I am especially indebted to my friends Dr. Haile Mezghebe and Dr. Daniel Waterman for medical information relating to battle wounds, field surgery and subsequent infections, shock, fever and chills.
I am deeply grateful to David Lyman, a volunteer at Peirce Mill, part of the National Park Service’s Rock Creek Park in Washington, D.C. It is a functioning, water-powered mill, grinding wheat into flour in the same manner used in the late 1700s and early 1800s. David was kind enough to spend much of a pleasant Sunday morning explaining the original workings of the mill as well as the later addition of an elevator to carry the raw grain from the basement to the top floor. His patient and detailed account enabled me to better describe the construction of James Kierney’s mill.
All remaining errors of fact, grammar or spelling are of course my sole responsibility.
My immediate family has helped in writing “Blood Upon the Snow,” in various ways. My son, as always, has given generously of his time and artistic talents to design the cover, format the text, and provide the internal artwork.
My now two years + old grandson has unwittingly served as a model for baby Lucy Knox, as he went from crawling to running and from infant sounds to phrases and questions. He will continue to give me insights into a child’s development as little Lucy becomes a three year old in “Spies and Deserters.”
My beloved wife, who does not like historical novels in general, and descriptions of battles in particular, has nevertheless meticulously read this manuscript. It was truly a labor of love. She has applied her excellent writing skills to highlight momentum-stopping prose in the past tense, excessive detail and unnecessary digressions to which I was wedded. “Blood Upon the Snow,” is definitely a better novel because of her input.
Since she has already performed the same function for the first two novels and knows she will be called upon to do so for “Spies and Deserters,” and the remainder of the series, despite her strong aversion to battle scenes, I can only recognize her commitment to my writing by dedicating “Blood Upon the Snow,” to her.
Martin R. Ganzglass Washington, D.C. December 2015
Bibliography
The following are books, blogs or websites I have read for historical background. The blog, Boston 1775 continues to offer numerous articles on a wide variety of Revolutionary War history. Thomas J. McGuire’s two-volume history of The Philadelphia Campaign provides an excellent and thoroughly research account of the overall campaign as well as personal accounts and details of the soldiers on both sides. John A. Nagy’s “Spies in the Continental Capital-Espionage Across Pennsylvania During the American Revolution,” paints revealing scenes of life in Philadelphia and the extensive activities of both British and American spies, agents and informants. I remain partial to the self-deprecating tone of Private Martin in his memoir, “Private Yankee Doodle,” and the gripping prose of William Dwyer in “The Day Is Ours!.”
Since it is easy enough to search a book or article online by author and title, I have omitted the customary reference to publisher and date of publication.
Brooks, Noah,
Henry Knox- A Soldier of the Revolution
Chernow, Ron, Washington, A Life
Drake, Francis S.,
Life and Correspondence of Henry Knox
Dwyer, William M., The Day Is Ours! Eichner, L.G. Dr.,
The Military Practice of Medicine During the Revolutionary War
Fitzpatrick, John C., George Washington Himself
Hackett-Fischer, David, Washington’s Crossing Hendrickson, Charles Cyril and Van Winkle Keller, Kate, Social Dances from the American Revolution-Music and Instructions for Country Dances from the Personal Notebook of an Officer in General Washington’s Army
Ketchum, Richard M., The Winter Soldiers Krebs, Daniel,
A Generous and Merciful Enemy-Life for German Prisoners of War During the American Revolution
Martin, Joseph Plumb,
Private Yankee Doodle: Being a Narrative of Some of the Adventures, Dangers and Sufferings of a Revolutionary Soldier (George E. Scheer, Editor)
McGuire, Thomas J.,
The Philadelphia Campaign- Brandywine and the Fall of Philadelphia (Volume I); The Philadelphia Campaign-Germantown and the Roads to Valley Forge (Volume II)
Nagy, John A.,
Spies in the Continental Capital-Espionage Across Pennsylvania During the American Revolution
Nagy, John A.,
Invisible Ink-Spycraft of the American Revolution
Prescott, Frederick C. and Nelson, John H., (Editors) Poetry and Prose of the Revolution
Puls, Mark,
Henry Knox-Visionary General of the American Revolution
Roberts, Cokie, Ladies of Liberty
Savas, Theodore P. and Dameron, David J., A Guide to the Battles of the American Revolution
Sloane, Eric,
Diary of an Early American Boy, Noah Blake, 1805 Stuart, Nancy Rubin,
Defiant Brides-The Untold Story of Two Revolutionary Era Women and the Radical Men They Married
Thacher, James D. Dr.,
Military Journal During the American Revolutionary War 1775-1783
Walker, Paul K.,
Engineers of Independence- A Documentary History of the Army Engineers in the American Revolution, 1775-1783
Wulf, Karin A.,
Despise the Mean Distinctions [these]Times Have Made: The Complexity of Patriotism and Quaker Loyalism in One Pennsylvania Family
The thrilling saga of our War for Independence Continues with . . .
Spies and Deserters
Captain Chatsworth led the detachment of dragoons down the narrow road, their horses’ hooves clattering on the frozen ground. Patches of ice glinted in the moonlight. Twenty paces ahead, at a slight bend in the way, their local Tory guide stopped and raised his hand, listening and looking off to his left into the dark gloom of the woods. The twenty-eight troopers waited, their horses snuffling and emitting puffs of warm breath.
It could be an ambush, Chatsworth thought. They were almost thirty miles west of Philadelphia seeking to kidnap the Colonel of the Chester County Militia from his home near Downingtown. Perhaps the militia had been forewarned. Or their stoop shouldered guide, who knew the back roads and was supposedly the Colonel’s neighbor, was playing a double game and betraying the 16th Dragoons instead. His Quaker-like outer coat with no pockets, had initially aroused Chatsworth’s suspicion. He unstrapped his fuzee, the short-barreled musket the troopers carried, and held it loosely across his saddle. Nothing for it but to wait, he thought.
Suddenly, there was a crashing noise in the dense bushes. The guide let out a yelp and fled, his plow horse clumsily clearing a low stonewall as he disappeared into the darkness. “I hope he breaks his neck,” Chatsworth muttered. He held up his hand signaling for his men to remain where they were, then waved four of them forward. The scouting party vanished around the bend in the road followed by silence as the steady clop of their horses’ hooves was swallowed up by the enveloping blackness. Clouds passed across the three quarter moon. Chatsworth sat motionless in the saddle, sweating under his helmet despite the cold and felt a chill on the back of his neck. After several minutes the scouts reappeared.
“We saw some stray cattle. Nothing more,” the Sergeant said, shrugging as if he had suspected all along there were no Rebel militia hiding in the forest.
Chatsworth led the troopers forward until he could perceive a widening in the road where it was joined by one perpendicular to theirs. According to the guide, the Colonel’s house was the closest of the two after the Downingtown crossroads. He could make out a few buildings. If the terrified Tory had not run off, Chatsworth would have asked if there was a way to ride around without going through town and approach the Colonel’s house from behind. He weighed the risk of arousing the town by riding on against leaving the horses tethered and proceeding stealthily on foot. Better to remain mounted, he concluded. They could fight their way out on horseback if necessary.
At his signal, they formed into lines of three across and galloped through the crossroads, past several low wooden buildings and the tavern that served as the center of town, and surrounded a large two story stone house just off the road. A horse from the barn whinnied in alarm, but Chatsworth had already leaped down and was pounding on the door with the butt of his fuzee.
“Open up in the name of the Crown. Resist and you will be shot,” he shouted. A light appeared in an upper window, the shutters were thrown open and a grey haired woman in her nightcap peered out.
“Who are you to disturb our sleep,” she screeched in outrage at the black shadows of the riders below.
“We are the Queen’s 16th Dragoons and have come to arrest Colonel Hannum,” Chatsworth replied. “Open this door immediately.”
The woman held the lantern out the window, the light reflecting on the troopers’ brass helmets with their red crests. “He is not here,” she responded, her voice betraying her fear as she quickly withdrew leaving the shutters ajar. Chatsworth stood back and motioned for the troopers to break the door down. As it shattered, there was a scream of surprise from outside.
“We have bagged him, Captain,” came a triumphant cry from the rear of the house. The Rebel Colonel, shivering and hatless and looking undignified in his nightshirt and boots, was brought around the porch by two troopers firmly holding his arms.
“He attempted to escape through a back window.” Chatsworth looked at the man, his hair unkempt, his thin naked legs sticking out the bottom of his white night shirt like a plucked chicken.
“Take him inside, let him get dressed but watch him closely,” he ordered. “Seize all of the horses in the barn and a wagon if there is one. The rest of you, anything you can easily carry is fair to take from this Rebel scum.” Chatsworth wiped his muddy boots on the rug in the center of the parlor, while his troopers ransacked the house with Mrs. Hannum following and haranguing them as godless heathens. Her venom increased as her husband’s hands were tied behind his back, despite his promise as a gentleman not to try and escape.
“You mean not to try AGAIN,” Chatsworth said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your word is of no worth to me.” The Colonel was led outside and helped onto one of his own horses with a trooper pushing him hard against the pommel and sitting comfortably in the saddle behind him.
“Captain,” one of the troopers called. “Behind the barn. Look at this.”
Chatsworth followed him. The light from his lantern shone on a shrouded, bare footed corpse, stiff and frozen, laid out on a rough plank. The Captain bent down and pulled the rigid cloth away from the body’s face. In the candlelight, Chatsworth saw evidence of a slashing wound on the side of the neck, the eye nearest to the gash was closed as if the man knew it was fatal and had no need to see it. His other eye was open as was his mouth that formed a grimace, revealing several missing teeth. The remaining ones were stained black by gunpowder. Probably one of the Colonel’s militia, he thought, dead for some time, and awaiting a proper burial when the ground was no longer frozen hard as stone.
“Load him in the wagon. He may be useful to us,” Chatsworth ordered.
They left the Colonel’s home to the shrieks of his wife that they were no better than savages. Whether it was because one of his men had taken her gold watch or the corpse in the wagon, Chatsworth had no idea and did not care. /1 None of the homes showed any lights. Good, he thought. There was time then to leave a calling card.
Their local guide had mentioned the house on the far side of the tavern was occupied by a rebel sympathizer, a loud mouth he said who bullied his Tory neighbors. They deposited the corpse of the Rebel militiaman, standing propped up against the bully’s front door, facing in. When the sympathizer opened it, he would be greeted by a one-eyed dead man, who would fall into his arms, as a warning to be careful which side he chose.
Chatsworth sent two scouts ahead of the column. This county swarmed with Pennsylvania Militia and patrols of Continental Dragoons who sallied forth from their army’s base at Valley Forge. He would breath easier when they reached the burned out homes surrounding Philadelphia. On orders from General Howe, the dragoons had torched several mansions, used as observation posts by the Rebels or staging areas for attacks on British sentries manning the redoubts.
John Stoner, who had ridden with the Dragoons and now was Superintendent Galloway’s aide, had told Chatsworth in confidence of the resentment at what some Philadelphians called the shocking massive conflagration. Chatsworth had dismissed the good citizens’ approbation. Shock was what these people needed to keep them in line. /2 His dragoons could live with the bitter looks and the whispered words as long as people remained docile and obedient.
Good old “Ramrod John,” Chatsworth thought. The only man in the entire British Army to have killed a rebel with his fuzee’s ramrod. Speared him like a savage Indian, forgetting to reset it before firing. The man was a contemptible coward and obnoxious as a fawning hanger on. Always reminding Chatsworth that he had saved his life as if it was a note of debt to be collected. It was difficult to tolerate the man. Trying so hard to be the gentleman he was not. Not surprising, Chatsworth thought. After all, he was only a farmer’s son.
Still, he recognized John could be useful to the Dragoons, in his position as aide to Superintendent Galloway. His network of spies and sympathizers knew where the Rebel leaders were hiding. There was talk of even venturing forth into New Jersey to capture them. Chatsworth wanted those long distance forays for the 16th. There was glory to be gained in such raids. They might even bag a few members of Congress. Or a Rebel General as Tarleton had seized the Rebel General Charles Lee the previous year at White’s Tavern.
Blood Upon The Snow Page 35
