“I have brought you a present,” she said, with false good cheer. “Mrs. Knox had a neck stock made for the General.” She laughed and the sound was so beautiful to his ears, Will almost cried out. “The tailor had to use such a long piece of cloth because of the size of the General’s neck, there was some left over to make a smaller one.” She drew an elegant three-inch wide dark blue band from her dress pocket. “You see, it has a brass turnbuckle on the back for fitting close around your throat.” Will felt the linen strip beneath the wool covering. The cloth had absorbed the warmth from her body. He held it against his cheek, seeking to claim every measure of her heat. “It will keep away the snow and sleet and I will make you a proper wool scarf while I am in Philadelphia. I promise.”
After she left, Will sat by the fire for a long while with his eyes closed, fingering the fabric and visualizing Elisabeth when he had first seen her only a few days ago, and now as she had tearfully left the Ford’s home.
Early in the morning, he paced the small garret, unmindful of the bitter cold air blowing in the open window, listening for any noise that would tell him that Mrs. Knox, Elisabeth and little Lucy were leaving. He thought he heard the sound of horses, perhaps the escort for Mrs. Knox, but he was not certain. That night, with Captain Hadley’s permission, he left the house and walked the short distance to the barn. Big Red looked up as he entered, whinnied softly in recognition and stood quietly, waiting to be fed. Will rubbed him down and leaned against the horse’s neck for a long time, his face buried in his shaggy mane. He loaded some hay and oats on the sled for tomorrow’s journey and brought his saddlebags back into the house.
The following day, wearing his new neck stock with his regimental coat collar turned up and a tri-corn sitting on the back of his head to keep the wind off his still bandaged wound, he followed the General and his light horse escort north out of Morristown. The well-worn ash runners of the sled easily glided over the packed snow on the road. Will looked up at the sky. Thin patches of layered white fluff obscured the sun. Nat had called them mackerel clouds. What was the fishermen’s saying- ‘Mackerel sky, not twenty four hours dry.’ Hopefully, they would be snug at some tavern or inn before the weather turned bad.
As they approached a cluster of log huts, Will recognized the men of two companies of the Massachusetts Artillery. They had formed in rank and were bidding farewell to Sergeant Merriam, who limped before them, holding himself as erect as possible. Isaiah Chandler, Merriam’s old friend helped the Sergeant up on the sled’s plank seat next to Will.
“You are to be my driver as far as Springfield,” Merriam said, clapping Will on his shoulder. “Perhaps during our journey I can impart some wisdom into that tempestuous mind of yours.”
As they passed by the ranks, the men gave three cheers for General Knox and three for their Sergeant and broke into the “Battle of Trenton”, a newly composed rousing drinking song, very popular among the soldiers:
“On Christmas day in seventy-six, Our ragged troops with bayonets fix’d, For Trenton marched away. The Delaware see! The boats below! The light obscured by hail and snow!
But no signs of dismay.” Merriam twisted on his seat and watched the men marching behind the sled, singing their old Sergeant out of camp. They shouted out the last two verses, proudly and defiantly, standing in the snowcovered road, Chandler and a few others waving farewell.
Twelve hundred servile miscreants, With all their colors, guns and tents, Were trophies of the day.
The frolic o’er, the bright canteen, In centre, front and rear was seen Driving fatigue away.
“Now, brothers of the patriot bands, Let’s sing deliverance from the hands Of arbitrary sway.
And as our life is but a span,
Let’s touch the tankard while we can,
In memory of that day.” 4 Merriam wept unashamedly. “I will miss them,” he said. “Tis strange for me, a man who has frequently railed against the sinful excesses of others, to be honored thus by a drinking song.” He laughed and wiped his cheeks with his snot rag. “But I am going home to my wife and dear daughters. I have not seen them since April of ’76. May Providence grant that I find them in good health.”
And may I soon return from Springfield and be with Elisabeth, Will added silently.
Chapter 6- Hunting the Foragers
Bant was relieved to leave the camp in Morristown. He hated the close quarters of the log cabin, the feeling of the others surreptitiously watching him or staring openly while they ate their meager meals together. More than once in the dark smoky hut, he had been awakened with McNeil shaking him out of his nightmares while the others cursed and growled about the “lunatic” and his demons keeping them from sleep.
Their entire Regiment, a little more than two hundred effectives, led by Colonel Hand, one Major and two Lieutenants on horse back, had traversed through a narrow snow covered pass and then turned in a south easterly direction. Before leaving, they had been given dry rations for five days, powder and sixty cartridges each. The men saved the rations and ate food offered by friendly farmers, or slaughtered and cooked the cattle and geese they seized from Tory landowners. The provisions from the Loyalists’ well-stocked larders, which were not consumed on the spot- butter, cheeses, smoked meats and preserves- were sent back to those encamped at Morristown. It mattered not to them that the Tory families were left with few victuals to survive the winter. Orders were to provide for the army, first and foremost.
The riflemen readily broke open the casks they seized, drank the rum and filled their canteens as well. Bant did not participate. That set him further apart from his companions. He had found excessive drinking did nothing to numb the horrors of the hangings he had seen, nor assuage his guilt for causing them. It impaired his skills with the rifle and that he could not abide. For him, only by killing more British soldiers, especially officers, would he overcome his demons and expiate his responsibility for the deaths of the dozen militia men.
On the fourth day out, at a small cross roads tavern, they encountered a unit of New Jersey Militia accompanied by a Regiment of Continentals. Bant found a small shed on the edge of a pasture, some distance away from the soldiers eagerly congregating around the tavern, barn and outbuildings. He perched on a stack of logs under the overhang, warming himself in the waning winter sun, his feet swinging free, glad to be left alone. The Continentals had established a perimeter about one hundred yards out on each road and thrown up makeshift sentry posts. They stood, stamping their feet and clustered close to the fires to keep warm. The Jersey militiamen lounged around in ill disciplined, noisy groups, carousing and drinking.
He heard the crunching on the snow before McNeil appeared from around the end of the barn about twenty yards away. Bant sat still, unsure whether he wanted his company or not and then hallooed to him. McNeil banged one of the logs against the pile to clear it of snow and sat next to Bant, his moccasin clad feet resting on the ground. He offered a piece of smoked ham.
“Traded some rum for it with a militiaman. I would rather eat than drink before a battle. Although they say either is bad for a stomach wound.” Bant took the ham from the point of McNeil’s deer skinning knife and chewed it slowly, savoring the salty flavor.
“Do you still have your rum ration?”
Bant nodded.
“Pour it into my canteen. I may have some more opportunities to
barter. These militia have been raiding Tory homes for a week and are well provided with foodstuffs but have consumed the rum on the spot and are sparse on spirits.”
Bant emptied his canteen into McNeil’s. Leaving the carved wood stopper off, he walked over to the low roof of the shed and held it under the fresh water dripping from the melting snow. Impatiently, he scooped some of the snow off the cedar shingles and squeezed it in his hands over the mouth of his canteen.
“The Continentals tell me it is ‘Scotch Willie,’ who leads them,” McNeil said. 1 “He has a reputation. I suspect we will see some hot action soon.”
>
Bant shrugged. It mattered not to him which General was in charge. So long as he brought them within range of British troops, Bant would do his part to kill many of them. The idea of imminent combat excited him. McNeil noticed his narrow thin-lipped smile. “You are a strange bird, Bant,” he said, rubbing a cold sore on his jutting chin. “You truly are. However, of all the men in the Regiment, I prefer to fight alongside you, because I know you will never abandon the line as long as Redcoats are in your sights.”
Colonel Hand’s men slept on the hard ground around the tavern and in the adjacent sheds and out buildings and awoke in the morning, stiff from the cold. Led by local scouts, the riflemen marched east with a portion of General Maxwell’s Continentals, a force of close to five hundred men. It was a bitter overcast day, made worse by a nasty northerly wind. They forded numerous frozen streams, the ice strong enough on the edges to hold a man’s weight and thin enough to break where the water was deeper. Bant’s canvas gaiters chaffed his calves and shins. The streams they had crossed once, seemed to maliciously meander around fields and fences and deliberately appear again in their path. In the approaching darkness of the late winter afternoon, they camped in a deep ravine that afforded them some protection from the biting wind. No fires were permitted and the riflemen, for the first time since leaving Morristown, ate their cold rations.
The next morning, they followed the ravine almost due east, until the advance scouts signaled for them to halt. Orders were passed down the line to climb quickly up the south side, find firing positions and remain silent. Bant scurried up the frozen embankment, stopped at a rail fence and peered over at a broad snowy field that gently sloped upward toward his right. Some of the Jersey Militia were dug in and occupied a small knoll at the top of a pasture, their regimental flags ostentatiously flying in the light wind. Several sentries stood in plain sight, scanning the road below the field.
To his left Bant saw men driving a large herd of sheep and cattle before them on a narrow road toward the pasture. His keen eyes detected movement behind them. Redcoats were coming double time up the road while others emerged from a wooded glen to intercept the militia escorting the confiscated cattle. A signal shot rang out and the militia alerted to the danger, hastily left the captured animals and fled uphill through the pasture toward their comrades on the knoll. Bant watched as the British Regiments formed into ranks, preparing to assault the Jersey militia’s hilltop position.
Colonel Hand moved along the slope below the fence line in a lopsided bobbing manner, his right foot lower down the hill, his left leg bent at the knee on the high side. His tri-corn was pushed tightly over his bald head.
“Nice and steady lads. And quiet. The Redcoats will undoubtedly attempt to flank our men on the hill. That will bring them close to this fence line.” His voice was calm and Bant had to strain to hear him. “Fire only upon a given order. Reload and then fire at will. If it goes as planned, we will chase them all the way back to Amboy or hell, which ever they reach first.”
Bant lay quietly on his side, feeling the cold damp of snow melted by his body heat, seep into his hunting shirt and chilling his ribs. He was conscious of a weird wailing sound and indistinct barked orders. McNeil, on his right, mouthed the word “Highlanders,” and Bant recalled the peculiar martial music of the Scottish regiments before the pell mell retreat into Trenton. The noise, for he regarded it more as noise than the familiar music of fife and drum, was louder now, accompanied by the uniform cadence of many men crunching through the snow crusted pasture. It would be good to kill some of them, he thought. They gave no quarter and camp talk had it, they cut the wounded to pieces with their long swords.
He looked down the line of riflemen. Colonel Hand was less than forty yards away, almost mid way in their position. He had unsheathed his sword and held it point down toward the ground. Bant pulled back the hammer to full cock, checked the powder in the frizzen pan and waited.
A portion of the enemy troops had passed and were moving up the slope. Bant guessed they were less than thirty yards from the fence line. With regret, he thought he would be firing into the middle of their formation. The officers would be in the lead. Hopefully, if their ranks broke, he would be able to pick one or two of them off, if they hadn’t fallen in the first volley. He placed his index finger along the cold metal of the trigger guard and waited. The Colonel raised his sword, catapulted himself the few remaining feet to the top and shouted, “Fire.”
Bant raised himself up and quickly sighted. The Highlanders were marching up the slope in neat regular lines, angling toward the knoll where the Jersey militia were dug in. The Scot nearest to Bant had partially turned toward the fence when Bant blew his face away at a distance of less than thirty yards. He dropped back down to reload, bit off the end of the paper cartridge, poured a little powder in the pan and the rest down his rifle’s muzzle, dropped the ball down the barrel, pulled out the long ramrod, thrust it home and re-fixed the rod. He knelt again resting his rifle on a slat of the fence.
The field in front of him was a mass of thrashing bodies, red jackets writhing in red blood on the snow. Green plumed black bonnets, muskets and canteens were strewn everywhere. The Scots formed a line to face the riflemen. Bant was almost distracted by their black and green plaid skirts, their red checkered stockings that ended below their bare knees and a peculiar furry looking white bag they wore at thigh level. The Scots moved forward to attack with their bayonets. A musket volley from the knoll felled many of them. The second round from the Continentals and riflemen decimated their ranks. Bant quickly reloaded as he heard the Colonel shouting, “After them men. After them. Hunt them down.”
Bant clambered through the fence. He ran past some of the Continentals who had stopped to loot the bodies of the dead Highlanders. Below them, the rear guard of the Scots had formed up on the road and were loading their muskets. Bant dropped down to one knee and aimed slightly below the red and white checkered band on the soft black cap of an officer directing the defensive line with his sword. It was an easy shot, no more than seventy yards. He saw the man fall. The rear guard, further thinned by the accurate fire, wavered and then fled down the road to join their retreating comrades.
Bant needed no further encouragement. Together with McNeil and several other riflemen they loped down to the road. To their left, some of the Redcoats had reached their empty forage wagons, now loaded with their wounded and were withdrawing slowly, pursued by a band of Jersey militia. Ahead of them, across a snowy field, marked by bloody streaks of the wounded, a large group of Redcoats had entered a wood and were disappearing over a hill. McNeil, Bant and the others gave chase. They entered a forest of thick trunked leafless oaks, and beeches a few of them still bearing their oval, light brown ribbed leaves, and ramrod straight ironwoods. The fleeing British were on the opposite hillside. Some scurried up a narrow leaf covered path, others struggled through the deeper snow, disappearing and reappearing amongst the dark grey trunks like giant cardinals. Bant stopped and rested his shoulder against a smooth barked ironwood and slowed his breathing. He focused on a space amongst the trees where the path neared the crest and his line of sight was not blocked by tree trunks. As a soldier sprinted for the safety of the far side of the hill, Bant aimed for his back and brought him down. By the time he had reloaded, the last of the retreating troops were out of sight. He ran down the slope and caught up with the other riflemen just over the hill. Below them, the surviving Redcoats, a band of more than three dozen, struggled through the snow covered fields, angling toward the road in the distance where more of the enemy and their wagons were retreating.
The rest of that winter afternoon followed the same pattern. The Redcoats fled, slowed in their flight by hills and fences, brambles and ditches, icy creeks and snowy drifts. The pursuing riflemen gained ground and once within range, picked off one or two of the unlucky British, before the space between the hunted and the hunters widened again. Until the next obstacle closed the gap and the riflemen resumed their de
adly work. In one snowy embankment, they came upon a Redcoat, lying on his back, blood staining his waistcoat from a ball that had entered below his shoulder blades. A red froth bubbling from his lips. McNeil knelt in the snow next to him, and slowly poured rum from his canteen into the soldier’s mouth. The man smiled in gratitude. He did not see McNeil unsheath his skinning knife to slit his throat.
“Tis a more merciful death than drowning in one’s own blood or freezing alone this night,” he said to Bant. He wiped the knife on the dead soldier’s waistcoat, leaving a broad smear on the buff colored linen.
In the distance, they could see smoke rising from the buildings of Amboy. Tired now, they plodded through the windswept snow drifts, following in the steps of the fleeing troops. When they reached the road, they met a Jersey Militia unit resting among a copse of bare branched elm trees around a bend. Bant shivered, not from the cold but from a strange sense of the familiarity of the place. One part of his mind, calm and rational told him this was not where the Dragoons had hung the militia men Bant had traveled with, late in the fall of ’76. That had been to the west, closer to Bound Brook and the mountains. But another voice in his head told him it had indeed been here. See the bare trees, the voice said shrilly. Look at the turn in the road, it advised him. And the silence of the woods, just as before the British Dragoons rode up. It is the same place, the voice screamed at him in panic. You have returned to where they were hung because of you, the voice said with absolute conviction. And why did you survive? the voice asked rising in tone to leave the question hanging in his mind. Yes, hanging like the twelve militiamen, he, Bant was responsible for, as if he had hoisted them up himself.
McNeil squatted next to a few of the militia and beckoned him over. In Bant’s mind he saw his friend kneeling, a thick grey noose around his neck. The man next to him was holding the rope and looking up at an overhanging tree branch. Bant was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable sense of terror. He screamed in fear and fled from his horrible vision, running down the road after the retreating Redcoats. He heard McNeil continuing to call after him until the sound of his voice faded away. Bant first ran as a man possessed and then, slowed to a steady trot. He had closed the distance to the withdrawing Redcoats. He could see the front of their column approaching the few brick buildings on the outskirts of Amboy. The last of the troops were barely within range, almost two hundred yards away.
Blood Upon The Snow Page 11
