The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [103]
“How many?”
Wilkinson shook his head, said, “Could only see one regiment at most, sir. They had already crossed the bridge. General Mercer’s men were coming out of the trees, moving out this way.”
Washington digested the image, thought, Mercer has seen the British, must know he can no longer destroy the bridge. He could see nothing, the hillside still blocking any view of the main road. So the British are on the march, but where? Only one regiment? It came together in his mind now. These British are marching west, toward Trenton. It was the first time he knew for certain that Cornwallis had been fooled. If Cornwallis was still expecting a sharp fight along the Assunpink Creek, he would certainly order the Princeton garrison to send reserve strength to Trenton. These troops had no doubt begun their march at first light. From that vantage point, they could certainly have spotted Mercer. It is simply bad fortune. If we had only been here earlier . . .
There was musket fire now, up toward the bridge, where Mercer’s men would certainly be. He rode that way, glanced behind him down the hill, the last of the main column below him. He focused again on the sounds, one solid volley, scattered shots. He said to Tilghman, “Go to the main column. Divert the three units of the rear guard this way, have them advance in haste. I will see what we are facing. General Sullivan and the remainder of the column must keep moving toward Princeton.”
Tilghman was gone quickly, and Washington was surrounded by his skirmishers, the men pulling closer to his horse, protecting their commander. He listened again, another sharp volley, but it was not as many muskets. He knew Mercer would make the good fight, but he had to see. He reached the crest of the hill, could hear the shouts of men blending in with the scattered firing. There was a thick grove of trees, an orchard, a dense cloud of smoke rising above. To his right was the highest point along the crest, framed by the two farmhouses. He watched the fight in the orchard, then looked anxiously behind him, some sign of the advance of his men from the road. Finally they came, a solid line, and he saw Edward Hand’s Pennsylvanians, followed by a line of Virginia riflemen. As they moved past him, they were running, every man seeing the fight. Washington focused again on the orchard, but the firing had stopped, just shouts, and Mercer’s men emerged from the orchard, some stumbling, wounded, others in a fast run.
He could see bits of color now, the British moving through the orchard, some pursuing Mercer’s retreat. Up on the rise, more British suddenly appeared, spreading into line, moving toward Hand’s men. The two regiments moved toward each other, no firing, Hand’s men allowing Mercer’s refugees to stream past. He began to shout at the retreating men, “Stop! Hold here! Fall in with these men!” Other officers were assembling, some quieting the panic, and the veterans responded, many of Mercer’s men gathering in their own fear, falling in behind Hand’s line. The British were still advancing, and Washington took off his hat, saw the last of Mercer’s retreating men, some scattered behind Hand’s line, some wandering, dazed, some moving forward again, absorbed by the advance of Hand’s men. He saw one small group still running back, stumbling, exhausted men, and they were close to him now, the faces looking at him, the men slowing, fighting for breath, and he shouted at them, “Come with us! They are but a handful! We shall have them!”
He waved the hat, spurred the horse, and the men responded, found their way into the line of the Pennsylvanians, and he cheered them, knew they would not falter now. Nearly all of Mercer’s men were advancing again into the brief fight they had just lost, their panic erased by the strength of the men beside them. The British