-= 136 =-
April 1784
Cherokee Country
"Come in! We almost began without you!" General Allen smiled benignly as Charles Merritt ducked to enter Heyward's tent. Coffee always made Allen more amiable. Coffee and soft tack could work miracles.
"Apologies, sir," Merritt said to Tom, ignoring the buffoon. "I was making sure my men were victualed."
Allen opened his mouth to comment, but Heyward waved his hand. "No worries," he murmured. A long, sleepless night full of a hundred worries, all of which would magically disappear once he finished with the Cherokee, left him in a fog that two cups of coffee and one of tea couldn't dissipate. "Have a seat, General. We'll work out the plan while we eat."
"Excellent!" The northerner sat as a steward appeared with their meal: Sausage, ham, eggs, cheese, bread. "My God you do well for yourselves."
"Surprisingly well considering the famine," Tom replied, glancing at Allen, who flushed.
"Eh?"
"Nothing." The bread was almost hard enough to be used to sharpen swords, but cheese and a few thumps on the table seemed to answer. Tom ate little, instead watching his companions systematically devastate their breakfast. "You seem chuffed."
Pleased indeed. Merritt beamed. "Ain't you? I always feel like this before a battle!"
"General Heyward has trouble sleeping," Allen explained quickly.
"Thank you," Tom answered, frowning.
"I, for one, am prime," Allen added as he annexed another two sausages. "With the plan we discussed last night, sir, we cannot fail!"
"I've decided on another plan,"
Allen looked up, startled. "But..."
Heyward turned to the northerner. "You'll set up on our right flank and take that ford. Continue across and engage. General Allen, you'll do the same with the left. We'll leave a weaker force in the center - just enough to hold, but not penetrate. I'm counting on you to double-envelope and thus crush them between you."
"Cannae," Merritt grinned.
"Sir...I really think we should reopen last night's discussion. By allowing General Merritt the... honor of leading the attack, I believe..."
"Are you saying we're not ready to fight?" Tom snapped.
Allen glanced at the northerner and flushed. "Of course not. No, sir."
"Then we will go with my plan. I will stay back and coordinate with the gunners as well as deploy if either of you need assistance." Tom rubbed his forehead. So close. All he had to do was win this battle, siege one last town, then he could tell this whole army where to get stuffed. Not to mention a man named...
"Will you address the men?" Allen asked finally.
"No. I'll leave the instructions to you."
The two generals exchanged looks at his tone. "Sir," Allen paused. "Even if you just speak to the colonels, I'm sure a few encouraging words..."
"I'm sure you can handle it," Tom replied, glaring at him.
Merritt shifted. "Well..." He finished his coffee and slammed the cup down. "I must get back and deploy. I hope to see you after the battle."
"One moment." Heyward swiveled to him. "There is a European among them. He'll probably be wearing a European uniform. Capture him, by all means, but don't hurt him. I want every man to know the one who hurts him answers to me personally."
Merritt blinked. "I will ... tell them, of course. But sir, you know in the heat of battle..."
"No excuses, General!"
"No, sir." Merritt frowned at Allen, then left.
"Sir," the older man began once they were alone.
"That will be all, General Allen. We must be away. Let's get this day over with."
The Plan
****
If not for their lack of uniforms and darker complexions, and one understanding military affairs forgave their archaic muskets, one could mistake them for European line infantry. Dieter von Zahringen paced in front of the Cherokee, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting them as he inspected the Baden Home Guard so many years before. Occasionally he corrected a man's grip on his gun. The braves frowned at this strange display of line and square. What did this have to do with war?
Chesmu agreed. He stalked behind von Zahringen, huffing like an enraged bull. "You are wasting time!" he shouted.
The Badener ignored him. Corrected another man's grip. Smiled encouragingly and patted him on the shoulder.
"And these are the weapons of the enemy!" Chesmu grabbed the offending musket and held it in one hand, glaring like it might strike.
Von Zahringen turned slowly. "I am in command here, Chesmu." His accent still brought puzzled frowns to most faces, but they could piece together what he said now.
"You may have convinced the chiefs to fight this war your way, but you have not convinced me! Nor them!" Chesmu pointed at the army.
"I have the chiefs' trust. I have their respect. You are not a chief."
"Not today," Chesmu hissed. "Some day..."
"Some day you may advise me on command." The Badener ripped the musket from his hands and gave it back to its owner. "But not today."
The Indian snarled. Dieter turned to the massed army. "Men!" His voice couldn't reach the entire army, but those who couldn't hear him would learn what he said from their friends. "For a year we have watched the Americans. They have killed your men or sold them as slaves. They have raped and polluted your women. They have taken your children. Today they will try to cross the river. Should they get past us there will be nothing that can stop them from reaching your homes. Your families. Your tribe."
"Some wonder," he glanced at Chesmu, "Why I fight with you. That is a fair question. Just as there are many tribes in the Cherokee, there are many tribes among my people. Not all of us think this is right. Not all of us wage war without reason. I am here to show you that truth, and I am here because they have broken our own laws of what a warrior can do in battle."
"Others of you wonder why your chiefs gave you the weapons of the white men, and why I have you fight as them. The ways your ancestors fought against the other tribes worked well against them. Against the white man though, you must use their tactics and their weapons. It is the only way to show them you are not the savages they believe. More importantly, it is the only way to win."
Braves glanced back and forth, muttering at this unwelcome intelligence. Chesmu snorted openly.
"Men! In the end it is not your weapons that will prevail, nor your tactics. We will defeat them because today our cause is just. Today you fight not for yourselves, but for everyone you care for. Today your ancestors and the spirits walk with us! Today," the Badener roared, drawing his sword and pointing at the river, "we avenge our fallen and we destroy the terror in our midst!"
****
"What in hell's name...?" General Merritt muttered as what appeared to be Cherokee line infantry -
line infantry! - appeared out of the trees. Heyward's European was a busy fellow. He looked forward to talking to him. "Signal all colonels: Attack!"
Trumpets and drums joined the shouts of ten thousand excited soldiers and the war cries of their foe. Merritt's first regiment charged into the cold river, sloshing slowly with guns and powder boxes over their heads lest the swirling water destroy them. His second regiment followed. The Cherokee infantry opened at sixty yards, an acceptable if not brilliant line fire that checked their advance. While they reloaded a second line appeared on their right, and they too fired.
"Damn them!" the general shouted. "Enough of this! Get across now!" He waved his sword at the far shore as his horse stepped into the river, nickered at the unexpected chill and bobbed its head up and down in protest.
By now the first line fired again. Determined, and with their fellows pressing at their backs, the northern infantry slogged ahead. Merritt drew his pistol as a third line appeared, fired. They answered him. Screams filled the air. Men fell where they stood, the lucky ones floating downstream while the others, stuck in the river mud, slumped in mid-formation as if they chose that moment to take a nap only to be pulled and pushed out of the way by their mates. Charles wiped the sweat from his chin. This was always the hardest part of an offensive attack, the advance.
He glanced downstream to see how the rest of the battle fared and cursed. That bloody jackass Allen was still on his side of the river, exchanging musket fire with them! What the hell was he waiting for? Even if he
won his exchange he had to cross the water eventually, and in the God damned Indians could gang up on him. Cannae? Sure, if half the Carthaginian army had decided in mid battle to take a break for tea!
At last his first regiment made the opposite shore and paused to fix bayonets. Merritt smiled, then his eyes widened. "Hell..."
***
"I said 'Charge!'" von Zahringen shouted. He watched the messenger run off and shook his head, then resumed watching the battle. Occasionally the American cannon spoke from a nearby ridge, but at this range any hit was pure luck. One unlucky ball actually hit their own center, which kept Chesmu chuckling for almost five minutes. The Badener looked back and forth. Delicate. Very delicate.
"Why are you charging?" Chesmu demanded, pressing his face closer to the Badener. "I thought you wanted to fight as the whites do! With guns!"
"Look." Von Zahringen pointed to his left. "They're almost across the river. If they manage to properly deploy they'll have the advantage. If we attack now they're still in the water." He indicated the center. "That's his weak point. We can push across and split their army." Then to the right: "And their commander is either a fool or a coward. He should have charged with his friend."
"Where is this man you know? This 'General'?"
"I don't see him." The Badener pointed to the cannon. "Probably there watching the battle."
"I look forward to meeting him." Chesmu pat his knife and grinned.
"If we do capture him, he will be accorded all the honors of war!"
"You fight your way. I'll fight mine."
****
There is no honor in battle. Before? Certainly. Merritt grew up loving the parades of British infantry and cavalry through his home town of Hartford, Connecticut. After? Fair enough: Honor ensured you could live with your enemy when the war was over. Not during, though. In the middle of a battle there's only one rule.
He could still dimly hear his horse screaming some ten yards behind him, churning the water into a pink frenzy as it struggled against a destiny delivered by musket. The water roared in his ears, though even here in mid-river it was no deeper than his waist. Men pushed at him in all directions regardless of rank, the ones at front trying to buy themselves a few inches and those behind eager to get out of the damnable water. Someone shouted his name. Something hot whizzed past his head. Again the roaring. One last heroic push past two of his own men, one with blood pouring from his throat, and he was in the maelstrom.
Indians thrust at him with bayonet. This didn't seem their forte, but they proved wonderful at improvisation as they swung their rifles like axes, bayonets cutting almost as well as swords. Merritt had his out. He watched a blond haired boy fall in front of him, stepped in and slashed at a dark skinned face. A crimson spray blinded him and he hacked wildly. Someone screamed. Friend? Foe? The roaring returned, deafening. A solid wall shoved him from behind into someone's arms. That person saw fit to slug him. Merritt swung. Lost his sword, slick with blood. His vision cleared, though it still stung, and he wrapped his hands around the intruder's throat. He expected the man to back off or twist away. He didn't expect the Indian to butt him in the head! Stars. In the split second it took him to recover he tripped on someone's body and fell into the crimson water.
The Cherokee fell on top of him, trying to hold him down. Charles opened his eyes to icy water, but he had more pressing matters, like his thumping heart and burning chest. He tried to slap his hands over the brave's ears, but couldn't move his arms fast enough to hurt. Something dark above him, followed by a flurry of motion, and suddenly the Indian was gone. Merritt surfaced, gasping to find himself ten feet behind the front lines. "We're winning!" he shouted, or would have if he had any breath in his lungs. Men shoved him aside like he wasn't there, eager for blood.
****
Allen gaped as 'his' Indians surged into the river. They either didn't know that guns don't like water or didn't care, as they tucked them to their breast as they advanced. He swallowed hard. Another round of fire? Charge? Heyward would expect him to charge, but of course he was safe on his little hill leaving the butcher's bill to the real soldiers. Not that Allen blamed him, not really. He'd happily be on that little hill too.
Some sergeant made the decision for him. "CHARGE!" The cry tore from a thousand throats and the Carolinans advanced. A wild melee erupted in mid-river, occasionally broken up as American or Indian drifted down river from one of the other murder fests. Allen held back three whole companies as a reserve and watched critically from the bank as the battle raged. The Cherokee appeared to have the advantage - they fought like maniacs! The general looked back and forth for the telltale signs of a rout. None..yet. His men fought well, like southerners always do, and even seemed to be slowly winning but the Indians just kept coming! How many had the scouts said? Tens of thousands? How many men must he lose? How would he explain this to the families? To his friends?
"Sir," a messenger appeared, bleeding and out of breath. "Colonel Rice's compliments, and he requests your reserve."
"Colonel Rice?" Allen scanned the battle, shook his head and turned to a trumpeter of eight. "Prepare to signal: I am ordering a..."
Something shrieked over his head, close enough that the hot wind knocked Allen down. Screams and shouts from the river ahead trebled in intensity so that for a horrible moment he thought he'd found the pits of the damned. This impression seemed proven when the earth roared and shook as the world exploded.
****
Dieter von Zahringen lifted his chin in mute defiance at fate, staring through dazzled eyes at what was left of his right flank. A perfect cannon shot devastated the back ranks then exploded in a white hot flash.
"I see Thomas brought bombs," he said quietly.
Chesmu looked around quickly. Their left was retreating, their right destroyed. Only in the center did the Cherokee seem to be winning, and that barely. Once the Americans closed their trap...
"You," he snarled at Dieter, taking two steps back. "This is your fault!"
"We will win," von Zahringen replied, still staring at the carnage. "I will take our reserve and engage their right. God is with us."
Chesmu snarled.
****
Thomas Heyward, Commanding the Army of the South, rode down hill. By now he knew the blood shouldn't bother him, nor even the hacked or blown off body parts, but it still did. Disgusting. Smoke hung lazily over the river, a mixture of pungent gunpowder and burnt flesh. Some bright soul organized a detail to burn the bodies.
Much of the rest of his army, those not too badly wounded nor with a firm commander, picked at the dead and mostly came away disappointed. Their muskets weren't worth it, and the bayonets would be added to the army's stockpile. They salvaged some beaded jewelry, and more than one soldier walked away with a new soft leather tunic, but little else. Tom didn't bother trying to stop them. They left their fellow Americans alone, that would have to do.
A virtual dam of bodies actually blocked the Savannah River and pink water lapped at the nearby grass. Heyward found a soldier wandering aimlessly and stopped. "You! Are you injured?"
The soldier turned, offering no sign of recognition. "No."
"Where's your commander?"
He turned as if expecting someone to appear or answer the question. "Dunno."
"And your squad?"
"Dunno."
Heyward looked him over. No, no obvious injuries. He noticed the two chevrons on the soldier's arm. "Corporal, take a detail and clear that mess." He pointed at the impromptu dam.
The corporal stared at it. "Who put that there?" he wondered.
Who indeed.
A few minutes later he found General Allen limping about, shouting orders to his men. Blood seeped from a cloth tied to his leg and an open wound on his cheek. Allen's wig was...gone, exposing his balding grey-haired pate.
"General!"
"And we'll set up camp here. Where is that surgeon?" He turned about. "When you find him, tell him I need my leg looked at. He can very well do that while they set up a field hospital." Allen finally caught Heyward's eye. "Do you know what those devils on the hill did? They fired a bomb at me!"
"I think they were aiming for the Indians," Tom answered. He'd ordered the attack when it looked like his left might break.
"Well they hit me!" Allen pointed at his leg indignantly. "And they devastated my men!"
Heyward watched men run back and forth. "They don't look devastated."
"Nonsense! I lost a hundred men in that blast! Where is that damned doctor?"
A colonel rode to them and saluted. "Colonel Decker, Fifth New York, sir. I wanted to say..."
Tom turned. "Congratulations, colonel. Your men fought well."
"Thank you, sir, but..."
"Where's General Merritt? I want to speak with him."
Decker paused. "Dead."
Tom's jaw dropped. "How?"
"In the thick of the fighting on the right side, sir. I didn't see it, but I hear they cut him off from the others. He took three or four of them with him." Decker looked around the field, found nothing comforting and stared at his horse's back. "I think he would've wanted it that way."
Depressionn. Casualties would be high. Too high for such a stupid fight that could have been avoided. Tom could only hope it was worth it. He sighed audibly. "I'm sorry, Colonel."
Decker hesitated and looked up, pale. For a moment Tom thought this man too was hurt, but when he stepped forward the colonel came to attention. "Sir, I must report. Your...that is to say, General Merritt asked us to be on the lookout for a European."
****
Generals Allen and Heyward followed Decker across the blood spattered field. Mostly Indians died on this side of the river. Occasionally they could hear moaning from the wounded and dying, cut off in a shriek as vengeful and greedy soldiers found them. Tom leapt off his horse and broke into a run when he spotted two soldiers guarding one of the bodies. "Oh God..." he moaned.
"NO!"[/b[ He shoved past them and dropped to his knees.
Allen folded his arms as his commander cried and shook this enemy, urging him to wake before finally cradling him like a child. The European chose his fate, it was only right he take his medicine. It was more than unseemly to do this when he'd barely noticed the men lost on his own side. "Sir..."
"I'm sorry," Tom wept. "I should have found a way. I..."
Allen noticed two soldiers staring and gripped his shoulder. "Sir!"
Heyward froze in mid sob. He hissed and lifted his face. Allen recoiled from the pure hatred in his eyes. Tom leveled the lethal gaze at Decker. "Who?"
The colonel had removed his hat in respect for the fallen. His eyes widened and he paled further. "Sir?"
"Who shot him?" Tom snarled.
"I don't know!"
"You were here, Colonel!" Heyward leapt to his feet, body forgotten. "You saw it! Who fired the shot!"
"I don't know! Sir..."
"Like hell you don't!" Heyward reached for his sword.
"Sir, twasn't one of us! I swear it!"
"And how do you know that if you weren't here!?"
"Look at the body, sir! The hole's too big for our guns, sir. Twas one of theirs! And sir, he was shot from behind!"
Tom opened his mouth to retort. Shut it. Stared at his friend Dieter von Zahringen. Decker was right. Damn him.
No. Damn them all.
"As you said," Allen began nervously. "We won, now we can end this war. Sir? Where...?"
"You end it, General!" Tom snapped as he mounted.
"But..."
"I am done with this! Mister Rutledge and I are going to have a chat!"
