Midnight Riders

by Pete Clark

  “Always with the huzzahs,” said Marion. “Can we get a yippee or something once in a while?”

  “Ignore them.” Prescott had had about all the meeting he could stomach. He wanted this battle to come.

  ****

  It could be argued that Cornwallis was a military genius. Certainly, he had a heck of a run during the revolution. He won virtually every battle he was involved in. Although some of the “victories” were so costly that they could be considered losses. If not for Tarleton’s foolish loss of manpower due to his incompetence, chances are Cornwallis could have kept storming right up the coast, eventually destroying first Greene and then Washington and we would all be singing “God Save the Queen.” Nevertheless, the turns of history cannot be undone and Cornwallis had to play the hand he was given. It turns out he would misplay that hand, which would lead to the most significant military victory in American history. For without it, there would be no America.

  Cornwallis had a decision to make. He could attempt to engage Greene, but he wanted his reinforcements from Clinton to arrive first. He could push north, looking for a safe haven for the winter, or perhaps head south. It was a key decision. He needed a place to keep his army safe, while remaining in a strategically viable position. After much debate, he decided on the sea bordering location of Yorktown. With easy access to the sea, he could have men, food, and other supplies brought to him as necessary. Britain dominated the water during this war, and so it never even dawned on Cornwallis that, by putting his back to the sea, he would have no ability to escape. The water was a friend to the Brits. They owned it. It was no different than a supply road that the Americans could not use. However, the exploits of great patriot naval commander John Paul Jones, not to mention the soon to be arriving French navy, would put an end to that. At the time, Cornwallis did not know this and so he sealed himself in with his back to the sea, one of the most fatal decisions of the war. His choice was made and now there was only fate to have a say.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

  The Season of Death

  Early Fall of 1781.

  Cornwallis had indeed brought his forces to Yorktown. He was hoping to ride out the winter. He would reinforce and refuel and, in the spring, finally end these miserable upstarts’ dreams of rebellion. He dug in firm. A number of trenches, troops, and cannons formed ever-extending semicircles that swung out from the main building. There were maybe ten deep trenches in all and each loaded for defense. In truth, Cornwallis didn’t really expect to be attacked. He thought the battle would come between Clinton and Washington in New York. He did not realize how large a force had gathered against him and so, when he heard the news, he was shocked. It was then that all of his mistakes dawned on him.

  Prescott liked the autumn. The sharpness in the air gave him a sense of high energy and life, which was ironic given his task at hand. Although, it could be said that it was appropriate. After all, fall is the season of death. Trees and leaves and even animals disappeared and died while ignorant humanity continued its never ending echo of footsteps among the gray shades of autumn. The wind blew cold.

  The scent of Boone’s hat killed the magic of the moment. The ashen blush of dying wood on the air was gone, erased in a moment of reality. The soldiers marched. Prescott’s boots tramped scores of leaves beneath his feet and their dried up veins crackled like kindling in a fire. It seemed symbolism was all around them today. Even Dawes, who was always one for a joke, seemed to sense the severity of the moment. That or he just couldn’t come up with anything to say.

  The Continental Army was nearly as large as it had ever been. This was thanks in no small part to the 7000 French soldiers who had joined them. Washington was there as were Greene, Morgan, and Marion, along with countless other heroes of the revolution. They approached in fine strong units. Infantry and cavalry were massing around Yorktown. What could have been going through Cornwallis’ head?

  “Well, this sucks,” said Cornwallis from within the walls of his Yorktown fortress. “Position the cannons at the highest points. We need to set a perimeter of cannon fire that they will not dare cross. Orchestrate a line of death and dare them to step through it.”

  The first salvo of British cannon fire made it clear that Cornwallis meant to fight. However, it also revealed the range of his cannons. The Americans set up camp some 100 yards beyond that range. So close that they were almost mocking the Redcoats’ situation. Provided the French could secure the sea, then the British were truly up against it. Of course, things never go that smoothly. It turned out that de Lavoir had also decided that now was the time to launch his assault.

  Boone had been able to avoid most of the full-blown battles, but he was right in the middle of this one. You can imagine his pleasure when he felt the ground shudder and saw the sky darken with the approaching rippers. “You have got to be kidding me. They even have air support? Has air support even been invented yet?”

  “If not, then I guess it has been now,” said Dawes. “Maybe you can take credit for it.”

  The talk was light, but the moment was thick with history. Prescott cared little for any of it. His eyes hunted for de Lavoir. He likes to attack from behind, he thought. Remember that.

  From the west came a horde of mismatched creatures as eclectic as any the world had ever seen. de Lavoir had been thorough in amassing his army. At the front, as they were among the fastest, came the centaurs and the werewolves. Dragging along the back end of the infantry was the confused mass of zombies and mummies that were probably just rounded up and then released. The air had a similar flavor as gargoyles, winged harpies, and even a wyvern scorched the sky with their battle cries. If Cornwallis noticed them, he gave no sign. His cannons maintained fire in the direction of the Continental Army; the ripper army targeted them as well. All told, it was actually starting to look up for the British cause.

  ****

  Washington, Greene, and Morgan were quick to mass their lines. “Riflemen, target the sky,” Morgan shouted.

  Washington raised his arm and let it fall. “Fire!”

  A stream of lead ruptured the charging centaurs. But it was lead, so it did little more than anger the werewolves. Meanwhile, the riflemen’s aim was nearly as supernatural as the attackers. They cut down flying beasts with freakish accuracy.

  “Reload and pour fire into those beasts. Don’t waste your fire on the werewolves; cut them down with your silver blades,” Greene ordered his men with confidence that spilled amongst the group. As the werewolves and other creatures grew closer, the orders changed. “Affix bayonets.” A brief pause. “Charge!”

  They all ran into the swirl of fangs and teeth. Prescott had no bayonet, but his sword was working just fine as he disemboweled a werewolf and then a small creature that may have been a leprechaun, although he couldn’t be sure. It mattered little. He was a whirling blur of shining steel, and whatever came within range of him met a quick death. All the while, he scanned the field, looking for de Lavoir.

  ****

  Marion realized that all these flying creatures had an advantage. Something needed to be done. And who better than the Swamp Fox to take care of it, he thought. He gathered Dawes, Revere, and Nancy Hart.

  “Come with me, boys; I have a plan.”

  “I’m a woman,” said Hart.

  Dawes gave her a thorough screening but, to his credit and health, he remained silent.

  “Right, sorry,” Marion muttered. “Follow quickly; I need to cut some of those tents and also a tree.”

  “You are always doing things with trees,” said Dawes. “Can’t you shake it up a bit?”

  “We are always in the woods. Trees are what I have; trees are what I use. Now cut one down, smart ass.”

  Dawes was mildly displeased at his treatment, but he still went to cut down the tree.

  “Okay,” Marion began. “Slice the canvas of the tent. Oops, heads up. Zombie.” He blew the approaching zombie’s head off. “Man, this is going to slow things down.”

  Se
veral more of the walking dead were approaching and surrounding them. Meanwhile, the ripper air attack was wreaking havoc among the American numbers. They had to get their plan into action and fast.

  ****

  While the land battle raged, there was another equally significant fight taking place near Chesapeake Bay. The British navy was being routed by the French, whose arrival was a bit of a surprise for the Brits. Not to mention, there was the fact that the French had brought far more ships than the English were prepared to handle. The sea war was well contested, but was swinging in favor of the French. In fact, a few French ships had even blown up some random sea monsters for good measure. With the battle in no doubt, it was only a matter of time before the French navy moved into blockade position around the bay and provided Cornwallis with a nasty surprise.

  ****

  The cannon barrage was deafening and impressive. The bones of men created a rain of shrapnel all around them. The sky was black with the throng of supernatural enemies and it seemed to be an omen. What at first appeared to be a war they could not lose was starting to look as if it would be one in which they would be lucky to retreat intact. The Brits were comfortable behind their walls as they blasted away at the patriots. They could send out troops to charge, but why would they? There was no point when the rippers were doing their dirty work for them. The ripper army was proving to be overwhelming. The patriots needed help. But who could it come from?

  Marion found a smooth groove. Step one, two, decapitate; step three, four, decapitate. He was in a pile of headless zombies. This was causing him some trouble, as he had to keep stepping all over the mushy bodies of his defeated foes. Hart maintained steady fire on the beasts of the air. Her accuracy was giving many of the flying rippers pause. One brave chimera advanced, only to have its lion’s head blown in half. Yet they still had not finished creating their aerial weapon. Dawes had managed to saw down a pair of trees and, with some support from other soldiers and rope and direction from the still battling Marion, they were able to construct a sort of catapult. They used some of the tent canvas to forge a large pouch, which they could use to load their ammo. What ammo, you ask?

  “Load the zombie corpses into the Dead-a-pult,” Marion ordered.

  “Dead-a-pult? I like it,” said Dawes, as he began flinging the dead undead into the pouch. When it was full to bursting, it was time for fun.

  “Let’s launch it. Zombie bomb away.”

  Dawes pulled the release cord and dozens of zombies flew through the air with surprising velocity. The corpses slammed into, dropped upon, and ricocheted among the flying rippers. They seemed surprised to be struck by the headless undead. Some of the collisions were so powerful that they shattered bones and ended lives, but even those that did not were still strong enough to knock large numbers of rippers from the air. When they landed, most of them were finished off by the American infantry.

  “I am the goddamn Swamp Fox,” said Marion, quite pleased with himself.

  “That’s great,” said Revere. “But there are still plenty more of them. Let’s load up more zombie bullets.”

  They proceeded to do just that. In a matter of moments, they had unleashed their second volley of the undead into the skies. The effect was significant on two levels. First, it was causing lots of damage to the flying rippers, and this freed up the American infantry and cavalry to focus on the ground forces. The second, and less fortunate, effect was that the rippers had begun to realize the problem, and the vast majority of flying monsters were heading for Marion’s Dead-a-pult and its pitifully small group of defenders.

  “Uh,” Dawes said, as the swarm started to close in. “We have a bit of a problem.”

  Nancy Hart merely grunted as she blew a smooth rounded hole through a gryphon’s neck. “Just keep killing them until we’re dead.”

  “That attitude is commendable, but I was hoping for a slightly better scenario.” Dawes started firing anyway, while the others loaded the Dead-a-pult for the third time. They let loose and the rippers in the front, who were closing with great speed, were obliterated by the zombie spread.

  Marion tried to rally. “Reload quickly.” He glanced around. “Damn it; there aren’t enough zombies.” The irony of the statement went over everyone’s head, much like the huge shadow that suddenly appeared to darken the field of battle.

  Dawes looked up. “You have got to be kidding me. Is that a dragon?”

  It was.

  ****

  Across the field, Morgan and most of his riflemen had set up a perimeter along a dirt path. They were doing a fine job of holding their position, but Morgan was dissatisfied. “We need to advance. Let’s carve a path, so that our cannon can get in close and stop those damn Redcoats from firing on us at will.” This was no easy test. There was still a legion of rippers between them and a small knoll, which would make for a fine cannon position. They also had to avoid the steady blasts coming from the British artillery.

  Prescott arrived at Morgan’s side. “There is a soft spot in the barrage,” Prescott said. He indicated an imaginary line with his hand.

  Morgan studied it. True enough, the blasts never struck the area indicated. It was almost as if a free road to the knoll had been there the whole time.

  Deus ex machina, thought Prescott with a smile. Then he wondered what Dawes was up to. He glanced around the roil to look for him; that was when he saw, among a group of large jackal-shaped men, de Lavoir. He was hiding along the perimeter, out of harm’s way. Coward, thought Prescott, and he was off. He was not thinking properly. One on one, de Lavoir was basically unbeatable. He was too fast, too strong. Surrounded by half a dozen giant monsters, he was even worse. Prescott didn’t care, though. He drew both of his four-barreled pistols and charged forward. That was when the world turned red. An unbearable wall of heat drilled into Prescott and knocked him to the ground.

  The whole sky was blinding scarlet. The red curled and rolled in angry spirals of sweeping death. When the blaze halted, Prescott looked to the sky. It was raining fire. Huge burning chunks of fire plummeted from the sky. Prescott rolled hard to his left to avoid one; it stuck the earth next to him. A few bits broke free and landed on Prescott’s arm scalding him. He swept them off with a pistol barrel. Next to him lay the burned out husk of a wyvern’s head. The sky was not raining fire. The rippers were being set ablaze and they were dropping to the ground below. What could be doing this, Prescott wondered. That was when the shadow covered him. It was the unfathomably large shadow of a dragon, and it looked down at him.

  “Hello,” Prescott said awkwardly.

  “Prescott,” asked the dragon.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” sighed Prescott.

  ****

  Marion had nowhere to hide. A host of flaming bodies were streaking toward him. “Is this how the Swamp Fox meets his end?” He closed his eyes in resignation. He was then thrown off his feet. He opened his eyes to discover himself unkilled by the falling bodies. “Huh?”

  Revere was next to him. “I saved you.”

  “You saved me?”

  “Yeah, well, you really only had to move a few feet. Honestly, I don’t know what you were doing standing there like an idiot.”

  “My plans are very complex. Either way, let us assess the situation.”

  Hart came over. “The situation is this. All of the flying monster things are dead. And the giant dragon that did it is apparently talking to that Prescott guy.”

  “You know him?” Marion asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He nodded. “Do you know what I am better known as?”

  “Francis?”

  Marion sighed a deep breath of defeat. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the dragon.”

  ****

  “So, what is it like being a dragon?” Prescott began, because, really, how are you supposed to talk to a dragon?

  “Sort of boring. But I hear you’re the guy to take care of this monster situation,” Oliver the dragon said.

&
nbsp; “All of the requirements to cleanse the spell have been fulfilled except one. I need to kill de Lavoir.”

  “Can’t I just kill him?”

  “No, the leader of the rippers has to be killed by a man with just revenge.”

  “That’s you?”

  “Yes.”

  Oliver thought it over. “It’s just as well; I don’t like being out in the open. I just wanted to provide some air support. So, now that it is done, I think I better take off, before anyone sees me. Bye bye.” The great beast flapped its wings and the gust knocked Prescott to the ground yet again. Prescott did not have the heart to tell him that he was pretty sure just about everyone had already seen him.

  “Deus ex machina!” Dawes came running up to him, along with Marion and some woman he did not recognize.

  “Have you seen de Lavoir?” Marion asked.

  Prescott was up with a jump. He had almost forgotten. “He was right over there.” He searched, straining his eyes. It was the jackal men he saw now. They were obviously forming a protective wall around de Lavoir; they were lurking off in the distance, hoping to avoid notice, but no longer.

  ****

  Boone, as you may have heard, was a tracker. He had been on the lookout for de Lavoir from the start and found him during the confusion of the first cannon fire onslaught. He had tracked him out of view since. Now, he rested atop a tree, hidden amongst its remaining brush. Most of the foliage on the branches was dead, like so many of the bodies on the ground. Unlike the bodies, though, the leaves had not yet fallen to the earth, and so they provided decent cover for him. He was directly above de Lavoir and his pack of six weird looking hybrid monsters. He could not see de Lavoir, though, as they were packed tightly around him. He could easily blast one of the beasts in the head, but he had no idea if that would kill it or just piss it off.