Chapter 48: Fate of the South (Part 1 of 2)
9th November, 1778
West Florida, British North America
Thomas Heyward raised his spyglass, frowning as it almost instantly misted over. The air was always damp here which made his leg ache. Further, now that autumn was coming on every morning started with a fog that could have challenged London for pure murkiness. He wiped the glass and stared again, resting his left hand lightly on the barrel of the # 4 gun for balance as he swept the far shore of the Choctawhatchee River again and again. Nothing, nothing except a handful of palm trees, bushes in odd clumps and a handful of cracked holes in the packed dirt. One of the larger ones in particular was home to a British scout and his bush only yesterday. The scout had seen fit to take a shot at a certain artillery colonel and received ten cannonballs in reply.
"Fine," Tom muttered, once the fog lifted enough to reveal a sequoia about a hundred yards back, "Carry on Major Kiernan."
"Yes, sir! Let's give them a cheer, boys!" General Steving seemed to believe 'giving them a cheer' meant three artillery batteries firing full broadsides at the far side of the river to discourage curiousity. Indeed, another battery was already beginning. "Fire one!"
The southern advance began smoothly enough. Surprise seemed to be complete as the army swarmed across the Savannah River without serious resistance to find the British already gone from Savannah. Loyalists briefly rallied in the swamps, but the resulting battle lasted less than an hour. Originally they planned to split at that point, with the cavalry raiding through West Florida while the bulk of the army sieged St. Augustine - until they learned the fate of Colonel Exeter.
General Jasen Exeter, with five thousand men, had been chased out of Biloxi by French regulars and now headed east. Lincoln decided to bring the traitor to battle and entered West Florida with his entire force, destroying a small British settlement along the way. He sent part of the cavalry north to keep the Creek occupied ... and waited.
Exeter couldn't seem to make up his mind. Sometimes he'd head east to fight Lincoln - sometimes west to deal with the French. The French kept busy duelling the Dakota, a surprisingly resilient enemy, but still raided across the Mississippi River pretty much at will.
Of course, General Lincoln wasn't proving decisive either... "Stop firing!" Heyward roared after the last gun. The far shore was clearly visible once the powder smoke drifted away. No sign of Exeter or his little army.
"Maybe they went back to Biloxi again?" Kiernan asked wryly.
"Then that's where we should be going." The sun, having burnt off the mist, began to beat down relentlessly on the army. Another ninety-degree plus day with near hundred percent humidity, broken by a thunderstorm in the afternoon. "This is getting monotonous."
"Yes, sir. Though if I may, I dare say you'd rather be dealing with the Creek with your boy..."
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1st December, 1778
Coosa, Upper Creek Nation (now Alabama)
"Gentlemen?" Captain Hawkes stood in front of his sergeants. "Good morning."
"Good morning, sir," they chorused. Hawke's lieutenant nodded and made a note.
The captain said nothing for several moments. He walked back and forth, inspecting them. Young men, but the past year had taught them the basics of their duty. Today they'd get to practice what they learned. "I have good news I believe. I just came out of a meeting with Colonel Ballard. Several scouts came back last night, and we believe we've located the Creek main city. Now, that's the good news," he returned their eager smiles. "The less than perfect news is they know we're here. They've evacuated their villages and summoned their braves. There are about one thousand of them between us and their city. It should be noted this city is also well fortified, first by the Coosa River and second by stone and adobe walls. They seem to have learned a few tricks from the French. Further, they are working on improving their defenses and the city may soon prove impregnable."
"Will there be a battle?" asked another sergeant, a pale boy of nineteen.
"I dare say so Jacobs. We can't allow them to build their defenses further. The colonels are working out a plan now. Best prepare your men."
Preparations. John Preston walking to his men with the long-practiced scowl and "ATTENTION!" The news, eagerly received - the 'Battle' of Savannah hadn't lasted long enough for them to participate. Checking the paper-wrapped cartridges of ball and powder for their pistols, then carefully sharpening their sabres - a few rust spots on one left out in the rain, a horrible knick on another whose owner thought a sword could do anything a woodaxe could. No more skulking about, now it was time to fight! Private Richards began singing softly.
I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill,
And o'er the moorland sedgy
Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,
Since parting with my Betsey
I seek for one as fair and gay,
But find none to remind me
How sweet the hours I passed away,
With the girl I left behind me.
O ne'er shall I foget the night,
the stars were bright above me
And gently lent their silv'ry light
when first she vowed to love me...
John glared as the song struck home but said nothing. He ruthlessly ran his whetstone over his sabre - schling, schling - moodily watching sparks fly.
The colonels' plan wasn't really much, but it would serve. The two regiments would set up side by side in two lines, each three deep. Unlike, say, an infantry battle no one expected the lines or even general cohesion to last past first contact. Then it was pretty much every man for himself. John was one of the few men there who'd actually been in a melee. It wasn't something he longed to repeat.
Just before noon the two cavalry regiments, in almost perfect order - lines of horses just over two thousand feet (670 meters) across, approached the ridge north of the Creek city. At first Preston could see no one - the hill was covered with trees and low brush. Then he saw them moving in clumps, not unlike a colony of ants. No flags, no way to quickly pinpoint their leaders, their formation (or lack thereof), nor their plan.
Not so the Americans. Colonel Wilkins on the far left nodded to his major, who in turn shouted something through a speaking trumpet. In a rolling wave, left to right the musicians of each regiment began beating insanely on their drums. In a similar motion each cornet of each company raised their banner.
The Indians answered with something between a cheer and a roar. Wilkins' major yelled something in reply, and trumpets joined the drums, which abruptly stopped as their owners seized their reins. Two thousand horses took one step forward. Then two. Then three.
"Here we go," John muttered aloud, sweating.
The trumpets blew again. At the trot. The Indians were no longer globs of ants but actual men firing arrows and the occasional rifle. Preston found himself holding his breath. He let it out with a gasp as the trumpets blew a third time. Gallop.
By virtue of terrain, Captain Hawkes and his entire company led the regiment by three full seconds. As such, when the Indians finally rose from their thickets and bushes and charged, howling louder than the thundering hoofbeats, it was towards Preston's group. Then somewhere a rifle rapped out and Hawkes went down, followed a split second later by his lieutenant. The entire company faltered with one thousand screaming Creeks ahead and one thousand charging horsemen at their back.
As long as John lived, he would never remember the rest of that day. According to Colonel Ballard's report he reached down and seized the falling flag, raising it high. The company rallied and slammed into the Creek who quickly raised spears - too late. The company's banner was found thrust through one Indian's stomach, the pole splintering on impact. Then it was desperate fighting, spear vs hoof and sabre, a wild, surging melee without quarter nor reason. Just when it seemed numbers must overwhelm them, with Indians pulling soldiers off their horses or drawing tomahawks to hack at legs, the rest of the regiment arrived. They broke and the trumpets sang one last time: General Pursuit.
Though Colonel Ballard's report ends here, his men knew what happened after that. Slowly the battered company stopped, and slowly sanity returned. As the galloping pursuers swarmed around the hill chasing the last Indians down, Preston dismounted, fell to his knees, and was promptly, desperately sick.
