Blood Upon The Snow

by Martin Ganzglass

  Several soldiers at the very rear plodded wearily along behind a slow moving wagon. Bant squatted on the road with his head down, staring at the fractured web like pattern in the ice between his feet, panting heavily. When his breath slowed to normal, he looked up. All was quiet, except for the faint noises coming from the retreating column of Redcoats.

  Bant knelt in a rut, oblivious to the cold slush soaking his breeches. Calmly and mechanically he put the smooth walnut stock to his shoulder and rested his left elbow on his knee. The wood against his cheek comforted him. Holding his rifle in firing position calmed his nerves. He pulled the hammer back to full cock and sighted on the back of one of the soldiers. He fired, feeling the instantaneous impact of the butt against his shoulder. As the smoke dissipated, he saw the soldier buckle, clasping his left leg. Two of his comrades quickly lifted him up and dragged him on to a wagon, all the while looking fearfully back down the road.

  Not enough powder for that distance, Bant thought. As he turned and trudged away from Amboy, he unconsciously fingered the remaining cartridges in his weather proof bag. There were forty-six left. He was certain each of his fourteen balls had killed a Redcoat. Except for the last one. That man had been lucky. 2

  “This is a military necessity,” Lieutenant Chatsworth explained as they saddled their horses in the barn. “We need forage for our animals. Otherwise, our artillery and baggage cannot move and we become immobile.” He grunted as he tightened the cinch.

  And what would be wrong with that, John Stoner thought, stepping around a fresh pile of steaming horseshit, careful not to soil his polished boots. To remain comfortable in Brunswick for the winter, living a civilized existence. They had food and drink brought down from New York by wagons escorted by a force large enough to scare away any of the irregular rebel bands roaming the countryside. There was enough forage for the animals in Brunswick to survive the winter. In spring, when the weather improved and the grass greened, they could graze their horses. After they had fattened up, would be the time to take to the field, overwhelm the pitiful Rebel army and capture Philadelphia.

  John smiled at the thought. There would be some nice quarters in that city as well as more opportunities for improving his position and lining his pockets. No more sleeping three or four to a bed, in some pillaged mansion, the cold wind constantly blowing through shattered, shutterless windows some ignorant Hessians had smashed for the sheer joy of destroying something.

  “Colonel Harcourt is absolutely correct in carrying the battle to the rebels. If they will not stand up in the field to our army, we must entice them to attack our foraging parties and annihilate them when they appear.” Chatsworth backed his horse from the stall. “Besides, John, we have our new ‘fuzees’ I am anxious to try when we are on foot,” he said, holding a light musket up, bending his arm and sighting down the short barrel resting on his elbow. “I will procure another one. You must ride up front with me. It will be like one of the grouse shoots back home. Too good sport to pass up.” 3

  John nodded as if he would like nothing better. Ballocks, he thought. No chance of his riding in the lead. Bad enough he had to ride out at all. He knew some of the cavalry suspected him, if not of cowardice, at least of reluctance to place himself in harm’s way. ‘Blamed cunning,’ he had overheard one of them say. John vowed he would go through the motions, with proper caution as his watchword.

  “I saved your life once,” he said to Chatsworth. “Let us hope today will not present another opportunity to do so.”

  The Dragoon Lieutenant inclined his head. “I remain grateful, as does my dear mama to whom I wrote many months ago about that incident on Long Island.” The condescending tone of his voice implied he did not like to be reminded about it.

  I will do so as frequently as necessary, John thought, so you will put in a favorable word with your influential friends, perhaps with Colonel Harcourt, an Earl’s son and a favorite of Lord Cornwallis.

  In the fields outside the stables, the Dragoons mounted up in the early March morning darkness. The pitch of the fife and drum signals called to the different companies of infantry and grenadiers. The Regiments massed along the road leading north from Brunswick toward Bonhamtown. The order of march placed the 16th Light Dragoons almost at the head of the column, behind a company of Hessian Jaegers in their green uniforms with short hunting rifles and one hundred hand picked Hessian Grenadiers. John stood in the stirrups and looked back at the neat squares of marching men, almost two thousand of them, light and heavy infantry, some Scotch Highlanders, three pieces of artillery and many forage wagons. The numbers gave him confidence, although he still was uneasy about his forward position.

  True to his word, Chatsworth found a fuzee for him. John strapped it over his left shoulder. It would have come in handy when his younger brother had pursued him outside Princeton. He could have turned on him, fired to wound and not to kill, and brought Will, bleeding to Chatsworth, or better yet to Colonel Harcourt himself. Imagine their surprise, and the admiration they would express for his apprehending his own brother. No more snickering and arrogant comments about his reluctance to join the fray. Be worth a promotion at least, perhaps even a staff position at Headquarters. For him, capturing his younger brother was simply a rung on the ladder of John’s quest for advancement and recognition. Sentiments like fraternal affection or even hatred were irrelevant and not part of his calculations.

  The long column moved northeast on the road toward Bonhamtown. At sunrise they crossed the Raritan River, narrow at this point before it widened further east at the Amboys. Chatsworth had said the rebel militias were reported to be active in the area, harassing British foraging parties and attacking supply trains to the north as far as Elizabethtown. With daylight, John’s spirits lightened. The broad open flat snow covered fields offered no chance of a surprise ambush. Nevertheless, John was jittery, wary of the snow-covered ditches on both sides of the road. No telling when a man or two might spring up and discharge their muskets at the nearest soldier. He pretended his horse had a stone in her hoof, slowed and edged the mare more toward the center of the road, so he was flanked by one Dragoon on each side.

  From his relatively safe position, he reasoned the rebels would not dare to confront such a large force. The entire operation would be nothing more than a jaunt in the countryside. The Jaegers had spread out in a long skirmishing line ahead of the column on both sides of the road.

  Ahead were the roofs of the brick houses of Bonhamtown. The large force marched through the town to the cheers of a few Loyalists lining the road and added another Regiment, garrisoned there, to their force. By eleven they were five miles north, again in open countryside when the first shots were fired. Puffs of smoke appeared along a fence line that bisected the road. Three rebel cannon to the left fired obliquely at the advancing column. Artillery was brought up from the rear, unlimbered and soon engaged the rebel guns. A Regiment of Highlanders formed to the left of the road, and one of Hessian Grenadiers on the right, in preparation for an assault on the enemy lines. John was thankful the Dragoons were not involved, either as cavalry or dismounted infantry.

  The Highlanders and Hessians stepped out through the snow in perfect ranks but were repulsed. More troops were mustered behind them and extended farther to the Highlanders’ left, in an attempt to flank the rebel line. John could see the puffs of musket fire moving away across the field and surmised the rebels had added more troops to their defensive positions. Good, he thought. At last, they were going to stand and fight. And there were enough infantry to do the dirty work and leave the Dragoons to mop up afterwards. Chasing down foot soldiers who had discarded their muskets in their panic stricken flight, was something he could do, and with eagerness.

  The bulk of the British troops were committed to the fields on the left, stretching the rebel lines and probing for a weakness. The Dragoons were deployed back on the road, waiting in reserve with the few remaining troops not yet engaged. Suddenly, John saw the Hessian Grenadiers on the ri
ght give way, as rebel troops pushed them back. At first it was an orderly retreat, but as more and more of the rebels appeared, advancing in good order and firing deadly volleys, the Hessians turned and ran, across the field and on to the road. They drove into the reserve troops whose ranks disintegrated in the confusion. Soon the remaining force was retreating down the road back toward Bonhamtown.

  John was about to join them, riding down some of the soldiers to escape if necessary, when Lieutenant Chatsworth called for the Dragoons to rally with the troops as a rear guard. Instead of dismounting with the other horsemen, John drew his sword and rode toward the rear, pointing back toward the battle and shouting for the soldiers to turn and stand their ground. In this way he moved farther away from the chaos and fighting behind him. However, he recognized a new danger as some of the retreating soldiers were falling from accurate rifle fire seemingly coming from every direction. John turned his horse around every which way, fearful he was exposed and would be picked off. He crouched low over the mare’s neck, leaning to the opposite side of where he supposed the enemy was, and rode furiously back up the road toward where Chatsworth had established a position. Reluctantly, he dismounted, stumbled forward, unslung his fuzee and fired wildly in the general direction of the advancing rebels.

  The Dragoons and a combined force of Hessians, Jaegers and some heavy infantry had managed to halt the onward rush of the rebel troops. Their line was thin and all they could do was fire a volley and retreat slowly, delaying the advance and giving the other troops either time to reform or to escape. John knelt between two cavalry men and hastily reloaded his fuzee, all the while anxiously glancing up to see how close the rebels were. He almost whimpered a cry of relief when he heard the order to remount. He did not remember how he found his horse, or got on it, or how he restrained himself from headlong flight and instead rode with the others back down the road. He leaned forward over his horse’s neck, fearful of an unseen rifle ball piercing his body.

  Suddenly, a filthy ragged apparition sprang up from the left embankment, aiming a musket straight at him. All he could see in that moment was the man was a rebel, clad in some kind of makeshift uniform with a dirty slope hat on his head. John recoiled back in the saddle, pointed his fuzee at the rebel and fired. His ramrod pierced the man’s chest and he flopped back in the snow as if struck by an arrow.

  Chatsworth, who had turned at the sound of shot, saw what happened and laughed out loud. “John,” he said, “you are supposed to remove the ramrod before firing. Now you have spitted the poor fellow to the ground and rendered your fuzee useless.” John smiled weakly, his legs trembling in the stirrups, thinking of how close he had come to being killed. He regained his self control as they moved farther away from the battle ground and the sporadic sounds of musket fire died down. 4

  The story of his killing the rebel with his ramrod made the rounds of the Dragoons. Before they were back in Brunswick, several of them were calling him “Ramrod John” to his face. He accepted it as best he could, but seethed at their ridicule and resented their making him the butt of their jokes. He suspected they understood the real reason he had fled down the road was not to rally more troops for the rear guard. And every one of them, so cool and calm in battle, would not have been so flustered as to forget to refix the ramrod before firing. He was certain they would remind him of that in open and subtle ways at the Company meals. He could bear it in the security of Brunswick, if there were no more of these forays and he remained secure in their winter quarters until spring.

  Chapter 7- Resurrection in the Spring

  Will saw very little of General Knox once they arrived in Springfield. For the first three days, the General, in the company of local militia officers and members of the Town Council, inspected buildings to serve as magazines. They surveyed land on the bluffs overlooking the Connecticut River for situating the arsenal, gunpowder laboratories, and the critical open air furnace for the casting of cannons as well as a mill for boring the barrels. Late into the evening, at the Black Bull Inn where they were staying, Knox met with carpenters, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, harness-makers and tin men, questioning them closely about their crafts, for these were the men who would be entrusted with casting the cannons and cannon balls, constructing the gun carriages and making the muskets. 1

  On the evening on the fourth day, Sergeant Merriam, who was serving as the General’s unofficial clerk and orderly, gloomily informed Will the General wished to see him. Apprehensively, Will ascended the dark stairway, the mirthful singing and shouting from the Inn’s main room with its warm crackling fire receding, as he guided himself by the thin slivers of light shining under the room doors, to the General’s quarters.

  Over the past few days, uneasily waiting for the inevitable meeting with General Knox, at which he expected to be told he would be subject to a court martial upon their return to Morristown, Will had reflected upon the events leading up to his predicament. At first, when he reviewed in his mind the scene with Captain Seeley at the foot of the stair, seeing the dandy’s sneer and hearing his licentious comment, he had seethed with anger again. Gradually, he saw himself more calmly reacting to the crude insult to Elisabeth’s honor. His role changed from the hot-blooded gallant to more of a disdainfully calm and deadly adversary, carefully inciting the uniformed fop to strike the first blow or with provocative words, revealing the Captain to be either a coward or no gentlemen or preferably both.

  One morning while grooming Big Red, he had realized his initial motivation in joining the Continental Army was solely because he idolized General Knox. He was everything to Will his own father had not been. The General cared enough about Will to provide him with the opportunity to expand his knowledge, lending him books, pamphlets and broad sheets, all to stimulate his mind. Will now saw those readings had another purpose. They provided him with the philosophical underpinning for their cause- the logic and rationale for opposing the Crown and fighting for independence. It was not enough to fight because one was ordered to do so or greatly admired a commander. The General was showing Will, that as a free man, he should choose to fight for the Revolution and to believe in the cause he was fighting for. But the General had gone beyond that. Will recognized they had included him as part of their little family and both had expressed an interest in his future happiness.

  Then, a thought came to him, so obvious he was surprised he had not seen the connection before. The General had deliberately assigned him to go on the mission with Elisabeth’s father. Of course he trusted Will to protect Mr. Van Hooten as he set up his network of informants on Long Island. But also he desired Mr. Van Hooten to become better acquainted with Will who was courting his youngest daughter. The General had brought the two of them together to encourage Will’s romance with Elisabeth. He was astounded and overwhelmed with gratitude that General Knox would have planned and gone to such extremes for his benefit.

  He now realized, by assaulting Captain Seeley, in addition to risking losing Elisabeth, he had betrayed General Knox’s trust and the very cause they served. To be drummed out of the Regiment, to be unable to fight for the rights he now believed in, was almost too terrible for him to contemplate. He could always join a militia but having seen their lack of equipment and discipline, their poor training and their inclination to flee a battlefield, he dismissed that option immediately.

  He was adamant that he would not leave the Regiment. He could accept anything short of being discharged. He could endure the flogging. He could even accept the disgrace. It would be temporary. He would win back respect, rank and reputation by bravery on the battlefield. Will knew he would have to beg General Knox for the opportunity to continue to serve in the artillery and plead for a lenient sentence. With these thoughts in his mind, he knocked on the door to the General’s room.

  The General was seated at a small oak table that served as his desk. It was strewn with correspondence and dispatches. An ink well and quill were perched precariously on one corner, dangerously close to the edge. Knox�
��s face was flushed, despite the open window behind him. He was in shirt sleeves, with his great coat, jacket, waistcoat, and neck stock all cast on a quilt covering the four poster bed. His high black boots, spattered with mud from the day’s business, stood in front of a closed closet, whose door was blocked by large, bulging saddle bags.

  “Come in Will, though it is like a furnace with all the heat rising from the big room below. We could cast cannons here tonight if the floor would bear the weight,” he said chuckling and dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with the handkerchief covering the stubs of his fingers on his right hand. “Tomorrow I am promised samples of tin, copper and iron, mined from this area, which I will take to Boston and have them properly assayed. If we are to have well made cannons of brass and iron, the metal from which they are formed must be of excellent quality.”

  Knox rifled through a sheaf of papers, his high arched eyebrows raised in frustration. “Now, where is that letter,” he muttered to himself. “You will not be accompanying me to Boston.” Will stiffened in the chair, his feet pressed hard to the floor to prevent his knees from shaking. He could not bear the wait any longer.

  “Sir,” Will said quickly. “If I am to be court martialed, so be it. I can bear whatever the penalty. But please, I beg of you. Do not have me dishonorably discharged. I want to remain with the Regiment.”