This was the moment John dreaded. Boxed in among the troopers on both sides, only three or four rows behind the Colonel, he was swept along as the Dragoons spurred their horses to a gallop, sweeping up toward the crown of the hill, to the left of the infantry. They were too close to the woods. John saw puffs of smoke from the trees and a trooper next to him threw up his arms and fell back in the saddle, his horse continuing blindly along with the others. John heard a heavy thud and then his horse stumbled, blood flowing from a gaping wound just in front of John’s left knee. He grabbed the reins to pull his mare’s head up, aware of his own high-pitched scream above the gunfire. The dying horse crumpled to the ground falling sideways. John, unable to free his feet from the stirrups, went down as well, his right leg pinned under the thrashing horse. He felt a sharp pain in his back as the barrel of his fuzee jabbed him below the shoulder blade. Finally, weak from the loss of blood his mare stopped struggling. A red froth drooled from the horse’s mouth. The bullet must have pierced a lung. John grabbed his trapped leg with both hands and pulled on his thigh. Sweating profusely in the mid-morning sun, he was barely able to gain a few inches before he stopped and realized there were no more sounds of musket fire. Nearby, a wounded trooper moaned and called for water.
“Help me,” John called out. “Help me. I am trapped.” He heard the sound of a musket hammer being cocked and frantically turned his head. He caught a glimpse of black shoes and white gaiters and then, he almost cried with relief when he saw the red coat of an approaching British light infantryman. The soldier walked around John, calmly shot the mare through her eye and laid down his musket. He reached under John’s armpits and tugged hard. John cried out as a sharp pain stabbed at his shoulder blade, and then went limp lying free on the damp, soft ground.
“My leg. Is it there?” he asked the soldier desperately.
The soldier smirked at him. “I have seen worse. Look for yourself,” he replied, with a note of disdain in his voice, as he moved on.
John pushed himself up on his elbows, gasping from the pain in his shoulder and apprehensively looked down toward his boots. His right pants leg was covered with dirt and grass stains, his boot torn at the heel, but his leg was whole. He sobbed gratefully and using his fuzee as a cane, stood up.
A lone horse nibbled on the trampled grass, its rider lying nearby with a gaping bloody wound in his side. John hobbled over to the dead man’s horse, untied the canteen and took a long drink. He saw he was on the periphery of the battlefield. The Rebel force on the summit had concentrated their fire on the charging British and Hessian infantry, In their frontal assault on the Rebel’s positions they had suffered the most casualties. The sloping hill was littered with wounded Redcoats some writhing in pain, others crawling about amidst those already dead.
Around him, John could see a few troopers and horses had been picked off by the marksmen hidden among the trees. Colonel Harcourt had risked the Dragoons’ lives by shielding the charging infantry from the Rebel riflemen hidden in the woods. He had almost been killed as a buffer for the lowlifes who comprised the British infantry, John thought angrily.
He heard the cry for water, weaker now, from the trooper lying near John’s dead mare. Slowly, he hobbled over and bent down, peering into the man’s face. John thought he recognized him as one of those who had mocked him in their camp. But he was not sure. The wounded trooper was lying on his back, one hand holding his side, from which blood slowly pulsed through his fingers. It looked like a stomach wound, with a side entry point. He knew one should not give water. The trooper begged John with his eyes. It is his decision, John thought. He asked for a drink. It is not for me to withhold it. He lifted the man’s head and held the canteen up to his lips.
“Well, John. Good to see you in one piece,” Chatsworth said as he rode up with a few of the Dragoons, looking down approvingly as John appeared to be ministering care and compassion to a wounded fellow trooper.
“I had my horse shot out from under me,” he replied, pointing to the dead mare matter-of-factly. “Pinned me to the ground, but I managed to get myself out,” he said looking around first to make sure the British soldier who had killed his mare and pulled him free was not nearby.
“We had some sport of it, chasing the Rebels down the far slope almost to another hill where they made a stand and we were called back. We captured a cannon or two and some supply wagons. Are you well enough to ride?”
Now that the battle was over and he had survived enemy fire, John affected a swagger. “My shoulder took a bruise when I was pinned, but I am fit to ride. I will take this horse,” he said grunting as he put his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself up. As they rode down the sloping hill, which he had galloped up in such fear for his life, he sat ramrod straight, even though it caused him much pain in his shoulder blade. There will be fewer comments behind my back now, he thought.
In the days after the battle, the weather was oven hot. Mosquitos viciously attacked them in swarms and water was in short supply. The horses’ were miserable, their eyes festooned with numerous large black flies that sought the liquid and mucus discharge. The Dragoons rode slowly past soldiers, felled by heatstroke and the effects of having drank the brackish water in the nearly dried up creeks. Swarms of Rebel riflemen and ragtag local militias, pursued the long red column at a distance as it snaked through the baked New Jersey countryside, randomly picking off men as if an angry God was casting the dice to determine who should live and who should die.
And now, when they least needed the rain, it had come, to further dampen their spirits as they left Perth Amboy for Staten Island, where they had first landed eleven months ago. In the hold of a schooner, cramped together for the short voyage, John listened to the angry talk among the Dragoons. They recognized a retreat for what it was, no matter how much plundering and destruction had been done on the route to the shore. They cursed the Generals in charge of this debacle. It was an affront to their honor as courageous and brave cavalry men to concede all of New Jersey to this undisciplined rabble of farmers and mechanics, not even worthy of being called an army.
None of this moved John- the bravado, the oaths of giving no quarter when they met the cowardly Rebels again, or complaints of the lack of leadership by the Great Chucclehead, General Howe. Let the Rebels have New Jersey. He was confident the next move would be to capture the grand city of Philadelphia. And he vowed, until then, he would not place himself in any danger in the field. In Philadelphia, he would ingratiate himself with men of title and influence and feather his own nest as well. It was only a matter of time before the Rebel capital fell.
Chapter 9 - An Independence Day Celebration
Philadelphia, with its contradictions, charmed Elisabeth. The city exuded a sense of purpose and orderliness, with its numbered streets running north-south and the cross streets, named for native trees, running east-west. It was larger by far than Albany and even grander than New York. There were four magnificent city squares and broad streets paved with cobblestones, lined with brick sidewalks and lit at night by gaslights.
Yet, there was an air of unpredictability about it, an almost exuberant chaos, with the unbridled building and bustling excitement at the wharves and warehouses along the Delaware River. There, privateers disgorged their captured goods and smugglers brought French guns and powder from the Caribbean. Near the waterfront, the war had spawned cannon foundries and smelters of lead for making musket balls, nestled amongst the illegitimate tippling houses and other places of nefarious doings in the narrow alleys. In the better part of town, the delegates to the Continental Congress were seen hurrying to and from their endless meetings or continuing their contentious debates in the nearby licensed taverns and local boarding houses. 1
The social circles of the prosperous and powerful were open to Elisabeth because of her association with Mrs. Knox. Together they made the introductory social calls. Gradually Elisabeth, on her own, was invited to teas, poetry readings, plays and concerts, attended by the young si
ngle ladies of society, with ample opportunities to become acquainted with the eligible sons of the city’s elite prominent politicians and merchants.
After the relative quiet of the past few days, brought on in part by an unusual chilly wind and driving rain that had kept Elisabeth indoors, all was hubbub and feverish preparation for the grand celebration of the first anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. She heard the booming of cannons from the galleys and ships of the Pennsylvania Navy gaily bedecked with all color of pennants in the harbor- thirteen gun salutes for each of the former colonies and the distant cheers and huzzaing of the celebratory crowds lining the wharves and enjoying the spectacle in the fine mild weather. General and Mrs. Knox were there, together with members of Congress which had adjourned by mid-morning.
Elisabeth looked in on little Lucy, nestled snuggly in her wooden crib in her parents’ bedroom. The baby coughed fitfully in her sleep. Just over a year old, and unable to blow her own nose, she suffered from a summer cold, that caused the General and his wife much anxiety over their only child. Elisabeth had willingly consented to stay at home to watch the babe. A grateful General Knox promised she would have a delightful surprise by the afternoon of this Fourth. He said no more, but Mrs. Knox whispered that Will had arrived in Philadelphia yesterday. Elisabeth puzzled over Lucy’s words- first they would see only each other and then she would see him but he would not see her. Mrs. Knox was almost as fond of riddles as she was of playing cards. She had taught Elisabeth both how to play whist and to gamble, two traits Elisabeth was certain her father would disapprove of, if he knew.
She glanced at herself in the Knox’s full-length mirror and brought her hand to her blond curls. Perhaps she should have had them brushed and pulled. Mrs. Knox’s hair for the celebration was in the tall, upswept manner that was said to be the latest style. She had festooned her hair with frilly red, white and blue ribbons. Elisabeth thought it would look foolish on anyone else but on Mrs. Knox it appeared fashionable instead. The only person she had to please, she told Elisabeth was her Harry and she cared not a whit for what others thought or even said.
That was true up to a point, Elisabeth thought. Mrs. Knox, being the youngest of the wives of the senior commanders, certainly wanted to please Martha Washington and Kitty Green. And she bubbled over with excitement, recounting the attention of General Washington, dancing with her at a ball she and her Harry had attended. Unlike the other Generals’ wives, she had no family or close relatives in the newly independent nation. Her family all left Boston when the British had evacuated the city more than twelve months ago. There had been no communication from them since. 2
Elisabeth, despite her youth, was a good judge of character. She sensed Lucy Knox’s loneliness and had seen how despondent she became when separated from her husband. She told Elisabeth in confidence she wanted to have many children, to build a real family for herself and Harry. Elisabeth blushed, thinking of the noises she heard through the walls, emanating from the couple’s bedroom at night.
She busied herself with her embroidery, pushing the needle slowly through the pattern of heather and thistles while her thoughts turned to Will. She enjoyed the admiring looks of the captains and majors who came to call on General Knox, and the flirting banter of the younger officers who swarmed around the Shippen sisters at their afternoon teas, and even the attentions of the tall sentries when she left their house with Lucy and the baby. It was all harmless, she thought. None of these men talked about the horrors of the war, or sensed the precariousness of the cause or the possible British occupation of the city. They were like preening pheasants, proud of their immaculate uniforms and what they perceived as witty conversation. Will, while younger than some, had a depth of loyalty and seriousness about him that she admired.
She recognized Will was not as glib or quick with repartee. But she knew she could soften his rough-hewn edges. She smiled to herself at the thought that she wanted to. It meant, Elisabeth had to admit, she had slipped into thinking of them as married. Was it due to genuine feelings for Will on her part, or the not so subtle suggestions from Mrs. Knox and the less obvious but supportive estimation of the General?
When the army left winter camp and took to the field, Mrs. Knox had become fretful, and confessed to Elisabeth the most dreadful thoughts of harm coming to her beloved Harry. She had remained in a state of nervous depression until she received a letter from the General, which graciously included a line or two about Will’s well being. As the constant companion of Mrs. Knox, Elisabeth had also succumbed to horrible speculation followed by relief of word that he was safe. But was this an indication of true love or merely feminine concern for a friend? Elisabeth did not know.
And when Will wrote her, which was not as frequently as she would have liked, she read and re-read his letters, and on one occasion when his words were so heartfelt and touched her deeply, she carried the carefully folded letter in her bodice for days on end. To her, it seemed like true love, her heart smitten but without any of the courtship or companionship that Mrs. Knox had experienced when her Harry was a bookseller in Boston and she frequented the intellectual discussions held in his shop. Mrs. Knox’s account, in embarrassingly intimate detail, of how she had taught Harry French made Elisabeth blush to hear it, even though Lucy and the General were now married.
Focused intently on these thoughts, Elisabeth only vaguely heard the grandfather clock in its massive polished mahogany case downstairs striking half past one. It was followed by the sound of studded carriage wheels clattering on the cobblestoned street below the open window and General Knox’s hearty greeting of the sentries. Simultaneously, little Lucy, uttered a soft cry, perhaps awakened by her father’s familiar booming voice, or simply she was hungry and finished with her morning nap. Elisabeth was jiggling Lucy in her arms when the Knoxes swept into the room. At the sight of her father, the baby broke into a broad smile of recognition and reached out with both of her little chubby arms. The General snatched her from Elisabeth and held his daughter high above his head, pretending to drop her and then smothering her with wet kisses as he pulled her into his fleshy neck.
“Be careful, Harry. She still has her cold,” Mrs. Knox cautioned. “The best cure is a surfeit of her father’s love,” he replied, rubbing his bulbous nose against the tiny snot smeared one of his daughter. Little Lucy gurgled in delight and firmly grasped the tip of his pendulous ear lobe.
“Come, my dear,” Mrs. Knox said. “We ladies must dress for dinner. You are to come with us to City Tavern. Everyone will be there.” She turned and winked at Knox who caught his wife’s look before he resumed playing with their child.
With little Lucy safely in the care of another nanny, Elisabeth joined General and Mrs. Knox in their carriage for the short ride to the City Tavern at 2nd and Walnut Streets. She wore a plain linen gown with embroidered green hem and sleeves, trimmed with a modicum of lace around the bodice and an intricate flower patterned shawl. It was more for show than warmth and covered her shoulders while complimenting the blue of her eyes. One of the Shippen sisters had offered to have her dressmaker alter a gossamer gown for Elisabeth. She politely refused. It was too ostentatious she thought, remembering the cold and diseased soldiers she had seen suffering in their Morristown huts. However, she had accepted a stay and bodice that flattered her narrow waisted figure.
They arrived at the Tavern, an imposing three story red brick building and one of the finest in the city. Dinner was to begin shortly before three. Constant pealing of church bells filled the air. A large, cheering crowd pressed forward, eager to glimpse the invited guests. General Knox helped first his wife and then Elisabeth from the carriage. She looked around at the uniformed officers standing stiffly lining the cobblestoned walkway to the Tavern. 3
“My dear,” the General said to Elisabeth. “I have arranged for my aide-de-camp to be your escort for this occasion.” And suddenly, Elisabeth found Will next to her, looking tall, lean and handsome in his clean brushed, but worn dark bl
ue jacket with red cuffs and trim. Eagerly, she hooked her arm in his and rested her hand on his forearm.
“Miss Elisabeth. You are most radiant this afternoon.” She basked in Will’s admiring gaze, pleased that she was not dressed as extravagantly as many of the other young ladies and their uniformed clad attendants entering ahead of them.
“And you Sergeant Stoner? Has your health improved since Morristown?”
“It most certainly has and now I am in the best of spirits in your
company.”
“I should reprimand you for being part of this surprise but since
I am happy to see you, I forgive your subterfuge.”
“I did not plot to deceive you,” Will said hastily as they followed
the General and Mrs. Knox up the steps to the Tavern. “I was
summoned by the General to participate in today’s military parade
and only learned this morning of his plan to appoint me his aide for
the celebration dinner.”
“It is a delightful surprise,” Elisabeth said, tossing her curls with
an amused smile on her face. “Now, you must not keep me waiting
another minute. Tell me everything that has happened to you since
your last letter.”
“I would take as long as all eternity if it meant you would listen
and be with me,” Will said to her. “There is really not much to relate.
Life in camp is routine, filled with repetitive tasks, drills and training.”
Elisabeth smiled at his eloquence and rapid conversion to his usual
modest self. She brushed her hand against his as they entered the
entrance hall, oblivious to the noise and commotion around them. The main tavern room, almost fifty feet in length, had been
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