Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal

by Colin Alexander

  “I saw a sign,” Hal said. “It was Gardiner’s Farm.”

  31

  Hal’s Crowded Hour

  HAL RODE AHEAD of the troops, along with Boggs and van den Heyden. The three of them reined in when they reached the bridge that brought the Post Road across a small river. It was stoutly built, all of stone except for the planking that formed its deck.

  “A pity it’s so well made,” van den Heyden said. “If it was nothing more than a wooden trestle, we could burn it down and laugh while they try to find a way to get their wagons and artillery across.”

  “But they would go somewhere else and maybe it would be a place not to our liking.” Boggs paused while he studied the other side of the river. “This is indeed good ground. A solid defensive position, so threatening to our enemy’s advance that they will be compelled to attack it. This is good ground to fight from.”

  “Well put,” van den Heyden said. The ride to the bridge had not made the Dutchman and the Englishman friendly, but the prospect of action had made them civil to each other, at least.

  Hal’s eyes followed where the two soldiers looked. A wall of trees now on the right had blocked most of their view of the western part of the terrain until they had reached the bridge, but now the whole position spread out before them. The banks of the river were steep and rocky, with thick, low brambles growing up both sides. Past the brambles, a grassy slope rose from the far bank at a more gentle angle, then leveled out into a flat field.

  They cantered across the bridge and stopped at the top of the slope, where the road turned left and southwest toward Nieuw Amsterdam. Ahead of them, perhaps a hundred and fifty to two hundred yards from the road, a property wall of unset rocks ran from southwest to northeast.

  “How nice of Farmer Gardiner to provide us with a wall,” remarked van den Heyden. “I only wish he had maintained it better.”

  Indeed, the low stone wall that marked the southern boundary of Gardiner’s Farm was in some disrepair. In some places, it was less a wall and more just a pile of rocks in a line.

  “We can always pile more rocks on it,” Boggs said. “It is in a good position for our line.”

  Van den Heyden nodded. “My battalion will take the right half of the line.” He pointed to his left as he was facing the wall. Woods rose behind the wall there, and in some places the wall ran into the trees. “I will start the men digging as soon as they come up. By your leave, Colonel.” As soon as the words were out, he rode off to look more closely at the ground he had selected.

  Boggs shrugged. “That will leave my men the left. The problem is there.” He pointed ahead. A narrow lane ran from the road and pierced the wall, then ran across a sward that expanded like a funnel into a broad meadow that occupied a gentle rise in the ground. Beyond that, the lane led over the crest of a ridge toward, presumably, the farm buildings. “We are going to have to plug that gap somehow.”

  To the east of the lane, the wall ran along ground that was flat and open for a short way, then rose up into a small wooded hill. Boggs rode along the wall with Hal next to him to see what was past the hill. It ended in a steeper slope, down to a tributary river that came from the north to join the one that flowed under the bridge. Farther east the little river broadened out, its banks nearly level with the surrounding fields. Many fresh tracks in the mud told them that animals came down to drink there. Across the river stood the trees that had been on their right when they rode to the bridge. The warm spring sun had melted the snow so that none remained in the area of Gardiner’s Farm, but the trees were still bare.

  “This is good ground, for sure,” Boggs said. “It will be difficult to flank us and the land will funnel them to our rifles. A good place to fight for men who are outnumbered.”

  Hal tried to see the land as though it were on a screen, the way his memory told him he had viewed countless battles. If this were a game he would think the ground was good, too.

  This time, though, the bloodshed would be real. He felt the sick tightening in his stomach and cursed himself silently.

  • • •

  The first gray light of dawn found a weary troop of men along the wall at the edge of Gardiner’s Farm. None of them had slept. The night had been spent digging up earth to form a trench and piling that dirt, along with whatever rocks they found, on top of the low rock wall. Hal was as tired as any of the men, tired and dirty too, with smears of earth across his orange jacket. Probably not dirty enough, though, to provide any concealment from the enemy guns when the shooting started. As the light grew, he surveyed the position they had built and tried to guess if it was good enough.

  On the left side of the line that belonged to Boggs’ men, it was impossible to dig in on the hill—too many tough roots—so they had settled for just piling more rocks on the wall. There were, at least, plenty of rocks to pick up. On the hill, then, the wall was little more than waist high, and they would have only that and the trees for cover. It might do, though. The steep slope down to the river along that part of the line would make it difficult for an enemy to charge them.

  The earth had been easier to move where the hill sloped down to the farm lane and the grassy funnel that led to the meadow. The rest of Boggs’ battalion stood there, with a trench and wall that protected most of their bodies. The lane itself was now blocked by a mass of loose dirt and rocks. Van den Heyden’s battalion was anchored on the woods to the right with a similar trench and wall.

  The more Hal looked at the arrangements, the more he worried. It looked like something a group of children might build for a snowball fight. The idea that a regiment of men was planning to use these earthworks as a defense against an assault was ludicrous.

  “Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” said a voice from behind Hal. It was Major Boggs, chin and beard jutting out away from his chest.

  “Pretty good?” It didn’t look pretty good to Hal, but Boggs ought to know.

  “Aye, very pretty indeed. It’s a good job we’ve done here. You’ve a good eye for ground, too, and never mind how that commission came to be. I think we’ll make the Lobsters work for their breakfast. The weak spot is right here, as I said, where we blocked the lane. Not a proper wall here, nor much of a trench, but I think it’s the best we can do. Plant the flag by it and take your position with it where the men can see you. That’ll do.”

  Great, Hal thought. Stand at the weakest point to encourage the men. He supposed it made sense from a leadership perspective, but it wasn’t really where he’d rather be.

  Aloud, he said, “How long a wait, do you think?”

  “Not long,” Boggs said. “They have to know men escaped from the fort, so word of the Lobsters’ advance will spread. They will be unsure of where our forces are, so they will come on as fast as possible to secure the road to Manhattan. That’s just as well for us because their whole force won’t be up.”

  A cry of “Horses!” from the hill told Hal that the waiting time would be short indeed. Soon, hoofbeats on the road were audible to everyone. All around Hal, men moved into line at the wall, rifles loaded and ready. Across the bridge, a group of horsemen came into view on the Post Road. They wore coats of red with white facing edged with black. It wasn’t a bright red. It did, in fact, look the color of cooked lobster.

  “About fifty, I’d guess,” Boggs said.

  The horsemen reined in on the other side of the bridge, taking stock of the wall and the men behind it. Then one of them, probably the commander, rode in front of the others and drew his sword. As one, they thundered across the bridge toward Hal’s position, swords drawn, screaming and looming larger with every second. Hal felt that they were all headed straight for him, charging up the gentle slope that led from the bridge to the blocked lane.

  “Fire! Give it to them, lads!” Boggs shouted from Hal’s left. A crackle ran down the line, followed by white smoke that billowed from the hill to the road. The Lobster charge stopped as though it had hit a wall, horses rearing and falling, men thrown to the ground, screams
of rage turning to cries of agony. The cavalry wheeled and tried to form for another charge, but again flame and smoke shot from the line and more of them went down. That was enough for them. They broke, galloping back across the bridge as fast as they had come. One man picked himself off the ground and tried to run for the bridge. Two shots brought him down.

  “Cease fire, you idiots!” bellowed Boggs. “Save your ammunition for the rest of them. There’re plenty more where they came from. Sergeant-major, the men are shooting high. Correct this.”

  As suddenly as the fight had started, it was over. Quiet returned to the border of the farm. More than half the Lobster cavalrymen, and almost as many horses, lay in front of the wall.

  “A stupid man,” Boggs said. “These fools in the cavalry think they can just ride over the infantry, never mind they are hopelessly outnumbered and we’re dug in. Brains where they sit, if at all.”

  Hal swallowed hard. Not one of his men had been hurt. “Somehow, I doubt it’s going to stay this easy.”

  Boggs gave a harsh laugh. “Be assured that it won’t. Their infantry will come up soon and then everything will depend on how many they bring and whether they have their artillery up.”

  Hal shuddered. He had completely forgotten about cannon, since they did not have any.

  They were not kept waiting long. A long column appeared in the east on the Post Road, marching steadily toward them. Bright red flags with a rectangular field of white in the upper left corner led the column.

  “A regiment,” Boggs said as they neared.

  The column changed formation smoothly, shifting from column to line of battle.

  “My God,” Boggs said, “they’re coming straight on. They’re not waiting for their other units.”

  The attackers kept their pace forward, hacking through the brambles to reach the riverbed and cross to the other side. The difficult passage through the bushes did disrupt the even line, but it did not stop their progress. Hal pulled his sword out and held it up.

  The cry went out along Hal’s line, “Volley fire on the Colonel’s signal!”

  As the lead attackers began to fight free of the brambles on the near side of the river, Boggs whispered to Hal, “You know, these rifles are quite accurate at this range.”

  With a shock, Hal realized that he had been transfixed by the sight of the enemy preparing to attack. His regiment was waiting for his signal to fire. He swept his sword down.

  “Fire!”

  All along the line, clouds of smoke billowed out along with the blast of the massed rifles.

  “By company, fire!” At the second order, each company fired in turn, starting from the ends of Boggs’ line and moving to the center so there was never a break in the shooting. The shots tore into the men at the river and on the bridge. Bodies fell in the brambles, into the river, onto the grass in front of the bushes. Incredibly, the men did not run. Instead they formed two lines, despite the fire directed at them. The muskets of the first line swung level. Shots rang out to answer those from Hal’s men. At the wall, the butternut soldiers started to fall. At a shouted command, the second line at the river charged through the first, bayonets fixed. White smoke wreathed the line at the wall as the men fired into the attackers. They were too far away at the start for Hal to see any individual characteristics, just toy soldiers in red and white with murder on their minds, but the distance closed rapidly. The charge reached the top of the little slope before the wall, where a volley tore huge gaps in the Lobster line. They lost their momentum then. As a man, they turned and ran for the shelter of the slope to the river banks. Rifle shots accompanied the flight, downing a few more as they ran. A cheer went up along the wall.

  Boggs was not cheering, however. He was looking across the river, where an even larger body of men was marching into sight on the road leading to the bridge. “We haven’t driven them off,” he muttered, “and those boys have artillery with them. I need to have a look from the hill at the left.”

  The columns that came on now seemed endless to Hal. As they neared the river, they maneuvered into lines of battle and pushed forward to cross the river and get through the brambles. In the field behind them, teams of men and horses sweated to move cannon into position. The attacking lines cleared the brambles, then dressed their lines as though oblivious to the rifle fire that cut men down.

  That was when the cannons began to fire. There was a whistling in the air and shot flew at Hal’s line. Fortunately, most went high into the woods behind his position. One, though, hit the little rock wall near the crest of the hill. That sent metal and stone splinters flying and left six men dead.

  And that was the signal for the men at the river. The second wave of attackers charged up the slope, again into withering fire from the defenders. Again they crested the slope, again a massive volley stopped them before the wall, leaving dead strewn across the field. But here, the similarity to the first attack ended. More men pressed forward from the river. Before the wall, the attackers unleashed a volley of their own. All along the wall, men fell. Hal heard two loud slaps and saw the man to each side of him fall, blood and brains splattering Hal’s face. Into the gap next to him a stalwart soldier stepped, calmly it seemed, loading his rifle. Then Hal saw that the man’s hand shook. The ball and most of the powder missed the barrel. The man cursed and reached for another cartridge. Along the line, maybe twenty yards apart, men stood and fired at each other, re-loaded, then fired again as fast as they could.

  It was more than incredible. It was insane. Men were falling on both sides, screaming, cursing, trying to staunch bloody wounds with their hands. More attackers pushed up the slope. A young officer in a new red coat grabbed one of the blood-red and white standards.

  “All together, now!” he cried. “Over we go!”

  He ran to the wall, jumped up, and was shot down. It was like a dam bursting. The whole mass of Massachusetts men surged forward as one. To the wall they went, and over it.

  A burly man with a brown beard charged straight at Hal, bayonet extended in a lunge. Hal parried with his sword and the bayonet pierced only air. As the man went by, Hal brought his sword down with every last bit of strength in his arm. It bit deep into the neck, then cut through. The head came off. Blood fountained high from severed arteries and splashed across Hal’s face. The corpse fell against Hal; more blood poured out, bathing him in gore. Hal wiped a hand across his face to clear his eyes. Another man was there, musket clubbed to swing at him. Hal ducked and thrust his sword into the man’s ribs.

  Nearby, the regiment’s spliced-together standard, their bastard standard, went down. Someone’s hands raised it up again, but a minute later it went back down. More attackers pressed in on the Nieuw Netherlands defenders. The attackers and defenders merged into a single inchoate mass of men struggling desperately to kill each other. They had neither time nor space to load weapons and shoot. They stabbed with swords or bayonets, swung clubbed rifles or rocks or just went at it with bare hands.

  Hal parried, cut and thrust time after time and felt his blade bite more times than he could count. A man with a black beard held a bayonet by its clamp and stabbed at Hal’s head. Hal ducked and slashed. His sword opened the man’s belly. The man howled and tried to cover the wound with both hands, then he fell, screaming for his mother. Someone stomped on the man’s head with the heel of a boot. Someone else raised the standard again, next to Hal this time.

  “Rally boys! Rally to the flag and the colonel! He stands at the wall!”

  It started as a bellow just behind Hal. He could not turn in the press of men to locate the one who’d yelled, but it was followed by more shouts. The Lobsters were being pushed back across the wall now. Hal turned. There, facing him at the wall, was an officer. His revolver was leveled at Hal.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The hammer fell. And nothing happened.

  Hal had just enough time to see the man’s mouth open in a curse before the stock of a rifle came crashing down on the officer’s h
ead. Skull caved in, blood and brains sliding down his face, the man fell. And then it was over. The Massachusetts troops were back over the wall, retreating to the river. Only a few of the riflemen tried to harry them as they retreated. The Netherlanders were every bit as exhausted as their foes.

  Hal stood hunched over at the wall, his breath coming in deep, shuddering gulps. Bodies carpeted the ground in front of the wall. More bodies lay across the wall, in the trench, and on the ground behind it. Past the farm lane, to the right, more bodies lay in front of van den Heyden’s woods, where sounds of fighting could still be heard. Hal’s sword was covered in blood and so was he. None of the blood was his, though. There was not a wound on him.

  “Thank God,” he breathed as he realized he was intact.

  “Aye, I’ll thank God, all right,” said a voice just behind him, “but I’ll also thank you, Colonel.” It was Bailey, the sergeant-major. “Had you not stood here at the wall so the troops could rally,” he shook his head, “the damned Lobsters would have driven us over the hill by now.”

  Rallied the troops? Hal wanted to tell the man how mistaken he was, then checked himself. The firing on the right was slackening and he could see the Lobsters retreating there as well. Now was not the time to start pouring out his fears and doubts. It was more important to decide what to do next. For that, he needed Boggs. Massachusetts might have retreated for now, but there would be another charge. They needed to prepare.

  “The major is over there, Colonel,” said a soldier in answer to his question.

  Hal walked where the soldier pointed, although he did not see Boggs among the men standing there. Then he saw the body on the ground, its head propped against the wall, or part of the head anyway, for most of the jaw was missing. Hal turned away, unsure if he would cry or retch first.

  “Hoy, Colonel!” It was Bailey’s booming voice again. “I’ve a messenger here from the ranjy-blanjys on the right.”