“You have a sextant?” asked Musgrove.
“If they’ve been there the better part of two weeks,” asked the General, “what have they been doing? Making preparations obviously, but what?”
“Last night, as we were pitching camp, I saw the last light of the sun as it set just behind the bluff of Windswept Hill,” said the Colonel.
“Don’t know,” said Musgrove. “They had been building some machines like they were – “
“That would make us east nor’east, or, for all practical purposes, practically due east of the Hill. Can’t do better without my sextant.”
“But they seem to have abandoned that and gone on to do some excavating.”
“By the way, did you hear that explosion this morning?”
“I’ve been informed,” the General gave a look at his adjutant,”it was just my snoring.”
“Then I’m damn glad I’m not sharing your tent.”
“I thought it came from the direction of the sea,” said Musgrove. “The Hercules guns was my passing thought, though I’m surprised we can hear them from this distance.”
“That would depend on just what this distance is,” said Hobsbawm. “I’m attempting to ascertain our exact location.”
The Colonel joined him at the map. “Well, given the position of Windswept Hill, I would think we’ve been following this trail leading west, hmmm? And it has taken us to the spot we currently occupy, which would be this spot here.”
“I see.”
“So . . . if we continue on this trail we’ll come to a fork. Do you agree, Captain Musgrove?”
“That’s what the map says.” The Captain removed his hat and rubbed his brow.
“At that point we will have the choice of this narrow path to the north side of the Hill, around the curve of the bluffs, beside this swampy terrain here, or we can take this other much wider trail which leads clear round the south side of the Hill. It’s six of one half a dozen of the other in the end since both paths join up on the west side over here.”
“Where the Indians are.”
“They’ll be waiting for us with their machines and their excavations – you did say excavations, didn’t you?” asked the General.
“That’s what it looked like.”
“Undoubtedly they’ve been digging in. They’ll have trenches and what not. So we should take the wider trail, even though it looks to be a bit longer.”
“Yes,” said Dunder. “Also that way we won’t come near this swampy area which the mapmakers, surely in a moment of whimsy, have designated the Great Bog.”
“It is a bog, I never sent any scouts in there,” said Musgrove.
“Whimsical mapmakers, what next?” said General Hosbawm.
“Sir, is it your intention to attack the Indians today?” asked Musgrove.
“Yes.”
“What about Colonel Milquetoast’s force? Where are his regiments?”
“They should have been convoyed across the Sound during the night. They’ll need a day to rest and restore their strength. Tomorrow they’ll attack.”
“Then shouldn’t we wait so we can coordinate our attack with his? Wasn’t that the point of this pincer operation?”
“Milquetoast’s force is a contingency plan. It’s important that we attack the Indians before he does.”
“Why?”
“These Indians are going to be crushed. They have no cannons, no firepower, nothing. Bows and arrows. Milquetoast is a cunning little rat, and he’s ambitious. He has his eye on chucking me out and putting himself in my position. If he gets any credit for the victory it’ll only strengthen his hand.”
“But if we attack before he does, the Indians will concentrate all their efforts on us. The fight will be a bloody one and we’ll suffer greater casualties than if we wait for Milquetoast’s force. Likely it’ll be only a day.”
“Battles are not fought in order to avoid casualties. I can’t quite believe you haven’t learned that by now.”
“A soldier risks his life when he’s on the battlefield. Of course we all know that. But he risks it for a cause. Surely battles are not fought in order to heap honors on the Generals.”
“And yet whenever a battle is fought, the soldiers die and the General gets the glory. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” A bright red flush came to Musgrove’s face. The General went on, “We have three regiments. That’s more than enough to pound these savages into dust. I know what I’m up to; and you’ll do what you’re told.”
“Yessir.”
Hobsbawm tossed Dunder a smile as he strode from the tent, glancing at the shard of mirror and straightening his hat on the way out. He was followed by the others.
Outside, the army was coming awake. It was an awe inspiring spectacle. Everywhere was activity, bustle, purpose. A sea of red uniforms was on the move. Here and there were flecks of gray or brown or other homespun colors. These were the most recent recruits who’d joined after the uniforms had run out. But red was the color: a river of scarlet ran right through the woods. Colonel Dunder almost danced for joy.
At that same moment Half Moon, with Father Clumphy at his side, was leading a band of warriors on horseback across a high patch of bare rock near the summit of Windswept Hill. He had posted sentinels to look for signs of the witches as they advanced. He was still heart sore for Issoria and Vanessa, but he had locked all that in a tiny corner of his mind where he didn’t always need to look at it. He did not understand how he had allowed that infatuation to possess him and rule his thoughts for so many days. Fortunately, the time he’d spent huddled in despair had not been wasted, as Black Crow and Wild Otter had given spirit to the Indians and led them in the work Deirdre had laid out. Now he was hoping he might encounter her again. He wanted to learn more of her tactics and get some help from her magic. He had received reports all day yesterday and even through the night of skirmishes that had taken place with some outlying forces of the army. These skirmishes were in the form of a volley of shots, a few arrows let fly, and then a quick retreat. There was no meaningful advantage to either side, but the times and places where these skirmishes occurred had established a pattern showing him the army was advancing towards the very place where he had laid his trap. It is excellent, he thought, the way my enemies are lining up to be killed. From where he stood he could look down on the Forest below as if it were a map, and plot the progress of General Hobsbawm’s march. The army had progressed slowly, which was good, as it had allowed him time to make his final preparations.
Black Crow caught Half Moon by the arm and directed his view towards the west, where puffs of smoke were rising into the sky. Indians were using wet blankets to interrupt the flow of smoke from their fire, thus creating smoke signals. It was a language known of old by all the Indians of these woods and Half Moon read the message. “Witches spotted. Come quick.”
“I cannot come so quickly as I would like,” said Half Moon. “I must first deal with these soldiers in front of me.” He knew his reunion with Issoria and Vanessa would be coming soon, and it would be all the sweeter for coming on the heels of his great victory over the white man. He rode his horse to a spot a little lower on the Hill where other warriors awaited him, wearing war paint and softly beating drums. When the braves saw him approach, they formed a semi-circle and awaited his words, and this is what he said:
“Black Crow, Wild Otter, Barking Dog, and all you others, all my brothers from all the tribes of the Forgotten Forest who are gathered here together, welcome! The Great Spirit has called us and we have come. He has entered into each one of us, and to each one of us He has given a purpose. And today we will all bring the purpose each one of us holds sacred inside himself, and we will create a great action – a thunder and lightning that will leave the white man houseless in this land.
“We all know why the white men must be driven out. There is little need to rehearse the litany of troubles they have brought. You recall when first they came, we welcomed them. We thought they were our dead
returning to us. We thought they had forgotten language, so they spoke like birds. We embraced them and let them in. We helped them. But even then, helpless as they were, they showed us their scorn. They were never grateful to us for saving them when they arrived here with no food or supplies. They could not have survived the first winter without our help. And then after that more of them came on their gigantic canoes, more again and even more. And they stole from us, from us who had given what we had. When we helped them they showed their gratitude by killing us and driving us deep into the Forest . . . So now the time has come when all that will change. We will strike the white man today. We will strike him to the ground, and he will grovel before us and he will die!” There was a great cheer. “In their pride and their senseless arrogance they are this moment walking into our trap. And we will be there when the moment comes to strike off the heads they parade above us!” There was more cheering. Perhaps some of Half Moon’s listeners thought his metaphors were a bit mixed, but they weren’t there to nit-pick. “We have waited, all of us, for this moment. We have known it was coming. You all carry in your breasts the cause of this great battle. We will thrust our spears through the white man’s chest! Our arrows will pluck out his eyes! He will fall to the ground and be trampled beneath our conquering feet! No trace of him will be left! We will defeat the white man and drive him back into the sea!!” There was another great cheer. When it died down, he went on. “There is, however, one white man who is different, one who in our eyes does good. I refer to my friend Clumphy.” He held Clumphy’s hand up for all to see. “It was he who came to me in my darkest hour and showed me the way. He has powers unlike those of other men. He is able to leave his body and communicate with spirits in other worlds. He is a prophet. He can foresee the future, and he has told me that today we will achieve our greatest triumph: a complete victory over the white man’s army! He is a great shaman and what he says will come to pass. Clumphy, guide us. Show us your wisdom.”
Clumphy’s mind was blank, and now he awaited inspiration. Ever since he had reawakened Half Moon, Clumphy had been living in an ecstasy of sanctitude. He looked upon the Indians as so many dead souls, which it was his duty to bring to life. The Lord had blessed him by destroying everything he’d possessed. He was well aware that most men would not consider this a blessing, but he knew now what he hadn’t known before, that just as he came into the world with nothing, so would he leave it. Everything must be given away and the last and greatest giving would be the gift of himself to God. All the lesser givings preceding that one partook of its holiness. Every taking was a sin and every acquisition a punishment. He thought sometimes of the family he’d been with on the evening of the fire. If they were not yet dead, he was certain the fire must have taken from them everything they’d had – all their possessions and their means of sustenance. They had been blessed as thoroughly as he, but it was a question whether they rejoiced in it as he did. They were probably wishing God would bless somebody else. They were probably wishing God would bless some of these Indians standing in front of him right now. But the truth was so simple it was impossible to understand. The less he had, the more he possessed. His possessions were not of this world. He could not point to them. They were inside him, invisible to everyone except himself. It was his task to bring this state of blessedness to the Indians, and to all men, but he hardly knew how to begin. How do you convince someone to give up everything he has in return for something invisible that no one else will comprehend? Surely he must seem insane to these people. He hoped God would show him the way.
Now there was a great silence as all waited for him to speak. Even the drummers stopped drumming. He looked at the assembled braves, their faces made hideous by garish war paint, wearing war bonnets of eagle feathers and necklaces made from the teeth of their enemies, some with scalps won in previous battles dangling beside their ears, their eyes lit with the fierce lust for blood. He realized he had nothing to say to them. Finally, he said, “The kingdom of Heaven is at work in us. We, who have been afflicted, are blessed by God’s grace. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are those who have known sorrow for they will be comforted . . .” He trailed off. The Indians were getting restive, and Clumphy himself was tired of what he was saying. As he started to go on, Half Moon raised his arms and took the first two steps of the war dance. Clumphy said, “The earth is ours to inherit —” But none heard him now. The drums had started and the warriors were taking up the rhythm of the dance. Clumphy found himself swept up in the line of sweating, chanting Indians. All around him they stamped their feet and waved their spears and tomahawks in time to the beating of the drums. Half Moon led the warriors down the Hill to the trench they’d dug at the base of the bluff. Here they hid themselves behind mounds of dirt and clumps of bushes so they could not be seen from the trail only a foot or two away. One after another the Indians concealed themselves. There were almost ten thousand Indians lined up along a two and a quarter mile length of the trail, but after they had covered themselves with sod and clumps of brush anyone walking along the path would not have known they were there. Half Moon also distributed almost a thousand braves around the edges of the Great Bog, to trap any soldiers who would try to escape in that direction. His snare was well laid.
As this was going on, General Hobsbawm and Colonel Dunder, having arrived at the fork in the road they’d been contemplating that morning, were staring gloomily at a pair of massive toppled tree trunks blocking the path they had planned to take.
“We need horses and chains to haul those out of the way,” said the General.
“There’s not much point,” said the Colonel. “The trail is little more than a muddy trough. It takes a lower course and it’s been swamped by the recent rains.” Indeed, it almost looked as though an excavation had been conducted along the course of the path, and the original sod had been removed and replaced by deep trenches that had become quickly flooded and full of brush. “However,” he went on, indicating the other track to the right, “this is a good trail. This is higher. It’s narrower, but at least the sand is tightly packed and makes for good, sound footing.”
“But we won’t be able to march nine men across. You won’t be able to go more than six at a time. And you’ll have to stretch out the baggage train if you want to allow room for the men to guard it.”
“If we only go six at a time it’ll take us forever to get round this hill.”
“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll speed up by going both ways. You lead the Eighteenth Regiment through that narrow trail. I’ll stay with the Seventeenth and Nineteenth and we’ll see if we can’t make our way through this broader passage. I know at this point it looks like a muddy ditch but it’s bound to improve further on. We’ll join up on the other side, where the Indians are. Take them from both directions.”
Dunder didn’t like this plan at all. “I’d advise against dividing the force in two.”
“It makes perfect sense. Undoubtedly they’re waiting for us and they think the narrowness of the passage will give them an advantage because we’ll only be able to fight with the force at the head of the line. Probably what those smoke signals were all about. We won’t be able to spread out and outflank them. That’s why it’s imperative that I force a passage through this other trail so I can come at them from the side and relieve you.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“They won’t be expecting that.”
Dunder was slowly being won over. “We’ll have the Hill on one side and the Bog on the other so the only way they’ll be able to come at us is along the road, either in front or behind. We’ll only be able to fight them with a small portion of our strength but at least we won’t have to look out for attackers from all sides.”
So Hobsbawm gave the order to divide their command, Colonel Dunder leading one regiment round the north side of the Hill, while he led the other two regiments round the south. Hobsbawm’s unit first had to deal with the tree trunks that blocked their path. Dunder’s regime
nt had already marched away and disappeared into the Forest before the path was made passable. As Dunder had noted, the path was very muddy, but not so muddy that no progress could be made. The day was hot and over hot; a haze of flies hung in the air. The men did their best to protect themselves from the burning sun and General Hobsbawm was now using his blue kerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. The caissons were getting stuck quite regularly and the horses were having a hard time pulling the cannons through the mire, so the line of troops moved slowly, with great difficulty and with an enormous amount of profanity and perspiration. All the men were becoming miserable and the horses were hanging their heads, when they heard some popping sounds in the distance, as if they were coming from the other side of the Hill. “What’s that?” asked a private.
“Don’t know.”
Then there was a sustained rat-a-tat-tat. There was no mistaking the sound of rifle fire.
“There’s fighting.”
The word spread through the ranks. There was a fairly continuous sound of guns being fired now, muffled by the distance. Hobsbawm unloaded a mouthful of curses and dispatched his adjutant on horseback to find out what was going on, but before the adjutant could return a mounted cavalry officer arrived from the Eighteenth Regiment.
“We’re ambushed!” shouted the officer. He told a terrible story of how, as the force had been advancing through the narrow passageway between the bluffs and the Great Bog they had been forced to walk only four abreast. The shoulders of the road were slippery and hard to see, and the marchers on the edge were constantly sliding off into the Bog. This had slowed them down and caused all sorts of problems for the cavalry, as the horses could never get a firm footing. Then, as the troops were strung out across a two mile passageway between the Hill and the swamp suddenly the world exploded. At one moment the woods had swayed in the still sunshine of a summer breeze, and at the next they were instinct with the dreadful rage of war. Thousands of Indians appeared as if erupting from the forest floor. Casting off the dirt and sod that had hidden them they emerged with bows and spears and proceeded to wreak terrible damage from behind the wall of branches and brush they had constructed. Other Indians, behind the ones responsible for the initial attack, sent many arrows arcing overhead towards the soldiers’ position. The terrified soldiers were unprepared and were cut down in great numbers before they were able to load their guns and return fire. If they tried to run away they found themselves floundering helplessly in the Great Bog, which was thick with water, sinkholes, dense thickets of thorns and other obstacles, so they couldn’t escape from the trap once the ambush was launched. The cavalry officer who brought news of this disaster had been near the rear of the march and had galloped as furiously as possible, trampling some of the infantrymen who were slow getting out of his way, to bring word to General Hobsbawm.
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