by Jeffrey Cook
I was about to leave the table for a while to survey the walls when we came under attack. The cry went up before the first shots, and then the crackle of rifle fire began. I must say that I am impressed by the colonists. Where the British riflemen train and drill extensively, shooting at targets and working in units, almost all of the men entrusted with rifles here have little sense of company, but they learned their craft shooting at birds and squirrels. Few Englishmen are in the circumstances to become hunters, and targets, however small, however distant, do not move in the fashion of a nervous bird or twitching squirrel. They do not all have the nerves of British rifle companies – and certainly do not fire with such unity – but they fire with more precision than I have ever witnessed, aside from Eddy. When an American with a rifle shoots, it is almost worth placing money down that he will hit what he fires upon.
The Spanish of this land have long since divorced themselves from European tactics. They fight like Americans now, moving from cover to cover with a loose and flexible unit structure. While this sometimes leaves individuals vulnerable – and can lead to command structure breakdowns – it also makes it hard to find targets of significance. They also have a great number of natives and half-bloods among them, capable of moving with such care that they are almost upon you before they can be picked out from the wilderness around them. Thankfully, our rifleman had a very thin edge on skill, but their muskets were just as deadly as our own, and they had numbers on us.
I did have one particular advantage based upon my extensive writing and reviewing of battle reports. During the war with the French, we could often tell when there were many Spaniards among the opposing numbers, at least in hindsight, as their commanders and veterans had a tendency to seek individual accomplishment and glory. Sometimes this led to staggering accomplishments and acts of bravery, and sometimes was exploited to their detriment. Without even consciously thinking on this, I'd told some of our commanders to watch for such acts of bravado that might give the Spanish an opportunity to establish a hold closer to our walls than we might have liked. The Spanish here proved no less brave, or perhaps foolhardy, than those I'd known in Europe, and we were able to blunt two of their early offensives.
Eventually, they ceased trying for some bold and decisive charge. The day dragged on, with the Spanish trying to move to take and hold territory, while we sought to deny them any approach. Our accuracy and fortification counteracted their numbers, and much of the day was spent with green musketeers on both sides exchanging ineffective fire. Regardless, while I am certain they took far more casualties than we did, I do not know how many men they had. Once beyond the area cleared around the fort, there was simply too much cover, and they had too many men skilled at exploiting it. Of note, however, the one thing I did not see all day amongst the fallen or those who fled was even a single European uniform.
The men attribute me with several sound decisions which changed the course of the battle, as well as a conservative strategy of combat that was suited well for this battle. I made sure we were as well defended as possible and ignored avenues where we might have taken some risk in order to push our advantage – in exchange for making sure we did not overextend. Instead we used every lull to try to fortify our position further and replace our losses on the walls. It is quite possible that some of these risks might have ended the battle much sooner, and every moment that goes by now that I do not find something else to occupy my mind, I second-guess each pivotal point of the conflict.
I fought the day not so much afraid of decisions, but set upon making the decisions that would have the best chance of preserving the fort and as many of our fighting men as I could. I know it is not particularly revolutionary or world-changing, but it seems that I am well liked among the men, and many credit me with their survival. Many of the former soldiers here have worked before under great generals who put their lives at greater risk for larger gains, especially among the Negro companies. Now it seems that I have done well for myself among these troops, and they will continue to fight for me if I must hold this fortress for long.
As it was, the losses seemed too many. Though we held them off for a long time, they finally did reach the gates with sufficient force to try to penetrate them. I readied the men and quickly found that this was the hardest command to inspire: when the doorways are cracking under assault and explosion, there seems little chance that the invaders will be driven back. To our troops’ credit, they actually did drive one of these sorties off after the Spanish officer leading the charge was shot down. A number of men have tried to claim credit, but in truth it was a confused enough time that no one seems positive if it was a sniper's shot or simply a lucky moment.
After the first failure, however, some officer on the other side rallied their troops, and a second sortie was arranged. While they took losses in approach, they managed to take the doors. We were fortunate to have the extra time between the first assault and the second, for by then I was able to organize some kind of group to meet them. Sadly, this emergency guard was composed mostly of men less than ideal to the task, many of whom lost their lives to either inexperience or being overeager for a chance to show their valor. Despite these losses, only a few men penetrated past the gate before we'd put them down.
During this rush, my pepper-box pistol surprised a group when an entire bunch managed to get past the knot of defenders and attempted to charge my position. The last time I tried to use this weapon to its fullest capacity, the mechanism was frozen solid, but at least I had proven presence of mind to make the attempt. I remembered this time as well, shot three men dead, and crippled a fourth enough to blunt the charge. After the fourth shot, I continued to aim my empty gun at those who had taken cover, unsure how many shots I had. Ultimately they hesitated until some few of my men were able to engage with them and I had a chance to reload.
No serious damage was done, and the final people who made it through our positions were killed by our support corps, who were eager for action by that point. They so outnumbered the Spanish, who were perhaps expecting more to be following, that our troops easily overwhelmed the invasion and so came out of the conflict mostly healthy, happy, and proud of their contribution to the war effort. There remains, however, dispute among their number about who should be credited with the handful of kills divided among ten times that number of men who felt they had a part in it.
Once we drove off the party which destroyed the gates, we were able to form a company of muskets in the place of those wooden barriers. These shot down the next group who approached, full of courage and wishing to quickly retake the momentum they had lost, but failing. We lost more brave men there, and one flank broke entirely. Under other circumstances, it would have been disaster. For now, it was simply chaos.
It is to me now to find the punishment for the men who broke under fire. While I have some small sympathy for those who struggle when faced with war and death for the first time, such failures of courage threaten the cohesion and morale of the whole unit. I have only just gained these men's trust, however, and so I must keep in mind that some among the men will see mercy as a positive trait, no matter the risk to all of them caused by those who broke and ran. Others would lean towards the most draconian penalties I can give them under English battlefield law, but most of those with that mindset will also retain their loyalty to command regardless.
No matter what the outcome, today we are victorious, and for the moment, I am only holding the men from celebrating by the narrowest of margins. I have forbidden any leisure activity other than sleep until the gates are repaired. This command, at least, has been strictly adhered to. Regardless, it seems this situation was not nearly so bad as York had left them expecting when he disappeared from command. I have come to understand from some of the men about me with the experience to appreciate it that he was a skilled and innovative commander, but his gambits risked his troops and valued victory over lives.
He had taken the fort with relatively few men, though he lost many of h
is troops with risky and ambitious maneuvers before meeting with success. Still, he had the respect of the veterans, though all of them were quite nervous to take the front. This partially explains my great difficulty in establishing a front rank, especially out of experienced men who had previously served under York. A battlefield commander who inherits a battlefield and a troop always sees what he can accomplish colored by the man before. In this case, it left some people perhaps expecting more, or awaiting risky commands and significant body counts. There was both relief and confusion when they did not come.
I do have to wonder after York now. Can we possibly make him pay for the lives of some of those men lost among his crimes? I have heard many accounts now, as I document the numbers and interview his officers and squad leaders piecemeal. Perhaps many of his risks for large victories and impressive results were entirely predicated upon some knowledge that he himself would be deserting the field and leaving these men.
For a man who has never seen combat before, who then has to kill a man, and finds there is no place in his heart and mind for it, is one thing. For an experienced and well-rewarded officer who has previously had successful command, with all his decorations and honors and expectations, to then desert the field is another thing entirely and unforgivable. Had I not had good cause to hate him before, there is no question of it now. Should I be the one to find him, I would most gladly save the firing squad the trouble.
(2) These words are still inscribed on the walls of Fort St. Jean-Baptiste:
"Desert if you will. Surely your friends will understand that you would not serve your nation if it meant serving under a man of color. But I have the names of every man in this fort, and should any with those names not be here when battle comes, my account of the day shall call them cowards. It is amazing the power of words on paper. Eventually, they are how history shall know the men present, and they are how I judge a man today. I have chosen officers by lists of battles fought, awards for valor given, and time of service. I urge you to stand and fight, then complain all your days to whoever will listen about whom you served under, if you wish. By following those who have seen battle, the greatest number will live to tell those tales." -C B-W
From the private correspondence of the Bowe family. Undated.
Father,
I was glad to get your last letter. All circumstances considered, didn't know when to write back or what to say. I definitely wasn't going to drop in without warning, and I still won't. Now, though, I have something I know we can talk about. I've found your Tizona thief.
His name, apparently, is Cristobal Ramirez. I've now directly confronted him and seen the sword. The inscriptions are correct, and the man's skill is bolstered. This is where El Cid's blade went, all right. He certainly fights as if he believes its legend to be true, that in the hands of the worthy, the wielder cannot be defeated. Other stories have it that no man can defeat him, even though El Cid himself took the blade in a trial of combat. People have strange memories for legends.
Perhaps someday the technicality of a woman's hand defeating a man will hold some water in a tale, but I don't want to risk it yet. Likewise, I don't think that thievery and disloyalty to his nation will be much proof that he was unworthy in the heads of most folk.
He has some skill – that much is certain – and no lack of courage. With those things, he is near enough a match that I believe the sword still has the kind of enchantment that lingers about very old things: no matter how enlightened or advanced a nation thinks itself to be, the legend has power right up 'til someone disproves it. El Cid's story still has enough shine to it that a lot of folk still cling to it, and his sword is still a national treasure. The second that legend gets proven wrong, it will just be spendy but outdated blacksmithing.
I keep diverting him off the others, and to myself. It's cost me the chance to get to York and put an end to his foolishness, but near as I can tell, that bit of fate lies with James Coltrane, once we get him back. Our fortune-teller's cards say so (clever stuff; tidier than tea leaves or Yoruba bones. I think you'd like her), and it seems right to me. For now, I'll keep stalemating the Spaniard and take my shots at the rest where I can. Until there is an opportunity to recover the blade without taking the shine off of its story, it's the best I can do.
You said to me often enough, "The world is marching on, and as its marching, it's bringing along less and less of what makes it a magical place." The recovery of one of Spain's national treasures might help that a touch or two. A supposed British colonist being the one to bring it back to them might even go a long way towards pacifying them a bit.
I know you're retired, off to study and whatever else it is you've found in New Orleans. Just now, I think I need to see this through. There's some good to be done with this crew. This chance and this challenge are too much to pass up.
I'm sure you've also heard I had a hand in fighting the Spanish again. I argued against it the first time, but followed along when they put it to a vote. I have more stake with James Coltrane and his lot than I do with Spain. Besides, skirmishes with England might give some of the native tribes more time to figure a defense. That cause, at least, I can get behind. They're already talking about locals revolting in Argentina and parts of Mexico.
Now that the war has started, I'd be of a mind to push them again to see it through, but York has captured James Coltrane, and that can't stand. Besides, he's got the Spaniard with him, which means the sword has headed south with them. All of that comes before a border skirmish that will resolve with or without us now that reinforcements are showing. On top of that, the fortune-teller says we need to keep moving to stay ahead of the storm. If the last storm she predicted was any indication, whether this one is literal or figurative, I'd just as soon not get caught in it.
Yes, I got involved. I know you think I don't listen, but I do still follow plenty of your advice. I still check my boots in the morning: good habit even where there ain't so many spiders and scorpions. I still make sure I keep up with knowing Apache marks from the other tribes. And I ain't let any man's hand too near that didn't get a knife through it (still no inclination for them anyhow). I just think this venture is worthwhile. Maybe when folks get a better look at what's out there, they'll appreciate it for more than thinking about who might have some gold.
But whatever else we manage to be able to talk about or not, I wanted you to know I found out who stole the sword.
Regards,
Sam
From the journals of Gregory Conan Watts,
February 11th, 1816
New Orleans
29º57'N 090º04'W
Mr. Toomes has returned to America and brought bad news with him. Immediately upon being relieved of command by British officers, I was quite glad for it, of course. We were reinforced by more men than I had hoped, without ever facing a second battle. All accounts have the Spanish as very disheartened by the results of the first, for their casualties were more significant than in many previous battles, and it seems their fencing with York had accustomed them to taking risks and seeing rewards for it with some regularity, as they would catch people overextended or out of place relatively often. They were ill equipped for my complete shift in strategy, much as I did it as a novice officer working from good past examples.
I returned, happily, to New Orleans, with some celebration from the men who had served with me. All of these good spirits disappeared almost immediately, very much like wisps of smoke fading as they rise, when I saw who had been given the duty of assigning these new officers their posts.
Mr. Toomes wanted to speak with me at once, of course. We were given a room with perfect privacy, with only his most trusted guards. Eddy and Miss Bowe joined us soon after. It seemed that he had a great deal of news to pass on to us. In addition to the tragedy that our leader had gone missing, somehow I was not looking forward to news from Mr. Toomes. Before settling in and giving us this account, he let us sit for a time while he fiddled with his pipe, having to select just the
right blend for delivering bad news. When he had found it, he settled in, taking just as long to do so, for somehow he was seemingly unable to get comfortable when sitting straight as a stick.
He then informed us that, technically, we were under arrest. There had been no official orders issued that we should attack the Spanish. While Miss Coltrane's letters for support made what we were doing known to any number of people, only my letters, found among Lord Donovan's effects, gave any indication as to why we would attack the Spanish now – though Toomes admitted that there was suspicion New Spain had made some unfortunate alliances.
This was the second piece of news: our employer, Lord Donovan, had died quite unexpectedly. As such, we would not be getting paid.
At least Mr. Toomes acknowledged, however, the rest of our orders had still been true, which provided a mitigating circumstance. Likewise, the letters shed a good deal of light on the idea that there may have been a miscommunication, sabotage, or some additional agenda, for otherwise it would have made little sense to ask for the Motherland's help with an illegal enterprise.
The news of the attacks reached England while our diplomats were in the midst of delicate negotiations with Spain, trying to sort out their current relationship. Apparently, some in Spain's halls of power had some desire to try to follow France's lead in peace as well as war, but were less willing to give up colonial aspirations and valuable territories to do it. They had openly admitted defeat from Napoleon's war and had reinstated a number of the members of their nobility who had lost their land and titles for objecting to going to war in the first place (which brought one person immediately to mind). Now, however, Spain was calling for our heads – and had backed off from almost all further discussion except through the most trusted of agencies until such time as they had them.
