Billy Green Saves the Day (11 page)

“Easy, lad, there will be time enough to die,” the major said.

Billy gripped his sword. “Everyone thinks I'm just a boy, but I'm not afraid to die.”

“I hope that's true, because tonight will surely turn you into a man,” Pleanderleath said, falling back into the ranks.

CHAPTER EIGHT

H
ours later the now slack, protracted, single-file column of British soldiers, Indians, and militiamen tramped silently through the timberland, their profiles moving eerily amid the heavy growth of pines. The small army came across another swampy marsh as the soldiers held their weapons over their heads in the knee-high mud.

Billy looked up as a light rain started to fall. He heard the annoying buzz of a mosquito and slapped his sweaty neck too hard.

Nearby, Major Pleanderleath watched him. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” Billy said unconvincingly.

Pleanderleath smiled knowingly. “It's normal to be frightened.”

“I'm not!” Billy cried much too loudly.

Pleanderleath wrapped an arm around Billy. “You should be.” A few snickers could be heard from some of the other men.

“Are ... are you scared?” Billy asked shyly.

“Of course, but those of us in the army know how to hide it better. There isn't a man here who isn't frightened.” Pleanderleath gestured at the marching troops behind them.

Billy smiled weakly. “I guess I'm a little worried.”

“You'll be fine,” Pleanderleath said as the men came to the foot of a swollen creek. Some complained but were soon reprimanded.

Through the trees Billy spied a church near the Gage property. “There it is,” he whispered to Pleanderleath, pointing.

“Wait here!” Pleanderleath ordered, scurrying off.

After a few moments, Colonel Harvey appeared on his horse and dismounted as the other British officers gathered around. “Take your men and skirt high around their camp from the south,” Harvey said to Ogilvie. “Major Pleanderleath, you attack from the north side. The general also wants some of your men to march on to the lake. The last thing we need is more Yankees joining the battle.” He glanced at Billy. “Well, son, are you ready?”

Billy swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir! I can handle anything.”

Harvey shook his hand. “Good man.”

Billy took a deep breath and moved cautiously forward, flanked by a small battalion. They moved stealthily through the woods and crouched behind some bushes. Billy peered through the branches and saw an American sentry sitting on a fallen tree trunk, his musket across his lap.

The guard heard leaves rustling and quickly grabbed his musket. The soldier aimed when he saw Billy appear from the obscurity of the forest with his hands in the air to surrender. “I'm an American sympathizer, but the British forced me to fight. I escaped and want to enlist.”

“Nobody gets in without the password,” the American said warily, steadying his weapon.

“It's Wil-Hen-Har,” Billy said.

The enemy lowered his gun just as a British soldier emerged from the dark and bayoneted him in the chest. The young American gurgled as air escaped his trembling mouth before he slumped dead over the fallen log.

Billy was shocked by the stark reality of the extermination and continued to stare at the slain man's corpse. Colonel Harvey nudged him out of his trance and motioned for him to move along. Still mesmerized by the killing, Billy approached the second U.S. sentinel, who was sitting on a fence post. Sighting Billy, the soldier jumped to his feet and aimed his musket.

“I escaped from the British,” Billy said again. “I'm an American sympathizer. I know the password. It's Wil-Hen-Har.”

The guard set his musket aside, and another British infantryman impaled him with a bayonet. The Yankee doubled over and let out a cry as he slipped into death. Twenty yards away, near the church, another American soldier heard the whimper and ran toward the British position.

Billy panicked as he watched the enemy closing in and turned to Harvey, who was hiding in the shadows. “Shoot him,” he whispered.

“Just give him the password,” Harvey ordered. “We can't give our position away yet.”

Nervously, Billy stepped forward, but the American saw his dead comrade. As the U.S. soldier raised his musket, Billy lunged forward and snatched it with his left hand. He watched in horror as the tip of the musket's bayonet inched closer to his chest. Both men stared at each other with wide eyes until Billy managed to lift his sword with his right hand and stab the Yankee.

Terrified, Billy stepped back and watched as the enemy dropped to his knees, still clinging to Billy's legs and holding the musket. Gradually slackening, the American's body finally relented as he fell onto his back, the sword protruding with the handle clenched in Billy's hand. With his last breath the dying soldier's reflexes relaxed as his finger pulled the trigger, sending a loud blast that echoed through the night air.

Colonel Harvey advanced and angrily shook his head, realizing the element of surprise was lost. “Secure the church!” he shouted. The British charged as Billy stood there quivering, maintaining his death grip on the sword.

Fitzgibbon ran up and dragged Billy away. “Come on!”

Overwhelmed, Billy remained hypnotized by the surreal scene. “I ... I never killed a man before. He wasn't much older than me, maybe younger. He was ... he was someone's child.” He looked at Fitzgibbon.

Fitzgibbon clutched Billy by the shoulders and shook him back to reality. “So are you!” He withdrew the sword from the Yankee's torso and pressed it into Billy's hand. “We have to go!” Fitzgibbon pulled him away as Billy rigidly glanced over his shoulder at the dead American.

Just then a British soldier laughed as he raced alongside Billy. “Welcome to the war, boy!” he cried, running farther ahead.

Inside the church, pandemonium reigned as the Americans awakened. Many scrambled for their guns and clumsily began the loading process, still half asleep and undressed.

One U.S. officer clambered to the front of the room, frantically waving his arms in the air. “Quiet! There's no reason to panic!” he shouted over the din as the flustered men gradually calmed down. “It was just a bolt of lightning.”

As he said that, the door was kicked open and several British infantrymen entered and fired their muskets. The Americans were felled as those still in their bedrolls immediately surrendered.

Outside the Gage house the American divisions were in total disarray as a frenzy of activity ensued. The officers argued fiercely about what action to take as some dismissed the reverberation as a clap of thunder.

Inside one tent Major Smith hastily pulled on his boots and threw on his jacket. He ran outside and waved to his men. “We're under attack! Form ranks!”

One of Smith's officers strolled toward him with a smirk. “It was just thunder, Major.”

Smith seized him by the collar and yanked him closer. “I said form ranks, you idiot.”

The junior officer grinned and shook his head. “You're making a mistake, sir.” As he said that, a musket ball pierced the muggy air and penetrated his back with a sickening thud. The officer dropped to one knee, a look of surprise on his face.

Smith tried to lift the man, but the dead officer's weight forced him to drop the body. “Bloody fool!”

In the Gage house General Chandler stood at the window gazing out, then glanced at Winder, who stared into space. “Our arrogance has brought us this mayhem!” Chandler said, hastening to get dressed.

“How could you let this happen?” Winder asked, thoroughly astonished.

Chandler froze when he heard his colleague's words, then pointed at the door. “Get to the cannons! And may God have mercy on you ... on all of us.”

Outside, Fitzgibbon led the procession toward the American campsite. Many of the British soldiers were already bragging about their imminent victory

Billy proudly slashed his sword in the air when he noticed the abandoned campfires. “They've already retreated!”

“Enough!” Fitzgibbon yelled. “The battle's just begun. Now fix your flints.”

Suddenly, Billy stopped running and looked around to discover that the Americans had moved their position away from the Gage home to the top of a hill. “Oh, my God,” he whispered when he heard the call of a bugle to summon the U.S. Cavalry.

“Fire!” an American officer shouted. The Yankee forces commenced a maelstrom of bullets and cannonballs.

The British were bombarded, many still trying to load their muskets. Instantly, dozens of redcoats dropped dead as the scent of gunpowder filled the air. Many writhed on the ground, severely wounded as the cannons initiated another barrage. The artillery blasted through the British ranks, killing and mutilating additional men.

For Billy time seemed to stand still as his unbelieving eyes scanned the British infantrymen screaming in anguish as one after another fell with each brilliant flash of musket fire.

U.S. Major Smith held his sword high. “Charge!” he screamed as the Americans descended the hill toward the field and fired their weapons.

Many British regulars were gunned down in the confusion as hand-to-hand combat ensued through the acrid smoke of the battlefield. Billy heard an officer yell to retreat, and he ran for the safety of the trees.

Atop the escarpment, Adam, Sarah, and several other settlers listened to and watched the battle below — orange flashes from the flints, bodies fighting and falling in the patchy shadows, thick smoke billowing skyward, shrieks of perishing men.

Sarah trembled and darted toward the edge of the escarpment. “Father! Billy!”

Adam scrambled to restrain her, but she struggled to break free. Finally, she sank to the ground, and he placed her head against his chest.

“Let me go, please,” Sarah whimpered. “I don't want to live without them.” She couldn't take her eyes off the carnage below until Adam forced her face away.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the horrible sounds emanating from below. “Hang on to me, Sarah. Just hang on.”

But Sarah escaped his grip and ran off.

“Sarah!” he shouted after her, then turned his attention back to the raging battle. “Billy ... Billy,” he whispered woefully.

From his horse Colonel Harvey sombrely surveyed the morbid tableau: hundreds of dying men from both sides, some wandering aimlessly with detached limbs, while others shouted to reform the lines. He glanced at General Vincent, who rode up beside him. “I estimate we've lost several hundred men, sir.” He bowed his head.

“Perhaps you were right. This attack was ill-advised.”

“This isn't the time for doubt, Colonel,” Vincent said. “Regroup the men and prepare for a second assault.”

“I earnestly believe we should retreat, General.”

The general snatched him by the arm. “Listen to me. You were right to attack. The battle isn't over yet.” Just then a bullet whistled through the air as Vincent's horse bucked wildly. The general was tossed violently from his animal, smashing his head against the ground.

Quickly, Harvey dismounted and knelt beside Vincent. The general's eyes were closed as blood began to puddle beneath his head. Harvey rose slowly to his feet with a renewed vigour on his face and withdrew his sword. “Regroup and prepare arms!” he shouted.

Away from the battle on another ridge, John Norton and his tribal allies watched the fray. “The British are losing. This is a pointless slaughter,” one of the Indians said.

Norton proceeded to load his musket. “We're going into this battle.”

“And die with them?” the brave asked.

“If the Americans win and we don't fight, we'll be dead, anyway,” Norton said, raising the musket above his head to signal the others. In an instant all of the Indians descended the hill, whooping and firing their muskets at the surprised and terrified Americans. Some of the enemy were killed outright, some returned fire, and others retreated for the safety of the woods.

Outside the Gage house, Winder and Chandler ran toward their cannons a hundred yards away. “We must escape!” Winder pleaded.

“You wanted a battle,” Chandler said. “Now you have it. We'll split up and command the men.”

A musket ball ricocheted off the ground and struck the back of Chandler's head, knocking him to the ground. Winder went to his aid and dragged him toward their field artillery. Suddenly, Winder realized he was at the feet of several British infantrymen training their muskets on him. “I surrender, gentlemen.” The sheepish general handed his sword to one of the enemy.

Major Pleanderleath and his depleted platoon huddled beneath some trees. Downcast, they witnessed the last of the British troops on the field fighting to save their lives among the haze and chaos of battle. Musket fire came from all directions as both British and American soldiers fired indiscriminately, even accidentally killing their own men. The major pointed at the U.S. cannons on the knoll. “We must split the American ranks!” he shouted at the thirty men left in his charge.

“Sir, it's suicide!” came the reply.

Pleanderleath loaded his musket. “It's our only chance. Prepare arms.” The major waved the men along, and the small battalion sprang from the forest and charged the enemy stronghold.

U.S. Major Smith and Samuel Foote watched in disbelief as Pleanderleath and his company stormed toward them. “They're courageous men,” Smith said sadly, turning to his cannons. “Fire!” he cried.

The artillery blasted as the American muskets followed with an eruption of gunfire. Many of Pleanderleath's men fell dead and injured, but the army surged onward, yelling, “God Save the King!” The British smashed through the U.S. ranks and bayoneted the artillerymen.

Foote reloaded his musket. “Kill them!” he cried, running toward the enemy, but a bullet struck his throat and he stumbled backward to the ground.