by Pete Clark
Morgan’s letter was brief and addressed to Boone. It read: Crazy shit is happening. We lost ground but won the death toll. Lots of rippers are here and more coming. Believe a major confrontation will take place between us and Burgoyne’s forces. No sign of the Wendigo yet. P.S. My cousin is shooting the hell out of everything. P.P.S. I think Arnold is about to lose his shit and do something crazy.
“Well,” said Dawes. “It looks like we’ll be in time for the big show.”
****
Fraser could have predicted it. Even before he saw them. In fact, even before he set foot back on this mud-encrusted dung heap of a country, he knew. He absolutely knew he would run into a bunch of fucking werewolves. Meanwhile, Arnold, who had brought in reinforcements that may or may not have been against Gates’ orders, had joined Morgan and a pitched battle ensued as they joined forces to attack Fraser.
While the battle between the armies and the newly arrived flock of werewolves raged, Gates was at the commander’s camp yelling angrily that Arnold had gone against orders, which led to the battle starting when they were unprepared. This was largely bullshit, but Gates not only did not like Arnold, but he also wanted a scapegoat in case the battle was lost. Perhaps somewhere, deep in his mind, he also knew that he was a poor military tactician who spent his time on the battlefield in the command tent, putting other people in charge, while Arnold was a very talented and bold leader who charged to the front lines and was innovative under fire. Who can be sure?
Suffice it to say that the first battle of Saratoga ended with the Americans moving back and giving up ground, but with the British army suffering far more casualties. In fact, Burgoyne’s once significant numerical advantage was all but gone now, due to casualties and desertion. Fraser’s army held position and drove off the werewolves for the time being while Fraser reported to Burgoyne. They had to decide their next plan of action. Would they again attack these American upstarts who, led by Morgan and Arnold, were beginning to show that they were more than just angry farmers? Should they retreat?
Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne enjoyed the fame that came from being a successful general and he was not about to be known as the man who ran from the Americans and their army, which had never won a true face to face battle of this size. No, he would formulate a plan, attack, and be victorious and, in so doing, choke off New England from the other colonies and win the war. At least, that is what he planned. Arnold, Morgan, Hannah, Prescott, and a shit load of rippers were going to have something to say about that.
****
Arnold returned to the command tent to encounter a furious Gates, who wanted to blame him for the loss that really was not much of a loss.
“You impatient glory hungry rogue,” Gates started with style. “If you had not gone against orders, we could have had a much stronger plan of attack, instead of willy-nilly throwing reinforcements at the problem.”
“I did not go against orders,” countered Arnold with no attempt to conceal his anger. “You agreed to let Morgan advance. Then, when I arrived, I surveyed the situation and acted accordingly. But for their superior numbers and artillery, we very likely would have won the battle. As such, we only withdrew due to nightfall. I would say it is a draw at worst.”
“Draw? Is that what you will write in your journals? That your incompetence cost lives but was a draw?” Gates was raging.
“War costs lives. We killed far more of them. And I put my life at risk leading those men, while you sat in your tent preparing this speech.”
“I have had enough incompetence and insolence from you,” Gates spat. “You are removed from command and confined to your tent for the upcoming battle. We don’t need your foolish thirst for glory to get us captured or killed.”
Arnold said nothing. He simple glared into the eyes of General Gates and then turned on his heel and left the tent.
Morgan was not at all pleased. Yes indeed, Arnold could be a bit rash, but it was his reckless aggression and understanding of war that made him such an effective leader. The patriot cause needed men like him. Not men like Gates, who were concerned with not looking bad instead of with trying to win the war. Sure, Arnold was glory hungry, but he was willing to risk his life for it, and he did believe in the cause. Not having Arnold in the next battle would be a huge loss. Morgan could not dwell on such things, though. He had his riflemen and he was confident they could handle the Redcoats. He was just a bit nervous about what kind of monsters might show up.
****
Prescott, Hannah, and their small band of would-be heroes arrived at Bemis Heights right around the time that Burgoyne decided to begin his attack. Fraser and other officers had suggested retreat again, as the colonial numbers were swelling, while the Brits had a number of deserters. Burgoyne had also sent requests for reinforcements, but was denied. He should have retreated and, perhaps if he knew how outnumbered he was, he would have. But he did not want to appear a coward and so, he sent an attack once again against the Americans’ left lines by the Heights. They advanced with around 5000 men and Fraser in the lead.
So it was, that on October 7th of 1777, Gates, who had taken over for Arnold, who now sat in his tent, led some 8000 Continental soldiers toward Bemis Heights and Fraser. Morgan and his riflemen were again at the front. What was unknown was that Arnold had no interest in sitting idly in his tent. He was going to seize the moment when it presented itself; he sneaked secretly along the woods toward the likely place of battle.
Prescott and friends could see Gates’ movements and, realizing the situation, brought their horses through the damp grass under the bristling morning star, and made to join with Morgan’s column. They expected a fierce battle and the appearance of the Wendigo. What they did not expect was an army of mountain giants.
Tim Murphy, the famed sniper of Morgan’s riflemen, was the first to notice them. “What is that thing by the tree?”
“I think it’s just another tree,” said Nancy Hart.
“No,” sighed Murphy. “I’m sure it’s a ripper of some kind.”
“It’s a mountain giant,” said Hannah. She and the rest trotted up beside Morgan without him noticing they were there. After a brief introduction and explanation, they were once again onto fixing the problem.
“Prescott,” Morgan sneered. “This is your area of expertise. How do we kill these things?”
“They’re giants. No different from us except much bigger and stronger. We kill them by shooting them.” Everyone stared at Prescott doubtfully. “Well, you have to shoot them a lot.”
“Great; let’s get our practice in,” said Dawes. “Here comes one of the bastards now.”
Indeed one of the giants, apparently unwilling to wait for the festivities to begin, decided to stroll toward Morgan’s front with huge earth rumbling strides. The riflemen unloaded with a thick volley of lead. The giant staggered from the metallic deluge. Had they any cannons, they could have taken the beast out quickly, but they were the riflemen, not the cannon men. A few hundred yards away, Fraser was leading his men skillfully and heroically. He had organized them and they were cutting down werewolves with great vigor. Fraser himself had dropped two of them with his large silver sword. Odd, though, thought Fraser. Werewolves generally did not attack during the day. Something was seriously upsetting the balance of nature.
“Come on, boys,” shouted Fraser. “Let’s push these fuzzy meat biters back to the forest and advance. The colonials are neck deep in giants and I aim to strike at them while they’re occupied.” His voice rang powerful above the din and his men were spurned onward. Such was the ferocity of the Redcoat onslaught that the werewolves, not known for fear or logic, had little choice but to retreat into the woods and regroup. Fraser quickly reorganized his men with expert efficiency. If there was a doubt as to Fraser’s battlefield skills, it was placed only by fools.
The giants were being held back; one had even fallen. But cannons were needed as were reinforcements. A great scarlet wall of British soldiers was marching up the Heig
hts. They were scarcely a half mile away. Morgan turned to find a runner to petition for reinforcements and artillery. When he turned, he found a most welcome surprise. “Arnold?”
Indeed, Arnold had disobeyed orders and joined the fray. Whether it was from a commitment to his nation as he realized that he truly was one of the best for the job or whether it was out of spite for Gates, Morgan did not know. He also did not care. “What news, Arnold?”
“There are three companies coming in. Mostly Poor’s men. They will arrive. They have no cannon but, as you can see,” Arnold pointed to the closest British wave, “those fellows there have a cannon and I bet they are just aching to give it to us.” A barrage of cannon and rifle fire scorched the earth in front of them. The lead British made use of the carnage to launch a smoothly orchestrated bayonet charge. The charge was well-designed and would have scraped the Americans from the hill if only the American unit had not been entirely composed of the coolest and most accurate soldiers on the continent. The riflemen let fly, carving the bayonet charge and dropping every last officer among them. The Americans advanced under more deadly rifle fire and, with Arnold driving the action and riding lead, circled and captured seven cannons.
Just below them, Arnold could see the fast organization of the Brits as Fraser, amid a crowd, was directing cavalry with deadly precision. Arnold turned to Morgan. “That man,” he said pointing to Fraser, “is worth a whole regiment unto himself.”
Morgan saw that it was Fraser to whom Arnold was referring. Fraser carried great respect among soldiers. He was brave yet fair. Morgan guessed what was to come next, but was not happy.
“Have your finest sniper draw a bead and snuff him out, Mr. Morgan. That is the best way to victory,” said Arnold.
Morgan was reluctant yet he saw the wisdom. “Murphy,” he called out. Tim Murphy emerged from the throng. The order was given. Murphy climbed a nearby tree and took aim.
The shot was 400 yards off. Murphy’s weapon was a rifle bore barrel that provided some accuracy; however, at the time, a shot so precise and of such a distance was nigh impossible. Murphy, though, had become a legend for a reason. He drew aim and fired. The first shot sailed wide missing Fraser only as he moved to rally his troops. The second shot caught his horse. Fraser was perplexed as no one was close enough to hit him with musket fire. For a moment, he thought it must be friendly fire. As he scanned the scene to find out which of his men had accidentally discharged his weapon, the third bullet took him hard in the stomach, spitting his insides out of his back. He collapsed from his horse in utter shock. As Fraser’s nearest aide reacted, he too was dropped by Murphy by a clean shot to the skull.
Lying in the dirt, Fraser was confused. How had he been shot? By whom? They were not yet close enough to engage. His vision was darkening when, from the tree line, he could see that several of the werewolves were making their way toward him. “That figures,” he said. Fraser knew he was a dead man. Your organs do not evacuate through your back and allow you to tell the tale. However, he would rather roast on a spit in Hell than be finished off by one of these moon loving fuzz buckets. The werewolves smelling his viscera in the air charged at him. Fraser summoned strength that his body could not have possessed. He aimed his pistol and fired a true silver ball into the charging eye of the first wolf. He spasmed and fell, the werewolf’s corpse gliding to a stop next to him. He could not reload. Luckily, his sword had landed next to him when he fell. He hefted the suddenly cumbersome blade and, as another werewolf parted its jaws to rip out his throat, he plunged the silver tipped steel directly down the monster’s throat. It gurgled and tried to pull itself free, but all it succeeded in doing was carving its own brains out of its head. It collapsed. Fraser, seeing no other werewolves in the vicinity, and seeing that his troops had managed to get themselves back into some semblance of order, permitted himself to die on the downs of Bemis Heights.
While Fraser was dying gloriously for his country, the Brits had advanced and were forcing the Continental lines to break apart. The Redcoats pushed forward. If they charged and broke through the gap in the lines, they could encircle the patriots and the colonists would be all but done. Someone had to close the gap. Someone had to cross the opening between the two American units. Someone had to cross that airy field of certain death. There was no cover and sheets of rifle fire spliced the late afternoon sky.
“If we don’t turn them, we’re done for,” said Morgan. But anything shy of a charge into the surging bayonets would be futile and who would be foolhardy enough to order such a charge, let alone lead it?
The answer came in the form of a single horseman. Arnold, sword drawn, rode between the gap. A madman and his horse, Arnold hollered to rouse the men, sailing across that open air; the deadly lead danced all around him but found no purchase. He astoundingly crossed the lines unhurt. Reaching the other side, empowered by his successful madness, he gathered a group of willing men and turned again, riding straight into the mouth of the Redcoat bayonets. Firing and then using tempered steel, Arnold actually forced a hole in the red wall. He pierced the offensive and they suddenly found themselves in prime position behind the British.
As Arnold prepared to run down the utterly perplexed British, Hannah’s voice whispered in the ear of Prescott. “That was a miracle.”
“Yes,” said Prescott. “The man is both courageous and foolish.”
“Yes, but it is the miracle,” she said.
“The one we need to break the spell,” Dawes said, as his hat was shot off. “Well, that was also sort of a miracle.” He looked around, trying to find his hat.
“So,” Revere said. “Then we just need the vertex?”
“Not hardly,” added Prescott. “He needs to betray us now.”
“What?” Revere yapped.
“The miracle worker must betray those who see him as a hero. It is part of the legend,” Hannah said.
As she spoke, they could see Arnold amid the entropy, rousing his troops and leading another mad dash into the teeth of the enemy.
“Okay,” said Dawes. “But what if he dies first?”
“Then I guess your near death experience will be the miracle,” she smiled.
“I hope he makes it,” said Dawes.
Arnold rode at the forefront of his troops, a fiery warrior of destruction sweeping Redcoats aside like a human scythe. He seemed unstoppable. But then his horse was shot and his leg was shattered by another shot. Still, he rose, reloaded, and fired. Seeing his plight, the lines surged behind him and charged. The wave crested the downs and crippled the British defense. Seeing defeat, they had no choice but to retreat. The retreat was haphazard and the patriots pursued.
A number of different types of rippers had begun to intermingle with the two forces. Burgoyne was attempting to retreat while Morgan, with Arnold now on a makeshift cot, was trying to capture them and shift the balance of power in the war. Prescott, with blood thumping in his skull, charged with the Continentals; he noticed a familiar sound. He pulled up on his reins, slowing his horse. Hannah, Dawes, Marchand, and Boone followed suit. Then the sound of crackling timber reached them followed by the howling call, “Wendigo.”
****
Upon seeing the great white beast, Hannah shouted, her voice a blood-churning scream. “The vertex!”
She charged straight for the ten-foot wall of hairy strength. Prescott spun hard, his horse’s heels spraying mud, grass, and blood as he turned. Hannah leapt from her horse and drew her long curved blade as she ran toward the monster. She was actually faster on foot. Her speed was tested as the Wendigo swiped at her with a lighting blur of a claw. She ducked and rolled beneath it. But, as she popped to her feet, it caught her with a straight punch from its other hand sending her flying. Prescott saw this and, for some reason, had to fight the urge to laugh. Such was the oddness of a tiny girl being launched through the air by the fearsome pale beast. However, as the Wendigo approached the sprawled body of Hannah, he regained his focus. He pulled a small tube from his po
cket and lit the end. He lobbed it high into the air and, as the Wendigo watched the sparkling wick burn, Prescott swept by, locked hands with the recovering Hannah, and rode off as the tube exploded, both blinding and pissing off the Wendigo.
Prescott saw the beast was stunned and called to his friends. “After it while it’s stunned! We need to weaken it so Hannah can get close.”
Then he was smashed from his horse. His back ricocheted off a tree trunk as he struck the earth. He pushed himself back to his feet with the help of a dead man’s head. He saw Hannah also getting to her feet a few yards away. Their attacker was facing her. Of course, it was de Lavoir. Boone saw him as well and dove from his horse while in mid-sprint and speared de Lavoir in the back. They both tumbled to the ground. Boone was quick to his feet. He spun and aimed his rifle where de Lavoir should have been but was not. “Fucking super speed bullshit.” He searched the darkening late evening air trying to spot the vampire among the trees. “I can’t find him,” he shouted to Dawes and Marchand as they rode toward him.
“He’s right there,” Dawes pointed. Boone turned and saw the Wendigo pulling a giant tree from out of the ground.
“Not the huge white thing. The vampire,” Boone yelled back.
“Oh,” Dawes shrugged. “Well, I don’t know where he is, but I think you better focus on the tree throwing monster and duck.”
Boone did duck as an oak tree whipped over his head. It blasted into a cluster of shrubbery and exploded into a deadly cloud of wooden shrapnel. To make matters worse, Boone got a piece of dirt in his eye. That was extremely agitating.
He watched as the Wendigo took a few steps toward him and pulled another tree out of the ground. This one was much smaller but could still easily turn Boone into a glob of oozing red paste. The Wendigo reared back, holding the tree as if it were a javelin. Marchand came swooping in on his horse. His sabre flashed and the tree dropped as the Wendigo’s severed hand still clung to it.
“That is how the French change history,” Marchand taunted, as he circled out of the Wendigo’s range.
