Private Henry Gillet and the other men of the 2nd Rhode Island Regiment, gratefully reached the shade of the broad-trunked, forty foot swamp oaks, which lined the far side of the oven-hot ploughed field. Crossing through the sandy soil, many of the soldiers stripped off their jackets and shirts and stuffed them in their haversacks. They lay resting on the dank earth, covered in places by pine needles from the occasional conifers.
Their route for the past few days from Princeton southeast through New Jersey had followed the path of devastation and senseless destruction left in the wake of the retreating British Army: dead cattle lying in the fields and pastures where they had been shot, some with flyinfested bloody hind quarters marking where meat had been carved off their carcasses; farm tools of all kinds with their long handles broken in two; household furniture hacked apart; trees in orchards, heavy with cherries, chopped down waist high; barns, sheds and homes smouldering, their stone chimneys the sole survivor and silent witness to the wanton arson that had been committed.
They had been marching since sunup having left their baggage in the rear under guard, taking only their blankets, cartridges and provisions. Ahead of them, they heard the report from a light field cannon, a three pounder Gillet guessed, followed by an occasional musket volley.
“Hey, Henry,” Oliver Whipple called to him, lying prone under a low branch. “Pass me your canteen. Mine is empty.” Gillet tossed his, now less than half filled, to his friend. The last two wells they had passed had been filled with rubble.
“Remember the casks of hard cider the good people of Princeton shared with us as we marched through,” Oliver said wistfully. Henry thought of their march at dusk through Princeton. He had been on the side of their platoon closest to the homes and in the early evening light he had seen the women, some with their children, cheering and waving as the soldiers went by. It had stirred within him a deep sense of loneliness and longing for his wife Judith and their daughter. He opened his cartridge box and rubbed the light blue fabric of the ribbon Judith had sent him. 2 Earlier this morning, before setting out, they had been issued forty cartridges each, a clear indication there would be a battle soon. He held the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger, thinking of it as a talisman to protect him.
Oliver sat down next to him and returned his canteen. “I have never been more eager for battle,” Gillet said, looking at his friend. “I want to defeat the Redcoats, end this brutal war that desolates the countryside, and return to Judith and my daughter.”
“Your two wishes have been granted,” Oliver replied with a grin, revealing several teeth, blackened from repeated musket practice. “With all that incessant drilling, we marched rapidly and this day have arrived in good order to catch the Redcoats before they reach the protection of New York. I am of the opinion . . .” He was interrupted by a shouted order and drum signal first to form up and then retreat.
“What the devil,” Oliver said, his lips curled in unconcealed disgust.
They quickly assembled, with many of the men reluctantly grumbling about retreating before contact with the enemy had even been made. The Regiment, instead of retracing their steps through the hot sandy field, turned slightly west and marched on a road through a ravine along a muddy, shallow brook. Rumors ran down the line as they sat by the side of the road to permit the retreating artillery to pass. The word was part of the army was in full flight and the Rhode Islanders’ advanced position had become untenable. Why was the army retreating? No one had the answer to that question.
“The Generals seem as perplexed as we are,” Oliver said pointing to General Washington riding forward, surrounded by a cluster of senior officers and aides. The men spontaneously stood and cheered as the entire entourage passed them. The group halted ahead on a road to confer with a General and his staff coming toward them from the front. 3 Oliver, standing on a tree stump to get a better view, reported, “I cannot hear what they are saying but from here it appears General Washington is giving the other General a dressing down.” In keeping with that impression, Washington galloped off to the front, followed by all but the General he had addressed. The sounds of cannon fire increased before an aide returned on his horse, stopped briefly to give Lt. Colonel Olney his orders, and was then off again, whipping his horse to a lather.
“By Company forward march,” Olney shouted. The ensign carrying the colors proceeded to lead Gillet’s company in a quick march out of the defile and toward level clear ground. They took up their positions behind a fence with thick brush intertwined among the slats and waited. Major Thayer rode behind the men shouting for them to hold the line, as the rest of the Army was coming up quickly in support. Their position was reinforced by the arrival of the rest of the Regiment, including some colored soldiers under the command of Captain Arnold.
“What do you think of them?” Oliver said, gesturing with his head toward the colored soldiers taking positions behind the hedgerow.
Henry looked their way and smiled. “To me, they seem as able as we to kill Redcoats.” He knew his regiment was understrength. The addition of some sixty odd soldiers from the Black Regiment filled that need. 4 “For my money, they are brother soldiers.”
“I fear they will cut and run,” Private Fish said contemptuously. “Many were only slaves a few months ago.”
“It appears that some of our troops retreated in a hurry or else why would General Washington be in such a fury?” Gillet asked. “Those were white troops. I believe the blacks will prove you wrong, Fish.”
“Let us hope the rest of the army arrives soon,” Oliver said. “There are more than enough Redcoats approaching for all.” Henry peered through the greenery and saw a mass of soldiers, rapidly advancing in good order across the field. He heard the crisp orders of their platoon sergeant - “Cock Firelock! Take Aim! Fire!” Their musket volley tore into the advancing Redcoats. He sensed rather than heard the order for the second rank to move half a foot to the right and fire. The noise of their musket fire deafened him as he was already reloading. The drill orders echoed in his head: Prime! Shut Pan! Charge Cartridge! Draw Rammer (two motions)! Ram Down Cartridge (one motion) ! Return Rammer! Cock Firelock! Take Aim! Fire! In front of them, the dead and wounded lay in the field, left behind by the retreating Redcoats.
Henry lost count of how many times the enemy reformed their ranks and charged through the field, and how many times he fired his musket. In the still air of the oppressive heat, a low white cloud of spent gunpowder wafted over their position. At some point they were ordered to pull back. He felt a sense of pride as his Company and the Regiment marched in good order away from the fence where they had held up the British advance. They slogged through a swampy lowland and clambered up a hill. Their new positions were beneath a battery of four six-pounders overlooking a level valley between them and another height in the distance. The slope was steep enough so that the cannons could fire over their heads. Below, on both sides of the one road on which they had rested, the bulk of the Army had taken up positions blocking the British who had marched in strength back from the little town. The Redcoats were aligned in two battle lines of three Regiments each, with one Regiment in reserve in the center. Henry could make out the high fur caps of the Grenadiers. The sun was high in the sky, just past noon.
“There will be plenty of hot action today,” Oliver said, kneeling in position next to him surveying the scene below. “Fairly soon those troops down there will attempt to outflank our lines by coming this way.”
Henry looked back over his shoulder at the four cannons. “Our artillery will help us stop them,” he said. He was confident and resolute. All of that drilling had made his Company, nay his Regiment, capable of standing up to the hated Redcoats. He touched the ribbon in his cartridge box and wound it around his finger. It will not be long now dear Judith, he thought, until we shall be reunited. And then I will never leave you.
Bant knelt uncomfortably on the stubble of grass. Ahead was a roughly plowed field, with occasional stems of weeds and sh
rubs poking up here and there. He was accustomed to hiding in the woods, behind fallen logs, screened by bushes or crouching behind fences and stone walls. Being out in the open made him uneasy. He had volunteered again to join Morgan’s Rifles, thinking they would harass and ambush the British as they retreated from Philadelphia. He had not anticipated being part of the front line, the troops that absorbed the impact of an assault by disciplined ranks of Redcoats.
Along with McNeil and some others from Colonel Hand’s Regiment, they had marched forward to support the attack on the baggage train and rearguard. Before they had even caught up with their own troops, they were ordered to retreat, which he admitted had been done in good order but still made no sense. Instead of taking to the woods and picking off the British from a distance, they were assigned to General Alexander’s brigade. Morgan’s men told them Alexander was called Lord something or other. Bant thought it peculiar to be fighting against the Crown under the command of this Lord, not that it mattered to him. He had fought under “Scotch Willy,” picking off tall Scots in kilts and hunting them down in the snowy hills of New Jersey.
Morgan’s men also had taught him a phrase he took to heart. They called their sharpshooting “killing off the king birds,” which meant aiming for the highest ranking officers in the field. He liked that idea and had listened carefully as to how to recognize such officers. Corporals and Sergeants shouted commands and led from the end of a file. An officer carried a sword and often rode a horse into battle, but not always. And they led from the front.
The men of Morgan’s Rifle Corps were in two lines. Bant in the front line, along with McNeil, would fire first and reload while the standing second line fired over their heads. The four hundred or so men were spaced about two arms lengths apart, close enough to deliver a concentrated deadly fire, but with enough room to maneuver with their long rifles. None of them had bayonets, although many of Morgan’s men, as well as McNeil, carried hatchets. Bant had his big-bladed hunting knife, strapped to his belt. His position was close to the adjacent Continental Regiment. He had heard they were from Connecticut. They had regular muskets and most had bayonets affixed to the end of the barrels.
Bant saw the British infantry steadily approaching in wellordered ranks, as if on parade. Then he heard the high-pitched screech of bagpipes. A Scottish regiment, clad in dark and light green tartans with red and white checkered head bands, maneuvered smartly in position between the two infantry regiments. Together the entire line advanced with precision, the Scots almost directly opposite Bant. He ignored the color bearer, a tall man with a clean white strap across his chest, part of the harness for the flagstaff. Everyone would sight in on him. Instead, he picked out a smaller fellow in the front line, leading with his short sword pointing forward. He wore a bright brass badge on his cap. Bant assumed that was an indication of rank and settled on him as his target.
The British were less than thirty yards away when they halted and fired. Musket balls whistled through the air, followed by two more volleys from the second and third lines. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw men struck by the Redcoats’ fire and collapse to the ground. The Continentals discharged a volley. Then a second one. Bant heard the order - “Front Rank, Make Ready.” He lowered his rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. “Take Aim! Fire!” The smoke from the British muskets obscured his target but Bant thought he saw the man waving his sword and urging the Scots forward. He fired and saw the officer drop his sword but remain standing. Had he missed the man’s head? Surely his aim could not have been that far off. Quickly, he reloaded as the men in the rear rank fired into the advancing troops. They were less than twenty yards away now. There were gaps in their lines but they were still coming on. Bant could hear their battle cries and above it all the piercing squeal of their bagpipes. He was seized by a fear of being hacked to pieces by a broadsword or speared on the point of a bayonet. He could clearly make out the fierce expressions on their faces as they rapidly advanced on the American lines. He fired his rifle and barely had time to see the soldier grasp at his throat and fall. He had no time to reload. They would be on him before he could do so.
“Company. Charge Bayonets!” With a roar, which almost drowned out the long drum roll, the Connecticut soldiers charged forward as a unit into the advancing Scots. All Bant could see was a mass of bodies, a tangle of feet, muskets raised in the air, men lying bleeding on the ground. Without thinking he reloaded and waited. When he looked again, the colors of the Scottish troops, held aloft in the center, waved and dipped, rose again and then were hidden from Bant’s view. The bagpipes wailed a different tune, the Scots turned and, led by their color bearer, hurriedly retreated, leaving their dead and wounded behind. 5
Bant heard the order to advance, saw McNeil raise his hand in solemn greeting, and moved forward with the rest of Morgan’s Rifles in quick step. They soon caught up with the Connecticut soldiers. Together with the infantry, in the good order learned on the drilling fields at Valley Forge, they streamed after the retreating British. At some point, Bant heard the shouted orders and the recognizable drum signal. He halted and the company formed new lines. It was in the same kind of open grassy terrain and furrows that made him uncomfortable. He reached for his cartridge box and brushed against his empty sheath. Then he recalled he had drawn his hunting knife and stuck it in the ground in front of him when the Scots charged with their bayonets. A lot of good the knife would have done him against a more than foot long bayonet. He would have to go back and find it.
Out in the open, he felt exposed to both infantry assaults and shelling by the rows of cannons arrayed ahead of them and off to their right. Bant hoped they would not be ordered to attack the cannons. For the moment, it seemed unlikely. There were horses in their traces. It meant the cannons would move in support of some attack, probably not on their front. The retreating Scots and infantry had passed through their lines to regroup in the rear and there were no troops massing in front of Bant’s newly formed line.
He waited in the hot sun, dissatisfied he had not picked off an officer and troubled that his aim had been off. If this were to be the experience with Morgan’s Rifles, maybe next time he would not volunteer and stay with Colonel Hand’s Regiment.
Will was pleased both Adam and Titus were with him, Adam, stocky and strong serving as powder handler and one-eyed Titus as runner and additional man if there were casualties. Both were Marblehead Mariners attached to his battery. He was confident he could rely upon them under fire, having fought together during the race riot at General Washington’s headquarters in Cambridge.
There were three four-gun batteries, all brass six and ninepounders interspersed to support General Wayne’s Brigade. Their long days training in the fields outside of York had proven beneficial. After receiving orders, hurriedly issued by General Knox, they had ridden forward, pulling the cannons behind them, quickly unhitching the horses, manhandled the guns into position and off-loaded the side boxes with powder and shot.
They were in the center of the line spread on both sides of the road that sloped up toward them from a broad sandy plain. Captain Hadley commanded all twelve guns and rode the length of their position, shouting orders to protect the powder boxes, relocate the balls and grape shot, move a gun to take advantage of some natural protection. No such commands were needed for Will’s four cannons. The crews were ready. At the nine-pounder where he was gun commander, he had Chandler, Baldwin, Davenport and Tyler, all veterans of prior battles. With the cannons in place and a brief lull before the advancing British troops were within range, Will assessed their position.
To his right, American troops occupied a low, round-topped hill, together with some artillery. It was the highest point of the terrain. From there, they would be firing on the left wing of the advancing British. Big Red and the other horses were in the woods behind Will’s battery, where even an errant British cannon shot would not endanger them.
What his battery lacked was a nearby water supply. They would nee
d water to swab the guns. The only water they had with them was in their canteens. If it came down to being thirsty or being certain there were no residual burning flakes of linen in the barrel to prematurely ignite the next powder charge, the men would have to go without. He remembered they had passed a church and parsonage. He hoped there was a working well there. When the time came, he would send Titus back to the church to scout for water. 6
A somber thought occurred that he did not want to dwell on. In the event Captain Hadley was wounded or killed, Will would become the batteries’ commander. He did not think himself capable of managing twelve guns. His grim assessment of his shortcomings was interrupted by Hadley’s orders to load their guns and await his command. Swiftly, Levi Tyler took the charge from Adam and slid it down the barrel. Chandler rammed the charge home with a grunt and stepped aside as Levi rolled the nine-pound shot into the muzzle. Baldwin reached into his leather pouch, pricked the powder charge with a wire and inserted a quill filled with powder in the touchhole and shouted “Primed!” Will turned toward Hadley who had his sword raised in his hand. All he could think of was that he made an easy target for the British, sitting exposed on his horse in the midst of the cannons. His order to fire was overwhelmed by the crash of the musket volleys of the Americans. Will had seen Hadley’s sword arm fall. “Give Fire!” he shouted. Davenport placed the slow match in the quill. The nine-pounder boomed and a cloud of white smoke rose and merged with the puffs from the muskets of the infantry.
The crew moved methodically and with calm efficiency: Tyler wormed the barrel, Chandler swabbed it, took the new charge from Adam and rammed it home. With the ball down the barrel the cannon was again primed. Hadley instructed the gun commanders that after the first round, they were to fire as soon as they loaded. “Give fire!” Will ordered. He was proud that his crew was the first to reload and let loose the second shot. During the endless drills, he had discovered that Davenport was a quick learner and steady at his post. He kept Chandler manning the sponge. A good man, calm and deliberate, but perhaps a little too old for the rigors of fighting. Their lives depended on him. One forgetful moment, one instance of carelessness and a burning ember could explode the new powder charge in the barrel, burst the cannon and slaughter them all with hot metal shrapnel.
Spies and Deserters Page 16
