Chapter 34: Alone in the Crowd
2nd April, 1777
near White Plains, New York
"That wasn't bad, men, but let's see if we can do better." Captain Robert Wallace politely ignored the grimaces crossing his men's faces. One soldier groaned. "Come on now. You can't expect to play harry with the Englishmen if you don't practice now. Back into column, there you go."
Waymouth sat astride his horse in the first rank and grunted. This would be the sixth charge on an enemy's flank today. Wallace was right though, they descended on their foe more like a mob then a 'spear into the enemy's heart,' they weren't ready. General Pulaski seemed to agree. He'd spread his command over several square miles and they all practiced, preparing for a war that was at least a year off.
"....old fart."
"What was that, Preston?" Waymouth turned in his saddle and glowered. John just wasn't the same lately. Perhaps it was this missing girl (barely a week passed without a new request to go find her,) or something else had happened in Philadelphia, but he was growing surly and barely manageable. His platoon hated him, and even his friends were shying away. They would need to talk again, soon.
John jumped slightly, sat straight in his saddle. "Nothing, cornet, sir!" he barked.
"Come here, Preston." He nodded to the rider next to him and they smoothly switched positions. "You're really irritating me, son."
"Apologies, cornet, sir!" John stared straight ahead, at the bales of hay doing their best to imitate a British infantry line.
"Keep it down." Waymouth continued quietly. "I am wondering whether you'd be happier going back to Philadelphia for awhile. You're not doing anyone any good here."
"Wrong direction, sir," Preston muttered.
"Yes, I know, you want to go to Canada. Well, until you can give me more than 'she's out there somewhere' you aren't going anywhere, mister. We're not going to endanger our entire intelligence effort so you can go on a wild goose chase," he hissed. "You think you're the only one missing a girlfriend or a wife? Most of the men here left them behind when we started. You need to..."
"Is there a problem, cornet?" asked Captain Wallace politely.
"No, sir!"
"Then kindly attend to the briefing?" Wallace continued in his long-winded way about cavalry warfare, how given current tactical doctrine the height of skill was to fall on the flank of one's enemy and turn it with saber and pistol. Given Pulaski's force had no infantry and therefore very poor firepower, maneuverability was their one advantage - that and the inherent conservatism of the British army, which....
Preston wasn't attending. He glowered at the captain, his heart beating very fast as he flushed bright red. He growled in contempt.
Cornet Waymouth ... amazing how much damage a simple rank could do to a man's character ... didn't understand. None of them understood. They at least knew where their wives and 'sweethearts' were - safe, at home, for the greater part well behind the fighting. Cassie could be anywhere by now, every day pushing her farther away. He didn't know where she was, that was true. He had some ideas though: Fort Niagara, then up to York, Montreal, Quebec. Someone in the Canadian colonial government knew where she was, he'd ride all the way to Halifax if need be. Anyway cavalry tactics were fairly simple. See the enemy. Charge the enemy. Kill the enemy.
"Now, at the trot!" This was to be a simulated assault on an infantry line's left flank. Starting from a column, Pulaski's plan called for the rear two-thirds or so to start fanning out to the right, somewhat like a sabre swinging with the front ranks - the heaviest, sturdiest (and slowest) horsemen simulating the hilt. The front would charge into the flank, probably receiving a volley of musketfire for their efforts, while the rest would continue swing around and slamming into the line's side and rear. It certainly looked good on paper, though it called for precision timing.
Preston briefly wondered what Waymouth would do if he pretended to be a casualty and so disrupted the front line. A quick glance behind him, at the determined trot of several hundred men behind him, convinced him not to try. A lone soldier by the bales of hay fired a single shot into the air, simulating the British attack. That was the signal, while the infantrymen tried to reload the cavalry would draw their sabres and charge. Waymouth lowered his banner, and around him the roar of thundering hooves, and the metallic ring of uncountable sabres.
John charged, howling at the infantry 'line.' He swung violently at an invisible foe, and then they were through - a thousand men in more or less line formation, bursting through the British line. It was actually moderately glorious. Now if only the British would show up....
"Not bad," Wallace offered once the charge broke down. "Not great, but not bad." His clerk held up a pocket watch. Wallace glanced at it. "Yes, not bad. The intent is to prevent the enemy from firing more than one volley, or if firing by row no more than four times. You may have succeeded." Preston grinned tightly.
"Now we'll try it from the left side." The grin faded.
Exhausted horse, exhausted rider. The sun was well into its downswing when Preston finally stabled his horse, brushing it down as he'd been taught. It was a great, brown creature, larger than most of the others and sturdier. Regardless, the beast shuddered as he stood, gulping away at a trough of water.
"I'm starting to think we'll have to go without them," he told the horse quietly. It nickered in reply. "None of them understand. None of them know."
"Hey John!" Wesley poked his head in. "Captain said we did so well we could take tomorrow off. Some of us are heading for the city. Shall you come?"
"No, I shan't come!" Preston barked. "Leave me alone!"
"Well, bugger you!" Wesley disappeared.
"What are we going to do?" The horse offered no answers, turning solemn brown eyes on him. John sighed.
That's a very good reason not to bother with a navy. You know the game's going to be trouble when the computer starts mocking you.
