Liberty: 1784

Chapter 22

At just under three hundred yards, American riflemen opened fire, carefully aiming at the officers. These were easily recognized by the metal gorgets, reminders of medieval armor, that hung from their necks. The shiny devices also made excellent aiming points, and, even at extreme range, the riflemen quickly made kills.

At two hundred and fifty yards, both Morgan and von Steuben realized that there was no reason to hold back the musket-firing regulars. Even though their weapons weren’t at all accurate at that range, the mass of enemy meant that shots didn’t have to be aimed or accurate to hit someone.

The American Hessians in von Steuben’s brigade grinned openly as they began to blaze away with their new weapons.

In the British mass, General Grant listened to the volume of fire to his front and realized something was wrong. “What the devil is happening?” he said to Danforth. “They can’t possibly reload a musket as quickly as they are. Could people be passing extras to them?”

Danforth thought it was a logical conclusion and one that didn’t bode well for the men in the British front ranks. It now looked like they would suffer even heavier casualties than expected. Worse, the absurd but potentially fatal steady rain of rocks continued.

Danforth hopped onto a fallen tree and got a view of the field in front of him. He watched as some of the Americans received loaded weapons passed on to them while others continued to load and fire at an astonishing rate. The truth dawned on him.

He jumped down and grabbed the general by the arm. “Some of them appear to have Ferguson rifles,” Danforth said breathlessly.

Grant paled. The breech-loading Ferguson rifle that could be loaded and fired many times faster than a musket was thought to have disappeared after the defeat and death of their inventor, Colonel Patrick Ferguson, at the Battle of King’s Mountain. The British army had earlier rejected them as too expensive and the totality of Ferguson’s defeat had put an end to any further debate on the value of the weapon.

But now, somehow, Ferguson rifles, or something very much like them, were being used against them. What in God’s name were the rebels up to, Grant wondered? First they threw rocks at them like uncivilized barbarians and then they followed up with a gun that might be superior to anything the British had.

This was indeed going to be a long and bloody day.

* * *

As the first British ranks neared the American lines, their dead and wounded were pushed aside, even trampled, some to a bloody pulp, but the mass of Redcoats continued on. At fifty yards, they were at the lip of the shallow dirt moat that protected the Americans.

Behind the earthworks, General Stark looked to where a number of Schuyler’s men were waiting to pull the lanyards that were connected to the jugs that were half buried in the ground. He took a deep breath, nodded, and turned away.

One of the men pulling a lanyard was Sarah’s uncle, Wilford. He looked at the approaching mass of screaming faces and pulled.

The entire front of the British line was shattered by the explosions that blew up clouds of dirt, flames, bodies, and parts of bodies. Behind them, others were shredded by the rocks and pieces of metal that had been buried in the jugs along with quantities of gunpowder, or burned by the oil that had been in the jugs. There was silence and then the screams began. The entire mass of British soldiers seemed to groan and then stop.

In the middle, but now much closer to the front as the result of heavy British casualties, General Grant quickly recovered from the shock of the explosions. He had to get the army moving again or everything was doomed. Beside him, Danforth was almost too stunned to speak.

Grant lay about him with the flat of his sword. He screamed and cajoled and, within moments, so too did his officers and sergeants and they began to reassert control. Slowly, painfully, the British mass began again to inch its way forward, covering the remaining few yards to the American earthworks. American bayonets protruded and rifles fired, but the British pressed on until, finally, the two forces collided with screams and primal howls.

* * *

Only half aware of what was happening to the bulk of the army, Fitzroy galloped up to the captain commanding the remainder of Arnold’s command. Arnold wasn’t there, which puzzled him, but no matter. He quickly gave the order as he understood it to a captain of regulars-reinforcements were to be sent to stop an attack from the swamp to their rear. The captain saluted and began to bark out orders. Satisfied that his orders would be obeyed, Fitzroy turned and rode back to Burgoyne.

The British captain was puzzled. How many men were needed to plug the exit from the swamp? The silly boy, Spencer, had gone and failed, and he had been followed by reinforcements led by Girty and Arnold, and yet, apparently, it wasn’t enough.

He had fewer than two hundred men with which to hold a flanking position that now seemed irrelevant. The two armies had made horrible contact and were locked in mortal combat.

He came to a conclusion. Nothing was going to be decided where he was and his latest orders were specific-reinforce the flank. At least he would be away from the horror of the two armies clawing each other to pieces and the possibility that he would be ordered into the charnel house. He ordered his remaining men to follow him and move rapidly towards the hill where they’d seen shooting.

* * *

From the top of Mount Washington, William Washington watched incredulously as the last of the British skirmishers trotted, almost ran, towards whatever fighting was going on in the swamp. What the devil was happening there, he wondered. It didn’t matter. He decided that what he saw was an opportunity.

At his command, men ran forward and cleared away enough of the thicket to permit horsemen to ride through them in a column of twos. He signaled and his men rode their horses forward at the trot. They could not gallop. In his opinion, half of the nags would collapse and die if they tried it. They were less than a hundred yards away from the side of the British phalanx; most of whom didn’t even see his men, so preoccupied were they with advancing forward over their dead and dying comrades. Those who did turn and see just looked on incredulously. Not a shot was fired in the direction of the small force of American cavalry, and it occurred to Washington that the British weapons were empty to prevent accidentally shooting their own side.

Will was with Washington’s force and soon found himself in the position of being behind both the main British army and out of sight of the British force that had just disappeared over the hill.

“Now what?” he asked of Washington.

Washington winked. “Damned if I know. Never thought we’d get this far and still be alive. See those cannon to our right front?” Will did. “Why don’t we ride over there and take them?”

With yells and whoops, Washington’s hundred-odd cavalry trotted towards the two pair of guns that had been firing ineffectively at the American works.

Some of the gunners ran, but most tried to defend their weapons with pistols and cutlasses. Washington’s men responded with the blunderbuss-like Franklins and sabers.

Will slashed at a British sailor and saw him fall. Another tried to pull him from his horse, but Will hit him on the head with the handle of his sword, while, a moment later, another American ran the man down with his horse.

It was over in a couple of minutes. A dozen dead British and half as many Americans littered the field. The remainder of the British contingent was running in all directions. It was a sweet little victory, Will thought. It felt good, damned good, to finally come to grips with the enemy, and even better to win a fight, however small.

Will Washington was flushed but happy. He’d come to the same conclusion. He looked at the four cannon and grinned. “Anybody here know how to work these damned things?”

“I do, at least a little bit,” Will heard himself say.

Washington grinned engagingly. “Damned if you aren’t a man of parts, Drake.”

* * *

Astonished by the surprisingly overwhelming British response to their foray, Owen led his men back into the swamp where they continued to snipe at the British who were lined up at its edge, apparently unwilling to get their feet wet. Girty’s men, never the bravest, were holding back, content with occasionally firing their rifles at some target visible only to themselves.

Owen had received a few dozen reinforcements and was using them to good effect. The British force now numbered several hundred men and, if they chose to advance into the swamp, could easily push him back and leave the way open to the American rear. He could not allow that to happen, although it seemed that, at least for the moment, the British had little intention of trying it. He saw a man he presumed to be some general running around and waving a sword. Just out of range, he decided, and Barley concurred. Too bad, they both concluded. It would be great to take down a British general.

* * *

The American army was dying.

Nearly half of von Steuben’s Hessians were dead or badly wounded or crawling back to find help that didn’t exist. The same was true with Morgan’s men. There were just too many British and, no matter how hard or how desperately the Americans fought, additional Redcoats clambered over the growing pile of bodies to hack and slash at the dwindling number of rebels.

Musket fire had ceased to be effective and the battlefield was strangely void of the sound of gunfire, with only howls and screams being heard. Slowly, the Americans were forced back from the earthworks. As the rebels fell back, the British instinctively stretched their lines to the left and right in an attempt to overlap the Americans. In desperation, Stark called for Wayne to attack from his flank even though it meant virtually abandoning the works confronting a strangely quiet Tarleton. It was a chance that had to be taken. Every chance had to be taken.

General John Stark stood a few feet behind the churning, howling mass of humanity that was the battle. His orders to Wayne meant he had no more men left. It was over. He had no other troops to add. Now the real dying would begin.

He turned to Daniel Morgan who had painfully struggled out of his litter. Stark drew his sword and shrugged. “Live free or die,” he said softly. “Time to make good on that statement, isn’t it, Daniel?”

Morgan grinned and drew a pistol and a tomahawk from his belt, while Stark pulled out one of Franklin’s maces. “As good a time as any, I’d say.”

Both men bulled their way into the savage fighting.

* * *

Tarleton read the order and dismissed it. Burgoyne wanted him to use the regiments at his disposal to attack the American lines directly in front of him, the very same defenses that had cost him so dearly just a few days earlier. Didn’t the man realize that nothing had been done to reduce them?

Apparently Burgoyne thought that the rebels had abandoned their works and sent all their men to support those trying to stop the advance of the British phalanx

But why, Tarleton wondered. The phalanx seemed to be making progress and Redcoat soldiers were beginning to lap over the rebel works like an irresistible wave. And yes, he could hear guns firing to his left and beyond the main British thrust, but surely Arnold had things well in hand. The man might be a turncoat and a traitor, but he was a damned good fighting general for all that.

No, Tarleton thought. He would not advance, at least not yet. His original orders called for him to attack when the main attack broke through and that must be what Burgoyne was reminding him of. With just a little more than a thousand men at his disposal, even a small number of rebels behind their defenses could stymie him and cause enough casualties to result in another sardonic tongue-lashing from his beloved commanding general. Another debacle as perceived by Burgoyne might be injurious to Tarleton’s career.

Tarleton smiled. He would not attack. At least not just yet, he repeated. If Burgoyne had gotten himself into trouble, he had more than enough men to solve his own problem. He, Banastre Tarleton, would wait for the right moment and then strike. That, he decide, would be the way to win glory for himself and erase any memories of the disaster at Cowpens.

* * *

The naval gun carriages had been built for use on a ship and were designed to be stabilized and controlled by ropes and pulleys. On land they were awkward and cumbersome and prone to topple over. However, some clever minds in the British Army had figured out how to stabilize them through the use of strong tree limbs that projected in various directions.

The British were not able to develop wheels for the cannon, which meant that the American soldiers who had captured them had to use muscle power and their horses to drag them into a better position to damage the British advance.

After what seemed like forever, the American cavalrymen wrestled the four guns-two four pounders and two nine pounders-into position. Under Drake’s cautious direction, they charged them with powder and poured a combination of rocks and trash down their muzzles. Drake wasn’t certain just how much powder the guns took, so he intentionally underloaded them. At least he hoped he had. An exploding cannon could kill a lot of men.

Curiously, the British rear ranks seemed oblivious to what they were doing; the British were totally fixated on the bloody action to their front. They probably thought the men working the guns were British, he concluded.

Drake grabbed Washington’s arm, startling the more senior officer. “William, I think we’ll have a chance to get off two rounds, maybe three, before they realize what’s happening. Then we’ll have to leave the guns and run like the devil.”

Washington nodded, then grinned wolfishly. “Then let’s get started.”

Will was uncertain as to the safety of the guns and decided that only he would fire them. He told the men to step back about fifty yards and lie down. He took a deep breath and touched a burning match to the firing hole. When the powder began to sputter he ran to the second gun and repeated the process.

By the time he’d reached the third, the first and second had fired. He grinned at the fact that he was still alive, and fired the third and fourth. When the dust and smoke cleared, he saw that the rear ranks of the British Army had been shredded. Men were piled up in bloody heaps.

“Don’t gawk,” Washington yelled. “Reload, damn it, reload!”

* * *

Many people said that little Winifred Haskill was still more than a little mad from the abuse she’d received, and they were right. As the day of battle approached, she rarely spoke and rarely ate. She existed and nothing more.

The only persons with whom she did speak were Sarah and the Hessian sergeant, Horst Bahlmann. Bahlmann was the one who had given her a pike and taught her to use it, which pleased her. She longed for the day when she could use it to take revenge on the people who had raped her, murdered her family, and then tried to burn her alive. That the British regulars were not the same as the scum that Girty and Braxton commanded didn’t matter. She had correctly concluded that the British were the paymasters and leaders of people like Braxton. She had also learned that it had been Tarleton who had ordered Braxton out to destroy her people; thus, the British were at the heart of the disaster that had befallen her. Now they would pay.

She held her pike in her small hands and stared at the carnage that was taking place just a few yards in front of her. Behind her, Sarah, Faith, and hundreds of other women also watched. They were shocked and horrified by the sights and sounds and smells before them. The training they’d received now made them think they had been children playing at war. Many had seen death and fighting, but nothing on a scale like this.

The women had held back. They were on the American right flank and could see where the larger British force was pushing the Americans back and lapping over their flank. They were losing and it would be over soon. General Schuyler was with the few hundred older men who were not part of a regular unit. He had dismissed the women’s role as irrelevant.

The women wanted to do something, but were stunned into immobility. At first, Winifred Haskill had been standing with them, but she had gradually moved forward. It was as if she was possessed by a mad desire to get closer to the killing. Sarah had grabbed her arm, but Winifred angrily shook her off. She mumbled something about Bahlmann being in danger and lurched toward the battle.

Winifred recoiled as a wounded American soldier staggered by her and stumbled to the rear. He was screaming soundlessly and trying to hold his intestines inside his ripped stomach. Then, to her utter horror, a Hessian walked out and fell to his knees. The top of his head and much of his face was gone.

Winifred shook like a small tree in a wind. In her mind she saw Bahlmann, her guardian, lying dead before her. She screamed like an animal and ran towards the British. She pointed her pike at a British soldier and rammed it into his chest with all the force her little body could generate. He collapsed in a heap. She tried to pull it out, but couldn’t. Another Redcoat ran his bayonet through her chest and lifted her body into the air, shaking it like a dog before it came free.

At that moment, cannon fire erupted in the British rear. The crowd of American women snapped. Madness of their own overtook them. Primal howls came from hundreds of female throats and they surged at the British.

Now the British flank was being overlapped by the horde of screaming women, who jabbed and hacked at the stunned Redcoats with pikes and axes, or smashed at them with their maces while the British only slowly began to fight back at them. In their insane fury, the women never heard the cannon fire again.

* * *

In the middle of the American ranks, Wilford Benton placed the last load of rocks on his catapult. He had no idea whether he’d hit anything or not, although it seemed more than probable that he had. It was obvious, though, that his efforts had been for naught. The British advance had been staggered but not stopped. Like the tide, or maybe a lava flow, it continued inexorably.

Wilford heard the cries and screams to his right and knew that the women had attacked. “God bless them,” he mumbled, “and God help them.” He pulled the rope that launched the rocks skyward.

“We’re done,” he said to the two men who were helping him. They nodded and grabbed their own pikes and axes. A British soldier had bulled his way through and stood before him. Wilford took his ax and hacked downward onto the surprised Redcoat’s head, splitting it nearly in two.

Someone brushed beside him. It was John Hancock. There was blood on his waistcoat and a loaded pistol in his hand. “Well done,” Hancock said with a smile.

* * *

Major General James Grant whirled about, “What the devil is happening, Danforth?”

Danforth didn’t know either. In their front and to their left came the sound of screaming banshees, while cannon boomed to their rear. All around them, soldiers looked about in confusion. The attack was stalling. Again. Grant grabbed soldiers and hollered for them to press forward. His efforts began to work as the advance resumed.

Then General Grant stopped moving. He stood as if at attention, but his sword slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Danforth was at his side and turned to see why his general was silent. He gasped and gagged. He had seen horrors this day but nothing like this. A large rock protruded from the middle of Grant’s skull, just above the bridge of his nose. Danforth dropped to his knees and vomited, while Grant simply stood. His eyes were blank and his jaw moved sporadically, but with no sound coming forth. Other soldiers saw the unnatural creature that Grant had become and recoiled.

* * *

Tommy Baker was twenty-two and had been a British soldier for seven years. He knew that sometime in the dark and best forgotten past he’d had an ancestor who’d been a baker. Lucky man, he’d often thought. At least the bastard had likely been able to eat what he made and stayed warm by his ovens.

But not so for Tommy Baker. He’d spent his early years always hungry, growing up in a poor and dying village a few miles north of London. He had been only thirteen when his father pushed him out of the house and informed him that he was on his own. Dear old dad had too many other mouths to feed. His mother had looked on him sadly and turned away.

He’d tried odd jobs but wasn’t much good at anything. He was too small and thin for farm labor and he soon wandered into the bustling city of London where he’d tried his hand at the infernal places called factories that were sprouting up all over the city. They were either stinking smoky horrors or places where white-faced women worked at giant looms while he lugged their materials back and forth. The lucky ones gave sex to the owners in return for food and better conditions. A couple of foremen had squeezed his arm and suggested how he could earn money and favor. He hated them all.

He’d quickly lost a series of jobs and tried begging. When that didn’t work, he tried stealing and was caught and sent to prison where a recruiter for the army found him. Tommy was given a choice: enlist or be hanged for the capital crime of stealing a loaf of bread. Tommy thought it over for about two seconds and made his mark on the enlistment papers. He didn’t even get the enlistment bonus called the King’s Shilling. The recruiting sergeant said he needed that to bribe the guards. Tommy thought the bastard sergeant had kept it, but what the hell.

Tommy quickly found that he loved the army. It fed him, and his body filled out so that he no longer looked like a starved dog. It clothed him, trained and disciplined him, and gave him a musket he could use to shoot at people. Best of all, they paid him. It wasn’t much but it was more money then he’d ever had in his life. He soon found himself trusted and respected and after a few years was promoted to corporal.

Tommy served in the colonies and had been in combat during the last days of the insurrection, which made him a battle-hardened veteran. He didn’t much like being shot at but it was part of his duty.

The trek from New York to Detroit had been pleasant enough, and even educational. He was impressed with the vastness of the Americas. But the journey from Detroit to what the rebels called Fort Washington had been an ordeal. He’d been shot at by unknown assassins who had waited like snakes in the grass. He’d lost a good friend who’d taken a crossbow bolt in the throat. He’d raged for days. Who killed with a crossbow? Savages, that’s who.

He hated the rebels for the way they fought and he hated them for rebelling against his king who had given him so much. Thus, Tommy Baker and the thousands of others like him couldn’t wait to get their hands on those rebels and destroy them.

Tommy had exulted when he’d first seen the defensive earthworks and the enemy soldiers behind them. They weren’t much at all and the bastards couldn’t run and hide anymore.

And when the army was formed up for the grand assault, he’d cheered when General Grant took a place of honor with them. Grant was a fat old bastard, but he was a tough one and he cared for his men. Grant told them the rebels would collapse under the weight of the British assault and run like they always did. They all thought that Grant was clearly the best of the British generals. Tarleton was a lunatic who might just be a coward to boot, and Arnold was a turncoat, which said it all. Burgoyne had already lost one army and that too said more than anybody wanted to think about. No, Grant would lead them to victory and glory.

But it wasn’t happening that way. Instead of running, the rebels continued to fight with a maniacal desperation that neither Tommy nor the other Redcoats had ever seen. Tommy and his comrades managed to bull their way over the embankment but they’d paid a heavy price. He found himself stepping over and on to piles of bodies. Some wore the homespun clothing of the rebels, but so many wore the king’s red that it was dismaying.

Tommy had started about a third of the way back in the phalanx, whatever that word meant, and didn’t regret at all not being nearer the front. Many of his comrades were dying up there and they’d all been horrified when the series of explosions had rocked them on their heels with debris and pieces of flesh landing on them.

They’d been shocked by the amazing rate of fire that the rebels had sustained and the accuracy with which they’d shot. Then came the showers of rocks that threatened to break bones and bash in skulls. Still, the attack continued and Tommy and his mates were slowly winning. They were tired, angry, and frustrated, but they were winning. The American bastards would pay in their own damned blood for this day.

Finally, he’d reached the front and it was his turn to fight. He didn’t even give a thought to the fact that it was because everyone who’d started out in front of him was dead or wounded. He felt release and lunged with his bayonet only to have it parried by what he quickly realized was a well-trained Hessian wearing the remnants of his old uniform.

No matter. Tommy was British and that meant he was better than anyone. He was also fresh and the Hessian was tired. He skewered the Hessian who screamed and collapsed, and looked for another. He was distracted by the sounds of screaming to his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that hundreds of women had descended on the British lines and were hacking and stabbing with axes and pikes. Bloody fucking hell! Was he supposed to fight women? Damned if he wouldn’t if one of the bitchy American whores came at him with a pike.

Behind him, he heard cannon fire followed by screams from within the phalanx. More bloody hell, he thought. Had the rebels gotten behind them? This was not right. He began to look around nervously. He laughed harshly. No problem, he decided. General Grant would fix it all in a minute. In the meantime, he had to keep his thoughts to the front.

“Grant’s dead,” a voice hollered and it was picked up by others. “Grant’s dead,” echoed throughout the phalanx.

“Fuck me,” Tommy said and a soldier beside him nodded agreement.

Throughout the attack there had been physical pressure from behind him, pushing Tommy and the others forward, just as he had pushed others ahead of him through the defenses and up over the American works.

Now there was no pressure. He stepped back, astonished that he could do so. Others were doing the same thing. A gap of a few yards appeared between the ragged, exhausted American remnants and the British. It grew larger. A woman appeared in front of him, but just out of the reach of his bayonet. She’d been cut on her shoulder and was covered with blood. She was screaming at him like an animal and she held a pike like she knew what she was doing. What the bloody goddamn fucking hell was going on? Other rebels, men and women, were kneeling, either wounded or just plain exhausted.

He backed up a couple of more steps and turned around. British soldiers were falling back. All around him they were turning and retreating. Some were beginning to run. Grant was dead. It was over.

Tommy Baker felt naked. His musket was unloaded as some fool had decided that only the first couple of ranks would carry loaded weapons lest they shoot their comrades in the back.

He took a few more steps backward, signaled to the men beside him, turned, and began to trot to the rear. He fumbled to load his damn musket.

* * *

“Grandfather, the red-coated soldiers are retreating. What is your wish?”

The old man jerked awake at the words from his beloved Tecumseh. The British were retreating? Impossible! That was the last thing he had imagined. He had decided to support the British when their victory became evident. He felt that their presence would be less onerous than the Americans who were always grasping at the land.

“Where is Little Turtle?” he asked.

“I am here, grandfather.”

“This is the worst of all options,” Owl said. “If we support the British, then we will have supported the losing side. If we support the Americans at this time, it will mean nothing to them. They will hate us no matter what we do.”

The old man was dismayed. Why hadn’t he urged them to support the British in the first place when it might have affected the fighting? Why hadn’t he told them to attack the American rear? The answers didn’t matter. It was too late.

Little Turtle spoke. “Then what shall we do? We can still attack the Americans and perhaps turn the tide.”

Owl man took a deep breath. It hurt his lungs and he coughed. There was blood on his hand where he tried to cover his mouth. “We will do nothing.”

Little Turtle was stunned. “Nothing? We have hundreds of warriors with more arriving each day, and they cry out for blood. We cannot go away like skulking animals. We must fight one side or the other.”

The old man shook his head. “If, as Tecumseh says, the British have been defeated, then supporting them will be of no consequence. If we now attack the British, the Americans are likely to attack us because we would be attacking other white men. No, we must not do anything. This is no longer our fight, if it ever was. I was wrong,” he said sadly. “We should now be miles away from this fighting. The white man now controls this land and there is nothing we can do.”

Little Turtle was furious. “We must fight. We are not cowards.”

With that, he stormed away. The old man was saddened. “He will do something terrible.”

Tecumseh did not answer.