two Continentals from another regiment were an arms length away on either side. He saw McNeil’s familiar face, two men down on his right. The line was less than forty yards from the bridge. Hopefully, he thought, they were far enough away from Will’s battery.

  In the dusk of the late afternoon, the British Army stretched before them, concentrated opposite the American lines from the Delaware River to well beyond the bridge. They stood in silence, their Brown Bess muskets at shoulder rest, regimental flags waving in the front line, drums beating slowly and ominously. The soldiers were several rows deep in the lower fields bordering the creek. Their well ordered ranks filled the pastures and grounds behind the houses of the town on both sides. At the top of Trenton, red-coated soldiers stood in full view, in dressed ranks, massed and awaiting orders. The only movement was from the artillery, as the British crews unlimbered the guns and orderlies took the horses to the rear.

  “There are ten thousand of them, at least,” one of the Continentals said softly. 6

  “And many more coming down upon us from Princeton and beyond,” another replied.

  Bant, who had seen the long columns of troops, horsemen and artillery stretched out on the road earlier in the afternoon, was struck by how much larger the enemy army seemed when massed in front of them. They were more lethal and menacing. The American lines seemed thin and sparsely manned in comparison. Bant twisted and looked back up the slope. He took some comfort there were two more earthen works to retreat to if the enemy should get across the creek.

  “They must attack soon. The daylight is almost gone,” one of the Continentals said.

  As if in response to the soldier’s spoken surmise, the Hessian drums began to beat, the high-pitched hautboys sounded their notes and the powder blue squares of Hessians marched resolutely for the bridge, followed by two broad columns of red-coated British infantry. Bant sighted on the bridge and waited for the order. The Hessians quickened their pace and with a sharp disciplined maneuver, narrowed their solid columns to fit the width of the bridge.

  Bant flinched as the American cannons fired, the explosions so loud they seemed to be inside his head. The lead Hessians were mowed down by the grape shot. As those behind them stepped over the bodies of their fallen comrades and reached the middle of the bridge, every rifle and musket within range opened fire. Bant fired at an individual Hessian’s head, but the man disappeared in a mass of fallen soldiers. Bant was not sure his shot had brought him down. The Hessians and Redcoats retreated off the bridge and began reordering their ranks in the pasture below the town. This time, instead of wasting a shot on the mass of Grenadiers, Bant aimed for one of the officers reforming the Hessians’ ranks. He was a tall must
ached man with dark eyebrows. Bant sighted on the man’s forehead, just below the brass plated cap and fired. The officer fell backwards, as the Grenadiers began another determined assault on the bridge. They charged forward in disciplined lines, bayonets lowered, quickly covering the short distance to the bridge.

  Will stood to the left of the touchhole. The gun had been swabbed, wormed and loaded with another canvas sleeve of grapeshot. The Hessians and Regulars were attempting their second assault on the bridge. He was aware of heavy musket fire to his right. He resisted the temptation to look north up the creek and see if the British had forded the Assunpink and were turning the line. He forced himself not to panic. He pricked the powder bag and inserted the quill.

  “Primed,” he shouted, unsure the crew had heard him over the roar of Sergeant Otis’s cannon or the volley of musket fire. He lit the slow match, inserted it in the quill and yelled, “Give fire.” The brass six-pounder recoiled slightly. The smoke blew away to show a mass of thrashing blue clad bodies in the middle of the bridge. The Hessians retreated a second time.

  Spontaneously, the Americans erupted in a loud shout, many of them standing up with their muskets raised above their heads. Will joined in, shaking his fist at the retreating Hessians and the British troops still threatening them from the Trenton side. He was shouting in defiance, daring them to come on and attack, determined to fight. He was not afraid of their masses of uniformed troops, regimental flags, officers on horse and cannons. Then, he realized as gun commander he was acting unprofessionally. He grinned sheepishly at his crew, who were brandishing swabs and wormers and bellowing along with everyone else. 7

  As the gun was being wormed, Will glanced up the line to his right. Clouds of gun smoke blew away from the American side, obscuring the British troops attempting to ford the creek, at a shallow, narrow point. It was getting darker, close to five p.m., he guessed. The Americans had dug in close to the creek bank and were firing almost point blank at the British soldiers.

  He was jolted out of his idle observance by the simultaneous whooshing sound of a cannon ball and the screams of agony, as the ball plowed through the soft earthen embankment and into the troops sheltered behind it. The Hessians had set up two cannons next to the last stone house at the bottom of town and were engaging his battery. Their next shot would be more accurate. No time to send a messenger to the batteries further up the slope to concentrate on the enemy artillery. All he could do was hope Sergeant Merriam or some other gun crew would notice and redirect their fire.