Altered America (14 page)

             
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 fire 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?”

             
The rider shrugged, wheeled his horse, and galloped away. Washington remained silent for a full five minutes. His aides neither spoke nor left his side. Briggs finally said, “Colonel, if I may?”

             
“Go on.”

             
“The rebels are done. All that’s needed is one final push. Let’s give it to them. Throw forward your Loyalist irregulars as skirmishers and back them up with the light company.”

             
Washington clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “That would justify my reinforcing them if they get into trouble, wouldn’t it?”  He then turned and gave Briggs a crafty smile.  “A fine idea, Briggs. Take command of the light company, and go find me some trouble.”

             
The Loyalist irregulars, backed by the light company, fanned out across the fields and swamps to their front. From the hill top, Washington and his command observed the surrender of individuals and isolated groups. A steady trickle of prisoners scurried back to the British lines.

             
Briggs rode back to stand beside Washington and pointed down the hill. “For every rebel who puts his hands up, we need a man or two to escort him back. Given this situation, I urge that we deploy forward the entire regiment.”

             
Washington nodded. “Agreed.”

             
All eight companies marched forth in a broad red ribbon, the fifes and drums setting the pace. A captain removed his hat and gestured to the east. A large number of Redcoats moved up behind the Virginians.

             
Briggs smiled. “Colonel, it would appear that General Howe agrees with your tactics.”

             
“Yes, my dear Briggs, nothing brings men on side like a victory.”  He paused a moment to think.  “Oh, and, Briggs?”

             
“Yes, Colonel.”

             
“God save the King.”

London, 1777

             
“Fitzroy, are you there, man?” Lord Philips called down the hall.

             
“Yes, My Lord, I am just arranging the last of the missives for you.”

             
Fitzroy entered the chamber and placed the pile of letters upon the writing desk. Lord Philips repositioned his monocle. “Blast, I hate this cyclopean invention. If I had but two good eyes. Still, I should not feel sorry for myself; a French musket ball does not know the difference between the eye of a private or a general.”