The still air and oppressive heat kept the cloud of smoke from the gun powder overhead. He could see the decimated British infantry ranks retreating and reforming anew. On they came for another frontal assault and once again, they were met with concentrated cannon and musket fire that drove them back. The third time, Hadley ordered the battery to load with grape shot. Will lowered the gun’s elevation. The small iron balls tore into the advancing soldiers, maiming them, taking their legs from under them like a scythe cutting wheat. They retreated leaving their dead to bloat and swell and their wounded to bake and suffer in the blistering heat.
Hadley rode up to their battery. “They will move up their artillery. Aim for their horses before they are out of harness.”
Will readjusted the wedge under the breech. Adam, who had the keenest of eyes, balanced himself on the spokes of the carriage wheel and looked out on the battlefield. “Cannons coming,” he shouted, pointing toward the left. Will saw the horses first and waved to the three other gun commanders in his battery. He motioned to Baldwin, and the two of them lifted the tiller and re-aimed the cannon. “Tyler. Worm the piece.” Once again his cannon was the first to fire, followed quickly by the three other guns of his battery. The smoke from their muzzles obscured their targets. He fired another round, guessing the British had either not yet unlimbered their guns, or if so, were in the same place. He saw Chandler mouthing words but Will was too deafened by the cannon fire and could not hear him. Chandler ran up to him and cupped his hand over Will’s ear.
“We are almost out of water.”
Will unslung his canteen and handed it to Isaiah and directed him to collect the canteens from the rest of the crew. Chandler emptied them into the artillery bucket, filling it almost to the rim. Will waved to Titus and handed him the empty canteens.
“Run back to the parsonage. Fill the canteens at their well and find anything else that will hold water and bring it here.” Titus nodded, wove his way past the ranks of troops and dashed toward the rear. If they ran out before he returned, Will intended to find an infantry officer and ask for his men’s canteens. The heat was so intense, many of the troops, including his gun crew, had long since removed their jackets and were fighting in their shirt- sleeves.
The British artillery now was in position and opened fire. To Will, it seemed like every one of their guns was concentrated on his battery. Ball after ball tore into the soft earth around them and plowed into the troops. Musket balls whizzed menacingly overhead. He ordered Davenport to fire at will and ran first to one cannon on his left and then to the other two guns in the battery. All were running low on powder and shot. At the furthermost cannon, he was kneeling when a cannon ball whistled overhead. He heard a scream and the gun commander fell, writhing on the soft earth holding his left eye, blinded by the force of the nearby passage of the ball.
Will sprinted behind the gun and accosted a Lieutenant of one of the regular infantry companies. “We need more shot and charges. Send one of your men to the wagons in the tree line with that message.” The Lieutenant nodded. Will turned just in time to see a ball strike near the six-pounder adjacent to his gun and richochet into the carriage wheel, smashing the spokes. The cannon tilted down at an angle.
“We cannot right the gun,” Sergeant Otis yelled at Will, pointing to the damaged wheel. Will directed two of Otis’s crew to lift the cannon. Then he and Otis turned the wheel until the iron rim was propped up by the solid oak wedges normally used to elevate the breech. If it did not hold, he would disperse Otis’s gun crew among the three remaining cannons.
The battery was engaged in a ferocious duel with the British guns, more intense than at Brandywine or any other battle he could remember. Titus returned with filled canteens and Will let each man take a long swallow before indicating the water was to be held in reserve. The British guns let up their fire. Through the smoke Will could see their Regiments massing for another attack, their muskets held high, the sun glinting off their bayonets. Each of the four cannons was loaded with grape shot. He ran from gun to gun telling them to hold their fire and wait for his signal. He knew they were as deaf as he was. Grabbing the rammer and holding it high, he waited until the Redcoats were well within range. Then with a shout of “Fire!” he lowered the rammer. The steady disciplined volleys by the Continentals, the withering blasts of grapeshot and the cannons firing down on the advancing British from the hill enfilading their left flank, broke their attack.
Their retreat provided no relief for Will’s battery. The British artillery resumed their barrage. 7The artillery duel continued unabated through the afternoon heat, intensifying before each renewed infantry assault. A ball struck near Otis’s cannon, cut off the thigh of one of the crew just above the knee and the foot of another standing behind him. Both men lay on the ground screaming in agony, dark red blood pouring from their wounds and saturating the dry, sandy soil. The next shot hit the carriage a glancing blow, taking the six-pounder out of commission. Adam lifted the heavy powder box where it lay behind the disabled cannon and staggered with it a short distance before Titus rushed to help him. Together they brought it back to their ninepounder just as a musket volley tore through the air around them.
“I looked in the side box,” Adam said, panting from exertion and squatting low to the ground. “No more grape shot in there.” Will knew they were out of the rounded small balls and another assault was imminent. Only one wagonload of powder had reached his four cannons. Whether the grape shot had been diverted to other guns, Will did not know and there was no time to find out.
“There are barrels of nails at the parsonage. I saw them in the shed next to the well,” Titus said. Will shook his head. He could not hear him. Titus leaned forward, cupped both hands over his mouth and shouted his information. Will nodded he understood. “You and Adam bring those barrels here, quickly.” Adam looked over at the two wounded men from the crew of the six-pounder. He motioned to Titus and each one hoisted a man on their backs and trotted off toward the rear.
Will took over Adam’s role of powder handler. He handed the charge to Tyler who took it and slid it down the muzzle. Will looked for Chandler who stood, swaying on his feet. He stumbled toward the cannon, his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. His eyes rolled in their sockets, the whites contrasting with his face smeared with powder and flushed from the heat. Will grabbed a canteen, lifted Isaiah’s head and helped him drink. Chandler groaned, his head lolled over and he passed out.
Will grabbed the wooden staff of the rammer and thrust it down the barrel. Davenport assumed the task of bringing the ball which he slid down the muzzle. Will rammed it home. Davenport raced from the muzzle to the touchhole, pricked the canvas bag and inserted the quill. “Give fire!” Will shouted as he took up a position behind the breech. They continued firing with Will swabbing the cannon, hearing Chandler’s calming words in his head about the importance of taking time to be certain rather than being hasty, making sure Baldwin blocked the touchhole with his thumb cover. “Four more balls left,” he shouted, raising his hand to indicate the number.
They were down to the last one when Adam and Titus returned, each man staggering under the weight of a barrel of nails on their shoulders. Both men’s lower backs and breeches were drenched with blood. At first, Will thought they had been shot but then recalled it was blood from the two wounded gunners.
Judging by the size of the nails, Will estimated half a barrel would fill the cannon to the muzzle. Adam brought him a powder charge, the usual size with enough gun powder to fire a nine-pound ball. It would send the nails flying through the air at great speed. Will swabbed the cannon, rammed the charge home and then stepped back as Adam and Titus poured the nails down the barrel until it was filled to just below the muzzle ring.
Captain Hadley rode up to the battery and raised his sword as a signal to fire at his command. A hail of musket balls whistled through the air and Hadley leaped off his horse as it was shot out from under him. The poor beast thrashed around on the g
round before the Captain pulled out his pistol and shot the animal through its eye. Hadley stood on the horse’s corpse with his sword held high. They let the tall-hatted Grenadiers approach closer this time, forcing them to step over their own dead and wounded. It slowed their progress before they could reach clear ground. Their long, lethal bayonets, lowered for the charge, reflected sharp blinding bursts of light, as their compact, orderly ranks, three deep, steadied once past their fallen comrades and began the quick march.
“Fire!” Hadley ordered, pointing his lowered sword at the advancing Grenadiers and infantry. The hail of nails hurtled toward the enemy and tore into their flesh, creating ragged irregular wounds more horrible than rounded grape shot. 8 Though he was partially deaf, Will heard the agonizing collective high-pitched scream of pain from hundreds of throats as their line staggered. Still they came on, although fewer in number. The second round of nails ripped into their already decimated ranks and forced them to retreat from the horrendous hail of the iron shrapnel and the concentrated volleys of disciplined musket fire.
The British cannons fell silent. The artillery duel was over. In the still air, two large clouds of smoke hung over the battlefield, each obscuring one side from the other. In between lay the dead and dying Redcoats. Once it was clear the British were retreating, the American Regiments around Will’s battery marched to their left and down a road in pursuit. Will, exhausted by the heat but exhilarated by the battle, knelt next to Chandler, propping the Corporal’s head in his hand. His skin was hot to the touch. Gently, he poured some water on Chandler’s face and wiped it with his shirt sleeve. He thought of Chandler attending to him as he recovered from his brutal beating at the hands of patriotic thugs, those many months ago in Boston. Chandler moaned and his tongue licked his now moist lips. Will tilted his canteen and made him take small sips. Baldwin knelt next to Chandler, idly fingering several holes in his shirt where musket balls had missed the flesh but torn the fabric. He took a short swig and then slowly poured the remaining water from his canteen on Chandler’s head.
“That is good,” Chandler admitted softly. “How did the battle go?” he asked, as he sat up groggily.
“We are in possession of the field and the British are in retreat. Are you fit enough to ride in the wagon with the crew?”
Chandler nodded. Baldwin and Tyler helped him to stand. Behind them, the Regiment’s drivers were coming with the wagons and horses. Will took Big Red’s reins and the horse calmly waited for the traces to be attached to the nine-pounder’s carriage. With the crews sitting on the rough boards, the artillery and wagons proceeded to the nearby road and followed the army.
Will patted Big Red’s neck affectionately. He did not know whether it was over or not. It was late in the afternoon. If the British were as fatigued and debilitated by the heat as he was, the fighting would not resume before tomorrow morning. He had survived today and he would survive tomorrow. Then General Knox would surely permit him to ride to Philadelphia to be with Elisabeth. That thought gave him a surge of energy. He clicked his tongue and nudged Big Red lightly with his heels. The horse trotted down the road easily pulling the six hundred pound cannon behind them. 9
Chapter 10 – Life in Liberated Philadelphia
Every time Elisabeth heard horses’ hooves on the cobblestoned streets she expected them to stop and Will to appear at the Lewis’s door. The British had requisitioned almost all of the horses in the city so she knew the sounds belonged to American troopers. 1 She waited in vain for five days, refusing to leave the house. She had to be there if Will arrived. That was her excuse to the Lewises but she did not want to be seen in public. Her face was still bruised, the deep purple mark where John Stoner had hit her on her temple having turned more blue. The swelling of her cheekbone had subsided enough so that her eye was not as puffy.
Mary Lewis became her eyes and ears. The Americans, a regiment of light cavalry, had spent most of the first few days galloping around the city, causing a tumult and accomplishing nothing except to frighten citizens, children and stray dogs. Their commander, General Benedict Arnold, had arrived in a coach. He walked with crutches, it was said due to a musket ball that had shattered his thighbone. His headquarters was on Fifth and Market Streets, the very same threestory brick mansion that General Howe had appropriated for his residence.
When Mary returned from her most recent outing she reported it was impossible to find anything to purchase in the markets. Broadsheets had been posted up and down Market Street, signed by General Arnold, prohibiting “the removal, transfer or sale of any goods, wares or merchandize, in possession of the inhabitants of the city.” 2
“This foolish administration intends to starve us all,” Mary said angrily. “If it is their intention to make it a crime to sell flour, produce, meat and fish, how do they expect us to live?” She looked around the kitchen mentally making an inventory of the foodstuffs they still had. Her eyes lingered on the jar of hyson tea with its diminishing amount of precious tasty leaves.
“What about artillery? Did you see any cannons at all,” Elisabeth asked.
“I am sorry my dear. Of course, you are anxious for news of your Will. I saw more newly arrived troops but they are infantry. Still, no one has called at the house?”
Elisabeth shook her head. “I had hoped there would at least be a letter.”
“He will write or arrive in person,” Mary replied, attempting to overcome Elisabeth’s disappointment. “There are so few of their troops in the city, the bulk of their army must be somewhere else. Perhaps even marching on Philadelphia at this moment.”
Elisabeth did not credit that thought. More likely they were pursuing the retreating British. It meant Will would probably be in the thick of battle. He could not be taken from her, not now in some hot distant field by a musket shot or cannon ball when, after months of occupation, they could at last be together. She could tolerate another separation but only after she had expressed her love for him again and felt his arms around her.
She was startled from these intimate thoughts by a knock on the door. Mary jumped up from her chair with her hand covering her mouth in alarm. Elisabeth hurriedly ran down the hall. Mr. Lewis, an envelope in his hand, was already replacing the heavy oak beam when Elisabeth cried out. She ran to the window and saw the back of servant walking away.
“It is for you,” Edward said, his tense posture relaxing with relief. “I feared it was the military authorities or the new civil government come to take me away to prison again. They seem to suspect all of us as Loyalists.”
Mary took her husband’s arm. “Even those on the Executive Council cannot be so blinded by hatred as to conclude you aided the British occupation of Philadelphia. You were imprisoned in Winchester, Virginia, on their own order for all those long months.”
Edward handed Elisabeth the envelope and smiled at his wife. “Your righteous indignation against those who unjustly detained me pleases my heart but troubles my mind. Our fear of the unknown should not cause us to spout angry words. Even against those who wish us harm. We are to remain neutral in these mean times.” Mary uttered a dismissive “tsk, tsk” and patted his hand.
“Is it a letter from Will?” Mary asked, wondering whether it would ever be appropriate to tell Edward she had carried vital information through the lines and that Elisabeth had been a spy.
Elisabeth had eagerly torn open the envelope and quickly read the brief words inside. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It is an invitation from Peggy Shippen to tea tomorrow. I am resolved to go,” she said. “It is time for me to be out and about. Perhaps I may learn when the artillery are coming to the city.”
The following afternoon, somewhat self-consciously for the bruise on her temple and her swollen cheek were still evident, she walked slowly in the early afternoon heat up Fourth Street to the Shippen’s townhouse. She covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief to ward off the persistent foul stench and was grateful that it partially hid her face from passersby. She would have
to tell Peggy and the others at the tea what had happened, or some version of the truth. It was obvious they would ask.
The servant who opened the door had the good manners not to stare or reveal surprise at her looks and led her to the upstairs drawing room where Peggy usually entertained. He knocked, opened the door and formally announced her presence. Peggy Shippen, her sisters and three others were seated on a banquette and chaise lounge in front of the high glass window overlooking the home’s entrance, engaged in some discussion. Peggy Shippen was the first to turn. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock.
“Surely, I do not look so awful as to elicit such alarm,” Elisabeth said laughing. The young women flocked around her, all asking the same question and touching her face gently.
“Perhaps, if you all continue to pat and stroke my bruises, your evident concern for my wellbeing will heal these marks. Now, enough. I was invited for tea and your company. I will tell you everything, just once, and then let us enjoy the afternoon,” she said with mock sterness.
Elisabeth found herself the center of attention, something she knew would happen when she accepted the invitation. She had her story prepared. On the day the British evacuated the city, an officer had knocked on the door, demanded entry and began ransacking the house. When Elisabeth, who was home alone, had tried to stop him, he had hit her and made off with some of the Lewis’s silver and pewter. That was all there was to it. It was plausible. Everywhere, one could see the depredations committed by the British in their final frenzy of looting. Empty homes with the doors torn asunder, windows smashed, pieces of broken furniture visible inside as well as household debris in the corridors.
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