Billy removed his hand from the case and continued, his eyes brighter than moments before. “Do you remember the story I told Count Pulaski about my father facing evil spirits in the Carolina Mountains?” he asked. When I nodded in the affirmative he continued, “I mentioned a Roman coin my father showed to the spirit to make it move away. The coin has a very interesting history, at least for my family. It bore the face of Caesar Augustus, who was the Roman Emperor at the time of the birth of Jesus Christ. The legend handed down through my family is that a wealthy Roman family encountered a group of thousands of people following Jesus near the Sea of Galilee during His ministry. It was late afternoon and many of the crowd, which was composed largely of the poorest in Judean society, were becoming hungry. A young boy who was part of the Roman family was overcome with compassion with the hungry people around him, and convinced his father to give him a silver coin. He took the coin directly to Jesus, and asked Him to use it to purchase food for the hungry. The legend says Jesus held the coin in the palm of his hand for several minutes, praying over it. He then dropped to one knee so as to look directly into the boy’s eyes. ‘Hold out your hand,’ He said to the boy. Pressing the coin back into the boy’s hand, He said, ‘Thank you for your compassion and your generosity, but this coin is to be used for the purchase of things in your world. The Son of God is the coin that will be used to purchase life for all. Watch as My Father in Heaven feeds the multitude with food and with His Grace. Jesus then performed the miracle of the loaves and fishes, of which you read in the Bible, and all were satisfied.
“The Roman boy grew up to be a great engineer. Rome was expanding its empire into the British Isles by then, and he went with the Roman Army to the town that is now London to build roads and fortifications for the empire. As was the custom, he took his family with him. One day his youngest son, a boy of only three years old, fell into the Thames River. An Englishman working near the river saw the child being carried away in the current and jumped in to save him. The young father was so grateful he gave the Englishman the Roman coin, explaining that it had once been held in the palm of Jesus, and that, aside from his family, it was the young man’s most precious possession.
“The Englishman who received the coin was my ancestor. The coin and the story have been handed down from father to child since the First Century, AD. My grandfather gave it to Father, which he why he had it in his possession when he faced the evil mountain spirits. Father gave it to me just before I left Charleston to join with the militia. He told me of its history, and said the coin not only had a precious history, but also was made of precious metal so it would live a long and valuable life. He wished me to have it because, in his words, I, too, was precious and he hoped the prayers of Jesus went with the coin so it would provide for me a long and valuable life.
“In the hours before the attack I gave the coin to General Pulaski. He had become a close friend and mentor to me. I reiterated to him what my father had told me of the coin, and how he had wished for me a long and valuable life. I wished the same for the Count, and hoped the coin would provide him with blessings and protection from evil in the coming hours. A strange thing happened. When I completed the story and placed the silver coin in my friend’s hand, he began to cry. I saw tears flowing down his cheeks and, as one of his aids approached us, the Count quickly turned his head and moved quickly away in an opposite direction so the officer would not see his face.”
Billy looked wistfully at the coin once more before turning back to me. “I think I should continue with my story of the battle,” he said.
“As dawn was beginning to break, about five o’clock, the front elements of the columns were just reaching the edge of the woods. The two American columns were in fair order and ready for the attack, but the French were still assembling and in great disarray.
“General Lincoln had ordered me to go with the French General Noailles and his French reserve column to the small rise just to the southwest of the Spring Hill Redoubt. The rise was home to a Jewish cemetery, and was a good vantage point to observe the progression of the attack. As I rode along the trace where the French columns were attempting to form within an atmosphere of chaos, I encountered a company of Carolina Militia that had been ordered to charge the redoubt with the French, possibly to instill some sense of order to the morass. It was there I met my friend, Thomas Lowell, whom I told you about earlier. He was the friend who stepped on the snake and leaped into my arms in terror. I staggered around under his weight, with both of us laughing and bumping into soldiers nearby. The effect was to disrupt the American formation to such a degree that one grizzled old sergeant growled, ‘Form up! We’re startin’ to look like the French.’ After we had settled down I said my farewells and wished them all good luck before mounting my horse and heading out toward the Jewish Cemetery.
“As I approached the cemetery and the observation point, General Noailles noticed me coming through his line and started to reproach me. I could see he was in a high state of agitation, but as I looked across at the haphazard French columns trying to form some semblance of order for the attack, I understood his distress. Saluting, I reported to him in French, ‘Sir, General Lincoln sends his compliments. I am to observe the early moments of the attack and report back with the progress.’
“Noailles made a ‘hrumph’ sound and replied, ‘I observe only inept bumbling down there. Perhaps your eyes will see something more positive.’ He walked away from me, but never took his eyes off of the columns forming below. I led my horse to a position where I could watch the battle as it unfolded, but far enough away from the agitated Frenchman that I would not be the target of his wrath if things went poorly, as he seemed to expect.
“I should explain to you that when I say I could watch the battle, it was not with the perfect vision of a clear day in bright sunshine. The weather was dreadful. In the pre-dawn minutes there was fog and a light drizzle. Neither the French general nor I could discern individual troops, only shadows and movement, blurs of white and the sounds of shuffling feet and the occasional broken branch. There was no wind, and the stillness of the fog seemed to carry sound much farther that was usual. I had no doubt that the British could hear the goings-on as clearly as we could on the hill.
“About five thirty we heard the feint attack on the central redoubt begin. It was an hour and a half later than initially planned, but even at that late hour the French columns were not completely in line, with many troops still moving toward the assembly area. The dawning allowed the British to see the front elements of the columns moving to assault the redoubt, and they began to fire artillery in the direction of the expected attack. With the feint beginning in the distance and the columns already taking fire from the British, General D’Estaing ordered the attack to begin with whatever column elements that were formed at that time.
“I knew from the battle plan that the first wave of about 200 men were tasked to destroy as much of the abatis as possible to allow the columns behind them a clearer path to rush the redoubt. Led by Majors d’Erneville and Vence, these first attackers were armed primarily with hatchets to cut away at the trees forming the abatis and clear the way for others. As we watched from the hill, they were practically silent as they rushed the matted area in front of the redoubt and disappeared into the tangled branches of the felled trees. They took heavy musket fire from the redoubt, and though we could not see clearly, it was our hope that they were somewhat protected from the constant fire by the very branches they were endeavoring to remove. For a few seconds, just as the French left column was starting to move toward the redoubt, a breath of wind cleared the area below and we could clearly see the bodies of many dead or wounded of that first wave hanging from the limbs of the abatis. Many more, however, were still working diligently with their axes, clearing a path for the column moving up behind them.
“During that brief interlude before the fog obscured our vision once more, we could clearly see the figure of General D’Estaing leading the left column in t
heir charge, his sword held high over his head. I heard General Noailles yell ‘a la victorie, mon General!’ and looked to see him raise his own sword in salute. As I watched, he pointed the sword toward the Spring Hill Redoubt and shouted the charge, ‘tuer les salauds!’ He smiled my way when he saw me laughing at his bawdy call of encouragement.”
I lifted my eyebrows in question of the term and Billy immediately began to laugh. “It was not exactly gentlemanly of General Noailles, but it was an understandable greeting to one who was about to meet the enemy. Translated as accurately as I can, the term tuer les salauds means kill the bastards!”
Now it was me who was laughing out loud. “I like it,” I said. “And I can see that, one soldier to another.”
The laughter in Billy’ eyes flickered away as he said, “The humor of that brief moment quickly evaporated as we watched the tragedy unfold below us. The execution of our plan of attack had begun poorly, and General Noailles and I watch helplessly as it devolved into a disorganized and spasmodic heartbreak of small unit attacks against an entrenched and well-organized foe. Only on those brief occasions when the wind would tear open the curtain of fog could we see snippets of the battle. Once the British cannon and muskets were firing en mass, the black powder smoke obscured the field even more, making assessment of the attack impossible.
“I mounted my horse, saluted the general, and rode down the slight hill toward the columns. They were in complete disarray when I arrived. The French right column had been taking heavy casualties when they encountered continuous artillery fire, and had drifted toward the left, eventually entangling themselves with the left column. Eventually both columns drifted far enough left that many of the soldiers were becoming mired in the swamp. The mass confusion and disarray was exacerbated by the fact that soldiers refused to follow the orders of unfamiliar officers General D’Estaing had placed over them at the last minute.
“Rumors passed down from the front of the now single and confused column indicated that D’Estaing had been wounded but refused to be taken from the field and was still giving orders. The original left column was, for all practical purposes, mired in the swamp and being annihilated by grape shot. The right column, with whatever remnants of the left that survived, was still moving forward with the attack, but was faltering under heavy fire from the British.
“Having seen enough from the French, I departed the columns in search of General Lincoln to deliver my sad report of the progress of the attack. I found myself slogging through the swamp, occasionally having to dismount and tramp through knee-deep muck while pulling my reluctant horse along. He apparently thought no more of the swamp than I did. When I finally arrived to deliver my report to him, Lincoln was alarmed by my account of the French attack. The American columns were tasked with the attack of the Carolina Redoubt, which was perhaps a hundred fifty yards north of the Spring Hill Redoubt, but Spring Hill was doubtless the key. If that attack failed, even a victory at the Carolina Redoubt would not provide a strong enough foothold for the Americans to retake the city of Savannah.
“General Lincoln ordered me to overtake the American columns, find General McIntosh, who was leading the charge on the Carolina Redoubt, and redirect his attack to the south to assist the French in their attempt to take Spring Hill. He took the time to scribble a few lines of orders on a small piece of paper torn from a page of his personal journal and admonished me to move quickly. ‘We cannot fail,’ he said to me as he placed a hand softly on my shoulder. I mounted and left at a gallop. General McIntosh could not be far away, probably a little west of north from my position, so I hurried through the woods as quickly as possible in that direction.
“There was a steep embankment to my left as I rode, at the base of which was a creek which doubtless ran into the Savannah River. Before I had traveled more than ten minutes I saw what appeared to be the rear of the American column crossing the creek and climbing the embankment. I knew there were a good number of militiamen within McIntosh’s command, some of which I had known in the short time I had been under his command in Augusta. As I rode along parallel to the column I spied a familiar face. Clinton Dodge, the same whose spirit I met on the bridge before we first met, was a boy not much older than me, sixteen or seventeen years old, I suspected. He was built like a bull, and as strong as one as well. Not well educated, he was a rough character who was a hard worker and good soldier, but always ready to fight, whether it be the British or one of his own company. We had not been friends, but had developed a mutual respect for one another…I for his strength and toughness and he for my education and ability to calculate angles and slights of hand that made his heavy lifting for building fortifications easier.
“Clinton stood a foot or more taller that did I, and as I rode up beside him I couldn’t help but smile at the rare chance to look down at the big man. “Clinton Dodge!” I said brightly as if we were the best of friends. “It does me good to see a friend from the militia. I have been assigned most days to work with the French. They are a haughty and unfriendly bunch, and it lifts my spirits to see a friendly face.”
“I had caught the young man completely unaware, and as he looked up at me on my horse I saw uncertainty in his eyes. It took a few minutes for him to recognize me, and he still looked at me in disbelief. ‘You steal that horse?’ he asked coarsely. ‘You’re no officer, and you ain’t tough enough to be a cavalryman, so why are you ridin’?’
“I have orders to find your general,” I answered. “You are marching to attack the Carolina Redoubt, are you not?” I asked.
He answered glumly, “Don’t know. I just march where they tell me to march, kill who they tell me to kill. Guess they only tell you smart guys where we’re goin’.” He pointed toward the front of the column. “The officers is all that way. Maybe you can tell them your problems.”
“I rode up the hill and found General McIntosh along with Colonel Laurens about where I told you before. Do you remember where we stood in front of the dor-ma-tor-y?” he spoke the word slowly and phonetically. I nodded, prompting him to continue.
“Both officers remembered me from Augusta, and seemed delighted to see me again. General McIntosh dismounted and motioned for me to do the same. ‘William Buckland,’ he said warmly and I was proud that he remembered my name. He was laughing as he said, ‘Boy genius, as I remember, quick learner in all things military, woodsman, and,” he paused for effect, “friend to Daniel Boone himself!’ He abandoned military protocol and reached out his hand to take my own. ‘It is good to see you, William.’ He looked at my horse and at the orders I was holding out to him. ‘But you are not here on a social call at this critical time. Do you come from General Lincoln with orders for me?’
“I handed him the paper and it took only a moment for him to read the few lines. ‘So the French are having a rough time,’ he said flatly. Spring Hill Redoubt was only a hundred fifty yards to the north, and we could hear the fighting through the still air. McIntosh handed the orders to Colonel Laurens, who quickly read them before both men stared intently toward the redoubt to the north. ‘Damn this fog!’ growled the general. ‘We can’t see what is going on up there, but at least the British will not be able to see us clearly from their entrenchments as we move in that direction.’ He looked at Laurens. ‘Colonel, pass the order along. We move in all haste to Spring Hill Redoubt. Leave a small contingent from the rear of the column to demonstrate against the force here at the Carolina Redoubt. Maybe that will draw some of the attention away from us as we move to the north.’
“The general slapped his mount on the rump and shooed it in the direction away from the redoubt and down toward the creek. After I had done the same with my horse, he motioned for me to follow him as he shouted orders to the standard bearer and turned to move out at a trotting pace toward the Spring Hill Redoubt. The column followed quickly behind. We were moving parallel to the British trenches and artillery emplacements that were located between the redoubts. The abatis partially protected us from musket fire.
British troops stationed in the trenches had a poor view of us as we moved along obscured from them by both the fog and the entanglement of limbs that formed the abatis.
“Not so with the enemy artillery, however. The guns were set up on a rise with a clear view over the abatis, a view that provided very accurate fire into the left flank of our column as we raced to the south. If the rear guard of the column feinted an attack on the Carolina Redoubt, as the general had ordered, and drew any fire at all away from the main column, it was not apparent as we charged. Grape shot and other deadly bits of shrapnel loaded into the cannons rained down on us constantly. The roar of the artillery was so intense it became a continuous sound, making it impossible to ascertain the report of any individual gun.
“Almost as loud as the cannonade were the screams of the American soldiers as their bodies were ripped to bits by the incoming grapeshot. Whether by General McIntosh’s design or merely by chance, we were running on the column’s right, opposite the direction of the cannons. At that point the column was only five or six men in breadth, and large holes were opening as grapeshot shredded the line. The layers of men did offer us some degree of protection from the guns. At one point an object as thick as a man’s arm was hurled against my face. I grasped it with both hands, and was sickened as I realized it was, in fact, a man’s arm detached grotesquely from his body and bleeding profusely at the stump. The fingers were still moving, and scratched at my face as I fought to throw the disgusting limb away. A moment later, the soldier running beside me leaned into me and threw his arm around my shoulder to steady himself. Assuming he was wounded, I turned to shout encouragement at him, only to find a large part of his head to be missing, with only his right ear and a portion of his jaw left intact. Although he was still running in lockstep with me, the man was dead. I felt bile rise in my throat, but was able to disengage from the running corpse and continue the charge. General McIntosh was a few steps ahead of me and had not noticed. As I looked at him, Colonel Laurens galloped up on his horse, dismounted on the run beside the general, and reported something I could not hear.
Ghosts of the Siege Page 18
