Posted on 12/24/2018 6:03:21 PM PST by RArtfulogerDodger
Based upon real events in a blizzard at Bensalem, Pennsylvania, Christmas Eve, December 24, 1776, and the diary of Captain Thomas Rodney, who was there. I was there in a blizzard, too—But, 238 years later—so I could see for myself….
Thomas Bonsall, Colonial militiaman, slogged though a blizzard toward the Delaware River. He’d cross with the others and attack Trenton from the rear in a military pincers movement.
Speeches made by his officers had been rousing and the cause was just. He’d fight, they’d called out, “For freedom, boys! For freedom, and America!”
It sleeted in the faces of the Colonials, the worst snowstorm since this colony was founded. Thomas Bonsall, militiaman, and almost two thousand, other muffled shapes struggled toward the Delaware River on a dark path through 40 acres of woods.
Thomas’ eyes flicked around looking for—he didn’t know what. He was scared—expecting a British lead ball from the night and trees.
This area was supposedly secure. But, he thought, that was impossible here in the heartland of Tory sympathizers—spy infested Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Propagandized true believers were everywhere.
Fire pots were supposed to have lighted this dark path leading from the dirt King’s Highway down to the ferry crossing, but they had blown out.
Duncan Williams’ Ferry, below, was supposed to get the men across the river, but couldn’t because ice jams blocked the crossing into New Jersey at that exact curve in the river. Duncan’s hand-powered, flat-bottomed barges could not surmount the floes.
Thomas was thinking, “This is doomsday. Everything’s gone wrong of it. This weather is the final blot.”
Thomas Bonsall stopped walking and hunched his back against the sleet, struggling with frozen hands to grip his twelve pound musket. He pulled his hat down tight over hair dull with ice. Keeping an eye on the dark woods, Thomas shifted the heavy smoothbore to the crook of his left arm. Stiff hands automatically made adjustments to waxed cloth that wrapped the long-gun’s firing-pan.
He needed to stay ready. The powder primer must be dry when called upon to ignite the charge and propel a .75 caliber ball down range. One shot, and then the reload.
Thomas knew he was kidding himself. He was just a half-trained farmer. At best, he could fire only one round per minute. But a Hessian mercenary—a British-hired super soldier—could fire four or five rounds.
Thomas was terrified. The ill-equipped, mostly starving militiamen all around him were no comfort. They often broke and ran at first sight of the enemy. It wasn’t their fault that they were badly trained, undisciplined, and unreliable. There was no collective military tradition. No single mindedness. They had poor sense of standing together to fight. It was a foreign concept. They were often slaughtered like pigs as they ran away. Or they were captured to die in filthy, rotting prison barges. Thomas felt lost.
He squinted into the darkness. Only mixed snow and rain had fallen at first. It had soaked a little under the fringed collar of his old linen. But now it was freezing solid on him and made his arms and body stiff. He heard ice crack off of him as he moved. Bundled up forms shuffled past him on the dark lane—other men, cold, grim, all making their way down to the ferry. Nobody spoke. There were only the creak of leather and a wrangle steel.
Wait—what was that? Thomas halted, dropped, and listened. A man cried out in pain, but it was too dark to see. Others around him just kept moving. Curses and more pain pierced the howl of the blizzard.
From his place down in the snow Thomas noted more than one set of bloody footprints. After months and seasons of marching and fighting in all sorts of weather and rough terrain—on hills, in ditches, rivers, fields, and woods—many had completely worn out their clothing and shoes. Some were literally barefoot.
Some had no shirts or stockings but were wrapped in the remnant of blankets, or rags. And, yet, they marched on.
Thomas marveled. He wondered what would go wrong next. As they had marched, some had eaten their advance food allotment for this covert, three day operation. And there was the problem of crossing the Delaware River itself. And then the complicated plan to march north to Trenton and attack the Hessians from the rear. It was complicated, Thomas thought, and doomed.
There was a rumor the Hessians would be drunk in bed this coming Christmas morning attack. Thomas didn’t know, but that was not true. The Hessian Colonel Johann Rall, had ordered his unit to stay alert, dressed, and armed. He had set pickets all around the Trenton Garrison. The Hessians wanted the blood of Americans and took no prisoners. If the Americans attacked, the Hessians would be more than ready.
Thomas knew nothing of Rall’s trap. He was just a colonial infantryman. His main concern was putting one foot in front of the other and moving onward. Yet, he was already terrified. The Hessians were professional killers. Supermen. He was just a farmer.
He and some of the others were from here, Bensalem. But most of the others around him had just quick-marched down from Bristol, five miles to the north. And they’d been pulled in special for this operation from forces all over the colonies. They’d marched long and fast just to reach Bristol, before marching down here. They were now already exhausted. How were they supposed to recover their strength in this blizzard of freezing sleet—no fire. They could not.
Thomas moved as quietly as he could, snow hissing against his gaiters.
Suddenly—A musket blast and red flare lit the woods—FffftBoom!
“Sniper!” Came the shouts, “Take cover, boys!”
“Wounded? Anybody wounded? Who’s shot? Take cover!” A smell of gunpowder on the wind. Thomas had dropped for cover and hunched down— The hell? Others hit the ground at his side and all around. “Wounded? Any wounded?”
Sudden thuds of galloping horses—hooves kicking up clods of dirt and snow—charging in amid shouts, “On nie żyje, chłopcy! On nie żyje, chłopcy!” The Polish Major Rasumovski—a colonial mercenary with mounted dragoons. They galloped down the narrow path, riding crops lashing horses, Crak! Crak! As they swerved into the woods—sabers clattering—firing short carbines and braces of pistols, Boom! Boom! Boom, Boom, Boom!! The woods flared like fireworks.
Thomas tried to dig deeper into the snow, and implored dark shapes hunched beside him, “Boys, can you tell me what’s happened? Are we discovered? Are we killed?” A steadying hand gripped his shoulder and shook him—a gravelly voice coughed and said, “Stay calm, mate. Stay still and be quiet and nothing will come to you. T’is nothing. T’will pass, very soon.”
Thomas heard the man’s teeth knocking with cold. He couldn’t make out any features. Flaring blasts from the woods revealed a bundled, crushed-looking shape. Thomas suddenly realized, “My God, man, you’re half frozen to death—you’re wearing but rags and patches.” He reached out as the man collapsed into the snow, and caught him, hands telling him the man’s lethal secret—“My God, you have no shirt, even—you’re half naked. You’ll die here!”
Thomas called for help but nobody moved from cover as guns kept up a strobing fire. He tore off his coat and wrapped it around the fallen man, who whispered, “No, mate, you’ll freeze, giving me your coat.”
“I…I have a spare hunting shirt for myself,” Thomas said, remembering he’d shoved extra clothing into his pack. It had double-layered shoulders and elbows. He could wear that and a spare linen and it would be all right, he thought. He said, “Keep this coat, friend, I’ll be fine. Here, take this hat, too,” Thomas pulled his own hat down on the freezing man’s wet head. “Don’t protest. And don’t fight me. Just take the hat. I’ve another.”
There was a final burst of fire from the woods and in the red flashes, the shape of the freezing man moved and said, “Thank you…thank you. I cannot see you clearly… what’s your name?”
“Thomas. I’m Thomas.”
“I’m Nathan. Thank you,” he said, shaking Thomas’ hand in the dark. “Thank you, Thomas.”
Major Rasumovski and his dragoons burst from the woods—horses plunging through the snow and foaming at the bit. “On nie żyje! We got him!” They reined in, and walked steaming horses slowly among the militiamen—the thud of hooves, and tack jingling. “What a brave show you made, boys—it gladded the eye, how brave! That spy he will never tell another secretz! Onward! Victory!”
The hunched file of men stirred, bumped and pushed Thomas forward, and he made some haste to get moving. If it even looked like he was resisting or about to flee, he’d be run through by a sword on the spot—executed for desertion. He became separated from Nathan, and moved off toward the river, hatless and wet. He didn’t really have an extra cap. He tied a square rag from his pack over his head.
Thomas Bonsall was only one of some 2000 Colonials—militiamen trying to secretly cross the Delaware—in constant danger—against all odds and possibilities. A sneak attack from the rear, into Hessian controlled New Jersey, from this Pennsylvania side. A military pincers movement that could work….
But, unknown to the colonials, the Hessian mercenaries were ready for them. If the colonials attacked, many farmers would die. Many already had died—torn apart by cannon balls, or cut to ribbons in fusillades of ball and shot so thick it had been like running into a lead wall.
—And there was the dread Hessian bayonet charge. When powder was wet, scarce, or bad, the bayonet never failed. A soldier could be disembowled or killed by a bayonet as surely as if he was shot at point blank with standard ball—big as an olive.
And the Hessian bayonet charge left no man alive. They were experts at carnage; the Hessians—they were experts at dealing death, and hated to take prisoners. Some said the Hessians rubbed their bayonets with poison. But the Hessians laughed at that; they said it would be not necessary, “Unprofessionell. Nicht notwendig.”
The Americans were completely outclassed and outnumbered by the well-fed and supplied Hessians. British generals were the world’s best. The Hessians were limitlessly supplied and equipped by the vast wealth of the king. Hessian mercenaries were like the near-mythic Spartans, trained practically from birth. Their military families and traditions even went back many generations past. The demonic combination seemed unbeatable: a Kings’ limitless wealth; and flawless military might for hire.
There would be no “secret” attack. This could.... .
Has possibilities, but comes across as unfinished, leaving everything hanging.
Why shouldn’t that country be nuked?
Revolutionary War Ping
Bookmark
Excelente
From valley forge !
The Thomas account is what I refer to as “the grunt’s eye view”.
In that view, everything is wrong. Leadership has no clue. All is always lost. Everyone’s gonna die. It’s all mud and blood for no good gain.
Ya don't have to like it, ya just have ta do it.
And every good infantry commander knows that if the troops ain’t complaining out loud then they’re planning mutiny on the quiet.
Oh, and...
Merry Christmas!
The rest of the story is on the link. (That is a REALLY long excerpt!)
Sorry - the complete article at the link also leaving it hanging. Although I guess we all know how it ended. (Except that I thought the Hessians WERE drunk!?)
Whoever wrote this rather breathy piece of fiction needs to be better informed.
P.S., The term "sniper" is from far into the future.
You got it right! :)
Eggzackly! :)
THIS IS JUST A SMALLISH PART of what you **don’t** know; i can’t bother with ALL the rest of it, vato. :)
RevolutionaryWarJournal.Com:
“The preferred choice of musket, (also labeled as flintlock, firelock, or smoothbore) in the British Army and subsequently in the American Army during the American Revolution was the Brown Bess. “Rugged, simple, sturdy, and terrible at close quarters”, when fired (if it fired), this smooth bore (grove bored were ‘rifled muskets’, later simply called rifles), hurtled a round ball weighing about fourteen to the pound. For all the legends and discussion on the musket’s firing power, it was basically a handle for a bayonet – its’ most destructive and fearful advantage on the battlefield...”
Ah, one of the few who actually understands. These people have never been our friends, we have allowed them to use us, and they repay us by spreading not true freedom, but by spreading a leftist globalist agenda that is the opposite of true freedom.
WOW, EVERYTHING YOU APPARENTLY **DON’T** KNOW IS JUST, LIKE, WELL, ALL DEPRESSING AND STUFF.... :(
REVOLUTIONARY WAR SOCKET BAYONET:
http://www.collegehillarsenal.com
“WEIGHT: 2 LBS.”
The American Army, also known as Continentals, were NOT the same as the Militia.
Indeed, the Continentals (American Army) had the Brown Bess, but Militia, such as your Thomas, did not. They had whatever firearms of the time that a man could afford.
So in this regard, Chainmail is correct.
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