-= 131 =-
March 1784
Massachusetts
It is good that war is so terrible, lest we grow too fond of it.
- General Robert E. Lee
Confederate States of America
"And just how reliable is your informant, Colonel Leyton?" Benedict Arnold, commanding the US Northern Army, frowned at the man standing before him. "For weeks he reports a possible feint towards Albany, but now he is mistaken. They are massing at Bennington."
"Cornet Harding has never failed me." Leyton stood at attention, his eyes focused over the general's head. He didn't care much for Arnold. It was his failure that led to Leyton chasing Lord Cornwallis all the way to Virginia for a showdown, though he was grateful for Arnold's rescue. It was Arnold who'd assigned a lackluster general leading up to the second Battle of Wolf Hill, far more interested in a siege than to do any real fighting. Now, just as the colonel had finished a difficult campaign against the Indians and was in a position to deal with Vermont, Arnold transfers over to queer his pitch. Damnable man. "I rely on him completely."
"And yet he tells us nothing we didn't know, Colonel." Arnold slapped the carefully encoded report. "God's death, man. We
knew Bennington was their headquarters."
"Respectfully sir, we suspected it but weren't committed. Second, knowing their headquarters is one thing. Knowing when they will gather is another. Their chief advantage over us has been the ability to fade in, strike, and leave before we could organize a response. Cornet Harding has offered us the chance to end this with one bold stroke."
Arnold stared at Leyton. "And if they are deceiving Cornet Harding, there will be the devil to pay."
"Aye," Leyton agreed. "However we shall still prevail, and may take their town from them at our leisure."
***
"This must work, Doctor Susby." John Stark sat astride his horse, a huge pale
creature that any medieval knight would have been happy to ride into battle. Like a medieval warhorse, his steed had a vicious temperament and bit at anyone it didn't like, which was just about everything on two legs. Once a small, yapping dog had decided to try its luck on the animal. It responded by seizing the dog in its jaws, worrying it to death, then throwing the carcass twenty feet. His name was 'Death' and he was horribly spoiled: People learned very quickly to give the horse whatever it wanted.
"As I said, John, the message went off two days ago." Susby sat astride a smaller brown horse with dull eyes. In front of them stood the Green Mountain 'Army.' No uniforms, no discipline, little order, just five thousand experts in rifles and guerilla warfare.
"We must make the Berkshire Mountains before General Arnold can respond," Stark answered tightly.
"Yes." Susby frowned. "My objection stands, by the way."
"Which one, sir? You have several."
Susby glanced at his friend, not sure if he was kidding or not. "You've invited them to Bennington. Most of our people live around here."
"Precisely. Not only will we know the avenue of advance General Arnold has to take, but the men will fight that much harder to defend their home."
"And if we lose?" Susby studied him closely.
Stark looked down and closed his eyes. "If we lose, it won't really matter if they get past us. It will be over." Absently he rubbed the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply.
Susby lifted his chin. "You haven't been sleeping again."
"I know that, sir!" Stark snapped, then sighed. For several moments he watched his 'army' continue to form. "You know I never sleep before a battle."
"You had best learn. It is several days to your ambush site. I will give you some laudanum when we stop."
Stark glanced at him. He trusted that tincture of opium as far as he could throw 'Death.' "I believe the men are ready enough. Drummer!"
"One more question," Susby interrupted sharply. He lowered his tone. "What are we going to do about our lspy?"
"He can come. Let him see what his little operation costs his friends. Then we will leave him with the rest."
When Armies Collide
***
Williamstown, Massachusetts was small, barely qualifying as a village and nestled deep within the Berkshires. Not as steep or cold as the Green Mountains or Appalachians, the grass and tree covered 'mountains', more like steep hills, undulate through western New England. A shallow, ice cold river flowed through the center of town to eventually meet the Connecticut by Springfield. Most of the folk here were farmers; they had no choice so far from a major town, and scratched out a living on the unforgiving earth.
Isolation had its advantages though: No British, Indian nor American army had ever savaged the land. No sons, husbands or fathers had ever been sent off to fight out political quarrels over lines on a map. There hadn't been a murder in thirty years, nor a robbery in nine. If a stranger entered the tiny village it was news for months.
Which made the nine thousand man American army camped on their fields rather disturbing.
"We will wait for them here!" Arnold told his officers. He pointed at a quickly sketched map. "They no doubt hoped to ambush us moving up the road, but we have stolen a day or two on them. They must set up army headquarters here, and it is here where we will treat with these gentlemen." Arnold was a big man, but now looming over the map and staring each officer in the eye he looked positively huge. "Colonel Leyton?"
Arnold's Map
"Sir." He looked up from the map sharply.
"You will secure our left flank against the river. There are no fords, so your back is secure. Further, you help create a pocket that will lead them to destruction against our main force." He pointed to the center and right wing.
"If they try for the town?" Leyton asked, pointing at the village.
"You will load your cannon with grape if in range, roundshot with not. Further, your brigade is still mostly cavalry? Use it and take them in the side if that happens. No, Colonel." Arnold met his gaze. "They cannot risk us cutting into their side like that. They will deploy...."
***
"...with our backs to the mountains. That way they cannot get around us." John Stark glared, displeased. How in God's name did the Americans beat him here? His scouts didn't know Massachusetts nearly as well as Vermont. They'd failed to warn him Arnold was so close. "God send we haven't missed anything else."
"Sir?" Colonel Zachary frowned.
"Never mind. Alright, I want the guns we have to the rear. They won't be able to do much if we don't come to them. If they want us they'll either lose their own artillery, or have to limber them and move across open ground. Further, if you'll notice the ground here is pockmarked, still recovering from winter's frost. I dare say their wagons will have trouble as will any horsemen." Stark paused, hearing a noise outside he couldn't quite place. Do not let their numbers worry you, gentlemen." Stark smiled. "We fight the just cause and God will see us through." The sound repeated. It almost sounded like a....
"John!" Susby trotted into the tent, noticed the other officers, bowed. "I beg pardon, sir, but you must come with me."
Stark didn't like the doctor's color, and why was he trembling? "What's amiss?"
"Just come with me. All of you." Susby ran out.
Stark exchanged confused looks, his brows furroed. He walked outside and stared past his army into the field between the two armies. As he stared at the intruders, their noise became louder and repeated over and over.
"Moo!!!"
***
Arnold stared, slack jawed, at the herd of cows moving between the two armies apparently uninterested in the lethal force leveled at them. Where had they come from? The town? How come Leyton hadn't warned him? Well, in all fairness what was he going to say?
'Sir, I regret to inform you there is a large body of cows moving in our direction.' He shook his head violently. And where were their cowhands? Arnold glared at their shiny coats, soothing brown spots, and big moist eyes and seethed. How could you possibly have a battle with
them around?
He pointed at a messenger. "Run to the artillery captain. Tell him, with my compliments, to fire one shot over their heads. We have to make them run."
And if they run into the rebels, so much the better.
The messenger ran. The cannon fired with a roar and whoosh of hot air. Apparently not content to merely spook the animals, the gunner lay the cannonball through the midst of the herd to slam into the one lonely willow tree on the entire countryside.
The cows did not run. They did stop moving. In fact, they turned to face both armies.
***
"Damn them!" Stark swore. "What are they doing?" This as several hundred cows broke away from the herd and charged the Vermont line. Arnold must have spooked them, but wait...the other cows were charging the American line. Berserk? Were they so blind with panic they were running mindless? "Warning shot!" he roared. One of his cannons fired. It was only then he noticed metal bits sprouting from the cow hides. Steel on the horns, steel armor on their torsos. One of the cows sprouted some sort of square contraption Stark had never seen. Before he could reason out its purpose, it launched two cylindrical objects that whistled through the air to explode against the cannon, destroying both.
"To me!" Stark roared, then "Charge!" Five thousand Green Mountain boys slammed into the herd. They did not run. They fought like mad cows, goring with tiny horns and biting with their square herbivore teeth before stepping back and spitting lead, fire, and even beams of light out of their metal contraptions. Stark hacked one down, was head butt in the leg and something hot whistled past his ear. Men screamed in rage and pain. Stark looked around and realized several of the potholes in the broken earth were actually fortifications.
Cow fortifications!
Cow Pillbox
***
His name was General Mooski. Born only a few years before in Mos-cow, he learned about warfare during the last Austro-Polish War before migrating to America. Like the members of his herd, Mooski was a disciple of St. Peperna the Thrice-Milked, a fifth century heroine who'd once defended Ravenna from some Roman wannabe punk named Remus.
(1) Mooski had been advised by his politicow advisor that the American/Vermont war was frankly a bunch of bull, and it took far more than one or even two armies to cow him into submission.
Mooski's shield denotes him as a Member of the Order of the Sacred Cow
"MOOOO!!!!!!!!!!" he mooed, which translated meant 'Don't let them rally.' The Americans were the stronger force, so they got the first taste of the ultimate in modern warfare: The Cowbot.
COW-2N Assault Cowbot (Available with Land Tech 79)
By the end of the day both armies were udder-ly destroyed and Mooski was one step closer to creating his cowtopia.
***
Wesley Harding lay on the field next to his 'mates' in the Green Mountain Boys. His leg broke when he fell from his horse, and his arm shattered from an errant hoof. He hadn't wanted to fight, and interestingly Stark hadn't made him. He was to the rear of the Vermont army, surrounded by the groans, whimpers and cries of the dying and the thick, sweet scent of blood.
Something thumped, his blood pounding in his ears. Harding managed to sit up without screaming and surveyed the destruction. Cows roamed everywhere, mooing to each other. If he could just crawl away...
"Cornet Harding!" The thumping again, and Wesley found himself staring at a
huge, frankly fat cow with somber eyes. Was it speaking? What was it saying? And why was it wearing a fur hat with a red star on it?
"Who are you?" he asked softly.
The cow didn't reply. It did lift one hoof, poise it over Harding's head, then strike.
***
A slamming door. Light streamed into the room. Harding sat up sharply and shielded his eyes. Cold and covered with sweat, he pulled the blanket over his chest as the intruder dimmed her lamp.
"I beg pardon for intruding," Elizabeth Potter told him. "But I heard you call out and you didn't answer the door. Did you have a nightmare?"
"I think I ate too much beef."
------------
(1) See 'Eagles of Avalon' by Mettermrck for more of the misadventures of Remus the Roman wannabe 
See what you've done, Coz and Stuyvesant??
