The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [102]
As the army drew closer to Princeton, Washington could not keep the daylight away, and as at Trenton, the march took longer than he had planned. The last two miles would find the army bathed in stark rising sunlight, a brisk cold windless day. But there had been no sign at all of British soldiers, no patrol, no scouts. As the men continued their slow shuffle along the narrow trail, hidden from the vast rolling fields, he was feeling the mix of excitement and relief, convinced that Cornwallis still had no idea where these troops had gone.
THEY MOVED THROUGH THICK TREES THAT RAN ALONGSIDE A NARROW deep creek called Stony Brook. The creek ran straight up to the Post Road, where it flowed beneath a wooden bridge, a key barricade to slowing down any march by the British. He could see another road, turning away to the right, leading out into an open field, then dropping down into a long ravine. Washington stopped the horse, and Reed pointed.
“The back road. That will lead us south of the town.”
There was pride in Reed’s voice, and Washington nodded silently, thought, Every piece of information he has given me has been accurate. Sullivan’s division was already following Reed’s map, the column marching toward the ravine, and behind Sullivan came one of Greene’s brigades, commanded by Hugh Mercer. Mercer was actually a doctor, another of the old veterans, a crusty Scotsman Washington had known since the French and Indian War.
It was no accident that Mercer was now beside him, that he had been given the most important assignment of the mission. Mercer was to lead a force of three hundred fifty men straight up the Stony Brook, and destroy the bridge over the Post Road. Once the bridge was gone, it would be a simple matter for marksmen to seriously delay any British crossing, whether it be a retreat by the troops in Princeton or the sudden appearance of Cornwallis, who would certainly move quickly once Washington’s escape was revealed.
Washington pointed along the wooded trail, and Mercer smiled at him, unusual for the stern Scotsman.
“General, we’ll see you on t’other side a’hell.”
Mercer saluted him, and his men were quickly in motion. Washington watched him until his column had moved beyond the intersection, thought of the wilderness in Virginia, the disaster of General Braddock. It had been twenty years now, and he could still recall marching with Mercer alongside British troops who even then despised anything American. Godspeed, General Mercer. We may all have our sweet memories of this day.
More troops in the long column were moving past him, turning onto the back road. He spurred the horse, rode quickly alongside them, broke out past the trees, felt the warmth of the sunlight. To the left, a wide grassy field rose up away from him, obscuring his view of the Post Road. He turned out into the field, the horse stepping through a thin layer of glistening frost. He climbed the long slope, could see the hill cresting around a pair of farmhouses. Behind him, he saw Sullivan’s men, the head of the column farther east, a ripple of motion as the men moved through the ravine. They did not have to be prodded now, there was no falling out for sleep. They all knew how close they were to the British, that they had yet to be discovered, that so far, everything had happened according to plan.
Above him on the hill, he saw a rider, an officer, coming down from the crest. The man rode past a line of skirmishers, and Washington motioned to Tilghman, who moved up the hill. The officer met Tilghman on the slope, and Washington could