Chapter 16: Liberty or Death

In August another Maryland convention met, its stated goal to write a constitution for the newly independent state. One of its first acts was to divide fast-growing Frederick County into three parts. The hilly western section became Washington County, and the legislators decided to call the troublesome southern section Montgomery after the dead hero of the abortive attack on Quebec during the rebellion's first winter.

At the end of August British General Howe with some 30,000 men, including 9,000 Hessian mercenaries, landed on Long Island and outflanked the Continental army defending Brooklyn Heights. The Hessians, told that Americans refused to give quarter, nailed some of the captured militiamen to trees with their bayonets and slaughtered small groups who had laid down their arms.

Disaster was swinging into the saddle when William Alexander, who styled himself Lord Sterling, accepted the honor of holding off the British and German attack while the rest of the flummoxed Americans scampered to relative safety. Smallwood's untried Marylanders under Mordecai Gist and Haslet's equally green Delaware Continentals stood and fought, in more-or-less European style, for two hot and bloody hours. They took severe losses. As the tail end of the American army crossed Gowanus Creek, Sterling and what was left of the Marylanders, perhaps 250 men, stepped over the bodies of their comrades and attacked a half dozen times against murderous fire to give the last companies a chance to escape. By noon it was over, and Lord Sterling surrendered to General DeHeister. Of the 400 Maryland troops engaged, more than 350 were killed, wounded or captured. Out went the call for replacements.

During that summer three infantry companies from western Maryland, two almost entirely German-speaking, joined the Flying Camp of Washington's army. The militia unit to which Otto and Matthew belonged received its summons in early September, just as the oaks began to show some color. Some of the older, married men were excused, but Otto and most of those his age kissed their wives and children goodbye, and marched to Baltimore Town in three foot-sore days and two chilly nights.

They rested, had a hot meal and then hiked out to The Hook at Fells Point impressing onlookers with their brave manner and homespun uniforms if not their ability to stay in step. The men boarded a ship confiscated for the Maryland navy and sailed north to Head of Elk examining their newly issued equipment as they went. Two other ships carrying more infantrymen, one company from Queen Anne and another from Anne Arundel, sailed in convoy with them, heeling over in the steady wind from the west. Each man now had a new knapsack, a wool-covered canteen, which a lucky few had been able to fill with something better than water, and a thin blanket plus a tin plate and cup and spoon made of some gray metal. Sergeants handed out wooden plugs to keep the rain out of musket barrels, and an oddly shaped device they called a "pick" or pickering tool to help their men clean and disassemble their weapons and knap their flints.

The short, hot trip up the Bay reminded Matthew of his long days aboard the "Lune" almost three years before except that the army food was a bit worse and the ship's hold much dirtier. He thought of his brother and then of Elizabeth. She had sent him a letter since his visit so he knew that her baby had died and that Andrew had disappeared. He was not sure how he felt about either of those distant events. His belly-churning worry centered on the gnawing question many young soldiers faced without confiding it to each other: when the time comes, will I run or stand? He put his thick forearms on the rail and looked deep into the Bay but could not find the answer.

By the time the troops called to reinforce Smallwood's Maryland Line stumbled ashore and were fed, New York City was in British hands to the joy of its Tory multitudes. Before they reached Washington's scattered army and were issued fresh ammunition, Nathan Hale had been executed and much of the city had burned. Howe had tried to trap Washington with a landing at Kips' Bay, but after the Americans stood their ground at Harlem Heights and embarrassed the Black Watch, the slow-moving British commander decided the rebels were too well dug in to risk an attack. Some called Sir Billy's reluctance the Bunker Hill disease, and if it were a disease, its converse infected Washington's ragged men as well. The Frederick company's first task was to take up shovels and join in the digging of defensive lines in the hilly northern end of Manhattan. It was not easy work.

After several moves and many more days of scraping out trenches and throwing up log-faced fortifications, army life settled down to waiting for meals, complaining about officers, lying about women, trading rumors and creating speculation as well as digging deep ditches and shallow latrines. The fact that many of the Frederick County men spoke German brought a number of visitors with questions about the Hessians. The smiling militiamen sucked their teeth, swallowed their grins and made up gory tales of rapine and cannibalism to frighten the gullible and the unwary. In fact, the truth was bad enough. The hired Germans had brought European disregard for civilians to the New World plus battle-hardened blood-lust. They burned, looted and raped without restraint.

The battered Continental army was again reorganized, and Smallwood's Marylanders found themselves under the popular and flamboyant Charles Lee, a one-time British officer with an ego the size of Lake Champlain. Charles Carroll of Carrollton, among others, thought Lee strange indeed especially after he suggested asking Howe for peace terms in the midst of this vital campaign. But there was General Lee himself striding along the lines with his pack of dogs and his retinue of well-uniformed courtiers telling anyone who would listen that Manhattan could not be defended and hinting that the big Virginian on the white hunter was an untutored fool.

When Howe ran his brother's ships through the barricades and past Fort Washington and Fort Lee and got behind Washington's lines, the "Old Fox" finally agreed with Lee and moved his army to the mainland. Many of the longest-serving Marylanders were left in the contingents guarding the well-built river forts. Matt's discouraged militia company, along with most of the other units in the retreating army of some 14,000, dug in again, this time near White Plains.

General William Howe, with more than twice as many men including fresh reinforcements, sat and did nothing for another week. Washington's soldiers now found the cool evenings a real test for their threadbare uniforms and shoddy blankets. The morning frost whitened the ground and, in the rain, the men learned to sleep with their firelocks between their shivering legs to keep them dry. With pick and shovel the Americans entrenched a line of hills and waited for the British, convinced that they were ready for any assault, ready to see the "whites of their eyes." When they had little else to do, Matthew and Otto tried to figure out how many miles of trenches the company had produced since they came under George Washington's command. They concluded they had shoveled out the equivalent of a ditch three feet deep from Annapolis to Baltimore Town.

Now Smallwood's Marylanders were dug in alongside the men from Delaware again, throwing the dirt out in front of their trench in the approved manner and carving firing steps in the flinty soil. They were among the 1,600 defending Chatterton's Hill on the right flank of the line, the spot Howe hit with about 5,000 British and Hessian troops on October 28. The fight began with artillery fire.

Matthew and the other men in his company had seen and heard the American cannons banging away from time to time, but they had never been on the receiving end of the big guns. Now solid shot began pounding at their entrenchments, shaking the ground and knocking logs aside, and hollow balls exploded above their heads with thunderous bangs, raining down shrapnel, killing and wounding several men well behind the lines. Powder smoke soon concealed the enemy's men and movements. Today, thought Matthew, I am going to find out whether or not I am a coward. He tasted blood and found that he had gnawed a piece out of his lower lip. His belly churned and he hoped he could control his sometimes-recalcitrant bowels.

Off to the right, a scream pierced the thunder and thump of the guns firing up at them. Matthew raised his head and stared, holding his breath. A Delaware militiaman stood on the parapet, yelling and grabbing his leg which was spouting blood like a claret fountain. Two of his fellows reached up and hauled him back down into the trench, but by then several soldiers had abandoned their weapons and made a dash for the rear. The officers, including a fierce general Matthew knew only as McDougal, swung their swords and rallied them. Most returned to their trenches before the prodding and cursing of the hard-working, pike-wielding sergeants.

As the artillery smoke blew away at the hill's base, Matthew could see red-clad officers on horseback near the river and men moving toward him, toward the position he had helped to build, toward his fast-beating heart, toward his roiling gut. These were Redcoats carrying their rifles on their shoulders, bayonets fixed, visored caps drawn down tight. He noted chalked cross belts and polished brass badges; he could not see their faces much less their eyes. Behind them marched small drummers although the sound of their drums had yet to reach the top of the hill in the stiff breeze from the northwest. Matthew glanced to his right, pointed and cried out. From the Bronx River side of the hill came two lines of men who looked to be seven or eight feet tall. They wore dark green uniforms and oddly pointed hats. They carried long rifles with glittering bayonets. They were fifty yards away and closing fast, legs moving together, machine like, thumping the ground. Matthew thought he heard them singing. "Aim low. Preee-sent," someone with a familiar voice shouted and then "Fire!"

Matthew and the men near him ducked down with their backs to the front wall of the trench and reloaded. Matthew did not even think about what he was doing. Bite, prime, pour, stuff, and ram. All he could see was the monstrously tall men with fierce mustaches who were coming toward him, coming to impale him on their bayonets. All he could hear was drums and the scrape of ramrods. With the bitter taste and grit of powder in his mouth, he spat, cocked his weapon and stood carefully, heart thumping. He squinted through a cloud of stinking smoke. The Hessians were gone.

Then someone was yelling, "Auf! Auf! Up Marylanders, up! Hoch!" Matt's company, a bit unsurely, stepped out of their ditch, and the men looked at each other with sickly smiles. A lot of forced swallowing and some dry spitting was going on. Several men had wet themselves without noticing it. "Form your lines, schnell," came the command. "Fix bayonets!" Pull, reach, shove, twist, check; it was automatic now, better not to think.

"Shoulder firelocks. By the left, quick step, forward!" Down the gentle hill they went, toward the retreating British, nearing the orchard they had stripped of withered culls. Matthew wondered where those big Germans had gone. Still the order to fire did not come. He both heard and felt his heart beating, his stomach knotting, his feet pounding the earth, jolting his knees. His fist ached from gripping his weapon so firmly. He was glad he was not in the front rank. "March, march," was the command. Matthew looked down at his frizzen pan, which was bouncing open, and then both right and left. He knew the men around him, but he could not remember anyone's name. His feet moved without him willing them to do so. Left, right, left, right. Knees bent, toes curling, hips aching, heels digging in. He looked for Otto, but could not see him. That man is John something, he thought. John what? I've drunk and sung with him. Johann, damn.

"Charge bayonets!" came the order. Matthew and his comrades swung their muskets from their shoulders to extend before them, fingers away from triggers. "Charge! Charge! Charge!" They ran now all in one ragged line, muskets reasonably level, shoulders slightly crouched, some men cursing in German, others in English, a few praying loudly. A brace of cannon balls roared over their heads, and they ducked lower. "Halt! First line, kneel."

Matthew looked behind him; there was not any second or third line that he could see. He knelt, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the men beside him. "Aim low, aim low. Present! Fire!" Matthew saw nothing but smoke and trees before him, but he pulled the trigger, his elbow locked. The pan flashed and the musket kicked back. "Reload." Matthew stood and went through the routine but noticed that some of the men were biting their cartridges while still kneeling or squatting on the ground. I'll try that next time, he thought as he pulled out his ramrod, tears coursing his cheeks from the acrid smoke.

"Right about, face! Schnell! Back to your line, orderly now, double-quick," came the command. Matthew and his mates withdrew to their hilltop trench, stepping back up the hill, most without turning their backs. Matt and many of the others quickly looked for something to drink once they and the file closers were in their familiar ditch. No one had seen the men they had fired at, but they were sure the enemy was falling back. They felt victorious, proud, exhausted, elated. Matthew looked at his trembling hand and then grasped his musket to still it.

American artillery, light guns but well aimed by a loud, young officer called Hamilton, a lean man who looked to be about Matthew's age, fired from the left. Matt and his fellow Marylanders kept their heads down, sucked in air and tried to stop thinking about the future. Now I know. I think I know. I'm not a coward. Matthew forced his mind to other things. He thought of Jean's thighs, her dimpled cheeks; of Elizabeth's long hair, her grey eyes.

"Where's Otto?" Matthew asked the man resting beside him, head back against the ditch's edge, chest still heaving.

"Tvisted his knee goin' to take a shit," the man said, biting a piece of tobacco from a filthy twist. "Dey sent him back. Lucky bastard. GlŸcklich."

'This morning?"

"Ja, hurt it bad. Fell, cut his head open."

A fat lieutenant walked along behind the line swinging his short sword, his waistcoat blood stained. "Up, get up. Dey are again comink. Check your fuggin' pan."

Matthew took the bayonet off his musket and slid it into the leather scabbard on his belt. He blew the powder from the frizzen pan and primed his weapon again, pinching the paper cartridge and setting it aside. Then he rose, turned and looked down the hill. On the side where the Hessians had appeared and suddenly disappeared, the British had bridged the narrow stream and were moving men and cannon closer to the American position. A musket went off almost in his ear, and the sergeant cursed. "Sorry, Sarge," the trembling shooter mumbled, reloading with a scraping sound. "Went off accidental," he explained to Matthew whose head rang from the sound and cheek burned from the flash.

British soldiers started up the hill in a loose skirmish line, moving through a shattered orchard, their packs discarded. On command, they stopped and fired. Matthew and the others ducked, and the balls smashed into the parapet, shattering stones or thumping into the grey dirt. The Redcoats retreated to reload, and another line advanced a few more yards up the hill and fired. "Still too far off," cried the lieutenant. "Hole yer fire. Keep yer stupid heads down." A soldier jumped from the trench, and the officer tripped him, called him a "Tor" and shoved him back to his place on the firing line.

The fifth time the advancing British line fired, they were less than a hundred yards away. Some of the balls whistled over the Americans' heads, but more struck dirt and rocks. A stone splinter laid open the sergeant's cheek. He wiped at the wound and looked at the blood on his hand in surprise. "Here come the damn Germans," he suddenly yelled. "Face right. Right! Gawdamn, look at 'em!"

It was if they had appeared straight out the ground to the sound of drums and some sort of mournful horns. Almost shoulder to shoulder, their miter hats making them look taller than they were, the Hessian line advanced. And they were singing in a triumphant, deep-throated roar. "Dot's a hymn, Kirchenlied," the man next to Matthew muttered. "Fire!" screamed the lieutenant. The sulfurous powder smoke blew away with the breeze, and the Hessians were still coming on, leaving fallen men behind, closing up the gaps and still singing, roaring in unison. Fifty yards, forty. "Retreat," came the command. "In order, finish loading."

The Marylanders scrambled from their trench, some with ramrods poking out of their muzzles, glanced at the advancing enemy now closing in on two sides and started down the back of the rocky hill. A few men ran, one or two fell and tumbled head over heels, muskets flying, but most did their best to keep their weapons ready and watch where they put their feet, going down crabwise, many dropping their knapsacks and frying pans along the way. Behind them, they heard a cheer.

The Hessians mounted the ridge line, presented their weapons on command and volley fired. It was the first time the advancing Germans had expended powder. Most of their shots went high, and the retreat continued until Smallwood and his officers were able to reassemble their units in some woods at the hill's bottom. While the officers waited for orders and the men drained their canteens, artillery rounds fell nearby, ranging shots, someone said. The British had manhandled some guns to the top of Chatterton's Hill. Washington's flank had been turned. What had felt like a victory for a few minutes had ended as another crushing defeat. The disordered and discouraged Americans awaited the killing blow, but the ax never fell.

On the first of November, with Howe still contemplating his next move as if in the midgame of some tense match, Washington bundled up his wounded and withdrew to North Castle following a train of supply wagons and artillery dragged by man power. Instead of digging in, the tired general had his men gather cornstalks to make fascines. They set logs to look like cannon.

Howe, not sure he wanted to attack fortified colonials again, then sent part of his force to take Fort Washington and a week later had Lord Cornwallis attack Fort Lee on the other side of the Hudson River. In these two brilliant victories, Howe captured almost 3,000 men including Otho Williams and many of the original Maryland units sent to the siege of Boston as well as tons of military supplies and many valuable artillery pieces. He had brought his knights into the game with a flourish.

While the British commander paused again to the consternation of his underlings, Washington, along with the men Nathaniel Green had withdrawn from Fort Lee, force marched to Hackensack and then straggled on to Newark with Cornwallis in leisurely pursuit. At the end of November Matthew and his company, tired of retreating, watched with undisguised envy as some 2,000 Maryland and New Jersey men left the army and headed home, their enlistments expired. The Maryland soldiers, part of the now-discredited Flying Camp, included many ragged, foot-sore men from Frederick County. If they had better officers, some said as they accepted letters to take back with them, they might have stayed. Matthew gave one of the disgusted men half of his paper money along with a note for Martz and a longer letter for Elizabeth. The man promised to deliver them both to the iron company's offices.

Rain and cold weather slowed Cornwallis and made the American's retreat even more miserable. In general, the Jerseys were no longer friendly to the patriot cause. The local government had all but disappeared after the arrest of Governor William Franklin. Tory units and marauding bands of deserters from both armies wandered the countryside, and the New Jersey militia, considering themselves a home guard, were reluctant to join the defeated army's retreat.

More enlistments would expire on New Year's Day. The Congress in Philadelphia began packing up and looking for a place to relocate, and no one seemed to know what Charles Lee and his five thousand men were doing. Congress finally gave Washington full military powers and headed for Baltimore. It snowed. The amorous Howe decided to go into winter quarters since what was left of the Continental forces had taken all the boats with them when they crossed into Pennsylvania. He fell into Mrs. Loring's lascivious arms and did his best to forget about George Washington.

Matthew and his friends lived a cold and hungry life. Otto was back with them, limping along, an ugly scar on his forehead. Some men had worn through their shoes in the march from New York; many had lost their haversacks and blankets; some even lacked weapons. They built rude huts of sod and tree limbs, and they huddled together for warmth. They cooked whatever they were given and did not ask what it was; mostly it was corn. Rabbit was a treat; beef unknown; chicken rare. One cold night Matthew stood atop a small hill and counted the campfires, even dry firewood was hard to come by. There's not many of us left, Matt concluded, wishing he were lying in Jean's plump arms or felling trees in the Western Maryland woods. That night he dreamed of Trinka's rosy warmth and familiar roar.

Almost every day, small groups of American soldiers crossed the river to harass the Germans who were enjoying life in ransacked Trenton. These were usually men with rifles rather than muskets, but unlike the first companies sent north, there were no sharpshooters in the present Frederick County militia units. The Hessians had not bothered to build fortifications, and they were getting very annoyed that their dragoons were regularly being ambushed, a few even captured. Any time a group of Colonel Rall's blue-clad soldiers became visible on the Jersey side, they were sure to draw rifle or cannon fire from Pennsylvania. Winter, in European wars, had been for deep sleep and lively women, for turning cards and steady drinking, for rest not combat. The scarlet-clad Lossbergs and Rall's blue-uniformed jaegers wondered why these crazy Americans did not play by the rules.