The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [99]
Cornwallis stood slowly, and around the room, the others stood as well. He turned toward the door, was suddenly frozen in place by Grant’s booming voice.
“Quite so, sir! Let us sweep up this rabble once and for all! They are certainly no match for us! I shall enjoy seeing Mr. Washington wearing a rope!”
Cornwallis looked at Grant’s purposeful grin, fought the words in his mind, wanted to wipe away the man’s arrogance, thought, That rabble has just given us a thorough thrashing, and you have already forgotten? He sorted out his words, said, “Let us not dwell on what should be, General. Let us use the means we have at hand, and make it so. Whether or not Mr. Washington is a match for this army is still to be determined. I intend to find out.”
THE MARCH BEGAN EARLY, AND IMMEDIATELY THEY WERE CONFRONTED by musket fire from carefully hidden defenses. Across every creek bed the ground had been littered with cut trees, and in every narrow pass the woods held marksmen. As the army inched its way closer to Trenton, the resistance became more organized, stronger, rebel earthworks concealing well-placed cannon, entire companies of riflemen chasing the British skirmishers back to their main column. Over each hill, past each patch of woods, the constant pressure from the rebels had to be met, and Cornwallis was forced to spread the army into a line of battle. Each time they would push forward with bayonets ready, only to find the rebels vanishing in front of them. The regiments would assemble again into the column of march, only to hear another burst of musket fire. By the time they reached Trenton, it was after dark. The ten-mile march had taken over ten hours.
THE DRAGOONS HAD SPREAD OUT THROUGH THE STREETS OF TRENTON, harassed only by the occasional sniper. His staff was nervous, but Cornwallis pushed ahead, saw to the placing of the army, the wider streets giving them room to make camp. He would not be as careless as Rall, would not scatter his cannon in useless display, but kept the guns together, their crews ready to move on short notice, anywhere they were needed.
There had been a brisk fight along Assunpink Creek, and the main body of the army was still facing the enemy on the far side, separated by a short span of icy water. With artillery on both sides covering one bridge it was a standoff for the moment, neither side wanting to venture into a difficult fight in the dark.
He eased his horse down narrow streets, the staff carrying no lantern, no target for a marksman. He could not see the condition of the houses, and it didn’t matter after all. It was a town already trampled by two armies, and surely the rebels had abused what the Hessians did not destroy.
There was a sharp whine, and down a side street the smashing of wood and glass. Yes, of course you will drop your iron, just enough to keep us on edge, to lose us some sleep. He knew the name, Knox, the rotund bookseller from Boston. How is it you know your artillery? But then, your entire army is made up of men like you. A gun in one hand, and a military manual in the other. How in God’s name could the Hessians have allowed you such an advantage?
Couriers were riding past him, reporting the troop placements to his staff, the men speaking in low whispers. He could make out a line of soldiers forming close to the creek, and he nudged the side of his horse, rode that way. Past a double line of crouching soldiers he could see the ground fall away to black water, and farther down, he could see the bridge that had been such an object of contention. He knew the soldiers were waiting for orders, that if he decided to engage the rebels again, they would surge ahead, right down into the water. He stopped the horse, heard low voices, the officers’, saw another line of men adding to the strength. Across the creek, the skyline was lit by a long row of rebel campfires, the reflection on the faces of the British troops who stared