Wilford wiped sweat from his brow and smiled at Will. “Damn it, son, I am too old for this.”
“Wilford, have you and Dr. Franklin gone out of your minds? You have brought us catapults with which to fight the British.”
“Catapults, Will, were used to batter down the walls of many enemy castles and cities in the Middle Ages. These little devices are designed to kill soldiers.”
“How?”
“Originally, it was thought they could hurl pointed and weighted projectiles at the enemy. The balance of the projectiles would cause them to fall point down and find British flesh. Sadly, we found we didn’t have the ability to make enough of the projectiles to be worthwhile, so we determined that they could be used to throw rocks at them, large, man-killing rocks and large numbers of them.”
Drake shook his head. “Clever and good, but they won’t stop that army.”
“No, but they will cause casualties and annoy the hell out of it. Anyone who is hit by a good-sized rock will be either killed or seriously injured with badly broken bones.”
Wilford was correct, of course. But the ultimate truth was that only another army could stop the British. Still, the idea of distracting and bleeding the British had considerable merit.
“Any other ideas from yours and Franklin’s fertile minds, Wilford?”
“See those jugs half buried in the ground?”
“I do.”
“And see the ropes leading from them?”
Will grinned, his curiosity piqued. “Of course.”
“When the time is right, I and others will pull on those ropes and when that happens, do yourself a favor, Will. Don’t be anywhere near those jugs.”
* * *
Owen Wells led his men behind the Loyalists commanded by Braxton and the little British officer. With the British bunched up, it had been a simple matter to wait for the men led by Braxton and the little ensign to go past. Nor was there any problem staying unnoticed. Individually, a man traveling through the woods could hear other sounds, but a group of them, however hard they would try to, just couldn’t remain silent. Nor could their ears easily pick up other sounds as they sloshed through the water and the muck.
Owen ordered his men to move out in a manner that basically mirrored Braxton’s force. To his delight, Braxton and his men were totally focused on their front and not their rear. The two groups were approximately the same number as they slogged through the dank water that came well over their knees. Owen signaled his crossbowmen to go to the front. When they got to within twenty or thirty yards of the enemy he waved his arm and a score of crossbow bolts flew to their targets.
A dozen enemy soldiers screamed or fell silently into the water, their bodies pierced by the bolts. The remainder turned and milled, searching for their attackers. Owen heard a high-pitched and youthful voice calling for the Loyalists to open fire. Muskets barked, but at what? Owen’s men had dropped to the water or taken position behind trees.
The crossbowmen quickly reloaded and fired again, striking several more targets. Owen urged his men up and toward the enemy soldiers who were frantically reloading the muskets they’d so foolishly emptied at the trees. At nearly point-blank range, Owen’s men fired their own muskets with devastating effect and hurled themselves at the confused survivors of Braxton’s force.
The two groups became a howling, splashing, bloody tangle as men clubbed each other with rifle butts, stabbed with knives or hacked with tomahawks. Men wrestled and bit and fell beneath the water, some to remain there. Braxton’s Loyalists fought desperately. The Americans now outnumbered them and were between them and refuge back in the British lines.
Owen saw Braxton with a pistol in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. He was bleeding from a crossbow wound in his leg and was having difficulty standing. The little British officer lay face down in the muck, his arms and legs twitching. One of Owen’s men ran up to Braxton, who shot him in the face. Another of Owen’s men took a tomahawk swipe in the arm and reeled away, screaming. Braxton was a wounded and dangerous animal and several Americans were keeping their distance.
“Mine!” yelled Owen. His own rifle was empty and his remaining weapon was a broad-bladed knife. As he approached Braxton, the scarred man seemed puzzled. “I want to kill you, Braxton.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.
Owen decided he didn’t want to inform the gathering circle of men in any detail about what had happened to Faith and her family. Or for that matter, Winifred Haskill, who was slowly recovering from her even greater ordeal at the hand of Braxton.
Owen swung his knife in a lazy arc, confident that Braxton couldn’t escape. “Let’s say I am a friend of some people you hurt.”
Braxton laughed. “That’d be a large number, short boy.” he said. To Owen’s surprise, he threw the tomahawk, causing Owen to duck, and charged awkwardly at Owen. The two men collided, and Owen lost his knife. They grappled with their hands and Owen was astonished at how strong Braxton was. But being shorter gave him greater leverage than Braxton. The two rolled around in the muck, seeking advantage. Finally, Owen managed to get his arms around Braxton’s waist and buried his head in the other man’s back before the other man could find his throat or eyes.
Owen began to squeeze with his heavily muscled arms.
Braxton grunted and tried to break Owen’s grip. He couldn’t. Nor could he reach behind and find Owen’s eyes to gouge out as Owen’s head was in his back, and Owen’s testicles were also out of reach. Braxton’s grunts turned to groans and his body began to thrash and arch as Owen squeezed the life out of his chest.
The groans became cries of agony and Owen used all his strength and energy to increase pressure. Finally, there was the terrible sound of bones breaking. Owen continued to squeeze even though he thought his own lungs would explode from the effort. Braxton tried to scream, but he couldn’t gather his breath to do it.
There was a nauseating crack as Braxton’s spine snapped. Braxton sagged and was still. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t move. In a moment, Braxton’s eyes glazed over and he was dead.
Owen allowed Barley to pull him off and help him to his feet, shaking and exhausted. “He’s dead and that’s good,” Barley said. “Now maybe you can get over your personal feud and let us get back to fighting the British.”
Owen inhaled deeply and realized his mistake. All his remaining men, maybe thirty of them, were gathered around them, wide-eyed. They’d been watching the brawl. Any survivors from Braxton’s group had fled and probably gotten back to the British lines. Worse, the little officer had managed to get up and run away as well.
“How many escaped?” he asked.
“Maybe six of them. Not more than ten,” Barley answered. “One of them was that officer. I saw him waddling away like he’d crapped his pants and he probably did.”
Owen wished Barley had thought to stop them as he counted his own survivors. Thirty-two effectives. Ten of his men were dead and another handful too wounded to continue. He ordered a couple of men to help the wounded back to the American lines. He turned and addressed the rest.
“The swamp ends in a little ways and there’s a hill just beyond it. I want to see what’s on the other side, don’t you?”
Barley laughed. “What if it’s the whole British Army?”
“Then we’ll run like our pants are on fire back into the swamp and hide. But before we do that, maybe we can cause some more harm to the Redcoats. Are you with me?”
His men gave him a ragged cheer. They had already begun picking up their rifles and other discarded weapons and were loading and cleaning. He told them to load any weapon they could find. He gave them a few moments to get organized and ordered them forward.
* * *
The old man’s open eyes stared vacantly in the direction of the two men who sat before him-one a young man and the other a boy barely into adolescence. Owl couldn’t see them, but he knew them well. He had sent them and others out to watch the white men and their armies. And to learn.