by Ben Guyatt
For Billy time seemed to stand still as his unbelieving eyes scanned the British infantrymen screaming in anguish as one after another fell with each brilliant flash of musket fire.
U.S. Major Smith held his sword high. “Charge!” he screamed as the Americans descended the hill toward the field and fired their weapons.
Many British regulars were gunned down in the confusion as hand-to-hand combat ensued through the acrid smoke of the battlefield. Billy heard an officer yell to retreat, and he ran for the safety of the trees.
Atop the escarpment, Adam, Sarah, and several other settlers listened to and watched the battle below — orange flashes from the flints, bodies fighting and falling in the patchy shadows, thick smoke billowing skyward, shrieks of perishing men.
Sarah trembled and darted toward the edge of the escarpment. “Father! Billy!”
Adam scrambled to restrain her, but she struggled to break free. Finally, she sank to the ground, and he placed her head against his chest.
“Let me go, please,” Sarah whimpered. “I don’t want to live without them.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the carnage below until Adam forced her face away.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the horrible sounds emanating from below. “Hang on to me, Sarah. Just hang on.”
But Sarah escaped his grip and ran off.
“Sarah!” he shouted after her, then turned his attention back to the raging battle. “Billy ... Billy,” he whispered woefully.
From his horse Colonel Harvey sombrely surveyed the morbid tableau: hundreds of dying men from both sides, some wandering aimlessly with detached limbs, while others shouted to reform the lines. He glanced at General Vincent, who rode up beside him. “I estimate we’ve lost several hundred men, sir.” He bowed his head.
“Perhaps you were right. This attack was ill-advised.”
“This isn’t the time for doubt, Colonel,” Vincent said. “Regroup the men and prepare for a second assault.”
“I earnestly believe we should retreat, General.”
The general snatched him by the arm. “Listen to me. You were right to attack. The battle isn’t over yet.” Just then a bullet whistled through the air as Vincent’s horse bucked wildly. The general was tossed violently from his animal, smashing his head against the ground.
Quickly, Harvey dismounted and knelt beside Vincent. The general’s eyes were closed as blood began to puddle beneath his head. Harvey rose slowly to his feet with a renewed vigour on his face and withdrew his sword. “Regroup and prepare arms!” he shouted.
Away from the battle on another ridge, John Norton and his tribal allies watched the fray. “The British are losing. This is a pointless slaughter,” one of the Indians said.
Norton proceeded to load his musket. “We’re going into this battle.”
“And die with them?” the brave asked.
“If the Americans win and we don’t fight, we’ll be dead, anyway,” Norton said, raising the musket above his head to signal the others. In an instant all of the Indians descended the hill, whooping and firing their muskets at the surprised and terrified Americans. Some of the enemy were killed outright, some returned fire, and others retreated for the safety of the woods.
Outside the Gage house, Winder and Chandler ran toward their cannons a hundred yards away. “We must escape!” Winder pleaded.
“You wanted a battle,” Chandler said. “Now you have it. We’ll split up and command the men.”
A musket ball ricocheted off the ground and struck the back of Chandler’s head, knocking him to the ground. Winder went to his aid and dragged him toward their field artillery. Suddenly, Winder realized he was at the feet of several British infantrymen training their muskets on him. “I surrender, gentlemen.” The sheepish general handed his sword to one of the enemy.
Major Pleanderleath and his depleted platoon huddled beneath some trees. Downcast, they witnessed the last of the British troops on the field fighting to save their lives among the haze and chaos of battle. Musket fire came from all directions as both British and American soldiers fired indiscriminately, even accidentally killing their own men. The major pointed at the U.S. cannons on the knoll. “We must split the American ranks!” he shouted at the thirty men left in his charge.
“Sir, it’s suicide!” came the reply.
Pleanderleath loaded his musket. “It’s our only chance. Prepare arms.” The major waved the men along, and the small battalion sprang from the forest and charged the enemy stronghold.
U.S. Major Smith and Samuel Foote watched in disbelief as Pleanderleath and his company stormed toward them. “They’re courageous men,” Smith said sadly, turning to his cannons. “Fire!” he cried.
The artillery blasted as the American muskets followed with an eruption of gunfire. Many of Pleanderleath’s men fell dead and injured, but the army surged onward, yelling, “God Save the King!” The British smashed through the U.S. ranks and bayoneted the artillerymen.
Foote reloaded his musket. “Kill them!” he cried, running toward the enemy, but a bullet struck his throat and he stumbled backward to the ground.
The U.S. Cavalry galloped down the hill where they were systematically slain as even some American infantrymen were trampled.
The British now controlled the field pieces. Major Pleanderleath pointed at the enemy. “Turn their own cannons on them!” he bellowed.
His soldiers swung the heavy artillery and fired upon the Yankees. The ordnance literally blew the Americans off their feet. Valiantly, the remaining U.S. troops countered Pleanderleath’s attack, but another artillery round ripped through their ranks. The British then dropped to one knee and commenced another fusillade from their muskets as the last of the Americans were collectively killed.
Major Smith turned to one of his officers. “The tide has turned. We must retreat.”
“But, sir!” the officer said.
“Do it! There will be more British reinforcements on the way.”
At that moment John Norton and the Indians converged on them. Many more Americans were annihilated as Smith bravely withdrew his sword, primed for hand-to-hand combat.
To the north of the battlefield, five hundred additional U.S. troops approached Colonel Harvey and his battalion. “Form the ranks!” the colonel shouted from atop his horse.
The British formed a semicircle as Billy grabbed a musket from a nearby dead soldier. His hands trembled as he quickly emptied the powder into the barrel, followed by the wad and the ball.
Harvey swivelled in the saddle as he sized up the upcoming battle and raised his sword. “Wait for my signal!”
Billy looked to his left and found the enemy looming ever closer amid the smoke. He glanced to the right and spotted another wall of bluecoats converging.
Harvey dropped his sword as a visual command. “Fire at will!”
A colossal discharge of British muskets ripped apart the first line of Yankees as their comrades behind them returned the salvo. The perimeter of the British forces was decimated as Harvey watched. “My God,” he whispered, recognizing Billy’s face, the boy’s eyes closed and half covered by a dead soldier. “Oh, no,” he said sadly, then returned his attention to the fight. “Fire!” he yelled again as he struggled to remain on his terrified horse.
Once more the American lines were ravaged. The British launched another volley of cannonballs from behind and destroyed the Americans’ flank.
Harvey looked eastward and saw the sun begin to rise. “Sound the retreat! If the Americans see how truly outnumbered we are, they’ll surely kill us all,” he told one of his officers. Then he surveyed Billy’s lifeless body. “I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”
CHAPTER NINE
The smoky pitch of the pockmarked battlefield was hauntingly silent, save for the frequent whimpers of the numerous wounded. Most of the British casualties were strewn about the smouldering cook fires in the field in front of the Gage house. Caught trying to load their weapons, many of the deceased still clung to t
heir muskets, some with their hands still grasping powder, wads, and balls. Dead horses of the U.S. Cavalry attracted the buzzing of flies, and a few moaned, still breathing.
At the knoll where the Americans had set up their cannons soldiers from both sides lay sprawled over the guns. British and American infantrymen lay side by side, maintaining their last pose of combat. Fatal musket wounds were evident for most of the British, and the dead U.S. troops revealed gaping bayonet injuries. Crushed tents and supplies littered the battlefield as birds descended to reap the harvest.
The outline of an American horseman was barely visible through the haze as he rode to the centre of the war zone. In his hand was a flag of truce, flapping in the breeze. He met a British counterpart and saluted. The Crown officer returned the salutation.
“Sir, we respectfully request a ceasefire to retrieve our dead and wounded,” the American said.
The British officer nodded his approval, and both turned and rode off in separate directions.
A few hundred yards away in a tent by the knoll a U.S. Cavalry colonel named James Burn stood nervously before a handful of other officers and scratched his head. “I ... I must assume command, gentlemen. I guess I’m the only senior officer left. I just don’t know whether we should stand firm or counterattack.”
“We should counterattack immediately!” Major Thomas said, angrily kicking aside a chair. “I say the battle was even. Now we should finish it.”
Major Smith took a seat, completely exhausted.
“For all we know there are Indians in the woods and possibly more British reinforcements on the way. Half our men ran into the woods. We should get away while we can.”
“And just leave everything?” Thomas asked.
“We’ll burn our supplies and baggage so the British can’t use them. Our retreat must be light,” Burns said, slightly more sure of himself.
“That’s it?” Thomas said incredulously. “That’s your answer?”
“I’m in charge now, Major,” Burns snapped. “Our men are scattered all over the place and a few hundred of our men are dead. What would you like me to do? Tell your men we’re leaving at noon for Fort George.” He started to walk away but stopped and turned back. “And burn every building on the way, especially their stores. I want them to remember this day.”
On the opposite side of the property, Colonel Harvey, Major Pleanderleath, and John Norton stared at the bloody battlefield, trying to gauge the situation through the murkiness.
Harvey looked through his field glass at the tattered American forces. “If they have any idea how outnumbered we are, this nightmare has just begun,” he said as a junior officer ran toward them.
“Sirs, one of our scouts infiltrated their camp,” the officer said, still trying to catch his breath. “The Americans are going to retreat.”
“I believe we control the field, sir,” Pleanderleath said happily.
Norton smiled. “I think I can make their retreat a little faster. I’ll have my men start shouting war cries. We can have the settlers do the same. If there’s one thing the Yankees are scared of, it’s Indians.”
“Good idea, John,” Harvey said as he climbed onto his horse. “I suggest we set up the Gage house as a hospital, Major.” The colonel extended his hand. “The Crown thanks you and your men, John. I hope I’ll see you again soon.” Norton shook their hands and then rode off as Harvey turned to Pleanderleath. “Have some scouts follow the Americans. I want to make sure they go away for good.”
“Yes, sir,” Pleanderleath said, snapping a smart salute before hurrying off with the junior officer.
Harvey peered through his scope again and surveyed the field of death. Scanning along, he saw a young soldier stagger to his feet. It was Billy. “Well, I’ll be.”
Billy rubbed his eyes, which stung from the heavy smoke still lingering in the air. Through the fog he recoiled with revulsion at the sight of hundreds of dead bodies from both armies scattered on the rich green swath. He heard the groans of wounded and dying men as he watched the crippled being hurried away by American and British medics.
Finally, Billy managed to pull his attention away and discovered Samuel Foote contorted in pain and gasping for air. He ran to Sarah’s father and knelt.
“Help me,” Foote whispered. “Please ... help me.”
Carefully, Billy lifted the man’s head and noticed a bullet puncture in his neck. “I need a doctor! Someone get a doctor!” He looked around frantically.
“My Sarah ... promise me you’ll look after her,” Foote said as Billy nodded. “Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I love her.”
“I will, sir,” Billy said, choking back emotion.
“I’m sorry, Billy. I haven’t treated you very kindly.”
Foote licked his parched lips. “I hope you can forgive me.”
Billy stroked the man’s forehead. “There’s nothing to forgive, sir.”
“I never thought it would end like this. Strange how your life ends in a way you never expected. Remember that.” Foote flinched from the pain. “Are you scared to die, Billy?”
Billy forced a smile. “Yes ... yes, sir, I am. But you’re not going to die.”
“I’m scared, too,” Foote said quietly as Billy held his hand. Suddenly, Foote convulsed as his eyes rolled back with one last exhale. Billy embraced the man’s lifeless body and began to weep softly.
Generals Winder and Chandler stood before a table inside a tent with several British guards behind them. General Vincent sat at the table, his head wrapped with cloth as Colonel Harvey perched in the other chair. “You disgust me, sirs,” Vincent said as he wiped away a trickle of blood from beneath his bandage. “Loading your muskets with buckshot is nothing short of barbaric.”
Ashamed, Chandler merely looked down, but Winder grinned. “War is war, General. One must do whatever one can to win.”
“Well, you didn’t win,” Harvey snapped, leaning toward the two American generals. “Your forces are pretty shaken. You outnumbered us three to one, and yet it’s your forces that are retreating.”
“The war isn’t over,” Winder shot back, crossing his arms. “One insignificant battle doesn’t change anything.”
“As the officer in charge, I suggest you keep your arrogant mouth shut,” Chandler said, glaring at Winder. “May I ask how many of our men were killed, sir?” Chandler asked Harvey.
“One hundred and sixty-eight,” Harvey said after consulting a piece of paper. “Two hundred and forty wounded. One hundred and twenty-five taken prisoner, including the two of you.”
“Thank you,” Chandler said with a sincere smile.
“How many did you lose?” Winder asked with a smirk.
“You should know better, Mr. Winder,” Vincent said. “That information isn’t for enemy ears.”
“What do you plan on doing with us?” Chandler asked awkwardly.
“We’ll release you at some point, possibly for an exchange of our prisoners,” Vincent said, sliding a glass of water toward him.
Chandler drank and nodded his appreciation. “Our wounded ... are they being cared for, sir?”
“Absolutely. You’re welcome to see them any time you like,” Harvey said, pushing a glass of water toward Winder, who refused with a shake of his head.
“Thank you, General, Colonel,” Chandler said. “You’ve been most kind in our — let’s say, powerless position. I believe that one day we’ll resolve our differences and live peacefully.” He offered his hand. Vincent and Harvey returned the gesture, but Winder refused. Then Chandler saluted, as did his counterparts, but again Winder remained defiant. “General Winder, you are an officer of the United States Army. We accept defeat gracefully. I order you to salute these men. Do it, man!”
Winder frowned and finally saluted. The American generals were then escorted out of the tent as Mary Gage appeared before them. She spat on Winder’s face. “You killed my animals! You ruined my property!”
“I apologize, ma’am,” Chandler said, but Win
der merely laughed.
When the Americans were gone, Vincent exhaled mightily. “We lost more men than they did, didn’t we?”
“Two hundred and fourteen, sir,” Harvey said sadly. “And one hundred and fifty injured and fifty-five missing. But we did capture two of their guns, and they’re in retreat.”
Vincent lit a cigar. “I feel like a fool. A general falling off his horse in the middle of a battle ...” He laughed, as did Harvey.
“You wandered around the whole night before we found you by the lake,” Harvey said, grinning.
“I think this is the first time I’ve laughed since this war began. We were lucky. It could’ve gone either way. We were lucky plain and simple.”
“We won, sir. In the end that’s all that counts.”
Vincent hauled himself up and peered outside the tent. He focused on a pile of dead British and American soldiers being carried on a wagon pulled by oxen. “Is it?” he whispered. “The cost of war is always too high. It’s a stupid game played by stupid politicians who are hundreds of miles away and oceans apart. Men treated like pawns on a chessboard for the sake of what?” He closed his eyes. “For wealth, revenge, egos?”
“One day there will be no more wars,” Harvey said, leaning back in his chair. “Sooner or later humanity will realize it solves nothing.”
Vincent glanced at him over his shoulder. “That will never happen. Men are too vainglorious to ever stop. The world will always be at war. Men will always kill each other and try to justify it with lies. We all have blood on our hands, and we always will.” The general walked out of the tent.
Exhausted, Harvey poured a glass from a bottle of whiskey and raised it. “Here’s to hoping you’re wrong, General, for the sake of my children, for everyone’s children, for all of mankind.” He downed the shot and sighed.
