The sergeant-major was walking toward Hal, a smaller man in tow. Hal almost ran to meet them. Van den Heyden had been cooler to him than Boggs, but the man was a real soldier. Surely he would know what to do.
“This is Colonel Christianson, son,” Bailey said. “You give him your message now.”
The messenger’s eyes widened at the sight of Hal, then he snapped a salute that Hal returned. The messenger was two, maybe three years Hal’s junior. His coat was torn and stained; the dark-brown skin of one cheek was blackened by a powder burn. His hand was shaking visibly when he dropped his salute.
“Captain Groot,” the boy began, then stopped, licked his lips and started again. “Captain Groot requests permission to retreat, sir. He says we cannot hold that line against another charge.”
“Groot?” Hal asked. “Where is van den Heyden?”
“The major is dead, sir. Captain Groot is in command. He says we must retreat, sir.” The boy was fighting to hold back tears.
Van den Heyden was dead. Dear God, van den Heyden was dead and Boggs was dead. Hal’s thoughts spun in futile circles. He looked at the men around him. Somehow, the journalist Skene was there, too, incongruously holding a rifle while still dressed in his stained suit. They were all looking at him. All waiting for him to tell them what to do.
Captain Groot wanted to retreat. Was that smart or stupid? They were supposed to hold up the Massachusetts advance long enough for Verplanck to bring up the Army of the North, but they were also supposed to be at Fort Donaldson, and the fort had already fallen. Was it possible or impossible to hold up the Massachusetts advance now? Hal turned to look at the land behind them. The grassy field widened beyond the woods, open farmland for miles.
It really did not matter what Groot thought or what was possible at the wall. Hal could see that if they tried to retreat across that ground, they would be butchered.
“He can’t,” Hal said. “He can’t retreat. It’s better to stand here even if we die.”
“Now, there’s an answer!” shouted Bailey. “You tell your Captain Groot that Bloody Hal Christianson says he should stand where he is and die like a man and let me tell you, I saw the colonel at the wall when they came at us here and I know he means what he says.”
By the time Bailey had finished, Hal was no longer quite sure what he had said. Retreat was impossible, he could see that, but had he really said ‘Stand and die?’ He saw a flash of fright on the messenger’s face as the words sank in, but all around men were shouting “Hurrah for the colonel” and “Stand and die” as the boy looked left and right. The boy straightened, then, and got his features under control.
“I’ll tell my captain, sir,” he said, “and, be assured, Colonel, we’ll stand as well as any battalion of Holies.”
Hal did not see the messenger leave because a series of blasts began to echo over the battlefield. His gaze went toward the Massachusetts lines, where smoke was building around the cannon. Shot flew toward them again, although, again, almost all of it landed in the woods behind their line.
“You would think, by now,” Bailey muttered, “that they would have adjusted their elevation, but I’m happy they haven’t.”
“I think we’d better get ready for another attack, Sergeant-Major,” Hal said. He was astonished at how calm his voice sounded.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Bailey said, “but they’re not comin’ yet. Not for a little while, sir. They’ll be pretty messed up after that last go. Those cannon, they’re trying to keep their own spirits up.”
Hal strangled the “Okay,” that still wanted to come out automatically and said instead, “Well, then, we’ll take those few minutes. How bad are we, Sergeant-Major?”
Bailey’s expression never changed. “Not too bad, sir. We’ve got, maybe, one in three down after that last charge, but some of the wounded can still fight.”
One-third lost. Dear God, Hal wondered, how could they hold on? Why did the men stay in their positions? Why did they still look to him? He had no chance to ask any of those questions because a soldier ran up, ducking involuntarily as a shot passed overhead. Instead of saluting, he tugged at Hal’s sleeve.
“Colonel, sir, come quickly. There’s something you have to see.”
They ran hunched over along the wall and up the hill, Bailey with them. They stopped at the end of the battalion’s line where the hill dropped to the stream that guarded their left flank.
“Over there, Colonel.” The soldier pointed. “Look there.”
Up the other branch of the river, the one that led away from their position, a troop of Lobster cavalry had appeared on the far bank. They were testing the depth of the water where the banks leveled out on each side and the thick bushes did not grow.
“Damn.” There were many other words Hal wanted to use, but he was again conscious of the fact that everyone was looking at him. “If they cross there, they’ll find we have nothing on this flank.”
“Perhaps the Colonel would wish to refuse the line.” The words were near a whisper next to Hal’s ear. Bailey was standing there. Hal was so used to the man’s basso profundo roar that he did not realize who had spoken until he turned to look.
Refuse the line? What the hell did that mean? Still, Bailey knew his business. Hal remembered Verplanck’s comments about how a young, inexperienced officer could survive. He gave the order, just as Bailey had said it.
Men shuffled sideways at the wall, thinning out the line facing forward. The men who were freed up then formed a short line perpendicular to the main line at the wall, wrapped around the side of the hill facing left.
“Can anyone hit them from here?” Hal asked.
“I can, Colonel,” said one of the soldiers. He brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired. Up the stream, a man in a red coat with a cockaded hat splashed into the water from his horse. The others galloped back into the trees along the far bank and moved farther upstream.
“Chicken livered, aren’t they?”
Hal found himself smiling, then turned and saw that it was Skene who had come up behind him while he was looking at the enemy cavalry. Skene was still carrying the rifle.
“What do you expect to do with that?” Hal asked.
“Well,” said Skene, “if I am to write the story of Christianson’s Last Stand, it would seem best if I survive it myself.”
Hal stared at him. The man seemed to be enjoying the moment. “And what about the hero?” Hal asked.
“Well, you know the nature of last stands.”
Whatever retort Hal might have made was cut off by the shout, “Cavalry! Colonel, there’s cavalry up there, too!”
The shout came from a man standing behind the wall, facing to the north and east. Hal looked, saw nothing. “Where?” he asked.
“Over . . .” The man never finished. A cannonball struck the trees above them, sending wood flying around their position. A large splinter struck the man in the back and the tip came out of his chest. He was dead by the time they reached him.
At the same time, the cavalry upstream came out of the woods again, now far enough away to be out of range. The lead horses began to ford the river which was, apparently, quite shallow at that point. Another shout came, warning of horses to the northeast. This time they could be seen along the ridgeline, well behind the position of Hal’s Anglo-Dutch regiment.
Trapped! he thought. Had Groot been right all along? Should they have retreated before? They could not now, that was certain.
Something about the riders did not look right, though. One of the soldiers in the line gave voice to it. “They’re not Lobsters, sir. I don’t know what, but I could spot those coats from here for sure.”
Hal shaded his eyes and stared. Woodsrangers? As they came closer, one horse pranced ahead and partly down the slope toward the river. It was a big black horse with a small rider. At that moment, out flashed the rider’s sword and the horse charged down the hill at the cavalry, half of whom were now across the river. The other riders followed.
Hal did not need to see the pink ribbon twined into the fringe of the leather jacket to know that it was Bel in the lead.
The woodsrangers were outnumbered at least three to one, and too far away for Hal’s men to support them, but the enemy was split between the two banks with some in the middle of the water. They did not even notice the attack until it was nearly on them. The woodsrangers crashed into them, hacking and slicing. They forced the cavalry that had crossed back into the water. There were bodies on the bank and more in the water.
Suddenly the cavalry broke, turned their horses and fled in no apparent order down the far bank, with the woodsrangers in pursuit. Below Hal’s position, the big black horse stepped out of the river, riderless. It stopped on the bank, turned to look at the water, and shook its head.
Bel was gone. Just like that. Hal felt like choking. Was he going to watch everyone he knew die? But just then, the roar of the cannons intensified. More shots hit the trees, some hit the wall. Somewhere, a man was screaming.
“They’re coming again!” The shout came from the wall.
Hal grabbed the shoulder of the soldier nearest him. He felt bone and muscle nearly as hard as the bone under his hand. “You!” he barked. “Leave your rifle. You run, as fast as you can, back up the hill behind us. Verplanck has to be there; that has to be why the woodsrangers were up there. Tell him to hurry! As fast as he can or there won’t be anyone left here. Understand?”
The man dashed off through the trees before Hal could even think about whether it really made sense. And then there was no time for thought. Amidst the roar of the cannon, he could hear drums and horns and the shouts of men. The Lobsters were indeed coming again. Hal ran along the wall, back toward where it met the farm lane, back toward the spot Boggs had identified as the weak point. The men would need to see him there. Boggs had said that, too, and it felt right. When he reached his chosen point, he looked out to see multiple lines of Massachusetts men drawn up for the attack.
Why am I not afraid? He should be scared, petrified maybe, sick to his stomach for sure. But he wasn’t. He just wanted to get on with it. He hefted his sword in his hand. It struck him that he belonged with these men. Unbidden, a line popped into his head, “One more time for all the other times.” Shocked, he realized he’d said it out loud. The soldiers heard him and picked it up.
“One more time for all the other times! Listen to the colonel! Dammit, that’s what they’ll get!” The refrain ran down the line in both directions.
One more time for all the other times! I must be going insane.
This time was going to be worse than the other times. Much worse. It looked like a whole army was converging on Gardiner’s Farm. At a shouted order below, bayonets flashed out and levelled. The lines of men surged up the slope at a run toward Hal’s wall. They ignored the bodies on the ground, ignored too the fire from above them, even as it spilled more of them to the ground.
From Hal’s line at the wall came a continuous crackle of gunshots, spurts of yellow flame and clouds of smoke. Across the lane, there was a similar scene in front of van den Heyden’s, now Groot’s, woods. Enfilading fire from the men up the hill tore holes in the attacking lines, but still they came on without pause. Hal had just enough time to think, before the first line closed on the wall, that this time would be the last time.
The Massachusetts lines reached the wall. They thrust at the soldiers behind it with bayonets, or fired across it at point blank range. The defenders gave no ground. With gunfire, sword, bayonet and clubbed rifles they knocked down the attackers as they climbed over the wall. Still, more soldiers in red came up the slope.
The breakthrough came just ten yards from where Hal stood. One moment, the fight was pulsing around the wall, the next, five of his men fell as if shot with a single bullet. That gap was enough. Two red-coated soldiers leaped across the wall into the trench behind it. They were cut down, but more followed. All of a sudden, it was raining red and white uniforms. Sword in hand, Hal took two running leaps into the melee. He cut down two soldiers. A third tried to turn on him with a bayonet, but he parried that and skewered the man with his riposte.
It wasn’t going to matter. No matter how hard he fought, no matter how loudly he shouted for men to rally, it was not going to be enough. There were too many in red, too few in orange and butternut. For every enemy that fell, two more came across the wall. Massachusetts was across the wall in other places, too. Hal could not tell how many, because the smoke from all the gunfire had thickened to the point that they were fighting in a fog.
In the midst of the chaos, Hal saw nothing beyond the tip of his sword, so he sensed rather than saw that his line was no longer being forced back, despite the numbers being thrown against them and the number of dead on the ground.
A crash of gunfire came from behind him. Men in butternut and orange surged forward against the red and white. Most of the men fighting alongside him now, though, were new. Verplanck’s army had arrived.
The Massachusetts men were forced back over the wall they had won at such dear cost scant minutes before. Hal found himself leaning on his sword, amazed that his skin was still intact. He was panting heavily and hoped that the panting would not turn to retching.
“Excuse me, sir,” came a voice from behind him. “Are you Colonel Christianson?”
Hal turned to see a soldier he did not recognize. “I am,” he said slowly. “Who are you?”
“Burke, sir, aide to Colonel Horrocks, Third English Foot. Can you come with me, sir?”
Burke led him away from the wall and a short distance into the trees. Waiting there was an officer resplendent in his orange jacket and white pants. Burke saluted and stood to one side.
“Colonel Christianson?” the man asked.
Hal nodded.
“Good. I’m Horrocks, as Burke has told you. The general has sent me to relieve you.”
Hal could only nod again. He was sure there was some formal response he was supposed to make but he had no idea what it was. He heard himself saying only, “Thanks.”
Horrocks nodded in return, then turned his eyes back to the combat along the wall. “We’ll hold this line now,” he said, “although it would surprise me if it’s not a hard fight. My compliments to your men, Colonel. To hold this long is impressive.”
Again, the only word Hal could find was, “Thanks.”
Horrocks acknowledged that with another nod. “The general has asked to see you as soon as possible. Burke will take you there.”
Burke led him back through the trees and up the hill. By the time they came out into the open, they were a long way from where the battle was raging down by the stream. Going in the other direction, they passed a regiment-sized body of men marching toward the place where the lane ran through Hal’s wall. They looked as though they were on parade, muskets at shoulder arms, faces grim, eyes ahead, all in step. None of them looked to the side to see an aide leading a bloody and dirty soldier in the opposite direction.
32
The Charge of the French
JUST BELOW THE crest of the rise, to the rear of the advancing soldiers, Hal saw a group of men, some mounted and some standing by their horses. Among the banners was one that identified General Eugen Verplanck. Burke brought Hal there, saluted and left. Hal stood quietly as Verplanck dismounted and walked over to him.
“Well, Hal Christianson, I see you found yourself a battle.”
“It sure looks that way, uh, sir.”
Verplanck smiled. “Yes. Not quite what I would have intended, but I will not complain about the way it has turned out. So far, anyway. How has it gone with Boggs and van den Heyden?”
“They’re both dead,” Hal said.
“What?” The smile vanished from Verplanck’s face. “When?”
“I’m not sure,” Hal said. “During the second attack, maybe. It all sort of blends together.”
Verplanck fixed him with an unblinking gaze. “You were in command there, actually in command?” Verplanck sounded
as though he did not believe it.
Put that way, Hal had trouble believing it as well. “There really wasn’t much choice.”
“No, I suppose not.” Verplanck paused. “This would be a job well done for a veteran officer. You have surprised me, Hal Christianson. Congratulations. Now, tell me what you think of what you started.” Verplanck swept his arm across the battle scene.
Hal was glad of the opportunity to turn his attention elsewhere. Away from the immediacy of the fight and the adrenaline that came with it, he found it hard to actually credit what he had done.
Verplanck had selected a good vantage point. From where he stood, Hal could see most of the line he had established as well as most of the Massachusetts positions across the river. It looked surreal when viewed from the hill. The line formed by the wall was wreathed in smoke that obscured what was happening in many places. Here and there, from both sides, ranks of men marched or charged into the battle zone. Across the river, smoke and flame shot unceasingly from the Massachusetts cannon, while more of their men in columns headed for the river. What he couldn’t hear or see were the shouts and screams, the blood on the ground, the agony on the faces of the dying. A puff of wind brought a whiff of acrid smoke to Hal’s nose, the only sensation that the battle below was real.
He looked to the left, up the river where Bel had fallen. Trees and the hill blocked some of the view, but no soldiers were visible. Verplanck followed Hal’s gaze. “Why are you looking that way?” Verplanck asked.
“They tried to send cavalry across the river up there a while back. Would have made it, too, except the woodsrangers showed up. I wanted to see if I could spot any of them, but it looks like everyone’s gone.”
“The river is shallow enough to be forded there?”
“Must be.” All at once, Hal saw the battle as though it was in one of the games he so loved, games where he always—well, almost always—knew the right move. “It doesn’t look like they have anybody watching their right flank. If you put a force across there, you’d catch ’em good.”
Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal Page 36
