Altered America

by Ingham, Martin T.

  Washington let out a sigh. “They’re probably going to saddle me with another General Braddock. When will those upper class Englishmen learn the differences between European and frontier warfare? I know how to fight, and I’m as loyal to the British Empire as any son who hails from Britain’s shores.” He rolled up the map and pushed it inside a leather tube. “Send him in forthwith.”

  A broad-chested individual wearing the red coat of a regular officer entered the tent and gave a curt nod. “Good evening, sir. May I introduce myself? I’m Captain Jeffery Windsworth, aid to General Horrocks.”

  “Have my letters provoked a response from London after all this time?” Washington inquired.

  “Indeed, sir. I have the happy task of informing you of two notable events.”

  Washington clasped his hands behind his back, his face unreadable. “What then is the first piece of auspicious news?”

  Captain Windsworth smiled as he unrolled a vellum scroll, and read aloud:

  “GEORGE THE THIRD, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom, and His other Realms and Territories King, Defender of the Faith—

  To George Washington Esq.

  WE hereby appoint you an Officer in His Majesty’s Army

  With Seniority of the 24th, August, 1759

  WE reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage and Integrity do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in our Army. You are, therefore, carefully and diligently to discharge your Duty as such in the Rank of Colonel or in such other Rank as We may from time to time hereafter be pleased to promote or appoint you to, and you are in such manner and on such occasions as may be prescribed by us to exercise and well discipline both the Inferior Officers and Non-Commissioned Members serving under you and use your best endeavor to keep them in good Order and Discipline, and We do hereby Command them to Obey you as their Superior Officer, and you to observe and follow such Orders and Directions as from time to time you shall receive from Us, or any other your Superior Officer according to Law, in pursuance of the Trust hereby Reposed in you.

  IN WITNESS Whereof we have hereunto set our hand and Seal at Buckingham Palace in the City of London this 3rd day of April in the Year of our Lord 1759.”

  The Captain then stepped forward and clasped Washington’s hand. “Congratulations, sir. And may I add to the foregoing that General Horrocks is recommending to London that your Virginians be made a Royal Regiment, with you as its colonel.

  Washington smiled for the first time during their exchange. “That’s excellent news, Captain. Thank you for bringing it to me. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to advise the officers and men of this Royal Virginia Regiment of their new status.”

  Boston, 1775

  Alfred Silversmith—banker, ship-owner, and politician—steepled his fingers under his three chins. “You do not find this undertaking beneath your dignity, Colonel?”

  Washington kept his face imperturbable, a skill most needed when dealing with elites. “Nay, sir, I’ve heard about this mob of Whigs, stirring up the locals. I don’t believe that a farmer or labourer will take up arms and disturb the King’s Peace.”

  “When do you strike out with your Royal Virginians?”

  “An hour before sunrise. The general wants me to be up to Concord, lest those farmers become possessed by some fever.”

  Silversmith leaned forward and whispered, “Do you think Governor Thomas would object to a little wager?”

  “Considering he, as Governor, has enforced the Massachusetts Government Act, I would dare say he is up for any wager.”

  Silversmith let forth a veritable thunder of laughter. “Oh, yes, I dare say you are right, my dear Colonel, but to the matter at hand. I am prepared to wager three guineas that you will put the rebels to flight with no more than a single volley.” He then signalled a servant for a glass of sherry.

  Washington smiled. “Since the French never ‘put them to flight’ with a single volley, I’ll accept your wager.”

  A servant appeared a moment later with the sherry. Silversmith raised his glass in salute. “I would wish you luck, my dear Colonel, but I doubt you will need it.”

  Four miles outside of Boston, 1775

  Washington surveyed the tricorne-hatted men who fanned out on either side of the column. If the rebels wanted to take potshots at his Virginians, then his irregulars would see the rebels driven-off or killed. He knew all too well the minutemen would not stand in the middle of the road and meet his regulars toe-to-toe.

  The long dirt ribbon, which passed for a road between Boston, Lexington, and Concorde, slowed his march and allowed the rebels time to gather. No doubt, the local rabble rousers would make good use of that time to gather their strength. Every hedge, stone wall, bridge, and copse of trees was now a potential ambuscade.

  Musket fire heralded the day. Beyond a quilt-work of fields and farm houses, the reports echoed. Lieutenant Phelps rode up to Washington and saluted. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to take a platoon up the road to support the Loyalists.”

  “No, Lieutenant, take half-a-dozen mounted men and ride for the battle. Determine the enemy’s disposition and strength. Then report back with all haste.”

  Phelps’ jaw dropped for a second, but he saluted, wheeled his horse about, and galloped to the head of the column. Washington watched as he gathered the riders and made his way past the cluster of farms.

  Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, a recent arrival from England, swatted flies away from both himself and his mount. “Blast, I thought I left those bloody horse-biters back in North Carolina.”

  “One never leaves flies or rats behind. They are always with us.” Washington trailed off into deep thought. “Briggs, how best do we deal with such disaffected fellows?”

  “A sharp lash sir, but only one stroke. We must end this here and now, lest the other colonies throw in with New England.”

  Fifteen long minutes passed. Washington turned to Briggs with the intention of sending more riders out, but before he could issue the order Phelps and four riders appeared around a bend in the road. Phelps waved the other riders away and made for Washington.

  Ashen and perspiring, Phelps reigned in his horse. “Permission to report, sir?”

  “Calm yourself, Lieutenant, and tell me what you have witnessed.”

  “I counted a good fifty rebels with another forty approaching from the north. The Loyalists have a strong position and are holding the next stretch of road, but they are in danger of being flanked.”

  Briggs cut in, “Begging your pardon, Colonel. Let’s send in five companies along with the rest of the irregulars.”

  Before Washington could reply, Phelps toppled from his horse. Washington turned and roared over his shoulder, “Fetch my surgeon now!”

  Arriving with all due haste, the surgeon pulled away Phelps’ red coat to reveal a crimson rose spreading across his white jacket. Washington shut his eyes and cursed himself for not noticing the man’s wound earlier.

  “Briggs,” he hissed through his rotten teeth. “Take the companies and the irregulars and sweep this rabble from the road.”

  Briggs wheeled his charger about and bellowed orders. At once, a sea of Redcoats rose from the surrounding fields. The light company, trained at Washington’s insistence in frontier warfare, together with their irregular counterparts, formed a skirmish line ahead of the main body, while several companies of dragoons from Boston covered the flanks.

  The Royal Virginians marched forward, their white trousers now soiled by the mud churned up from the movement of hundreds of men.

  Washington left Phelps with his surgeon and rode to the head of the column. The men raised their hats cheering as they recognized their colonel. As the Royal Virginians wheeled to the northwest, the number of volleys increased to two per minute.

  A sergeant next to Washington cleared his throat and grinned. “Sounds like them Massachusetts boys want to have themselves a fight.”

  Washington ignored the comm
ent, keeping his eyes on the road. Greyish-white smoke wafted through a thicket of trees near a bridge. He noted the skirmishers with their hatchets and pistols moving into the wood. The Royal Virginians maintained their discipline, not speeding their steps.

  An excited lieutenant called out, “Look, sir, to your left.”

  A dozen rebels—some with muskets, others with axes or pistols—shot out of the concealing wood. One man managed to make it to the edge of the river before a ball knocked him clear off his feet. His hat tumbled down and floated on the slow water, moving downstream like a swan.

  Sergeants ordered the men into column, using muskets in place of traditional pole arms. From time to time, they glanced up the road, looking for signs of rebel skirmishers.

  The sound of musketry faded away, reduced to the occasional shot. Washington dismounted. He rubbed the sides of his aching legs, but kept his eyes fixed upon the road. A mob of men appeared from between the trees. Thirteen disheveled and disarmed rebels, some stumbling and streaked with dirt and blood, flanked by light infantry made their way to the Royal Virginian line.

  Washington signaled to a sergeant, who in turn ordered forward a fatigue party with buckets of water. The rebels slumped on the muddy grass at the edge of the road. Each man accepted the water with mumbled thanks. Washington stood over the defeated men, taking their measure.

  “I am Colonel Washington, officer commanding the Royal Regiment of Virginia. I am empowered to grant you pardon if you promise to never again take up arms against His Majesty.”

  For a minute, no one uttered a word. And then a sergeant drove his fist into a rebel’s jaw, knocking him over. Washington bellowed, “Sergeant, let that man be. Place them under guard. We will deal with them later.”

  Rain drizzled over the silent woods, only the murmur of the river and the low chatter of men breaking the silence. Redcoats and irregulars tended to their wounded or guarded an impressive collection of captured muskets, hatchets, daggers, and ammunition. Washington crumpled a piece of paper in his large fist, despite his best attempts to keep his emotions to himself. A few rain drops caused the ink to run down the paper, obscuring the numbers of Virginian dead and wounded.

  He handed the paper to Briggs. “My eyes are still quite good, Briggs. All the same, please read aloud the number of Virginians killed.”

  Briggs squinted at the smudged writing. “Looks like forty eight, Colonel.”

  “That’s what I thought. More rebels than our spies thought we would face on this trek. Send out gallopers. I need to know whether the powder stores at Lexington have been secured.”

  He shook his head as he thought of the folly of General Martin not ordering the removal of the artillery pieces from Fort Ticonderoga. If the rebels captured those guns, they could occupy the heights overlooking Boston.

  Briggs shook his head, “Begging your pardon, sir, we should get the regiment up the road. We should not wait for news to reach us.”

  Washington sighed, his hope of a quick engagement dashed. He ordered the Royal Virginians to take to the road once more. The trek to Lexington would require three hours of marching. He noted the lack of fire from the surrounding woods, his light infantry and Loyalist irregulars had obviously made the rebels feel uncomfortable.

  Briggs seemed to read his thoughts. “If I may say so, sir, this journey would be a rough business if not for your Loyalists.”

  Washington gave an affirmative grunt.

  “I mean, sir, the rebels are drawn to the Loyalists as surely as nails to magnets. Of course, we are here to hammer those nails which stand up.”

  Lexington, 1775

  For two hours, the Royal Virginians marched down the muddy road to Lexington. And then a rider approached them at full gallop. Washington watched as he conversed with the forward elements and was then directed to him. The excited man spluttered it as he spoke, “Colonel, I’ve spoken with a Loyalist captain from Lexington. He reports that they are holding, but they require our presence to take the fight out of the rebels.”

  Washington thanked the man and signaled for the advance to continue. A thick grey-white smoke covered the southern edge of the town. The still forms of men dotted the surrounding fields. An occasional larger form denoted a horse or cow slain in the cross-fire. A barn, wreathed in flame and smoke, stood beside the road. Several farmers dashed back and forth with buckets in a vain attempt to douse the blaze.

  Washington turned to Briggs. “Send in Royal Virginians. I want this day’s business over with.”

  The Royal Virginians marched to within two-hundred paces of the rebel line. The rebels pulled away from the battered Loyalist barricades and formed a line two ranks deep.

  Washington ordered the Royal Virginians to form up in two ranks. A sergeant with lungs of brass then bellowed, “Prepare to fix bayonets.” There followed the swishing noise of steel against leather as each man placed the steel ring over the muzzle. And the sergeant concluded the command, “Fix—bayonets.”

  The sergeants signaled, and the Royal Virginians marched double time. Most of the rebels busied themselves with powder and shot, but some took note of the advancing regulars and fled from the field.

  The rebel line erupted into smoke and fire as the Royal Virginian line halted at fifty paces. Redcoats twisted or fell forwards or backwards. Men closed ranks, muskets clapped to their shoulders. Another volley raked the Royal Virginians, and then on command they leveled their muskets and fired as one man. Their disciplined fire tore a bloody hole in the rebel ranks. Even men in the second row fell under the hail of lead shot.

  Washington nodded to Briggs who in turn nodded to the Drum Major. Seconds later, the drums of the Royal Virginians sounded out the charge, and the scarlet coated regulars with bayonets fixed fell upon the farmers and laborers of Massachusetts. The regulars from Virginia slammed into the rebel line, stabbing and clubbing.

  Making use of smoke and the confusion inherent in battle, scores of rebels fled into the surrounding farms and woods. Washington watched the chaos, his face grim, his hands clenching and unclenching the reins of his mount.

  “Briggs.”

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “Recall the light troops and have them assist with the wounded and burial details.”

  Long Island, 1776

  Washington marveled at the huge number of men disembarking from the skiffs and ferries. King George had spared no expense in this expeditionary force. General Howe’s dispositions made rebel escape almost impossible.

  Despite this awesome display of imperial might, Washington felt a twinge. In spite of the Crown’s almost unbroken string of battlefield successes since Concord and Lexington, the rebels still fought on—perhaps in the mistaken belief that the French, enemies only fifteen years earlier, would join their cause.

  According to reports, Major General Israel Putnam lay sheltered with the rebel Army near the western tip of the island. To their credit, the rebels had constructed a series of earthworks near Brooklyn. Washington, who observed the defenses from the south, doubted at first that Putman would offer battle on the hills, but would rather fall back to these earthworks. As the day wore on, he frowningly revised his opinion.

  He reread his orders. He was to attack the northeastern-most hill and turn the rebel’s flank. Correspondence indicated the Jamaica Road, which ran behind the hills, remained unguarded. Spies also noted that Major General Sullivan commanded the rebel forces closest to Washington’s proposed line of attack.

  He turned to Briggs. “Did General Howe send any further orders? What am I to do once I have turned their flank?”

  “Nothing. I think the General wants to avoid casualties on both sides.” Briggs raised an eyebrow. “Seems reasonable to me. After all, we’re all British subjects.”

  “What about the Hessians?”

  “They are to attack the rebel front and to keep them occupied while we turn their flank.”

  Washington shook his head. “Very well, get the men forward; I want us raining down fir
e and brimstone before the rebels slip across the Hudson and into New York.”

  * * *

  The Royal Virginians marched in silence along the high road. Reports reached Washington that light infantry had captured several rebel pickets and even forced an innkeeper and his son to guide them. A night march with thousands of men trying to remain undetected left too much to fate, but Washington knew he had no choice.

  The sound of musket fire and the cheers of the rebels at dawn set Washington fuming. He shook his head. Hmm—nary a rebel sentry to be seen. However, the sound of battle makes our duty clear.

  He rode to the head of the column. “Follow me, men. If we do this right, it is back to Virginia before the first leaves fall.”

  The rebels poured another volley into the Hessians before they realized their peril. At first, the Royal Virginians appeared as shadows amid the trees, but within minutes their presence caused consternation in the rebel ranks.

  A round sang past Washington’s ear. He ignored the angry ball and signaled Briggs to quicken the advance. The Virginians took the rebel position at bayonet point, killing a few and driving off the rest. The pang Washington felt prior to the battle returned. While his Virginians would never carry the title of gentlemen, the Hessians found savage delight in bayoneting even those incapable of offering any resistance. Shameless!

  A torrent of beaten men streamed down the hillside, the rebel general, Sullivan, among them. Washington observed the stand by the Maryland Militia, who despite fearsome odds held out alone against the advancing Redcoats.

  “What brave fellows they are, eh, Briggs?”

  “Yes, Colonel. But they are, after all, British.”

  A dispatch rider clattered up to Washington. He touched his gloved hand to the brim of his battered tricorne. “Colonel, General Howe’s compliments, you are to hold this position until further orders.”

  “What?” Washington’s brow furrowed. “And let the rebels regroup or, even worse, retreat across the river?”