A dozen enemy soldiers screamed or fell silently into the water, their bodies pierced by the bolts. The remainder turned and milled, searching for their attackers. Owen heard a high-pitched and youthful voice calling for the Loyalists to open fire. Muskets barked, but at what? Owen’s men had dropped to the water or taken position behind trees.
The crossbowmen quickly reloaded and fired again, striking several more targets. Owen urged his men up and toward the enemy soldiers who were frantically reloading the muskets they’d so foolishly emptied at the trees. At nearly point-blank range, Owen’s men fired their own muskets with devastating effect and hurled themselves at the confused survivors of Braxton’s force.
The two groups became a howling, splashing, bloody tangle as men clubbed each other with rifle butts, stabbed with knives or hacked with tomahawks. Men wrestled and bit and fell beneath the water, some to remain there. Braxton’s Loyalists fought desperately. The Americans now outnumbered them and were between them and refuge back in the British lines.
Owen saw Braxton with a pistol in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. He was bleeding from a crossbow wound in his leg and was having difficulty standing. The little British officer lay face down in the muck, his arms and legs twitching. One of Owen’s men ran up to Braxton, who shot him in the face. Another of Owen’s men took a tomahawk swipe in the arm and reeled away, screaming. Braxton was a wounded and dangerous animal and several Americans were keeping their distance.
“Mine!” yelled Owen. His own rifle was empty and his remaining weapon was a broad-bladed knife. As he approached Braxton, the scarred man seemed puzzled. “I want to kill you, Braxton.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.
Owen decided he didn’t want to inform the gathering circle of men in any detail about what had happened to Faith and her family. Or for that matter, Winifred Haskill, who was slowly recovering from her even greater ordeal at the hand of Braxton.
Owen swung his knife in a lazy arc, confident that Braxton couldn’t escape. “Let’s say I am a friend of some people you hurt.”
Braxton laughed. “That’d be a large number, short boy.” he said. To Owen’s surprise, he threw the tomahawk, causing Owen to duck, and charged awkwardly at Owen. The two men collided, and Owen lost his knife. They grappled with their hands and Owen was astonished at how strong Braxton was. But being shorter gave him greater leverage than Braxton. The two rolled around in the muck, seeking advantage. Finally, Owen managed to get his arms around Braxton’s waist and buried his head in the other man’s back before the other man could find his throat or eyes.
Owen began to squeeze with his heavily muscled arms.
Braxton grunted and tried to break Owen’s grip. He couldn’t. Nor could he reach behind and find Owen’s eyes to gouge out as Owen’s head was in his back, and Owen’s testicles were also out of reach. Braxton’s grunts turned to groans and his body began to thrash and arch as Owen squeezed the life out of his chest.
The groans became cries of agony and Owen used all his strength and energy to increase pressure. Finally, there was the terrible sound of bones breaking. Owen continued to squeeze even though he thought his own lungs would explode from the effort. Braxton tried to scream, but he couldn’t gather his breath to do it.
There was a nauseating crack as Braxton’s spine snapped. Braxton sagged and was still. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t move. In a moment, Braxton’s eyes glazed over and he was dead.
Owen allowed Barley to pull him off and help him to his feet, shaking and exhausted. “He’s dead and that’s good,” Barley said. “Now maybe you can get over your personal feud and let us get back to fighting the British.”
Owen inhaled deeply and realized his mistake. All his remaining men, maybe thirty of them, were gathered around them, wide-eyed. They’d been watching the brawl. Any survivors from Braxton’s group had fled and probably gotten back to the British lines. Worse, the little officer had managed to get up and run away as well.
“How many escaped?” he asked.
“Maybe six of them. Not more than ten,” Barley answered. “One of them was that officer. I saw him waddling away like he’d crapped his pants and he probably did.”
Owen wished Barley had thought to stop them as he counted his own survivors. Thirty-two effectives. Ten of his men were dead and another handful too wounded to continue. He ordered a couple of men to help the wounded back to the American lines. He turned and addressed the rest.
“The swamp ends in a little ways and there’s a hill just beyond it. I want to see what’s on the other side, don’t you?”
Barley laughed. “What if it’s the whole British Army?”
“Then we’ll run like our pants are on fire back into the swamp and hide. But before we do that, maybe we can cause some more harm to the Redcoats. Are you with me?”
His men gave him a ragged cheer. They had already begun picking up their rifles and other discarded weapons and were loading and cleaning. He told them to load any weapon they could find. He gave them a few moments to get organized and ordered them forward.
* * *
The old man’s open eyes stared vacantly in the direction of the two men who sat before him—one a young man and the other a boy barely into adolescence. Owl couldn’t see them, but he knew them well. He had sent them and others out to watch the white men and their armies. And to learn.
The young man was a skilled and brave warrior who had fought the Americans. He was named Little Turtle and the boy was his nephew, Tecumseh. The old man knew he was going to die soon, which was the reason he’d been chosen to make the important and terrible decision regarding their destiny. The fate of the tribes in the area depended upon his judgment. If he chose correctly, then his name would be remembered in song as a hero. If he was wrong, well, he’d still be dead. His bones ached and his leathery skin was cracked. He would not see another spring. Some days he thought death would be a welcome friend and in the cold and lonely dark of night he was certain of it.
The old man spoke. “And what is happening to our future enemies?”
“They are killing each other, grandfather,” Little Turtle said. “And they are doing so with ferocity and skill I never thought the white man possessed.”
The old man nodded. The loose alliance of tribes had first been shocked when the Americans came to their area, and their shock had turned to horror when they saw how many Americans there were and how well armed and disciplined they were. When they’d heard that another force of white men was gathering to drive the Americans away, they’d rejoiced at the thought that they would be rid of the white invaders. As they waited for this miraculous event to occur, they’d decided to remain peaceful with the Americans, trading with them and observing them until the British arrived. Then they would pounce and earn the gratitude of the British.
The British had come in astonishing numbers, but had brought the hated Iroquois as their allies. All the tribes in the area felt betrayed. If the English were allied with their enemy, then they too were the enemy.
“You are my eyes, Little Turtle, did you see the armies prepare?”
In the distance they could hear rumble of war. “I did, grandfather, and I watched them begin to fight. They are not like real warriors the way they march and move. In some ways it is almost funny, but in others it is frightening. They have discipline and guns, while we have neither. They also have numbers far larger than we can gather even if all the tribes united as one. And, despite the foolish way they fight, they are very brave. They would be formidable enemies.” He shook his head sadly. “Others of our people remain to observe them while I speak with you.”
Although Little Turtle had fought the Americans, it had been in the form of raids, not battles like the one beginning to take place.
The old man was concerned. “You and Tecumseh have not been detected have you?”
Tecumseh answered. “No, grandfather, we have not. But I wonder if it would matter if we were? Both sides know we are o
ut here because these are our lands. Indeed, grandfather, I would be surprised if they did not expect us to be out here, watching and waiting. I’m sure they wonder what we are going to do as do we.”
The old man smiled inwardly. The boy was so smart. Little Turtle was a war leader, but Tecumseh possessed the wisdom of a far older man. Tecumseh, if he lived, was the future. If there was a future for the red man, he thought sadly.
The old man smiled. “Tecumseh, tell me what you did when you heard the first cannon?”
Tecumseh grinned. “I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
Owl grinned and Little Turtle laughed, “And the second time?”
“Then I merely flinched, grandfather, as I realized they weren’t aiming their flying stones at me. Then they became like the thunder in a rainstorm.”
The old man nodded. “Little Turtle, could we fight them?”
Little Turtle shrugged then remembered with mild chagrin that the old man couldn’t see the gesture. “Of course we could fight them, but we wouldn’t win, not even against their smallest army. They all have muskets or rifles, which we do not, and, as has been said, they have many more warriors then we have. You are right, father, we must not have the white men as enemies.”
“Yet at least one of the two groups must be,” the old man said softly.
But which one, he wondered? The Americans who said they only wished to return to their homes in the east, or the British who wished to drag the Americans away? Both groups had said they wished to depart, which would be good for the tribes. But who could believe either of them? The white men always came, but they never left and it didn’t matter who they fought for. The British, if they won, would doubtless leave a fort, like Mackinac, and traders would come who would corrupt the tribes with liquor and cheap goods in return for furs. The Americans would return to their homes in the east if they won, but would all of them depart? Certainly not. Where the white men went, they always stayed. They had contempt for the red man who they thought of as ignorant, drunken savages. Sadly, the white men were often correct. Alcohol and smallpox had ruined so many tribes.
So which of the two armies would be the enemy? Or would it be both? The several hundred warriors gathered in the woods behind him wondered the same thing.
* * *
Danforth was in the middle of the British Army with Grant, and it was rapidly becoming a mob. Even General Grant grudgingly admitted that he was losing control. Grant professed to be unconcerned. “Everything breaks down when the fighting begins. Just keep marching towards the enemy and all will be well.”
Danforth agreed except for one thing—the fighting hadn’t really begun. American and British cannon had been firing at each other for some minutes and to little effect. American riflemen were firing slowly and carefully at the ponderously moving British horde, but were of no concern to any but the men in the first few ranks. Those men in front would be terribly bloodied before this day was over, but that was their fate. The ones who fell would be replaced by those behind and the inexorable advance would continue.
Danforth was concerned that the structure of the British force was proving even more unwieldy than thought. Even Grant had been a little surprised by that fact. Still, the British Army moved forward. The Americans would be crushed.
A soldier near them screamed and fell to his knees. “What the devil?” Danforth exclaimed. The man had been wounded by a falling rock.
* * *
Benedict Arnold looked at Ensign Spencer with some sympathy. The boy’s left arm dangled uselessly and there was a large and growing welt on the boy’s forehead. He was in intense pain and was having difficulty standing.
“General, we went into the swamp as you ordered and we were ambushed. There must have been hundreds of them and they had us surrounded. Only a handful of men managed to get away.”
“Where’s Braxton?” Girty snapped.
“I don’t know,” Spencer said and began to blubber.
Arnold was sympathetic to the boy. “Go have your wounds tended to. Your first battle is over. And for God’s sake wipe your nose.”
Arnold thought quickly. He doubted that “hundreds” of rebels had infiltrated through the swamp, but there had obviously been more than enough to overwhelm Braxton’s and Spencer’s command. Whatever numbers out there could play hell in the British rear unless he did something to stop it.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, puffs of smoke appeared on the hill blocking his view of the swamp. Arnold stood and swore. The insolent bastards were firing on them. He made up his mind.
“Girty, I will take your command and all but two companies of regulars and attack those rebels coming at us from the swamp. That should be more than enough to send any American force packing.”
That and it would show him acting decisively in the face of an unexpected enemy. Perhaps the day would turn out well for him after all.
* * *
Burgoyne also saw the firing from the hill and was dismayed by the obvious fact that an unknown number of rebels had worked their way behind him. The impassible swamp was obviously not as impassible as he’d been led to believe. Had a large force gotten in his rear, or was it just a minor thing?
Damn Arnold, he seethed, could the man do nothing right? Quite obviously reinforcements were needed to plug the rebel entry point from the swamp.
“Fitzroy, get over there and tell Arnold to send more men to reinforce the swamp area. Damn it,” Burgoyne raged, “must I do everything myself? Why the devil didn’t I get generals who could think?”
Fitzroy was about to ask for a clarification of the orders, but the look of fury on Burgoyne’s face told him it was not a good idea. If the general wanted more men sent to their left, then more men would be sent.
Fitzroy mounted his bedraggled excuse for a horse and urged it where Arnold was supposed to be. If Arnold wasn’t there, he would issue orders on General Burgoyne’s behalf. He would do it and return as quickly as possible as the furious sounds to his right and front said that the battle was rapidly approaching its climax.
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 e
nd 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.
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 37
