to a gate and were forced to stop. The troopers were filled with rage as one finally dismounted to lever the gate open.
The delay gave Morgan and his men just enough time to pull ahead of their pursuers; they galloped down a long slope, leaping a low stone wall bordering a shallow frozen creek half a dozen paces wide, crossed a field of corn stubble, and took cover in a wooded ridge. His reserves were waiting dutifully. Fifty of his riflemen had anxiously watched the pursuit and cheered him on as he came in. One of the riders shouted that ‘Ole Dan’ had gotten himself another officer.
The line of British light infantry skirmishers emerged from the abandoned wood, sprinted halfway to the ridge, stopped at the low stone wall, and got behind it. A dozen mounted Jaegers galloped in to join them and dismounted while Dan’s men opened up at a long two hundred yards. Dan realized these men were not fools. He had hoped to lure them on to his reserves, but they were well trained and would have nothing to do with being caught in an open field, armed with smoothbore muskets, while their opponents in the woods were armed with rifles.
Civilians who still dismissed the British as wooden soldiers—who said they were nothing more than targets waiting to be shot—had never faced them in a real fight, especially the light infantry and the mounted German riflemen.
Some of his men opened up anyhow, but given the wind and cover the enemy had taken, it was more for sport and harassment. Their pursuers were not so imprudent as to press forward against concealed riflemen.
Moses slipped off Dan’s horse and cursed soundly that the ride had all but gelded him. Dan leapt down, ordered his men to keep a sharp eye, and walked over to Clark, who was glaring at him coldly.
“Did that accomplish anything?”
Morgan grinned.
“One less officer, I’d say.”
Clark shook his head as a smile creased his face.
Dan beamed with great satisfaction. Part of the game of legend, he thought to himself. Four hundred and ninety-nine lashes. The message back again to Burgoyne. By tonight his men will joke how he had put another British officer where he belonged. Indeed, it was part of the game of legend, leadership, and command.
Clark walked to a hollow where several shelters cut of pine branches were well concealed. A clean fire of seasoned hickory rails, was crackling in front of the shelters. One of Clark’s men, a former slave Clark now employed as a regular spy, sat by the fire. Seeing Clark approach, he scooped a tin cup of coffee from the kettle over the fire and handed it to him. Morgan followed directly behind him, and the black man gestured with a second cup, which Morgan accepted with a nod. “David, when did you get back?” Clark asked. He sipped his coffee and patted the towering black man on the shoulder.
“Just after you left here, sir. I found out about this raid and was trying to get word to you, but you were already out watching them, so I thought it best to wait,” David replied, his voice as rich and cultured as any British officer’s.
Dan was a bit startled by the man’s tone. He could have sworn he was hearing some upper-class Englishman, fresh off the boat.
So this was David. Clark had spoken of him the night before. The use of this man was obvious. He could easily move between the lines and was able to mimic the dialect of a runaway Jamaican slave who wanted to find shelter inside the British lines from his master. Or he could be a servant of a proper English gentleman carrying a secret love letter to a mistress now so sadly caught behind rebel lines. Since the British seized Philadelphia, this man had run the lines half a dozen times, returning from each trip with invaluable information to be forwarded to General Washington.
David gave a quick report of what he had observed and the intelligence he had gained, now evidenced on the road below. A full brigade, with Howe rumored to be personally leading it, had crossed
The delay gave Morgan and his men just enough time to pull ahead of their pursuers; they galloped down a long slope, leaping a low stone wall bordering a shallow frozen creek half a dozen paces wide, crossed a field of corn stubble, and took cover in a wooded ridge. His reserves were waiting dutifully. Fifty of his riflemen had anxiously watched the pursuit and cheered him on as he came in. One of the riders shouted that ‘Ole Dan’ had gotten himself another officer.
The line of British light infantry skirmishers emerged from the abandoned wood, sprinted halfway to the ridge, stopped at the low stone wall, and got behind it. A dozen mounted Jaegers galloped in to join them and dismounted while Dan’s men opened up at a long two hundred yards. Dan realized these men were not fools. He had hoped to lure them on to his reserves, but they were well trained and would have nothing to do with being caught in an open field, armed with smoothbore muskets, while their opponents in the woods were armed with rifles.
Civilians who still dismissed the British as wooden soldiers—who said they were nothing more than targets waiting to be shot—had never faced them in a real fight, especially the light infantry and the mounted German riflemen.
Some of his men opened up anyhow, but given the wind and cover the enemy had taken, it was more for sport and harassment. Their pursuers were not so imprudent as to press forward against concealed riflemen.
Moses slipped off Dan’s horse and cursed soundly that the ride had all but gelded him. Dan leapt down, ordered his men to keep a sharp eye, and walked over to Clark, who was glaring at him coldly.
“Did that accomplish anything?”
Morgan grinned.
“One less officer, I’d say.”
Clark shook his head as a smile creased his face.
Dan beamed with great satisfaction. Part of the game of legend, he thought to himself. Four hundred and ninety-nine lashes. The message back again to Burgoyne. By tonight his men will joke how he had put another British officer where he belonged. Indeed, it was part of the game of legend, leadership, and command.
Clark walked to a hollow where several shelters cut of pine branches were well concealed. A clean fire of seasoned hickory rails, was crackling in front of the shelters. One of Clark’s men, a former slave Clark now employed as a regular spy, sat by the fire. Seeing Clark approach, he scooped a tin cup of coffee from the kettle over the fire and handed it to him. Morgan followed directly behind him, and the black man gestured with a second cup, which Morgan accepted with a nod. “David, when did you get back?” Clark asked. He sipped his coffee and patted the towering black man on the shoulder.
“Just after you left here, sir. I found out about this raid and was trying to get word to you, but you were already out watching them, so I thought it best to wait,” David replied, his voice as rich and cultured as any British officer’s.
Dan was a bit startled by the man’s tone. He could have sworn he was hearing some upper-class Englishman, fresh off the boat.
So this was David. Clark had spoken of him the night before. The use of this man was obvious. He could easily move between the lines and was able to mimic the dialect of a runaway Jamaican slave who wanted to find shelter inside the British lines from his master. Or he could be a servant of a proper English gentleman carrying a secret love letter to a mistress now so sadly caught behind rebel lines. Since the British seized Philadelphia, this man had run the lines half a dozen times, returning from each trip with invaluable information to be forwarded to General Washington.
David gave a quick report of what he had observed and the intelligence he had gained, now evidenced on the road below. A full brigade, with Howe rumored to be personally leading it, had crossed
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