Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

“We captured an officer, sir.”

  Reed eased back in his saddle while his thoughts raced. Cornwallis! I heard he was on his way back to England! Howe must have stopped him and sent him here to take command. If he brought one thousand regulars with him, when he joins Grant and Leslie he will have a force of about eight thousand!

  Reed exhaled slowly as the sure knowledge struck home. We won’t have half that many! If I were Cornwallis, I would annihilate Washington right there on the banks of the Delaware! When we took Trenton away from Howe, he lost too much. He’s trying to reclaim his honor and his position.

  Reed twisted in his saddle to point nearly due east. “Bear Swamp is over there about a mile or so.” He lowered his arm. “I’m going to take my command straight on towards Princeton until I make contact with the British. You may hear shooting when we do.” He turned in his saddle one more time to point southwest. “If you go back on the Princeton Road, know that General de Fermoy has a command of men just south of the bridge at Five Mile Run, about halfway back to Trenton. They’re to slow the British if they come. They have two cannon, so if you have to use that road, stay in plain sight and go in slow with your hands high until they recognize you. General de Fermoy is French, and his rules of war are a little different.”

  “I’ll remember, sir.”

  Billy saluted. Reed returned the salute and wheeled his horse around as he called orders to his patrol and led them north up Quaker Road. Billy watched them for a few moments, then reined his horse due east, off the road, into the drifted, crusted snow, watching for snowcovered cattails, reeds, and tall grasses that would mark the frozen Bear Swamp.

  Behind him, half a mile to the north, Reed slowed his patrol at the first farmhouse and came into the farmyard at a walk with every man watching everything that moved. A milk cow stood in a small pen beside the clapboard barn, eyes closed in total disinterest, chewing its cud. Nine weaner pigs clustered around a sow in a low pen beside the barn, and chickens stepped daintily in the snow inside the chicken coop to take beady-eyed aim on kernels of grain before their beaks struck with deadly accuracy. The house was silent.

  Reed dismounted and strode to the front door and pounded with the flat of his hand. Moments later the door opened less than one foot and a man peered out through the crack, suspicious.

  “I’m an American officer,” Reed said boldly. “I need information regarding the British and the town of Princeton.”

  The man opened the door wide. His wife stood behind him with an infant clutched to her as the man spoke. “We don’t care for the British, so we’ve stayed away from Princeton. I don’t know much about what they’re doing there.”

  Reed studied him briefly. “Do you know how many are there?”

  The man shook his head. “No. I only know that when they came they took two of my cattle and half my sheep and grain and winter meat, just like they did at the other farms around here.”

  Reed could hear the anger in the man’s voice. “Do they send patrols out this way?”

  The man shrugged. “Once in a while.”

  “Have you heard about what happened at Trenton?”

  A light came into the man’s eyes. “We heard. Were you part of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really shocked them. There’s talk about them coming back to Trenton.”

  “I know. We’re here to find out how many, and when. Anything we can.

  “Wish I could help more, but I can’t.”

  Reed nodded. “Thank you.” He turned on his heel, remounted, led his patrol out of the farmyard at a brisk trot, and raised them to an easy lope north. Twice more he stopped at farmhouses, and each time the taciturn, reluctant farmers repeated what he already knew. He moved steadily north to the open country with a growing sense of frustrated apprehension.

  Where are they? After Trenton, they should have patrols swarming. Have they seen us and are drawing us into a trap? Ambush?

  With Princeton a scant two miles ahead, he reined in his horse and the patrol stopped while Reed sat quietly in his saddle for several seconds. The only sound in the frigid world was the squeak of saddle leathers as the horses labored with their breathing. He made his decision, turned to his patrol, and his words came loud, clipped, in the rising tension.

  “We’re going right on towards Princeton until we make contact. Watch sharp both right and left for the first sign of a trap or an ambush.” He turned his horse and once again his patrol followed him at a canter, moving ever closer to Princeton.

  More than two miles east of the patrol, Billy brought his horse down to a walk and sat tall, eyes squinting against the sparkle of sunlight on the frozen snow, watching for the dark form that would be Eli’s wolf skin coat in the white glare. Blackbirds with one red patch on the leading edge of each wing darted scolding among the brittle cattails and the tall, gray clumps of frozen marsh grasses as he moved east through Bear Swamp. He had gone four hundred yards when Eli rose from a tangle of grass and cattails thirty feet ahead and trotted to him. Eli wasted no time.

  “You report to Washington?”

  “Yes. You been to Princeton?”

  Eli nodded, and Billy saw the heavy concern as he spoke. “Things are happening that Washington needs to know.”

  “What things?” Billy swung down from the horse and faced Eli.

  “Grant and Leslie are waiting in Princeton for Cornwallis to get there tomorrow. With those he’s bringing, he’ll have about eight thousand fresh troops spoiling for a fight, and they’ll have sixty cannon and maybe a thousand mounted cavalry. I think they’ll be at Trenton two days from now.”

  Billy made instant calculations and his breathing slowed. “We’ve got about half that many, and they’re exhausted, worn out. Right now they’re just east of Trenton sitting on the bank of the Delaware, and if Cornwallis comes in on them from the north and east at the same time, there’s no way out.”

  Eli stopped. “Washington can’t cross the Delaware?”

  “The boats are up at McKonkey’s Ferry.”

  “We’ve got to get back and tell him.”

  For long seconds Billy remained silent while his mind leaped, and suddenly he pointed west. “I met Colonel Joseph Reed’s patrol over there, headed into Princeton to find out what you already know. He told me General de Fermoy has a force over on the Princeton Road at Five Mile Run to slow down the British when they come.” He paused for a moment, then concluded. “If we can find Reed, maybe he can take word back to Washington while you and I wait to see what happens and then go on over to Princeton Road to tell de Fermoy what to expect.”

  For a moment Eli pondered. “I think you’re right. Let’s go.”

  Eli handed his rifle up to Billy as Billy drew his foot from the onside stirrup and Eli swung up behind him. The brown horse accepted the double load as Eli reached to take his rifle, and Billy raised the mount to a gentle lope following his own tracks back to the Quaker Road.

  Three miles to the northeast, Joseph Reed pulled his horse to a stop and the patrol halted behind him, puzzled, sensing the bafflement that was now plain on Reed’s face He pointed straight ahead at trees less than a mile distant.

  “The College of New Jersey is just past that stand of trees. I can’t understand why we haven’t seen the British.” Slowly he turned his head, first to the right, then the left, and then he twisted in his saddle to peer south, behind the patrol. There was nothing.

  He drew a great breath. “So be it. We ride until we make contact.”

  “There!”

  Every man in the patrol started at the urgently hissed word from a private at the rear, and every head jerked to follow his pointing arm, finger extended towards the west at a farmyard two hundred fifty yards away. The man walking from the barn to the house was wearing the unmistakable crimson coat and crossed white belts of a British regular, sparkling bright in the sun and the white world. The soldier continued steadily on towards the house and entered.

  Reed released held breath. “He didn�
��t see us.” Instantly he gave hand signals and commands. “The first six, to the left, the second six, follow me to the right. We surround the house one hundred yards out and come in on foot from all sides at once. Try to get there without being seen or heard. I’ll handle things at the door.”

  Half the patrol swung a quarter mile south, the other half a quarter mile north, formed a circle, and turned their horses towards the house. They rode in at a trot, silent in the snow, and dismounted one hundred yards out, hiding behind anything they could find—trees, bushes, ditches, fences. They dismounted and came in at a run, dodging, running, until they were all within ten feet of the house.

  The yard was silent. No curtains moved at the windows, no door opened, no one challenged. Reed trotted to the door with sword drawn, and stopped dead in his tracks. With his nose wrinkled he turned to his aide and whispered, “Mince pies?”

  The aide’s eyes grew large as he nodded. “Mince pies.”

  Reed signaled to the six men behind him, grasped the door latch, jerked it up, raised his sword above his head and bolted from the bright sunlight into the dim room, his men hot behind him, muskets at the ready. Instantly Reed realized he was in the kitchen, and that the room was crowded with red-coated British regulars who were standing around a table, too startled to think or move.

  Reed thundered, “Surrender or die!” as his six men slammed into the nearest redcoats and jammed them against the wall. In the wild confusion the British tried to reach their weapons leaning against the far wall. Reed’s men swung their musket butts cracking against British heads, and the first three redcoats went down. The others stopped dead in their tracks. Reed still had his sword poised above his head and he faced the nearest British officer as the remaining six men of the American patrol came storming through the door to fill the kitchen.

  With his sword high Reed shouted in the face of the stunned British officer, “Do you surrender or die, sir?” He backed the man up until he hit the wall.

  The officer stammered, “Surrender. We surrender.”

  Reed lowered his sword and gave hand signals to his men. Thirty seconds later they had all the British muskets, pistols, and swords gathered, and the British crowded against one wall of the kitchen, hands high. Movement at the archway into the parlor caught Reed’s eye and he pivoted, sword poised before he realized the man was not in uniform and there was a wide-eyed, terrified woman behind him silently weeping as she clutched two small children to her skirts. Reed lowered his sword and faced the man and spoke loud, demanding.

  “I’m Colonel Joseph Reed, Continental army. Who are you, sir?”

  “Jared Wilson. This is my farm.”

  “Were you harboring these British soldiers?”

  The man shook his head. “No. They broke in. They were stealing my wife’s mince pies.”

  Only then did Reed remember the strong, pungent smell of sweet mince pies, and turned to look back at the table. There were eight of them, still warm. Four had been cut and partially eaten. He looked back at the soldiers against the wall. Some of their red coats were stained by the rich brown mince drippings. For a moment Reed puzzled, then turned to their officer.

  “It seems you were so anxious to steal Mrs. Wilson’s mince pies, no one thought to put out a picket.”

  The officer’s face flushed and he looked at the floor and refused to speak.

  Without warning a laugh rolled out of Reed and startled everyone in the room. He brought himself under control and turned to Mrs. Wilson.

  “Ma’am, may I say your mince pies have just received the highest of compliments. I doubt there is anything else in the world that would have prompted a British patrol to forget basic military discipline and get themselves captured. I, and the Continental army, are indebted to your mince pies.”

  He sobered and turned back to his men. “Take them outside.”

  They stood their twelve prisoners in a line in the dooryard and Reed strode to the officer in charge.

  “Your name, rank, and command, sir.”

  “Gerald Ballantyne. Major. Sixteenth Dragoons.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Patrol.”

  “Who is your commanding officer?”

  “General …”

  “Sir,” came an urgent voice from his men, and Reed turned to look. A private was pointing. “Someone’s coming.”

  Two hundred yards south a brown horse was laboring through the snow, and as it approached Reed saw it was carrying double; he recognized Billy. Four of his men brought their muskets to the ready as the horse slowed and stopped. Eli slid to the ground and Billy dismounted and walked to Reed, leading the horse, studying the twelve red-coated soldiers as he came.

  “Sir,” Billy said, “you might remember me from this morning.” He gestured to the soldiers. “Prisoners?”

  “Yes they are.” He glanced at Eli. “Is this the scout you were looking for?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s been to Princeton. Maybe he can help.”

  Reed looked at Eli for a moment, aware of the wolf skin coat and the knee-length moccasins, and the tomahawk and knife in the weapons belt.

  “When were you in Princeton?”

  “Last night.”

  “Do you know how many British are there and who is in command?”

  “Eight thousand when Cornwallis gets there tomorrow. Grant and Leslie are waiting for him. He’s coming in from Perth Amboy with one thousand men and sixteen cannon. He’ll take command of those already in Princeton and they intend coming right on down to Trenton.”

  Reed turned back to the Major Ballantyne. “Sir, is he correct?”

  Ballantyne’s face turned white. “I don’t know.”

  Eli smiled. “He knows.”

  Reed spoke once more to Ballantyne. “Who is your commanding officer?”

  “General Grant.”

  “Is General Leslie in Princeton with his command?”

  Ballantyne stood silent.

  Reed paused for a moment. “I haven’t got time to waste. We’ll take these men back to General Washington. They’ll talk to him.” He turned to his patrol. “You six go get your horses and return.”

  The first six men left at a trot as Mrs. Wilson came out of the house with a shawl drawn tightly about her head and shoulders.

  “Sir, I have cut some mince pie for yourself and your men and I have milk. Do you have time?”

  Reed glanced at his men, ringed around the British with their muskets ready. They swallowed and raised a hand to wipe at their mouths. He bowed to Mrs. Wilson. “Ma’am, we didn’t come to eat your food.”

  “I know that, sir. I offer it as a gift.”

  Again Reed glanced at his men and in their eyes he saw the unbelievable thought of eating warm mince pie on this frigid day.

  “It would be most appreciated, Mrs. Wilson.”

  When the first six men returned with their horses, Reed ordered them into the kitchen where great slices of warm mince pie were on the table with a pitcher of milk and glasses. In silent reverence the men cut chunks with their forks and closed their eyes as they slowly chewed the spicy sweetness and swallowed. They drank cold milk and wiped their mouths when they finished.

  “Ma’am, we never hope to eat better mince pie. There’s no way to thank you enough.”

  They walked back into the bright sunlight and the other six men came inside for their share. Colonel Reed gave Billy and Eli a wave and they followed him inside where Mrs. Wilson stood quietly by, glowing at the sight of the bearded, ragged soldiers eating her mince pies with expressions that said more than words. They finished and wiped their mouths and walked back out.

  Colonel Reed was the last to leave. “God bless you, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. God bless you both.” He walked out squinting into the bright sunlight where Billy and Eli were waiting.

  “Do you two want to come with us?”

  Billy shook his head. “No, sir. We’ll stay here to see what General Cornwallis does.”

  Reed nodded. �
�I’ll tell General Washington.”

  With the horses gathered, Reed ordered his patrol mounted and watched while the British soldiers scrambled up behind his men to ride double. He took his position at the head of the column with the British officer riding double behind his aide to his right. Before he ordered the column forward he stood in his stirrups and turned to the prisoners.

  “If anyone attempts to escape, I will shoot Major Ballantyne.” He raised his pistol, then shoved it inside his coat. “All right. Follow me.”

  He led them out of the farmyard at a canter, and as they passed Mr. and Mrs. Wilson standing in their doorway, each man nodded his respects to them, and then they were out onto Quaker Road moving south.

  Eli glanced at the westering sun. “We can go around Princeton and be on the north side yet tonight if we leave now. I figure that’s where Cornwallis will come in.”

  Billy nodded and they both walked to the Wilson family, still standing in the doorway, and Billy spoke. “None of us will forget your generosity. We surely do thank you.”

  Mrs. Wilson blushed and Mr. Wilson nodded as Billy and Eli mounted the brown gelding and left the dooryard, traveling east. They rode in silence, watching intently for any movement, any dots moving on the snow-covered roads, any body of horsemen that could be British cavalry. An hour later they turned north, and another hour passed before they turned west.

  The sun had set stark and cold and lights were winking on in the distant, scattered farmhouses when Eli raised his hand to point at a stand of pines and oak clustered about a barn, two outbuildings, and a small, square home less than one mile north of the small town of Princeton. Billy reined in the weary horse to peer in the gathering dusk. The house was dark and the barn door partially open. There was no movement, no cow waiting to be milked, no one feeding livestock at the end of the day.

  Eli spoke. “I stayed there last night. It’s abandoned. I figure whoever lived there left when the British came. There’s still some hay in the barn and the well’s good.”

  They came into the dooryard slowly in the darkness, listening, watching, but there was no one. They entered the barn and unsaddled the jaded horse in a stall and carried loose hay from the corner. While Billy struck flint to steel in a second stall, Eli walked to the well and returned with two steaming, dripping wooden buckets with rope handles. He set one in the stall with the brown horse and waited a moment while the animal sunk its muzzle into the sweet water and the sucking sound began. He took the second bucket to the stall where Billy had a small fire going and set it down, then sat down cross-legged opposite Billy.