-= 87 =-
11 April, 1781
Saint Petersburg, British East Florida
"Good evening, gentlemen." Roland Steving indicated two nearby chairs and nodded to his steward, who left for drinks followed by a burly soldier. His companion, a silent, thin man standing at attention with a loaded rifle, looked on. After the assassination attempt it became painfully obvious how weak their security was. The three generals quickly took all the steps a more experienced army would have taken months ago.
"How is General Heyward?" Benjamin Lincoln glanced out the door towards his bedroom. It seemed a little ghoulish holding this discussion in his own sitting room, but all three generals were here and time was of the essence.
"I believe we will need the master surgeon to attest to that," Steving answered gravely.
"I cannot believe that man was in my house. He was right next to me! We can be grateful he didn't try to kill us all!" Allen looked back and forth. "Where is that drink?"
"We can be grateful he didn't succeed," Lincoln replied.
"Indeed."
"Gentlemen, I wanted to speak with you because we are on the wing. General Heyward's last words to me were a mandate to take the city."
"Thank God!" Allen beamed.
"Do you have a plan?" Lincoln did his best not to hate the man, being superseded wasn't his fault either.
"Actually," Steving paused and took his drink nodding to the steward. "Actually General Lincoln, I believe this is your battle. You have seniority."
Allen choked! "Excuse me," he sputtered. "You are offering command to him?"
"I offer nothing. In matters such as this, seniority takes precedence. He has the most experience..."
"At losing!"
Steving held his hand palm up as Lincoln half stood. "General Lincoln, sir, could you allow us a moment?"
"I think I better, I will find the master surgeon. Be prepared to discuss tactics upon my return." Lincoln stalked into the other room.
"That was unnecessary, General Allen. It will not do to insult him."
"I speak the truth. Hell and Death, his last army disintegrated! Plus, he's not even a Carolinan!"
"Sir, I have not said anything before out of a sense of camaraderie, but I fear you did not check your peers as closely as you ought."
"Eh?"
Steving leaned forward and glared into Allen's eyes. "I'm not a Carolinan either. I'm from Virginia. What's more sir, over half of this army consists of Virginia's finest. I will thank you to stop referring to this as a Carolinan enterprise, unless you wish to have Carolina's boys bear this honour alone. It would be interesting to see if they fight as well in the vanguard as they do in the reserve!"
"I do not know what you are implying sir, but I must tell you I do not like the sound of it."
"Nor should you.
Sic Semper Tyrannis, General.
Thus always to tyrants. That is our motto, and it refers to anyone who would subjugate Virginia for their own gain. We are allies, sir, not subjects and we kneel to none but the Almighty. Now, I say General Lincoln is our commander until General Heyward recovers. Unless he yields, you are outvoted."
"What!? How dare..." Allen stumbled on his retort. Before he could get it out, Benjamin Lincoln returned looking grave.
"What news?" Steving asked, his heart chilling.
"He's unconscious. The surgeon says it's mostly the laudanum, but he cannot answer for the man's wits until he comes out of it. His sleep is troubled." Lincoln shook his head sharply. "Gentlemen, now is the time to discuss tactics."
No matter how willing the army though, and there was not a man in either army not ready to settle this affair once and for all, it takes time to rouse an army from torpor. They could have attacked two days later, but Lincoln declared to solemn, agreeing nods that only a fool or a maniac starts a battle on a Friday, and that the thirteenth. Saturday would be soon enough.
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13 April, 1781
"There it is again."
Private Tompkins looked over sharply, raising his rifle. Since learning someone tried to kill the American general, their garrison had been on alert against sudden moves. He waited, but except for the distant swamp insects all was quiet. Tompkins frowned.
"What?"
"Eh?" Private Lewis turned from the black Georgian night.
"There what is?"
"Pardon?"
"Forget it," Tompkins growled. And so he might, if not fifteen seconds later:
"Definitely."
"What?"
"Eh?"
Tompkins had enough. He seized the younger, slighter man and spun him about. "You said 'definitely.' Definitely
what?"
"Oh. Did I say that aloud?"
"Yes...Now 'definitely what?'"
"You won't like it," answered Lewis, who disliked being ridiculed.
"I will," Tompkins insisted menacingly. "I
insist."
"Oh." Lewis considered. "I think their army's on the move."
"Don't be absurd. It's the middle of the bloody night." Tompkins shook his head. Depending on who you asked, Private Lewis either had excellent senses, an active imagination, or a tendency to exaggerate. Tompkins was squarely in the third category.
"I told you you wouldn't like it."
"You were ri..."
"Good morning, gentlemen."
"Sir!"
Major Reginald Buckland, the ranking officer after General Exeter's crushing defeat and subsequent disappearance, returned their salutes. He stepped next to the sentries and inhaled deeply. He was a very bad sleeper, tonight more so than most. "Any news, gentlemen?"
"No, sir," Tompkins answered primly.
"I believe the Americans are on the move," Lewis said. The older soldier glared.
"Why do you say that?"
"I...I heard them, sir."
Buckland grimaced, that would be quite a feat. Still... He placed one foot on the crumbling rampart, cupped his hand around his ear, and concentrated. Very faint, and only when the wind blew just so, but yes ... soft clinking, occasional voices quickly hushed, generally moving... north? Yes, that would make sense. He beamed. "What is your name, son?"
"Lewis."
"You're a good man, Lewis. Run to the castle, rouse my adjutant and tell him the Americans are massing in the north. He'll know what to do."
Thank God, they finally want to fight! I thought I'd starve here, or worse be made to surrender! He turned his shining eyes on Tyler's appalled face: "Step to your watch officer. Tell him I want everyone with keen eyes and ears he can spare."
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"Gentlemen." Major Engels and Generals Steving and Allen stood, but Lincoln waved them back to their seats. "I know it is very late and we need our rest before tomorrow's festivities. This will be our last chance to talk before the 'morrow. General Steving, how do you stand?"
"We're moving the artillery up now. We've abandoned the three gun for now, it's wheel broke. I've ordered its crew, powder and balls redistributed. We should be in position in the next hour or two."
"General Allen, have you decided on the forlorn hope?"
Allen looked very tired and old. It was almost midnight. Moving an army at night to try to fool your enemy was just stupid. "Yes, sir. The Third Virginian." Ignoring Steving's glare he continued. "They're the most experienced, they have the best chance of success."
"I see."
Forlorn hope was a corruption of the Dutch
verloren hoop, or 'lost troop.' They were men dispatched to storm the walls and barricades of a fort in the hope of lasting just long enough for their fellows to widen the breach and overwhelm any defenders. It wasn't nearly as dangerous today as in the Middle Ages, but the Third Virginian could still expect to be mauled cruelly.
"Major Engels? Your cavalry's currently guarding the ford northwest of town?"
"Eh?" Engels narrowed his gaze, trying to focus on something other then sleeping. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Lincoln nodded, satisfied. "I think we know what to do tomorrow, gentlemen. Therefore I..."
"One moment, General." Steving looked up. "I was studying the map earlier to discuss where to fire with my gunners."
"So?" Allen asked.
"So, what's this fort down here?" He pointed southwest of Saint Augustine.
Engels shook his head. "Simple round tower, it wasn't on our earlier maps, I figure the Brits built it when they realized we were coming."
"Yes, but why here. The city's built like a giant castle, why have an exposed tower?"
"It doesn't make sense," Allen conceded reluctantly. "Unless....unless they're guarding something."
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14 April, 1781
"Captain Pierce?" Major Buckland shook his hand. "I'm sorry to receive you so late." He didn't look sorry. He looked like the cat who swallowed the canary.
Pierce smothered his yawn. "Not at all, sir. Wish you joy of the battle."
"Yes, the new American commander is quite obliging. I shall have to thank him. Now Captain, as you know the Americans are massing in the north and we're returning the honor. What is the state of your company?"
"My company is always ready, sir." This was an exaggeration and they both knew it. Major Buckland could command a surprisingly large force, but it was one share demoralized survivors of Exeter's final battle, and two shares conscripts from the local populace who couldn't make it out of town and joined the army when they'd appropriated all the food.
"Good," Buckland answered slowly. "Yes, quite. Captain, I have a special mission for you. You know of the ford southwest of the city?"
"Next to the little tower. Yes sir?"
"I want your men to take it and hold it. For one thing you may have the opportunity to flank them late in the battle, and for another if this goes poorly you will be covering our retreat." The Spanish built Saint Augustine on a peninsula. If they lost the fords there would be no escape.
"I am sure it will not be necessary, sir."
"So am I! However, it is wise to secure all our options."
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Map
Order of Battle, 14 August 1781
US 5th Army aka Army of the South aka Army of Carolina
Commander: (Acting) General Lincoln
* 1st Virginia Infantry
Infantry Brigade: General Allen
* 3rd Virginia Infantry
* 5th Virginia Infantry
* 1st South Carolina Infantry
* 3rd North Carolina Infantry
Artillery Batallion: General Steving
* 2nd Carolina Artillery
* 3rd Virginia Artillery
Cavalry Brigade: Major Engels
* 1st Virginia Cavalry
* 4th North Carolina Cavalry
Saint Augustine Garrison
Commander: Major Buckland
* 74th Foot (expanded by irregulars), with battalion guns
Southern Detachment: Captain Pierce
* Irregulars
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Not much sleep for anyone as the two armies quietly shuffled into position under cover of darkness hoping to outsmart each other. Dawn found Benjamin Lincoln staring at the distant Fort Saint Mark through a spyglass at the soldiers taking their place along what was left of the city's northern wall. Just so. A small part of him thought maybe Heyward's caution may have been right, just keep sieging the city until they gave in. He'd hoped for surprise, he'd hoped for.... No. No, going back to a siege would destroy him in the eyes of the few supporters he did have. Lincoln lowered his spyglass to study the deep and fatal fissures in their walls, the result of nearly a year's intermittent bombardment.
I need this victory, Lincoln thought grimly. He swept around to view his own army, thinking of the growing division between the Virginians and Carolinans.
America needs this victory. Very well, he could accept duty and fate as well as the next man. "Fifer!" he screamed at a dozing man. "Dismiss the night watch!"
The fife's lonely notes filled the air, joined moments later by a dozen drums. Engels' cavalry added trumpets to the fray, and the sharpest ears might have heard the British response: Fifes, drums, and even a post horn. For a full twenty seconds the musicians in both camps waged their private battle to the furious hatred of their fellow man. "Signal General Allen, with my compliments, that he may proceed."
Allen needed no coaching. Less than ten minutes later a major and two captains in their best uniforms rode towards the city. Lincoln followed their progress past the American trenches, the British barricades. under the watchful eyes of thousands of soldiers. The major gestured and one of the captains unfurled a flag. Two Brits met them and they spoke briefly. Finally they parted company, but rather than return to Allen the major rode to Lincoln.
"What news?" Lincoln asked as they exchanged salutes.
The major smiled cynically. "In a word, sir, he refuses. Their Major Buckland does indeed look forward to having dinner with you and the others, sir, but he believes it will be as his guests at Saint Mark."
Lincoln glared. "Did you explain that our force is overwhelming?"
"Yes, sir. Whereupon their represenative assured me that a British man was worth any four colonials, and that as a result we were outnumbered."
"I see," Lincoln sniffed. "We will just have to correct them. Major, my compliments to General Allen, and he may order his men by regiment once they have eaten."
"Aye!"
A quick meal - no man should have to fight on an empty stomach - and once more the drums spoke. Fifes and distant trumpets answered the call and by squad then company, battalion then regiment the army took shape. One English cannon fired, a lucky shot that soared into the midst of one of Allen's regiments, then silence.
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"Cease fire!" Major Buckland roared. "God rot your eyes!"
"But...." the lieutenant stammered.
"Do not
but me, sir! No man fires until I give the word. Am I clear!? Am I?"
"Yes, sir!"
Buckland strode away. They didn't have the powder for long-range plinking. It would take them awhile to get past their own trenchworks, then they'd hit the barricades. That would be the time to strike.
Puffs of smoke in the distance as Steving's cannon opened fire. A few clumsy shots, but several slammed into the wall and he could hear crumbling rock. Major Buckland turned and surveyed the north end of the city with its wide streets leading towards the main parade.
I can't expect the walls to hold, we will meet them there. "Adjutant!" he called. "Sir, I want these streets cordoned off and the light infantry in the buildings. Do we have anyone who qualifies as grenadiers? No? Then we will have to choose who to meet them with."
To the south, Captain Pierce's men trotted out the western entrance to the city and down river towards their fort. The stone tower stood barely fifteen feet tall and had only one room. It didn't help that of his entire company, reinforced to double its normal strength, maybe fifty knew anything about proper soldiering. They didn't march to the fort, they swarmed like any mob.
Meeting with the major just after midnight didn't answer either. "Lieutenant? There you are. I want a squad in the tower itself, everyone that we can cram in there. The others will have to make do." Some brilliant artificer had suggested cutting down the trees, no cover. "We will meet them at the river's edge." Pierce turned a weary eye to the approaching cavalry.
If they make it across the ford, this will be a slaughter.
Map:
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"We must carry on!" Allen ordered harshly. He pointed with his sword at the regiments ahead of him, soldiers marching in lockstep in, around and through the British barricades as cannonballs slammed into their ranks again and again. On the front right the First South Carolina withered under their fire. The Third Virginia, he admitted reluctantly, held despite staggering losses.
Allen looked up at the high pitched whistling of Steving's response. Several balls struck into the north wall and a one hundred yard wide stretch disintegrated into rubble. From behind the billowing dust he could dimly make out flashes as Buckland's infantry opened fire.
Still the relentless beat, the sharp cadence of a hundred drums and thousands of soldiers marching in chainstep. The Virginian standard bearer fell, one of his mates seized their flag and raised it high. They must have lost three full companies already, and didn't even pause. Glorious.
"Sir?" A messenger shoved his way through the line at Allen's back. "Sir! General Lincoln's compliments, and 'Will you relieve the First South Carolina?'"
"Eh?" Allen returned to what was left of his people. Sensing their weakness, Buckland's cannon focused on them and did shocking damage. No standard bearer there, no drummers, no sign of a command staff at all. Some charged the fort blindly, some sideslipped left into the Third Virgnia, some fled fouling the perfect rhythm of the regiment behind them. Deprived of their drummers, the few diehards quickly lost any form of cohesion and also broke into a trot.
"Move the Fifth Virginia up!" he roared. He turned to the nearest drummer. "When they have taken their place in the line, sound double time!"
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Map:
"Here they come!" Buckland shouted to be heard over the constant cannon and musketfire. The American right had nearly buckled, but rallied with the help of the regiment behind. The American left held despite constant fire. One hundred yards, eighty. "Fire at will!"
Rarely had Buckland given a less relevant order. The English attack wasn't the crisp fire by line of a professional regiment. Each man fought for himself, and as the Third Virginian Infantry vaulted over the rubble a hundred melees broke out. Snipers from the castle and nearby buildings fired into their ranks as the Brits and Americans ground each other. Finally the tide turned against their forlorn hope, sheer numbers crushed the Virginians from all sides. Their flag fell from lifeless hands. Buckland ran towards the battle, determined to launch a devastating counterstrike, but in the five minutes it took to run from castle to field, the tide changed yet again.
Over the wall came the Fifth Virginia and what was left of the shattered Carolina regiment. They broke right and avenged themselves on the cannon while two fresh regiments poured through the hole left by the fallen Virginians and swarmed towards the castle. Now it was a thousand melees, street by street and building by building. Buckland drew his sword as three men charged his position. He dodged a bayonet, spun and slashed. One man down. Realizing their error the Americans flanked him like a wolf pack might, advancing on either side. He parried a bayonet thrust, rewarded its owner with a slash to tell his girlfriend about, spun around and received a rifle butt to the head.
Deprived of its leadership British resistance collapsed. Americans swarmed through the mostly abandoned city. The castle fell and they fell back, down the streets to the main parade. There the adjudant prepared for a final stand when Major Engels and his cavalry swarmed in from the south.
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Three miles to the north, Thomas Heyward awoke to the sound of cheers. Sunlight streamed through the open window on a warm, cloudless day. He tried to sit up, but his head betrayed him and he fell back with a groan.
"Sir?" His guard tiptoed over. He was a shy, quiet man, the perfect champion for someone with a pounding headache.
"What's that noise?" Heyward asked wearily.
"I will find out, sir." The guard opened the door and signaled to get his sergeant's attention. The sergeant strode over and they began talking.
Tom swiveled to stare out the open window. For years the Nazis haunted his dreams, stealing his chances to be with Jessie...and now they'd actually followed him. He closed his eyes, remembering Stewart and his salute.
The guard crept back to him. "Wish you joy, sir. Saint Augustine is ours. It's over."
Heyward turned back and regarded the young, the very young man. By all rights he never should have known anything about the Nazis, let alone have to deal with them. War in this era had rules...
A short distance away the British were interred in the former Franciscan monastery. Surgeons and their mates moved in to take care of their wounded...
It had honor...
General Allen picked up the fallen, tattered standard of the Third Virginia Infantry, handed it to Steving, then saluted...
And even left room for courtesy.
Somewhere in St. Mark's fort, General Lincoln spoke to a British surgeon, then moved forward to meet Major Buckland.
People like Stewart couldn't understand that. They believed in total war, that anything was justified in the name of anger and hatred. These Americans,nor these Brits could possibly understand the horror that lurked around the corner. This wasn't about him anymore, it wasn't even about Jessie. He had to save them all. Somehow.
"No, son," Heyward whispered. "It's just beginning."
