-= 122 =-
October 1783
Florida
"Wish you joy, gentlemen." John Burgoyne, Lieutenant-General of the Florida Army, beamed at his colonels. "We move out at dawn tomorrow."
Aren't I handsome?
His regimental commanders looked startled, as indeed did his adjutant. Burgoyne was a decent strategist and did well in social settings, being the very heart of dash, bravery and courtesy. He wasn't good at delegating though, and saw no reason to tell his staff anything until absolutely necessary.
Colonel Buckland, the veteran of Heyward's campaign against Saint Augustine, spoke first. "Into Georgia?"
"Well, of course into Georgia!" Burgoyne beamed as a servant came in with a thick roast, its savory aroma filling the room. He cut into it with a will as more servants brought out fruit and vegetables, the true treasure of the West Indies. "MacArthur, your plate? That's a fellow. Now then...yes, Georgia. I wouldn't tell this to anyone but you, gentlemen, but we have had agents in their rebellion for over a month now. Mister Crawford saw fit to try and build an army and infiltrating was as easy as kiss my hand. Buckland, a glass with you?"
The servants stood behind their employers, hands folded as the proper toast to king and country was made. One closed his eyes and listened intently, for if Burgoyne wasn't good at delegating, he was horrible at keeping secrets.
"The American detachment seems to have moved off, ostensibly to help draw supplies in for their army. They've not returned, however, while Mister Crawford has crossed the border into East Florida with some five thousand men."
"They must be moving slowly," Colonel MacArthur offered. "So many men and horse in this terrain."
"Aye, and their supplies are regrettable. No pontoons, no wagons. It seems Mister Crawford planned to just march up to us, flank us and so drive us out of Florida."
"Then he's a fool."
"Somewhat, yes." Burgoyne poised his knife at eye level, studying the chunk of beef impaled there. "Inexperienced is a better word." He ate.
"It's easy to underestimate the supplies one needs for such an advance," Buckland offered. "Just the food would weigh ...."
"Tons," Colonel McMillan offered. He had a gift for mathematics, but was shy and reluctant to expose himself..
Buckland had no such qualms. "Would it not be prudent to wait in Saint Augustine? I don't know what they hope to accomplish out in the field, but I can't see them doing anything at all to a fortified city."
"With respect," MacArthur retorted, "a fortified city we've lost before."
"There will be no incriminations at my table," Burgoyne said sternly. Then Major Buckland had been court-martialed, as was appropriate for losing Saint Augustine. He'd also been found completely blameless. "To answer your question though, Colonel, I think not. Our men tire of being picked off piece meal, and normally I'd say we were to invade Georgia in force they could slip around us and take Saint Augustine. Now it is a different thing. Mister Crawford seems eager to fight? Let us oblige him. Right up the Post Road, straight at them."
Behind McMillan's head, his servant smiled.
"Will they not expect us? Is that not their hope?"
"Probably and no doubt, Colonel. I have every faith in the stamina and skill of the British soldier against this rabble."
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I've been betrayed. Eric Crawford sat in his tent, nursing a cup of coffee by a fire billowing smoke from damp wood and leaves. Preston was supposed to be two days behind him. It was now five and the supply horses had arrived. There could be no mistake, the Americans weren't coming.
Well, damn them. Preston had been losing his heart and bowels for this fight for awhile. Let him go home and cry while real men finished the work.
The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. These words, first spoken by Thomas Jefferson, were Crawford's mantra, prayer to God and justification rolled into one. It'd be nice if only tyrants bled, of course, but life wasn't always that cut and dry. When one fought for freedom a few patriots would inevitably fall, and a few innocents too. That was simply the way life worked, and if Preston was too much of a coward and a child to realize that then Crawford didn't want his help. Let men handle the affairs of mankind. He'd deal with the backstabbing scrub later. He knew the rebellion's benefactor, a Mister Black, lived somewhere in South Carolina now. A few whispers in the right ear would take care of
Colonel Preston.
He felt the thudding ground before he heard it. His men felt it also and looked around. Some rose from their tents, weapons drawn. A few paced over to their horses. Seconds later everyone relaxed - only one horseman approaching, hooves beating a rapid, staccato beat on the hard dirt Post Road, running very fast.
Crawford ran out when the horse stopped and he saw its rider, doubled over with exhaustion and panting almost as much as his sweating, shaking palmetto. He literally tumbled out of the saddle and men moved to support him.
"What are you doing here?" Crawford demanded. "You're supposed to be in St. Augustine."
The servant smiled shakily. "They're coming up the Post Road."
Crawford's eyes widened. "So soon?"
"Aye. Burgoyne has spies, he knows your general plans." The servant coughed. Two days hard ride had left him frail and exhausted. "He doesn't care, he plans to offer you battle."
"How very noble of him." The raider grinned. "Did he say who the spies were?"
"No."
"Too bad. Good work." Crawford exchanged salutes and walked away, thinking furiously.
First I have to close this leak. I can team the men up in threes, with strict orders that if one tries to leave the other two are to take him down and raise the alarm. Second we'll have to change the attack plan. Back when he'd still hoped the Americans were coming, Crawford had planned a basic set piece battle with Preston's experienced cavalry holding the front and his men turning the flank. Yes, the Americans would take heavy losses..but it wasn't like they'd done much bleeding for Georgia up until then. Now though.... Yes, didn't the Post Road bottleneck about a day's ride south? That would do nicely for an ambush.
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"Colonel McMillan, a word with you?" John Burgoyne stood on the seaward side of Fort St. Mark overlooking the approaches to Saint Augustine by sea. Far below and behind him four British regiments, red squares perfectly exact, made final preparations for the long march to the border.
McMillan stepped next to his commander and followed his gaze to Eustasia Island east of the city. Formerly a smuggler's haven, it now served as Florida's key link with the sea. Three sloops and several merchantmen docked there, with ferries and ship's boats whispering back and forth to the mainland. "Sir?"
"How many men could we fit on those boats?"
The colonel narrowed his eyes. "Maybe fifty each on the sloops. A hundred..."
"A British soldier can put up with a little discomfort, McMillan."
"Sir." He stared again. "Then...eighty or ninety on the sloops, and I doubt the sailors will love you. Maybe hundred and fifty on the merchants. Two thousand in all."
Burgoyne nodded slowly. "Quite."
"Though they'll be packed like sardines, and God help us if there's a storm. But sir, I thought we were traveling up the Post Road?"
"I changed my mind." Burgoyne beamed. "Send a few companies up the road anyway, Colonel. If these Georgians have scouts, let them chew on that. As for the rest of us, I think we can steal a few marches on our friends."
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Crawford sat hunched over his horse's neck, listening to the drums and fifes of the passing redcoats. His scouts had sighted them hours before, an advance guard of company strength. At least four more companies, and no doubt the entire British army sprawled insolently along the road behind them at two to three mile intervals. He reasoned they'd be expecting a frontal assault somewhere near the elbow of the Saint Johns River. Naturally they'd never get that far.
His army spread over miles to Crawford's left, hidden in gully and behind ridge, within swamp and behind trees. An entire company waited covered in brush, so they looked like an uncommonly tall thicket. The deception wouldn't have to last long. As soon as the last of the Brits were in position they'd close in on all sides and crush this General Burgoyne.
Far to his left Crawford heard the pop-pop of muskets. What? What could they be shooting at? He lifted his head as the drums and fifes stopped. Yes, the British recognized gunfire as well. Heads twisted this way and that and their fine column crumbled. Their captain stepped forward, sword drawn. Crawford shook his head. He couldn't allow them to restore order.
"Advance!"
Hunting horns blasted the air, intended to and successful in startling the Brits. Crawford kicked his horse in the flank at the same time as much of his regiment, and a ghostly wall of white robes, cloaks and executioner's hoods appeared on the redcoat flank. Their captain paled. Two men dropped their muskets. One fired in panic, hitting a willow tree in New York.
(*) Crawford grinned, a wolf about to enjoy its evening snack.
(*) If you have to ask, you had to be there. 
"And take them down!"
Horses neighed and raiders roared, drawing swords, spears, pistols and even knives. Now
this was a battle! Crawford grinned as he closed with the British front rank, fouling their attempts to load muskets. One or two shots, but by far the dominant sounds were the clanging of metal and the screams of dying men. Crawford hacked right, hacked left. Found the standard bearer, hacked his pretty flag down. One of the redcoats stabbed at his horse, who reared instinctively and kicked the man in the face. The British first rank fell into the second, who fell into the third and pandemonium reigned. As hoped the left end of Crawford's regiment wrapped up the company, smashing into their flank. More screams. A jet of blood as Eric stabbed a drummer of fourteen in the throat. Someone tried to leap on his horse, but missed and fell into his mate's bayonet. Back, back. One pistol shot passed so close to Eric's face that his ear burned despite the executioner's hood. He whirled and there was that fool of a captain, throwing his pistol away and weaving his sword at Crawford's horse. The captain stabbed. Missed. Eric pulled back on his reins, sawing into the horse's mouth and it reared in pain, striking the Brit in the head. He fell and the horse landed on top, crushing him instantly.
And in that breath of a second the battle ended. Redcoats fled eastward to be pinned against the river. They could be dealt with later, for now here came the second company, trotting up the road. They stopped one hundred yards away and started to form a firing line.
"Right!" Crawford cried, pointing at different 'captains' with his sword. "They have no cavalry, hit 'em in the side! The rest of you, with me!" He noticed his sword arm was bleeding. No matter, none at all. He'd defeat them company by company if he had to, all the way back to Saint Augustine and into their little boats.
"General!" A messenger pushed through the milling throng of his reforming regiment. "Sir, it's Burgoyne!"
"Yes," Crawford waved grandly at the British firing line. "We'll take him too!"
"He's hit our north! They're breaking!"
"WHAT?"
The British line opened fire.
---------------
General John Burgoyne rode his white stallion through where the fiercest fighting had been. He'd hoped to maybe catch them in the flank, or at least still setting up by the river elbow. Hitting their rear had been unexpected and welcome. The swamp was littered with dying and dead men in white. Soldiers moved back and forth among the bodies, slitting throats and looting freely. Normally Burgoyne would never have tolerated such nonsense, but these weren't soldiers they'd been fighting. They were rebels at best, and terrorists at worst. Mercy would have to come from God, because it certainly wouldn't come from him.
"Colonel Buckland." Burgoyne stared at the blood and dirt stained man disdainfully. "Did you fight here or fall and roll around?"
Buckland flushed. "A bit of both, sir. One of them jumped from horseback onto me and we tumbled about. I gained the upper edge though."
"Oh? Quite." He paused. "How many men did we lose?"
"Not many, sure. I hear your 'decoys' lost maybe one hundred fifty. We couldn't have lost more than a hundred."
Burgoyne nodded. "So many for such a small bout. And them?"
"Well over fifteen hundred, sir. Many of them got away on horse, but in this swamp they'll founder for sure. I think we've seen the last of these Georgians."
"I agree, Colonel." Burgoyne waved grandly. "The blood of patriots and tyrants, you know."
"Sir?"
"Nothing, Colonel. Simply something I heard once."
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And another AI rebellion leaves its home province and runs into more than it can handle. 
