Prelude to Glory Vol, 3

by Ron Carter

  Cornwallis shook his head. Six hundred men, and they cut the advance command to pieces and stopped this main column for more than an hour. For a second he felt a grudging admiration for the Americans. Then he straightened his spine and spoke to Major Alexander.

  “Form the entire first regiment in front of the cannon as a skirmish line. At first contact with the Americans, fire a volley immediately, then move your troops out of the way to give the cannon an instant, clear field of fire.” He called ahead to the officers in charge of the seven big guns. “Load the cannon with cannister and keep them at the front of the main column, twenty yards behind the skirmish line. Fire when the first regiment separates to give you a clear field of fire.” He turned to a colonel. “Recover our dead and wounded and place them in the ambulance wagons as we cross the bridge and continue south. We move on at once.”

  Six hundred yards south of the bridge, hidden in a stand of pine trees, Colonel Edward Hand and his command waited while one of his bearded backwoodsmen descended from the top of the tallest pine, dropped to the ground, and handed the telescope back to Hand.

  “They scouted the trees where we were and went back to the main column. They have another fifteen hundred infantry in front as a skirmish line. Just behind they’ve got seven cannon.”

  For a moment Hand considered. “They counted our tracks in the trees and they know we’re only a small force. They intend on using that command in front to draw our fire, and then use the cannon to get us when they know where we are. We’ve got to keep them from reaching Trenton before sundown. Here’s how we’re going to do it.”

  The small band of Americans gathered about, Billy and Eli beside Hand, as he spoke first to his officers then to his men, pointing as he explained his simple plan. Then he took a deep breath and his eyes traveled around the circle.

  “Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Let’s get to our positions.”

  Half a mile to the north, Major Alexander marched the advance regulars across the Five Mile Run bridge four abreast, then re-formed into a skirmish line with forty men abreast, laboring through the soft mud on both sides of the road, silently watching for any movement in the trees. Behind them the cannon formed into a single file to cross the bridge, with the iron shoes of the heavy horses striking hollow on the thick planking. The officers followed, then the main column came slogging.

  Major Alexander, the officers leading the advance, and the men behind in the first rank marched in silence, tentative, knowing that each step could be their last. They did not know the name of the officer who led the small American command that had struck with such devastating precision, nor did they know from where the small band of men had come. What they did know was that many of the hidden Americans wore moccasins. If they wore moccasins, then they were from somewhere deep in the wooded mountains, where they had learned the art of war from the Indians whose cardinal rule was to strike hard from hiding, then disappear. And necessity had taught them to feed themselves and their families with those accursed long Pennsylvania rifles. Any man among them could hit a squirrel at one hundred yards and bring down a running deer at two hundred. Given a rest over which to steady the long barrel, they could put five consecutive shots on a seven-inch paper disk at three hundred yards, and five out of seven shots on the same paper at four hundred yards.

  Worst of all, when fired from a distance, the whistling bullet reached its target before the crack of the rifle. In an ambush of more than one hundred yards, the first sound was of the bullet hitting, followed by the flat bang of the rifle that had fired. Many of the British officers and men who had died back at the Five Mile Run bridge never heard the sound of the rifle that killed them.

  The first rank of Major Alexander’s advance command marched on with the growing conviction that this would be their last day on earth.

  Behind the advance regulars, the seven cannon with their crews, the British officers, Cornwallis among them, rode in silence, tense, watching the woods ahead. They stared as they passed the place where their cannister shot had blasted the trees to splinters, and marched on southward between the woods and the open meadows that embraced the road. Three hundred yards—four hundred—five hundred—and no Americans had moved in the trees. The main column trudged on amid the sound of thousands of boots and hundreds of horses’ hooves plunging into the mud and the sucking noise of being drawn out.

  The white-faced regulars licked dry lips, and dared let their thoughts run. Maybe our cannon scared them away. Maybe they’re gone. Maybe.

  Cornwallis wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his mouth. They’re not gone. They’re still out there, waiting. I know it. I can feel it. Stubborn. Who are they? Who’s that commanding officer? I wish he were on my staff. Him and a hundred more like him.

  Overhead the warm sun moved west in its undeviating path. Birds dressed in their winter plumage darted and flitted and scolded. Running water could be heard in the small draws and gullies as the snowmelt answered the eternal pull of lower ground. With each passing minute the frightened regulars eagerly drew an increasing measure of comfort from the workings of nature so abundant on all sides.

  Cornwallis narrowed his eyes and made calculations. The Shabbakonk Creek should be about half a mile ahead. One more bridge to cross, then on into Trenton. If we can just clear that last bridge before they—

  Without warning, rifle balls came smacking into the advance infantry, followed by the blasting of a volley from each side of the road, two hundred yards ahead, as more than fifty red-coated regulars dropped in their tracks, dead. The sound of the cracking rifles had not died when two cannons fired and twenty-eight pounds of cannister shot ripped into the leading ranks of Alexander’s infantry. The regulars in the ranks behind fired their muskets south without aiming, then leaped from the roadbed to give the British cannon behind them a clear field of fire on the smoke drifting from the trees ahead.

  The cannon crews stood dumbstruck for a moment before they lunged for the reins of the horses to turn the guns around. The moment the cannon muzzles came to bear on the faint remains of the distant rising smoke they rammed the linstocks onto the touchholes and once again the big guns blasted cannister shot that ripped through the bare branches of the trees. Hastily the crews loaded and fired a second, then a third volley before Cornwallis shouted orders.

  “Cease fire. Gather our casualties. Regroup and keep moving.” A major mounted beside him turned in surprise. “Sir, aren’t you going to send a patrol to assess the damage done by our cannon?”

  “No. That’s exactly what they want us to do—waste more time.

  Delay us until dark. They were gone before the cannister reached the trees.”

  Once more the terrified advance command closed ranks and moved forward, silent, hesitant, white-faced. In the distance they saw the dark line of tall, dead cattails and willows marking the banks of the Shabbakonk Creek. They groaned with the realization that once more they would have to form into a narrow column to cross the bridge, and in so doing they would be prime targets for five minutes, with almost no capability of returning a heavy field of fire.

  They marched on, jittery thumbs locked over the hammers of their muskets, ready to cock and fire at anything that moved. The mounted officer leading the regiment bowed his head for a moment to plead with the Almighty for his life, and when he raised it he reined his horse to a sudden halt. He pointed as he shouted over his shoulder, “Halt! They’ve pulled down the bridge! Wait here while I ride to get orders from General Cornwallis.”

  He spurred his horse back to where the general waited impatiently. “Sir, they took the bridge down.”

  Cornwallis did not hesitate. “Ford the stream, at once.”

  “Where, sir?”

  “Straight ahead.”

  The officer swallowed, wide-eyed. “Yes, sir.”

  He loped his horse back to his regiment. “Form into a skirmish line and follow me. We’re going to ford the stream.”

  Th
ere was loud murmuring as the officer put his horse sliding down the muddy bank and jumped it belly deep into the swollen stream, then kicked it, lunging up the south bank. Behind him the first rank of the skirmish line skidded down the slick red-brown mud of the bank into the water and waded across, muskets held high, then clambered up the far side to level ground. The second rank followed and emerged on the south bank five yards behind the first.

  The third rank was halfway up the north bank when once again the rifle balls came whistling, three hundred strong, raking the regulars on the level ground above the creek bank, knocking them backwards, rolling down the creek bank, taking those still climbing up back into the water in a tangle of the living, dying, and dead. Seconds later the two American cannon blasted, and grapeshot tore into the ranks in the water and those just descending the north bank.

  From a narrow ravine one hundred fifty yards south of the creek, Colonel Hand studied the main column with a telescope. The British officers were frantically shouting orders while the devastated advance command ran pell-mell back towards the main column. The British cannon crews grabbed the reins of their frightened horses and jerked them forward towards the creek, then wheeled them sharply around to bring the seven heavy guns to bear south, towards the traces of rifle smoke filtering upward through trees and from the ravine where Hand and his men were hidden.

  Hand gave a signal and his men backed away from the lip of the shallow draw and trotted west, then south, following the ravine out of sight of the British as the first volley of cannister came ripping into the trees and brush behind them. Three more cannon volleys blasted out before the Americans heard the red-coated regulars splash through the creek and charge into the woods and the ravine where they had been, followed by the distant cursing as the British once again found only tracks in the mud and snow.

  Hand paused long enough to squint upwards at the westering sun and make time calculations. Then he gathered his command about him, Billy and Eli beside him on his right.

  “Just about three hours of daylight left. Up ahead, about half a mile this side of Trenton, is Stockton Hollow. You know the plan. Let’s go.”

  With Hand leading the single file column, his command followed the ravine until it flattened out into an open meadow. They stayed in the trees, skirting the open ground as they worked south. They emerged into Stockton Hollow where the road led downward into a natural, open draw, forty feet lower than the surrounding ground and more than one hundred yards wide.

  Entering the Hollow from the north would be easy for the British, but once on the low ground, the Americans would have the high ground on the south side and the British would have a sharp incline to climb to reach them. The tremendous imbalance of six hundred Americans facing more than fifteen hundred British in the advance guard would be lessened, but none of the Americans had illusions that they could do anything more than slow the British.

  Hand led his command down the north incline to the floor of the Hollow, across the bottomland, and up the south bank before he stopped to give orders. They divided the force, one half on each side of the road, each with a cannon hidden in the trees where they commanded a cross fire the length and breadth of Stockton Hollow. The Pennsylvania riflemen picked their places and vanished behind rocks and trees and in the brush overlooking the incline down to the bottomlands.

  Minutes later they heard the distant sounds of officers calling orders to men marching in mud, and they remained motionless, waiting for them to appear on the road approaching the far lip of the Hollow.

  The red coats of the weary, demoralized advance command appeared as distant dots and then grew until they were marching soldiers. They came on, and silently the Americans brought their rifles to bear, and waited in the warm, west sun. Hand had his telescope resting over a rock, studying the British, waiting to see in what formation the leading ranks would descend to the bottomlands in the Hollow.

  They did not descend. Thirty yards short of the rim, the front ranks halted and marched off the roadbed. All twenty-eight cannon came straight on through, then divided, half on each side of the Princeton Road, spaced five yards apart. Calmly their crews placed their sighting quadrants in the muzzles, adjusted the screw elevations on the rear of the big guns for distance, and took their positions near the touchhole, awaiting orders.

  Hand’s breathing slowed. Cornwallis is taking no more chances. He intends to rake this rim with cannister, then send his infantry through the Hollow with the cannon covering them.

  Instantly he called orders. “Get the cannon crews first, then the officers. Fire when you’re ready!”

  The distance from the line of hidden Americans to the British cannon was just over two hundred yards. The moment they got Hand’s orders, the riflemen steadied their long weapons over a tree limb, or a rock, adjusted for range, and squeezed off the first volley. Of the eighty-one men in the twenty-seven cannon crews, seventy-three went down in the mud. At the same instant, the two American cannon blasted. One British cannon was blown completely off its carriage, another slumped and jammed the muzzle into the mud as the right wheel shattered.

  In the forty seconds it took the Americans to reload, fresh British cannon crews sprinted from the ranks to snatch up the smoking linstocks and touch off the big guns. The air across Stockton Hollow was suddenly filled with whistling cannister shot that threw mud, snow, and bits of trees and brush thirty feet into the air all around the Americans. Several staggered and sat down in the mud.

  Instantly the regulars in the British main column came charging like a great, red horde. They poured over the north rim, down onto the lowland, stomping through the mud and rotting snow, their shouts swelling, echoing.

  Hand gave signals and the two American cannon crews depressed the gun muzzles and touched off their second volley. Grapeshot cut huge gaps in the oncoming British, but they closed ranks and kept coming. The American riflemen fired their second volley and the leaders in the red-coated mass went down. Those behind leaped over the bodies and kept charging. While the Americans were reloading, the second British cannon volley came ripping across the Hollow, over the heads of the regulars, to once more rake the American lines. Down in the bottomlands, the British soldiers were beginning to take cover behind anything they could find, running forward in short sprints to more cover, others following behind.

  Hand made the hard decision. “Fall back! Fall back!”

  Hard hands seized the trails on the two American cannon and men threw their weight into moving them back, one hundred fifty yards from the rim, where they quickly leveled the muzzles, reloaded, and covered them with tree branches and brush. The riflemen formed a line and the Americans waited for the first wave of British regulars to come over the rim.

  A red-coated soldier dodged into sight and took cover in a tangle of trees, and instantly there were hundreds of them charging forward. The Americans held their fire while Colonel Hand made calculations of the distance. Eighty yards—seventy—fifty—thirty.

  “Fire!”

  At nearly point-blank range the American rifles blasted and not one rifle ball missed. The leading British ranks folded and went down. Those behind came running, when the two American cannon roared. Twenty-eight pounds of lead balls coming in a cross fire tore a wide swath in the British lines. The British behind slowed, then stopped, and then began a controlled retreat, while the British cannon on the south side of the Hollow fell silent. Unable to see the Americans, and knowing their own infantry was closing with them, they dared not fire.

  The British officers barked orders. “Cannon crews, advance and close with the enemy.”

  The gun commanders turned the big horses around, mounted the one on the left while the crews rode the trails, and fell into a column. They kicked the horses into a run, down the incline, across the bottomlands, and up the steep south slope, mud flying, the guns slipping, sliding, tilting crazily as they bounded over rocks and gullies in the road. All twenty-six of the undamaged guns cleared the rim and continued until they ca
me to their own red-coated soldiers crouched in the trees, waiting. Instantly they formed a new line and the crews scrambled to load.

  The moment they were loaded, the gun commanders shouted, “Fire!” Once again the cannister shot blasted trees and brush to shreds and threw snow and mud high in the air. Six Americans buckled and went down and did not move.

  Colonel Hand took one quick glance at the sun, which was settling onto the western skyline. The junction of the Princeton Road and King and Queen Streets leading into Trenton was a scant six hundred yards behind them

  One more hour. We’ve got to hold for one more hour.

  “Fall back!”

  Two hundred yards further south the Americans dug in once more, cannon separated, hidden, the riflemen crouched behind anything that afforded cover. The setting sun was casting long shadows eastward as the British once again wheeled their mud-caked cannon and crews into a long line and loaded.

  Again Hand timed it to the second before he shouted, “Fire!” The American riflemen knocked the British gun crews backwards into the mud. Again fresh British crews surged forward, and again Hand shouted, “Fire!” The two American cannon blasted grapeshot in a cross fire that ripped into the fresh British gun crews. While yet a third wave of fresh British cannoneers were running forward, the American riflemen were desperately reloading. As the British gunners raised the linstocks to touch off another volley, Hand’s men fired a hasty volley, and again the British gunners staggered and fell, while yet another line came surging forward to man the cannon.

  They reached the big guns and before the American cannon could finish reloading, the British got off their volley. Mud and brush flew all up and down the ragged American line, and Hand gritted his teeth as men buckled and went to their knees. One entire American cannon crew was down, dead or wounded, and three of the nearest riflemen leaped to finish loading.

  We’ve got to hold!

  “Reload and fire when ready,” Hand shouted.