Billy Green Saves the Day (12 page)

The U.S. Cavalry galloped down the hill where they were systematically slain as even some American infantrymen were trampled.

The British now controlled the field pieces. Major Pleanderleath pointed at the enemy. “Turn their own cannons on them!” he bellowed.

His soldiers swung the heavy artillery and fired upon the Yankees. The ordnance literally blew the Americans off their feet. Valiantly, the remaining U.S. troops countered Pleanderleath's attack, but another artillery round ripped through their ranks. The British then dropped to one knee and commenced another fusillade from their muskets as the last of the Americans were collectively killed.

Major Smith turned to one of his officers. “The tide has turned. We must retreat.”

“But, sir!” the officer said.

“Do it! There will be more British reinforcements on the way.”

At that moment John Norton and the Indians converged on them. Many more Americans were annihilated as Smith bravely withdrew his sword, primed for hand-to-hand combat.

To the north of the battlefield, five hundred additional U.S. troops approached Colonel Harvey and his battalion. “Form the ranks!” the colonel shouted from atop his horse.

The British formed a semicircle as Billy grabbed a musket from a nearby dead soldier. His hands trembled as he quickly emptied the powder into the barrel, followed by the wad and the ball.

Harvey swivelled in the saddle as he sized up the upcoming battle and raised his sword. “Wait for my signal!”

Billy looked to his left and found the enemy looming ever closer amid the smoke. He glanced to the right and spotted another wall of bluecoats converging.

Harvey dropped his sword as a visual command. “Fire at will!”

A colossal discharge of British muskets ripped apart the first line of Yankees as their comrades behind them returned the salvo. The perimeter of the British forces was decimated as Harvey watched. “My God,” he whispered, recognizing Billy's face, the boy's eyes closed and half covered by a dead soldier. “Oh, no,” he said sadly, then returned his attention to the fight. “Fire!” he yelled again as he struggled to remain on his terrified horse.

Once more the American lines were ravaged. The British launched another volley of cannonballs from behind and destroyed the Americans' flank.

Harvey looked eastward and saw the sun begin to rise. “Sound the retreat! If the Americans see how truly outnumbered we are, they'll surely kill us all,” he told one of his officers. Then he surveyed Billy's lifeless body. “I'm sorry, son. I'm so sorry.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
he smoky pitch of the pockmarked battlefield was hauntingly silent, save for the frequent whimpers of the numerous wounded. Most of the British casualties were strewn about the smouldering cook fires in the field in front of the Gage house. Caught trying to load their weapons, many of the deceased still clung to their muskets, some with their hands still grasping powder, wads, and balls. Dead horses of the U.S. Cavalry attracted the buzzing of flies, and a few moaned, still breathing.

At the knoll where the Americans had set up their cannons soldiers from both sides lay sprawled over the guns. British and American infantrymen lay side by side, maintaining their last pose of combat. Fatal musket wounds were evident for most of the British, and the dead U.S. troops revealed gaping bayonet injuries. Crushed tents and supplies littered the battlefield as birds descended to reap the harvest.

The outline of an American horseman was barely visible through the haze as he rode to the centre of the war zone. In his hand was a flag of truce, flapping in the breeze. He met a British counterpart and saluted. The Crown officer returned the salutation.

“Sir, we respectfully request a ceasefire to retrieve our dead and wounded,” the American said.

The British officer nodded his approval, and both turned and rode off in separate directions.

A few hundred yards away in a tent by the knoll a U.S. Cavalry colonel named James Burn stood nervously before a handful of other officers and scratched his head. “I ... I must assume command, gentlemen. I guess I'm the only senior officer left. I just don't know whether we should stand firm or counterattack.”

“We should counterattack immediately!” Major Thomas said, angrily kicking aside a chair. “I say the battle was even. Now we should finish it.”

Major Smith took a seat, completely exhausted.

“For all we know there are Indians in the woods and possibly more British reinforcements on the way. Half our men ran into the woods. We should get away while we can.”

“And just leave everything?” Thomas asked.

“We'll burn our supplies and baggage so the British can't use them. Our retreat must be light,” Burns said, slightly more sure of himself.

“That's it?” Thomas said incredulously. “That's your answer?”

“I'm in charge now, Major,” Burns snapped. “Our men are scattered all over the place and a few hundred of our men are dead. What would you like me to do? Tell your men we're leaving at noon for Fort George.” He started to walk away but stopped and turned back. “And burn every building on the way, especially their stores. I want them to remember this day.”

On the opposite side of the property, Colonel Harvey, Major Pleanderleath, and John Norton stared at the bloody battlefield, trying to gauge the situation through the murkiness.

Harvey looked through his field glass at the tattered American forces. “If they have any idea how outnumbered we are, this nightmare has just begun,” he said as a junior officer ran toward them.

“Sirs, one of our scouts infiltrated their camp,” the officer said, still trying to catch his breath. “The Americans are going to retreat.”

“I believe we control the field, sir,” Pleanderleath said happily.

Norton smiled. “I think I can make their retreat a little faster. I'll have my men start shouting war cries. We can have the settlers do the same. If there's one thing the Yankees are scared of, it's Indians.”

“Good idea, John,” Harvey said as he climbed onto his horse. “I suggest we set up the Gage house as a hospital, Major.” The colonel extended his hand. “The Crown thanks you and your men, John. I hope I'll see you again soon.” Norton shook their hands and then rode off as Harvey turned to Pleanderleath. “Have some scouts follow the Americans. I want to make sure they go away for good.”

“Yes, sir,” Pleanderleath said, snapping a smart salute before hurrying off with the junior officer.

Harvey peered through his scope again and surveyed the field of death. Scanning along, he saw a young soldier stagger to his feet. It was Billy. “Well, I'll be.”

Billy rubbed his eyes, which stung from the heavy smoke still lingering in the air. Through the fog he recoiled with revulsion at the sight of hundreds of dead bodies from both armies scattered on the rich green swath. He heard the groans of wounded and dying men as he watched the crippled being hurried away by American and British medics.

Finally, Billy managed to pull his attention away and discovered Samuel Foote contorted in pain and gasping for air. He ran to Sarah's father and knelt.

“Help me,” Foote whispered. “Please ... help me.”

Carefully, Billy lifted the man's head and noticed a bullet puncture in his neck. “I need a doctor! Someone get a doctor!” He looked around frantically.

“My Sarah ... promise me you'll look after her,” Foote said as Billy nodded. “Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I love her.”

“I will, sir,” Billy said, choking back emotion.

“I'm sorry, Billy. I haven't treated you very kindly.”

Foote licked his parched lips. “I hope you can forgive me.”

Billy stroked the man's forehead. “There's nothing to forgive, sir.”

“I never thought it would end like this. Strange how your life ends in a way you never expected. Remember that.” Foote flinched from the pain. “Are you scared to die, Billy?”

Billy forced a smile. “Yes ... yes, sir, I am. But you're not going to die.”

“I'm scared, too,” Foote said quietly as Billy held his hand. Suddenly, Foote convulsed as his eyes rolled back with one last exhale. Billy embraced the man's lifeless body and began to weep softly.

Generals Winder and Chandler stood before a table inside a tent with several British guards behind them. General Vincent sat at the table, his head wrapped with cloth as Colonel Harvey perched in the other chair. “You disgust me, sirs,” Vincent said as he wiped away a trickle of blood from beneath his bandage. “Loading your muskets with buckshot is nothing short of barbaric.”

Ashamed, Chandler merely looked down, but Winder grinned. “War is war, General. One must do whatever one can to win.”

“Well, you didn't win,” Harvey snapped, leaning toward the two American generals. “Your forces are pretty shaken. You outnumbered us three to one, and yet it's your forces that are retreating.”

“The war isn't over,” Winder shot back, crossing his arms. “One insignificant battle doesn't change anything.”

“As the officer in charge, I suggest you keep your arrogant mouth shut,” Chandler said, glaring at Winder. “May I ask how many of our men were killed, sir?” Chandler asked Harvey.

“One hundred and sixty-eight,” Harvey said after consulting a piece of paper. “Two hundred and forty wounded. One hundred and twenty-five taken prisoner, including the two of you.”

“Thank you,” Chandler said with a sincere smile.

“How many did you lose?” Winder asked with a smirk.

“You should know better, Mr. Winder,” Vincent said. “That information isn't for enemy ears.”

“What do you plan on doing with us?” Chandler asked awkwardly.

“We'll release you at some point, possibly for an exchange of our prisoners,” Vincent said, sliding a glass of water toward him.

Chandler drank and nodded his appreciation. “Our wounded ... are they being cared for, sir?”

“Absolutely. You're welcome to see them any time you like,” Harvey said, pushing a glass of water toward Winder, who refused with a shake of his head.

“Thank you, General, Colonel,” Chandler said. “You've been most kind in our — let's say, powerless position. I believe that one day we'll resolve our differences and live peacefully.” He offered his hand. Vincent and Harvey returned the gesture, but Winder refused. Then Chandler saluted, as did his counterparts, but again Winder remained defiant. “General Winder, you are an officer of the United States Army. We accept defeat gracefully. I order you to salute these men. Do it, man!”

Winder frowned and finally saluted. The American generals were then escorted out of the tent as Mary Gage appeared before them. She spat on Winder's face. “You killed my animals! You ruined my property!”

“I apologize, ma'am,” Chandler said, but Winder merely laughed.

When the Americans were gone, Vincent exhaled mightily. “We lost more men than they did, didn't we?”

“Two hundred and fourteen, sir,” Harvey said sadly. “And one hundred and fifty injured and fifty-five missing. But we did capture two of their guns, and they're in retreat.”

Vincent lit a cigar. “I feel like a fool. A general falling off his horse in the middle of a battle ...” He laughed, as did Harvey.

“You wandered around the whole night before we found you by the lake,” Harvey said, grinning.

“I think this is the first time I've laughed since this war began. We were lucky. It could've gone either way. We were lucky plain and simple.”

“We won, sir. In the end that's all that counts.”

Vincent hauled himself up and peered outside the tent. He focused on a pile of dead British and American soldiers being carried on a wagon pulled by oxen. “Is it?” he whispered. “The cost of war is always too high. It's a stupid game played by stupid politicians who are hundreds of miles away and oceans apart. Men treated like pawns on a chessboard for the sake of what?” He closed his eyes. “For wealth, revenge, egos?”

“One day there will be no more wars,” Harvey said, leaning back in his chair. “Sooner or later humanity will realize it solves nothing.”

Vincent glanced at him over his shoulder. “That will never happen. Men are too vainglorious to ever stop. The world will always be at war. Men will always kill each other and try to justify it with lies. We all have blood on our hands, and we always will.” The general walked out of the tent.

Exhausted, Harvey poured a glass from a bottle of whiskey and raised it. “Here's to hoping you're wrong, General, for the sake of my children, for everyone's children, for all of mankind.” He downed the shot and sighed.

Outside, Billy and two other men finished digging a deep trench, preparing to bury the dead. Other men began dropping the bodies into the mass grave as a clergyman appeared and started praying.

Billy trembled as he gazed at the tortured and anguished faces of the dead. His eyes followed the line of soldiers until he focused on the U.S. sentry he had killed. The youth's body was about to be lifted from the cart. Billy leaned over the corpse, pushed aside the hair of the dead youngster, and then straightened his blue coat. He buttoned it and used a cloth to wipe away the half-dried blood from the soldier's face.

“I'm ... I'm sorry,” Billy whispered as his voice broke. “I think we're the same age. Maybe we could've been friends if it wasn't for this war.” He shut his eyes. “My mother's in heaven. She'll look after you. And I want you to know that ... well, I'm sorry.” He sniffed hard and turned away so the others couldn't see his emotion. The sentry's body was then lowered into the grave, and Billy walked away briskly. “I'm going to see if I can help at the Gage house,” he told the others shakily, breaking into a run.

Billy raced as fast as he could across the field, but stopped near a window at the Gage house when he heard a blood-curdling scream. He saw a surgeon about to saw off the mangled limb of a British soldier. Billy's eyes shifted to the floor and followed a thick pool of blood leading to a pile of discarded limbs stacked in a corner. There was blood everywhere — on the walls, the furniture, even splattered across the glass.