by Jack Fernley
Throughout, remaining on horseback, von Steuben and Reitsch had kept their distance from Mercer and Haslett, staying behind the front line. They had a forewarning of how events would play out and now they saw it becoming real.
In the scramble to retreat, Mercer had become detached from the main body of his men to the right. As the Scotsman attempted to restore order to his retreating line, a British rifleman shot his horse from under him. Mercer was thrown to the ground, the horse, thrashing about next to him, threw itself wildly about in agony. Very quickly, Mercer was surrounded by a small group of British soldiers. ‘Surrender, you fucking rebel!’ one of them shouted.
‘Damn you, damn you all!’ cried Mercer, advancing a few steps towards them, slashing his sword in the air. There was a stand-off, the British seeming unsure of what to do. They had an American general. That was some prize, but the order of the day was to take no prisoners.
Now Haslett, von Steuben and Reitsch rode towards the group. Mercer, spotting them, cried out, ‘Damn you, help is at hand!’
But von Steuben shouted at the Redcoats: ‘That is General George Washington, you would do well to leave him!’
Mercer looked puzzled. Why? What? he thought, but the announcement changed the British. Immediately, they lost any reticence.
‘Hey up, lads, it’s that cunt Washington!’
‘You fucking shit, you deserve this,’ said another, as he plunged his bayonet into Mercer’s chest.
Suddenly there was a frenzy of stabbing, Mercer disappearing under a blanket of red. Von Steuben fired his musket into the body of the men, the shot pelleting three of them in the back and buttocks. Waving his cutlass, the German charged his horse into them and they ran from the scene. Haslett jumped down from his horse, scrambled to Mercer’s side and lifted up the wounded general’s head. He was alive, terribly wounded, but alive.
Squinting up at von Steuben on his horse, Haslett screamed, ‘Why did you say that? Why single him out as General Washington? Why did you not save General Mercer?’
But he would ask no more questions, for Reitsch raised her pistol and deposited a shot clean to Haslett’s forehead, fracturing his skull instantly.
Mercer lay on the ground, blood seeping from a number of wounds, and yet he was still conscious. ‘Cover me,’ von Steuben whispered to Reitsch, who turned her horse so as to hide him from any onlookers as he dismounted.
On the ground, he lifted Mercer’s head. ‘Help me, Baron. My wounds are great, but I may yet survive.’
‘I think not,’ replied von Steuben and with a flash of his knife, he pierced the general’s heart.
TWENTY-TWO
What might have been a rout was saved by the sudden appearance on the field of two factors.
First, a thousand militia under Cadwalader arrived. They both stopped the flight of Mercer’s men, and also held down the British and resisted their advance. However, as the British reorganised themselves into a battle line, the weakness of the Americans became obvious. These men had little combat experience, basic military orders and manoeuvres were beyond them, and once the British line had recomposed itself and started to enjoy success, the American line broke easily again: at first a few and then the majority started to run. At that moment, the second factor altered the course of the day.
Riding into their midst came Washington. Once more he demonstrated the innate bravery that was his greatest strength. Going over to Cadwalader’s fleeing men, he calmly, but loudly, said to them: ‘Parade with us, my brave fellows! There is but a handful of the enemy and we shall have them directly!’
Now they stopped in their tracks and in a rough and ready way reformed a line. Holding them firm, Washington sent messages to the brigades of the Virginian and New England Continentals that they should go to the right side of the line. Order restored, impervious to the musket shot that fell close to him, Washington, with his hat on his head, rode forward, waving for the Colonists to follow him. Again, in an extraordinarily calm voice, he shouted, ‘Wait for my command before you shoot. Let us be ready!’
His disdain for his own safety steeled his men amid musket and cannon shot. Fifty yards from the British line, he turned his horse, faced his men and simply said ‘Halt!’ Then he cracked as close to a smile as he was capable and said, ‘Fire!’
Von Steuben and Reitsch watched from the edge of the orchard, Mercer’s dead body lying across the baron’s horse. It was theatre, wonderful theatre. And both the Colonists and the British had met Washington’s order of ‘Fire’, so that both the field and orchard were covered in a dusty white cloud, enveloping the screams and madness of a ferocious firefight. The Germans both wondered if that was the last they would see of Washington, but the cloud lifted and there he was, still on his horse, urging his men forward, the British line buckling under the Americans’ advance.
Von Steuben turned to Reitsch. ‘Conze will be disappointed. I failed to rally the troops. But history was right: George Washington really was something.’
TWENTY-THREE
It was the Continental Army’s finest day.
Washington’s intervention turned a rout in an orchard into a famous victory. The British fled the field, down the highway, Mawhood looking to join up with Cornwallis who, at the same time, was learning that the full Continental Army was not waiting for him on the other side of the Assunpink Bridge and that his enemy had sprung the greatest of surprises.
The main body of Washington’s army now marched on to Princeton where they overwhelmed a small group, whose resistance ended with a white flag being lowered from Nassau Hall and 194 British regulars surrendering.
But the biggest prize of all was the British army’s winter supply depot in New Brunswick, a few hours’ march from Princeton. And that was the aim of the joint force of Stormtroopers and Pennsylvanian Riflemen who had bypassed the fighting in Princeton and were closing in on their target.
The weather was good for marching: cold, but not too cold, an absence of wind, rain or snow, the turnpike to New Brunswick in good condition. They encountered little on the road, the occasional jig and carriage, but no British forces. They were making such good time, they stopped for half an hour or so of snap and grog. At that stop, Hand reflected on the differences between Conze’s Stormtroopers and his own Riflemen.
First, there was the appearance. The Americans were a ragged outfit. The Pennsylvanian Riflemen were the elite force of the Continental Army, insofar there wasn’t a man among them not wearing boots or in possession of at least a jacket if not a winter coat. But their clothes looked what they were: whatever had come to hand when they had first left their town houses or farmsteads eight months or more ago, worn out from months of sleeping rough, of marching across the country; patched, frayed, worn out. But the Stormtroopers’ grey-green uniforms were smooth and elegant, their belts and boots shone in the winter sun. They appeared to have been freshly laundered and they all looked the same. They looked like an army.
Then there was the physical appearance. Throughout the march, it was obvious after only a few miles that the Riflemen were holding back the Stormtroopers. Now, as they brewed coffee in an open field, the Pennsylvanians lay exhausted on the ground, barely able to move, whereas the Stormtroopers gave the appearance of being as fresh as the moment they had started. Many of the Americans had immediately fallen asleep, few of them had the energy to talk, whereas a group of the Germans had started a ball game while the others were laughing and shouting at each other. Hand could not only see the difference, he felt the difference. He and O’Leary sat on the ground, exhausted, staring at the earth, their bodies aching from five hours of marching, still feeling the effects of the previous day’s fighting.
‘Edward, Pat, coffee, here.’ Conze stood above them, offering tin cups. Tall, his blond hair short-cropped, blue eyes, chiselled cheeks, muscular, the epitome of a Stormtrooper.
O’Leary grunted and took his, Hand made to stand up to receive his.
‘Stay, stay seated, you need to rest. Here.�
� Conze handed him the drink. Hand gulped down the lukewarm, sugared drink. Conze dropped down on to his haunches.
‘You are feeling it, no?’
‘You could say that,’ replied Hand. ‘Your Stormtroopers, where do they get their energy? They’re like supermen.’
Conze laughed. ‘That’s because they are. They are highly trained professional soldiers, they are the elite. Your Riflemen are, what, farmhands, clerks, mechanics? They are serving a cause, but this is not their life, is it? When this war is over, they will go back to their families and live again the lives they had before, but the Stormtroopers, well, they will look for another battle. They will return to Europe or perhaps they will expand your frontier. They can easily overcome the savages of the wild lands. But they will not lose their discipline. That is what they have. The discipline to look after their bodies. They regard their bodies as a tool, a tool they need to maintain.’
‘When I first saw you parading at Trenton, I commented to Pat that you reminded me of the Spartans at Thermopylae.’
‘Oh, that is good, we will take that, Edward Hand!’ Conze laughed again. ‘A wonderful analogy. It is my belief that a small group of individuals, highly trained and focused, the flower of their generation, could defeat far larger forces. That could certainly be the case here in America.’
‘I fear we are holding you back.’
Conze replied bluntly: ‘That is the case, yes. Left alone, we would be in New Brunswick by now. But I hope by our exertions and example, we may inspire some of your boys. That there will be among the Riflemen, some who may say, “I would like to develop like these Stormtroopers”. That would be as great a victory for us today as seizing the winter supplies of the British. That they may take inspiration and look to learn and adopt our methods.’
Their conversation ended because the six-man scout team Conze had sent on ahead appeared among them.
‘Obergruppenführer.’ Another impossibly perfect Stormtrooper stood before them. ‘New Brunswick is but thirty minutes away. As you predicted, it is poorly defended. There are no guards before the town. By the waterfront there are twenty wagons. There is a redoubt. The treasury may be there. Overall, just under one hundred men. They appear unprepared for any attack.’
‘Good work, Oberführer Breitner. So your suggested plan for an assault?’
‘We continue along the turnpike. At the town’s edge, we divide our forces. The major body continues along the Albany Road to the waterfront, makes a direct attack. A second force approaches from behind. There is a track.’
Conze nodded his head, ‘We need to secure the landing. That is our route to Morris Town. There is a bridge?’
‘To the west of the depot. Primitive. Wooden, but we can cross.’
‘Very well. Speed is of the essence. We have to pick this English pocket and be off to Morris Town before the English general Cornwallis turns up here.’
The Riflemen had secured the wagons and were ready to move out of New Brunswick. The defence of the depot had been close to pathetic. The Stormtroopers had approached from the front, the Riflemen from behind; after a couple of volleys, and no casualties, the British had surrendered. In truth, there were no more than fifty Redcoats, and the depot consisted mostly of unarmed civilians, camp followers and sutlers. There were around forty women, wives of British troops who acted as cooks and nurses for the army, and a few children. The soldiery had been disarmed and the whole group was standing or sitting in a cleared area in front of the redoubt.
There were eighteen wagons, loaded with winter supplies for Cornwallis’s army. One wagon was full of tents, something the Continental Army was in dire need of, another held uniforms, winter clothing and even linen. Then there were the dry foodstuffs, barrels of pork and beef, sacks of potatoes, onions, parsnips, carrots, oatmeal and flour, enough to feed an army for the winter. A wagon full of porter was especially welcome, but more useful were the three carriages stocked with fresh shot and rifles. Cornwallis had lost a battle even greater than those of Trenton and Princeton. He had lost the means to keep his army in the field. He would have no option but to return to New York for the winter with the main body of his troops. What forces could be maintained outside of the city would be forced to scavenge off the locals.
However, in the redoubt they found a further, greater prize: a treasure chest of £70,000. The entire war chest for the British army in the Americas, to be used to pay the British soldiers, mercenaries and spies, to acquire further food and armaments. Seventy thousand pounds, an unbelievable amount of money, that would immediately ease the financial worries of Washington and his army.
Now they had to move out quickly before Cornwallis and his troops could reach New Brunswick.
Hand gave the order, the covered wagons made their way across the wooden bridge, over the Raitan River and off towards Morris Town, where the rest of the Continental Army was already headed. It was a thirty-mile journey. If the weather held up, they could be safely camped with the rest of the army the following morning. As the carriages left, so did the remaining Riflemen, and Hand joined Conze, who was standing among the Stormtroopers guarding the captured British. The plan was for the Stormtroopers to stay for an hour or so in New Brunswick, so if Cornwallis was able to send an advance party of cavalry ahead, the Germans could delay them.
‘We have started the march to Morris Town. I shall see you further along the road before we reach it, I suppose?’
‘Yes, we’ll stay here, give you a head start – and still beat you to Morris Town!’
‘I’m sure you will. And what will you do with these prisoners?’
‘I’m not sure just now what to do with them.’
‘General Washington is adamant that we must treat all prisoners, in his words, “with humanity”. The British have been brutal towards many of our men; we have no wish to match them.’
‘Then what would you have me do with them?’
‘I would organise them and have them march with us to Morris Town for now. We could then send them to work on those farms that lack hands because of men serving in the army. We have done that before.’
‘They will slow me down though,’ replied Conze.
‘It would take no more than a dozen men to guard and march them; they don’t have to be part of your main body.’
Conze looked away vaguely in the direction of the prisoners. ‘I will think about it. Get on with you now, you can’t afford to wait any longer.’
There was something in his tone that alarmed Hand. Nevertheless he agreed, shook Conze’s hand and moved off with O’Leary.
They had crossed the wooden bridge, walking at a fair pace, when they heard gunfire, considerable gunfire, one volley, followed quickly by another.
‘Cornwallis is upon us!’ shouted O’Leary.
The two men stopped in their tracks on the high ground. They had a clear view of the waterfront area of New Brunswick. And if they could not see clearly what was happening, they saw enough to realise that Cornwallis was not attacking New Brunswick. Without thinking further, Hand ran back immediately across the bridge, followed by O’Leary.
What they saw shocked them.
There was a mound of bodies where the prisoners had previously stood: men, women and children, soldiers and civilians, bloodied, fallen where they had been hit. Around them a group of Stormtroopers were prodding bodies, stabbing bodies. To the right, a group of a dozen women had been separated and were being dragged away by a group of Germans. There was little doubt about what was going to happen to them.
Breathless, Hand ran up to Conze, who was supervising the executions.
‘What the fuck is happening?’
Conze was surprised, taken aback. ‘It is war. It happens.’
‘What happens? I told you, Washington has been clear. We have to treat them with humanity. What are those men doing over there with those women?’
Conze looked over and dismissed the scene. ‘These men have travelled thousands of miles to come here. They won a
famous victory yesterday; it is only natural that they look for a way to satisfy their urges, their natural urges. None of those women has gone without agreement. They had a choice.’
‘To my eye they appear anything but willing. What choice have you given them? Stand there and be gunned down or go off and be raped? You call that a choice? And is this the behaviour you expect from your professional, disciplined supermen? Or do you condone it?’
Conze moved closer to Hand.
‘My friend, this is war, this is what we call “total war”. If you wish to win this war, you cannot play at it. You have to be prepared to do what it takes. Our regiment has a simple motto: “Terror must be broken by terror.” That is what we are doing.’
‘What terror? These people surrendered immediately. They had no weapons, no defence, you have killed them in the most terrible way.’
‘It will send a message to anyone who dares oppose us: that all opposition will be stamped into the ground. Whether they are Americans who stay loyal to the king, the British who come here to fight us, the savage Indians or the Negroes on the plantation, whoever they are, wherever they are, they have to learn. Strength and power, only a heart of iron brings victory. Listen to me, my friend, I have no time to play games. I am here to win and I will do all that it takes to achieve victory. The question you have to ask yourselves, Edward Hand and Patrick O’Leary, is: are you prepared to do what it takes to win?’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Hugh Mercer was my finest friend. He and I had seen so much together. It breaks my heart that he will not live into a grand old age, surrounded by grandchildren, entertaining them with stories of his glorious past. His is the first great sacrifice of this war. Gentlemen and Frau Reitsch, I ask you to raise your glasses.’
