“Certainly, if there is a good ford there, as you say, the idea is excellent,” Verplanck said. “There is just one problem. I do not have any remaining reserves that can be sent to the left. We are fully engaged along the present line and, given their superiority in artillery, I don’t dare withdraw anyone from the line.”
“But,” Hal persisted, “it wouldn’t need to be a large force, not if it hits them in an open flank like that. If cavalry went through there, they could take out most of the cannon before Massachusetts knew what hit it.”
“I like the way you think, Hal Christianson, I truly do.” Verplanck kept his eyes on the battlefield. “You may very well make a fine officer. The only thing you have overlooked is that we have no cavalry available. I would use the woodsrangers, few as they are, but they have already been committed and we do not know where they are.”
“What about the French? I don’t see them anywhere.”
“What about the French?” Verplanck echoed. “I could be polite and say they are in reserve but, in fact, they are sulking. They disliked the duty they were given at Willenstadt. Then, here, they demanded the honor of leading a charge when we arrived on the field. We are here to win battles, not make grand gestures, but they are insulted.” He sighed. “They have withdrawn from our association and will not fight under my command.”
“That is insane!” Hal exploded. He was past worrying about protocol. “How can they just say ‘no thanks’ in the middle of a battle?”
“They have done it. That’s all that counts. I cannot do much about it now. Afterward will be another matter, but that does not change the situation here.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Hal said. “I’ve heard about their talk of la gloire. They can’t.”
Verplanck was silent for a moment. His nearby staff pointedly looked elsewhere. This conversation had clearly played out earlier, but if Hal wanted to argue it again with Verplanck the posture of the others said he was welcome to the consequences. When Verplanck spoke again, though, it was in low tones. “Perhaps, they could use a reminder from someone who can claim a healthy amount of la gloire from this battle already.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I want you, Colonel Christianson, to see to it that the Fifth French Horse of Montreal attacks on the left flank, just where we were talking about. I want them there as soon as possible. Any questions, Colonel?” Verplanck looked directly into Hal’s eyes.
Hal’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding.”
Verplanck looked stern and remote. “I am not sure what you mean,” he said, “but I am very serious. Whatever the original intent of your commission, you do hold it and you have demonstrated the ability to live up to it. Now, I am not telling you to take command of the Fifth, but I am telling you to bring them to the battle. Understood?”
Hal could only nod. There did not seem to be any way to say ‘no.’
Verplanck waved one hand and there was Johnny Haines, cantering toward them carrying the orange, white and blue Prinzenvlag. “Johnny,” Verplanck said, “get a horse for Colonel Christianson and take him to the French position.”
The boy snapped an enthusiastic salute and rode over to get an extra horse from where the aides and couriers were stationed. He returned with a lively gray who, Hal was sure, took an instant dislike to Hal. At least he had reached the point where he could mount without embarrassment in front of the other officers. That was small comfort, however. How did Verplanck expect him to get the French moving when they would not obey Verplanck himself?
The French position proved to be a few hundred yards to the rear of Verplanck’s observation post. The men were dismounted, for the most part tending to their horses. They had the look of men who would be able to fight in a moment if attacked, but had no plan to ride to the attack themselves. A fleur-de-lis on a white banner flapped in the breeze at the front of the position. Colonel Louis-Joseph Michel de Montbeillard de Ligny, a stocky man with exuberant mustachios and a trim beard, stood by the banner.
No use beating around the bush. “General Verplanck needs your troop to attack on the left flank,” he said as he rode up. “I’m supposed to guide you to the right place. Will you come with me?” Please, God, Hal prayed, let this be like the stupid English–Dutch thing, and he’ll come with me because I’m neither.
“Has the general not told you of our position?” Ligny demanded. “He has dishonored my regiment and I have told him that, in consequence, I will not participate in the attack.”
“How can you say that? General Verplanck commands this army. How can you tell him no?”
“The Fifth French Horse is not under the command of General Verplanck,” Ligny replied. “My commanders sent me to support his army, but the association is a voluntary one. He has refused us our place of honor, so we have withdrawn from our association. That is all.”
Hal could not believe what he was hearing. Less than a mile from where they were standing, men were dying in all the unspeakable ways men died on a battlefield. Boggs and van den Heyden and Bel had died on this battlefield. Yet, here stood Colonel Ligny, with the key to victory in his hands, unmoving because Verplanck had not let him go first at the outset.
“So much for talk of la gloire,” Hal said bitterly. It was Bel who had told him about the talk of la gloire. And Bel was dead. Rage welled up inside him. It swamped any cautionary impulse he would normally have felt. “God dammit! You have to have honor before someone can insult it!”
Ligny’s face tightened and there was a stir among his soldiers close enough to hear. They did nothing, though, and maybe that was because the words were coming from an officer caked in blood. Hal was too caught up in his anger to notice or care. He spurred his horse forward to the fleur-de-lis banner. The standard bearer froze in astonishment as Hal took the pole from him. While the French looked on, Hal grabbed the banner in one fist and, with his sword, severed it from the pole.
Ligny planted himself squarely in front of Hal’s horse. “I warn you to be careful. What do you plan to do now?”
Good question, Hal thought. Then, beyond Ligny, he saw Johnny holding the orange, white and blue banner. A wave of his hand brought Johnny to his side. There was enough length left in the cords dangling from the fleur-de-lis for Hal to tie them to the ones on the Prinzenvlag. He raised the staff over his head so everyone could see the double flags flap in the breeze.
“All right,” Hal said. A stillness followed those words. He licked his lips. “General Verplanck ordered me to lead the Fifth French Horse to the point of attack on the left flank. Well, I’m going to lead the fleur-de-lis banner to that point. When we get there, we’ll see if there are any French who will follow their own standard.” He tossed the staff to Johnny, who had a broad grin plastered on his face.
Hal gave the reins a yank that probably would have decapitated the horse had it not turned around. Then, he headed the horse toward the battle’s left flank, reins gripped so tightly that his hand hurt. No one is going to follow me. They’re just going to stand there and watch me go and I’m going to look like an idiot. What do I do then? Mount a one-man charge?
The sound of hoofbeats coming even with him made him turn to look. It was Johnny, still carrying aloft the double standard Hal had fashioned. Well, that figured. Johnny didn’t know any better. But then there were more hoofbeats. Hal twisted to look over his shoulder and what he saw was almost enough to make him fall out of the saddle. The Fifth French Horse, in column, was moving out behind him. My God, he thought, they’re following me.
They reached the ford unmolested. The only sounds were from the battle beyond the hill off to their right. Those ebbed and flowed, but they made it clear that the issue had not yet been decided. The ford, and the woods across the river, were quiet. The churned earth along the banks and the bodies on the ground and in the water spoke to the violence that had taken place earlier. Hal tried to look for a small body in leathers with pink ribbon in the fringes, but didn’t find her. We
ll, he thought, she had probably been in the water when she fell, and the current had taken her body down toward the bridge.
He looked up to realize that the French had bunched up around him on the bank. They sat their horses quietly, all eyes on him. They were looking to him for direction, to take the lead.
“Come on, Johnny.” He clamped his jaw shut as soon as the words were out and urged his horse into the water. Johnny was right there beside him with the standards. Behind him, the French began to cross as well.
There were no shots from the opposite bank. In fact, that side of the river looked deserted. Once all of them had crossed, the French formed up among the trees and again, they waited to follow Hal’s lead. Why were they waiting? It was obvious from the blasts of the cannon that, however deep the woods in front of them, the enemy was on the other side. Hal shrugged and rode toward the cannon blasts.
There was no possibility of getting lost. Not with blast after blast telling them exactly where the cannons were. It was not even a long ride before the trees began to thin and the noise rose from loud to deafening. Flashes were visible beyond the trees. Suddenly they could see lines of artillery, men serving the cannon as fast as they could, powder and shot, ram it down, cover the ears, touch it off and repeat. Acrid smoke shrouded the field and hid the sun. Beyond the cannon, more troops marched toward the bridge to Gardiner’s Farm. They were marching away from where Hal and the French sat on their horses. He and the French were, in fact, behind the Massachusetts lines.
Smoke and flame arose all the way from the small wooded hill to the woods of the Dutch battalion along the Post Road. A cacophony of noise, gunshots and human screams mixed with the blasts of the cannon. How was the battle going at Gardiner’s Farm? There was no way to tell. There was also no sign that anyone had seen them; certainly, no one could have heard them.
Hal realized that Ligny had come up next to him.
“I owe you thanks, Colonel Christianson,” Ligny said. “This will make amends for all.”
With that, Ligny swept out his sword and held it aloft. “A l’attaque!” he cried. “Attaque a l’outrance!”
Ligny’s horse shot forward as he dug in his spurs. Hal thought that he would watch the charge go in, then return to Verplanck and report that the job was done.
That thought lasted a scant second. The horse Hal was riding was a cavalry horse. When Ligny’s horse galloped forward, followed by the other horses of the Fifth French, Hal’s horse did what it was trained to do. It charged. The sudden movement almost flipped Hal over the horse’s rear but, somehow, he held his seat as his horse galloped at top speed, trying to take the lead from Ligny. The rows of artillery were coming up fast. The men in those crews were intent on their work; even at this late moment the sound of the charge did not penetrate the din of the battle. The French were almost to the first cannon before anyone looked to the rear to see a screaming troop of cavalry descending. It was too late.
The cavalry was in among the guns, hacking and slashing at gunners who scrambled to pick up muskets or swords. It was over fast: all the gun crews were slain, save a few who fled. The French formed up again and charged the next unit. By this time, the Massachusetts men had figured out what was happening. Small groups of them were firing at the cavalry while the gunners tried to keep their pieces in action. It was not nearly enough to stop the French, but some of their saddles were emptied.
Hal was riding along with the rest when he saw a man in the field to his left, loading his musket. The musket swung level and smoke and flame shot out. Hal’s horse screamed and reared high. Hal felt himself launched into the air. The ground, when he hit it, slammed the breath out of his chest. His ears rang; pain engulfed his body.
Some instinct for self-preservation forced him to pull himself upright. The man who had shot his horse was charging at him, gripping his musket by its barrel like a club. Hal ducked and slipped to one knee. The musket whistled over his head. In desperation, Hal lunged forward and tackled him. The musket spun out of the soldier’s grip as they went down. They wrestled across the ground, pummeling each other. Pain blossomed anew along Hal’s side.
The other broke free of Hal’s grip and stood up, a knife in one hand. Blood dripped from the knife, Hal’s blood. The soldier raised the knife to strike again. Just as he did, his head snapped back; globules of blood flew into the air. His hand dropped the knife, went to his head. He staggered a few steps away from Hal, then collapsed.
Hal gasped. He had no idea where the shot that killed his assailant came from. It might have just been a lucky stray. He felt under his coat where the pain was. Blood coated his fingers. He forced himself to look under the jacket, to tear open the shirt where it was already cut, to look at his side underneath. There was a long slice over his left ribs, where blood ran freely. White showed at the bottom of the gash. Bone? It hurt like hell, but he could breathe. He sucked in air. His ribs hurt. His shoulders hurt. His hip hurt. None of that mattered. He had to move; he knew it. He could not get to his feet immediately, so he crawled. Then he rose to his feet, but he couldn’t stay there, so he crawled again. He went on like that, staggering, then crawling until he could rise again.
Hal lost track of where he was. He had not come home on time; he was late to dinner. His mother would be angry. It would be worse this evening because he had invited Bel to dinner for the first time. His mother was already upset about that because she had told him the Slades were coming. That didn’t seem right. The Slades lived far away. Where did they live? Hal’s mind spun. Then . . . blackness.
33
Hero
BLACKNESS. THERE WERE dreams, too, but not remembered. Pain intruded into the blackness, pain in his back, between the shoulder blades. Eventually, that pain forced the blackness away, pushed him to do something.
Hal let out a moan and opened his eyes. He was looking up at the sky, at floating purple clouds tinged with pink. When had it become sunset? How long had he been here? He had no idea. Where was he? No idea about that either. He tried to find the source of the pain in his back, movement that launched pain in his left side. He turned, to the accompaniment of more pain, and found that he was lying against the wheel of an artillery piece. The other wheel had been knocked off, leaving the cannon on the ground and this wheel tilted up at an angle. Hal was lying on one of the large bolts near the wheel hub. He lifted his torn shirt. Clotted blood covered the source of the pain in his side. That brought back the memory of the soldier and his knife. Then all the memories of the battle came flooding back.
God, I’m alive. Almost too much to have asked for, he thought, as he remembered one desperate fight after another. Gingerly, he tried to move his arms and legs. Everything worked. It all hurt, but it worked. He let out a long breath.
Hal dug his heels into the ground and pushed off against the wheel, coming to a sitting position with the ruined cannon behind him. In front of him lay scattered bodies and smashed artillery. One body, not more than ten feet from him, looked familiar. It was Johnny Haines, Verplanck’s young, eager aide. Something had ripped open his abdomen, spilling his intestines out on the ground beside him. Hal stared at the horror that, a few hours ago, had been a lively boy.
“Christ.” He did not know what else to say, or even what to feel.
No sooner was the word out of his mouth than he heard something behind him. Boots on the ground, a creak of a wheel, men talking. Massachusetts troops, or Verplanck’s? Right then, he did not care. If they were from Massachusetts, maybe they would kill him when they found him. Strangely, he did not care about that either. A few minutes later, the boots walked around the cannon. They stopped between Hal and Johnny Haines’ body.
“Hoy! I’ve found a live one!” The boots walked over to Hal. A minute later there was a face peering down asking his name. The man wore a Nieuw Netherlands uniform. When Hal told him, the soldier recoiled in surprise. “Hey, you,” he called out, “get that wagon over here! I’ve found Colonel Christianson and he’s alive!”
The one named Gareth extended an arm to help Hal to his feet. Hal grasped the proffered hand but when he tried to pull himself up, pain shot through his side. He gasped, bent over and dropped back to the ground. Gareth bent over and ripped the shirt and jacket away so he could see the wound. The blade had left a long gash in Hal’s side and had plunged downward over his ribs, dragging cloth with it, to create a pocket in his flesh. The linen had been bound to the wound by clotted blood. When Gareth pulled it off the gash and out of the pocket, Hal gasped again and the wound began to bleed.
“That looks right nasty, sir,” said Gareth. “Come on with us, we’ll get you to the surgeons straight away.”
Mention of battleground surgeons was not what Hal wanted to hear, but he supposed he did not have a choice. It hurt too much. He gritted his teeth, winced and forced himself to stand up. By that time the wagon had arrived. It was, in fact, little more than a cart drawn by a single horse. Three other men were laid out on its boards. To Hal’s eye, each of them looked far worse off than he was. The driver handed Hal a cloth to press against the bleeding. Then they offered to boost him up onto the cart. The thought of a jouncing ride in the back of the cart, though, was more than Hal could take.
“I’ll just walk along with you,” he said.
Gareth gave him an odd look. “It’s no trouble, sir. We can move the others to make room.”
“No thanks,” said Hal. “I’m sure I’ll prefer my feet.”
“All right, then,” said Gareth. “The surgery tent isn’t far and we’ll go straight there. It’s getting dark anyway.”
After they had walked for a little while, Hal began to think he should have taken the offer of the ride. His legs felt like they had bricks tied to his feet. They ground was flat, but it all felt uphill. They were headed toward the bridge to Gardiner’s Farm, from what had been the Massachusetts position. The mud was heavily churned as they came closer to the bridge, which made the going difficult for both the wagon and Hal. Bodies were scattered across the ground, the dim light making it hard to tell which ones wore red and which orange. A row of three tents not too far away had fires going in front of them.
Accidental Warrior: The Unlikely Tale of Bloody Hal Page 37
