Tommy had exulted when he’d first seen the defensive earthworks and the enemy soldiers behind them. They weren’t much at all and the bastards couldn’t run and hide anymore.
And when the army was formed up for the grand assault, he’d cheered when General Grant took a place of honor with them. Grant was a fat old bastard, but he was a tough one and he cared for his men. Grant told them the rebels would collapse under the weight of the British assault and run like they always did. They all thought that Grant was clearly the best of the British generals. Tarleton was a lunatic who might just be a coward to boot, and Arnold was a turncoat, which said it all. Burgoyne had already lost one army and that too said more than anybody wanted to think about. No, Grant would lead them to victory and glory.
But it wasn’t happening that way. Instead of running, the rebels continued to fight with a maniacal desperation that neither Tommy nor the other Redcoats had ever seen. Tommy and his comrades managed to bull their way over the embankment but they’d paid a heavy price. He found himself stepping over and on to piles of bodies. Some wore the homespun clothing of the rebels, but so many wore the king’s red that it was dismaying.
Tommy had started about a third of the way back in the phalanx, whatever that word meant, and didn’t regret at all not being nearer the front. Many of his comrades were dying up there and they’d all been horrified when the series of explosions had rocked them on their heels with debris and pieces of flesh landing on them.
They’d been shocked by the amazing rate of fire that the rebels had sustained and the accuracy with which they’d shot. Then came the showers of rocks that threatened to break bones and bash in skulls. Still, the attack continued and Tommy and his mates were slowly winning. They were tired, angry, and frustrated, but they were winning. The American bastards would pay in their own damned blood for this day.
Finally, he’d reached the front and it was his turn to fight. He didn’t even give a thought to the fact that it was because everyone who’d started out in front of him was dead or wounded. He felt release and lunged with his bayonet only to have it parried by what he quickly realized was a well-trained Hessian wearing the remnants of his old uniform.
No matter. Tommy was British and that meant he was better than anyone. He was also fresh and the Hessian was tired. He skewered the Hessian who screamed and collapsed, and looked for another. He was distracted by the sounds of screaming to his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that hundreds of women had descended on the British lines and were hacking and stabbing with axes and pikes. Bloody fucking hell! Was he supposed to fight women? Damned if he wouldn’t if one of the bitchy American whores came at him with a pike.
Behind him, he heard cannon fire followed by screams from within the phalanx. More bloody hell, he thought. Had the rebels gotten behind them? This was not right. He began to look around nervously. He laughed harshly. No problem, he decided. General Grant would fix it all in a minute. In the meantime, he had to keep his thoughts to the front.
“Grant’s dead,” a voice hollered and it was picked up by others. “Grant’s dead,” echoed throughout the phalanx.
“Fuck me,” Tommy said and a soldier beside him nodded agreement.
Throughout the attack there had been physical pressure from behind him, pushing Tommy and the others forward, just as he had pushed others ahead of him through the defenses and up over the American works.
Now there was no pressure. He stepped back, astonished that he could do so. Others were doing the same thing. A gap of a few yards appeared between the ragged, exhausted American remnants and the British. It grew larger. A woman appeared in front of him, but just out of the reach of his bayonet. She’d been cut on her shoulder and was covered with blood. She was screaming at him like an animal and she held a pike like she knew what she was doing. What the bloody goddamn fucking hell was going on? Other rebels, men and women, were kneeling, either wounded or just plain exhausted.
He backed up a couple of more steps and turned around. British soldiers were falling back. All around him they were turning and retreating. Some were beginning to run. Grant was dead. It was over.
Tommy Baker felt naked. His musket was unloaded as some fool had decided that only the first couple of ranks would carry loaded weapons lest they shoot their comrades in the back.
He took a few more steps backward, signaled to the men beside him, turned, and began to trot to the rear. He fumbled to load his damn musket.
* * *
“Grandfather, the red-coated soldiers are retreating. What is your wish?”
The old man jerked awake at the words from his beloved Tecumseh. The British were retreating? Impossible! That was the last thing he had imagined. He had decided to support the British when their victory became evident. He felt that their presence would be less onerous than the Americans who were always grasping at the land.
“Where is Little Turtle?” he asked.
“I am here, grandfather.”
“This is the worst of all options,” Owl said. “If we support the British, then we will have supported the losing side. If we support the Americans at this time, it will mean nothing to them. They will hate us no matter what we do.”
The old man was dismayed. Why hadn’t he urged them to support the British in the first place when it might have affected the fighting? Why hadn’t he told them to attack the American rear? The answers didn’t matter. It was too late.
Little Turtle spoke. “Then what shall we do? We can still attack the Americans and perhaps turn the tide.”
Owl man took a deep breath. It hurt his lungs and he coughed. There was blood on his hand where he tried to cover his mouth. “We will do nothing.”
Little Turtle was stunned. “Nothing? We have hundreds of warriors with more arriving each day, and they cry out for blood. We cannot go away like skulking animals. We must fight one side or the other.”
The old man shook his head. “If, as Tecumseh says, the British have been defeated, then supporting them will be of no consequence. If we now attack the British, the Americans are likely to attack us because we would be attacking other white men. No, we must not do anything. This is no longer our fight, if it ever was. I was wrong,” he said sadly. “We should now be miles away from this fighting. The white man now controls this land and there is nothing we can do.”
Little Turtle was furious. “We must fight. We are not cowards.”
With that, he stormed away. The old man was saddened. “He will do something terrible.”
Tecumseh did not answer.
Chapter 23
Drake and Washington saw the British force start to turn and pull back and quickly recognized their peril. If they stayed put, they would be overrun by a mass of angry humanity. They quickly determined that pulling the guns to the American lines was not practical. “Destroy them,” Washington ordered.
Will Drake signaled and a number of men ran forward. They loaded as much powder as they could find down the barrels of the four cannon and then jammed in cannonballs and rocks.
Will set a long fuse, lit it, and ran like the devil was after him. As before, he had no idea what was a safe distance. Nor did any of the others. They all just ran. He found a depression in the earth and threw himself in it. He had just covered his head with his hands when the first of a rapid series of explosions rocked him, sending shock waves over him. He closed his eyes tightly as debris rained down on him.
“I think we’re still alive,” William Washington said after a moment. Drake looked up. He and the others were covered with dirt.
Drake stood and looked at the four craters that marked the location of the guns. Their barrels had been ripped apart and were lying well away from where they had been. Their carriages were nowhere to be seen. “Well,” he said happily, “I guess that was enough powder.”