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diff --git a/78480-0.txt b/78480-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6df1aed --- /dev/null +++ b/78480-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,800 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78480 *** + + A BATTLE PIECE + + By Ernest Haycox + + Author of “With Grape and Bayonet,” + “A Cup of Sugar,” etc. + + +It was late on the night of August 26, 1776. The sun had set blood red +beyond the Jersey palisades, touching, as it dipped, the British ships +in New York harbor. The nine thousand Continentals camped on Brooklyn +Heights, with their backs to the East River and their gun muzzles +pointed toward the rugged hills which masked Flatbush, wondered where +Howe kept himself and wished for the actual presence of Washington. + +“Old Uncle Putnam!” grumbled the spruce Marylanders. “Galloping around +here in his shirt sleeves and a dirty leather jacket. A ---- New England +farmer. A very fine appearing gentleman, indeed. Why doesn’t Washington +put a military man in command of the Long Island troops?” + +In this impatient mood they scanned the line of hill and timber before +them. Through that dark mass were scattered their outposts and beyond +it somewhere Howe moved his twenty thousand troops--of which number a +great many were veterans of the continent--and waited for a chance to +fling them against the rebellious Americans in the first open and +pitched battle of the revolution. + +“Why won’t he come and fight it now?” fretted the Marylanders. “Why +won’t Washington force him? Why don’t we fight?” + +High-strung men, these sons of planters and Baltimore shopkeepers; proud +but green troops who did not yet know what iron discipline or patient +waiting meant. + +“Howe’s afraid,” said the New Englanders posted in the distant timbered +defiles. “He’s remembering Bunker Hill and he wants to take his time. +But why don’t they bring up reinforcements? We can’t hold these passes +against the whole British army. Where is Washington?” + +If they thought the commander-in-chief slept and forgot them they were +mistaken. Washington stood in New York town and stared across the black +tide of the East River; watching anxiously, knowing that the odds were +heavy against the untenable position over there; knowing, too, that his +general had not fully comprehended the spirit of his orders. + +His last injunction to Putnam had been, “Keep an eye on the Jamaica +road. I fear your main trouble will be from that quarter.” He had +personally supervised the placing of the troops on Long Island. He +himself had seen to the disposition of trenches on the Heights and +had even gone so far as to pace off a distance of ten yards in front +of these trenches. “Do not waste powder. If attacked, wait until the +enemy is within this space before firing.” He, too, had placed the +outposts in the two defiles of the broken hills; one on the +southwestern end and one in the center. By these two passes only +could Howe penetrate the jungle of brush, marsh and sharp inclines. +But there was another road to the northeast which skirted the range +entirely--the Jamaica highway. And Washington had repeated again, +“Keep a sharp lookout along that road.” + +Old Israel Putnam, a doughty, courageous veteran of the French and +Indian campaigns, gaily agreed and rode away as if he were on a holiday. +To fight was his business and if he found the enemy he would engage. +Meanwhile, like a jolly old uncle he circulated among his soldiers quite +as if he were at a town meeting. + + * * * * * + +Sergeant Abner Cotton led his detail back through the dark, answered the +challenge of the sentry and trudged toward the general’s tent. There was +no formality about speaking with Putnam. One private supposedly stood +guard at the door but Putnam, hearing the sergeant’s voice, boomed out-- + +“Ne’mind that horseplay! Come in, sonny, come in!” Sergeant Cotton +entered, saluted and stood straight. + +“What’s the story, sonny?” + +“I went as far as ordered, sir, and saw nothing. Another patrol passed +me on the Jamaica road but the sergeant in charge said he’d found +nothing suspicious either.” + +“All right, sonny. Guess you’ve done your night’s work. Meanwhile your +company’s moved out to the hills, so you just fall in with the nearest +outfit--that will prob’ly be the Maryland boys.” + +Cotton saluted and started to leave; Putnam held him with a gesture and +looked at the young man’s face as if he were reading a book. There could +be no mistaking the nativity of Abner Cotton. Yankee awkwardness and +Yankee conscience were stamped plainly on his features. His nut-brown +cheeks were almost cadaverous and a kind of parsimony of flesh was +evident from head to foot; he was, in fact, bony and march-worn. When he +moved, it needed no second glance to place him as one who had worked +hard all his life and in consequence had learned to husband his efforts. +The illusion was further sustained by a thin-lipped mouth that appeared +to be keeping in attempted speech. All in all, it made the man seem a +little grim, a trifle dour, a shade hard-bitten; as if living had been +none too easy and as if there were nothing much to laugh about in a +toilsome world. But the eyes told another story. They were veritable +mirrors of the man’s conscience. + +“Sonny,” said Putnam, worrying a quill pen in his chubby fist, “your +face does look f’miliar. What’s name?” + +“Cotton, sir.” + +The general’s face lighted with a rare, beaming smile. + +“Thought so. Know your Paw. Carried a fowling piece with him in Canada +years ago. Good heart, good mind--Cotton’s, I mean.” + +He nodded. + +Sergeant Cotton retreated to his detail, dismissed them and made his way +slowly to the foremost fires which danced fitfully and brilliantly +behind the rough earthworks. One particular blaze seemed less crowded +than the others and he advanced to it. Within ten yards a remark floated +out to him: + +“There’s a ---- Yankee now, in a regular Yankee suit of clothes. Good +----, don’t they know how to dress?” + +His head was bent a little in reflection and so none could see the +slight change of features. He passed the remark by as if he had been +oblivious to it and advanced to the heat. The Marylanders regarded +him in a speculative, disapproving silence. One gave way a little to +admit him; he sat down and looked into the flames, offering nothing +by way of greeting. He was more or less familiar with these proud, +high-spirited Southerners, their fine manners and their well-kept +buff-and-blue uniforms; he knew them to be prejudiced against +anything savoring of New England. He knew they looked upon him as +almost an alien. Perhaps if he could speak well he might mingle with +these men, make them see that although he came from another province +he was as they were. Clothes made no difference. They had ruffles on +their shirts and their buttons were bright and their gaiters clean. +He had no ruffles at all and no gaiters covered his homespun socks +and cowhide shoes. + +But they were all fighting for the same end. Moreover that fight had +begun--and he felt a mild touch of pride in the fact--on Yankee soil. +It was New England who first had shown her stiff backbone and given +the other colonies the tempo of American humor. But, though he thought +it, he could not say it. The words were landlocked; he had spent too +many years at sober communion to change style now. So he kept his eyes +lowered, listening to the idle talk around him. + + * * * * * + +“Sure’s my name is Alex Carroll, if we don’t fight soon I’ll walk home. +I came to tote a gun, not a shovel. Let the ---- Yankees dig ditches. +They do it so well.” + +A silence pervaded the circle. Sergeant Cotton would not take notice +of them and presently the talk flowed again. Then he spent a brief +glance around him. Handsome, flushed faces. All full of plain +courage, all sighing for glory. But of other and more sober virtues, +he told himself, perhaps he knew more. The same drawling voice broke +in: + +“Putnam! A fine general to command a Southern brigade. Man likes to +feel at home under his commanding officer. For me, I need a Southern +gentleman to give me orders. Sure’s my name’s Alex Carroll, I’ll not +abide the word of a New Englander.” + +Sergeant Cotton’s fine eyes were lighted with trouble. He seemed +struggling with his conscience, as perhaps he had been doing all his +life. At last his mild voice, waiting for a lull in the talk, broke +in, hesitant but free from embarrassment. + +“Guess you’ll find some New Englanders that know about war.” + +The circle turned upon him, voicing their hereditary antagonism. Carroll +swooped down with a single, malicious-- + +“Who?” + +Sergeant Cotton ventured to put up his own general’s name. + +“Putnam knows enough to win battles.” + +A howl of scorn overwhelmed him. The Marylanders rent “Uncle Putnam” in +a dozen shreds. + +“He looks like a village blacksmith, not a soldier,” added Carroll. + +“Clothes, now,” ventured the sergeant, “do they make a fighting man?” + +“There are certain elements of military discipline and appearance that +go with general officers,” stiffly admonished Carroll. “If they have not +dignity and command, how can they inspire their subordinates?” + +Cotton was imperturbable. He seemed to be searching himself to find +the proper words, to gain these men over by the use of a mild +reasonableness. + +“He was good enough at Bunker Hill,” he reminded them. “Right smart +amount of New Englanders there. Guess they did a little fighting. +Seemed so to me.” + +That silenced most, but not Alex Carroll the impatient, the scornful. + +“Good ----! Must we be forever hearing about Bunker Hill? They talk as +if it was the only battle under heaven. Why did you break and run when +you had the British twice beaten and disorganized?” + +Sergeant Cotton’s eyes were half closed; he seemed to be reviewing +the memorable struggle in which he had played a part at the immortal +redoubt. + +“Powder and shot. Can’t fight without ammunition or parry a bayonet with +a gun butt.” + +“So? Maryland men, had they been there, would have died to the last +private before quitting that hill!” + +The resounding sentence met with the circle’s manifest approval. Alex +Carroll raised his head, flushed by the sounding oratorical blast. + +Sergeant Cotton’s ancestry permitted him a dry, wintry smile. It +skittered over his face and vanished. + +“Guess you’ll most all have a chance to do that before this war’s over,” +said he and drew within his shell. + +He had done an undue amount of talking and he had not succeeded. He +could not find the words that would touch them; he could not penetrate +that fraternity of spirits and he felt a little lonely, a little +disappointed. Brotherhood was a very real thing to Cotton; he believed +in it with a stronger faith than he believed in anything else, saving +only everlasting salvation. He would have made a great many sacrifices +to show these Southerners that he, as a New Englander, was a man of +their own stamp and standing, possessing their own optimisms and +follies. He wanted to vindicate his people; he wanted sorely to do his +mite to ease a little of that antagonism and prejudice which existed +so heartily in America. And he wanted, in his wistful way, to join +that cheerful camaraderie. But he was a mute instrument; regretfully +he thought of precious pen and ink. He wanted to inscribe in his +neglected diary--he had not written in it for five days--that which he +could not put in speech. + +Alex was again speaking. + +“As for me, I will never believe New Englanders make good fighters. They +lack spirit. ----, they’ve no dash! They go at a battle as if it were a +job in ditch digging. It stands to reason that a people so accustomed to +spade and ax lack the flame that goes with good soldiers. My name’s not +Alex Carroll if I ever let one give me orders.” + +The fire veered and spent a momentary gleam upon Sergeant Cotton and +upon the narrow red flannel tabard pinned to his shoulder which +indicated his rank. Once more had Carroll arrived at a challenge and +once more did the circle wait. Sergeant Cotton’s sturdy democracy, +of the same part and parcel as old General Putnam’s, spoke forth. + +“Guess I’ll never ask a man to do anything I’d be afraid or unwilling +to do,” said he with just a shade more than the usual vigor. “But if +he doesn’t do it then I shall name him a coward.” + +The camp fires along the Heights flickered and died. Most of the men +were rolled in their blankets and sleeping under the open sky. A few +of the more suspicious or forehanded kept the blanket rolled and +ready, themselves stretched by the flames, dozing lightly. Sergeant +Cotton sat cross-legged and communed with himself, now staring at the +orange point of the seeking blaze, now watching the star-scattered +heavens. His eyes, so perfectly mirroring the inner man, were a +little sad. He had tried very hard to join this circle of men. In his +own quiet fashion he admired their dash and their gallantry. His own +manner was so different. + + * * * * * + +Howe, the ever-cautious, at last satisfied himself of the enemy’s +position and under cover of the night set in motion the ranks and +columns of the twenty thousand. There were only three routes of +advance upon the American position; he dispatched Grant and a brigade +of Highlanders to push through the southwestern gap; De Heister and +the Hessians moved directly onward to the central pass; while he, +himself, with the main body, pressed onward over the Jamaica road. +Thus did the British army advance upon the dark woods in three +separate columns. It was half a night’s journey and the trampling +feet sent clouds of summer’s dust rolling over farmer’s hedges and +rosebushes while accouterments clinked and bayonets gleamed. But Long +Island was Tory and no word or suspicion of their progress was +heralded until, in the early morning, Grant’s Highlanders met the +American pickets at the southwestern pass and set up a skirmishing, +tentative fire. + +It was three o’clock when a messenger from the outpost made the three +miles back to Putnam’s tent on Brooklyn Heights. He dropped off his +horse with a weary gesture that was meant to be, but was not, a +salute. + +“Captain Ord begs to report, sir, that the enemy has advanced and opened +fire. Very heavy force, and it sounds like it might be a general attack. +Our line has retreated to heavier timber.” + +Sergeant Abner Cotton, still sitting cross-legged by the fire, saw them +waiting for further sounds. He heard snatches of talk among the staff +officers-- + +“Howe may be over there--sounds like attack in force, all right--but the +left flank?” + +Putnam was impatient; he made a pretense of listening for warning in +another quarter. Washington had warned him of the exposed Jamaica +road. But there was action ensuing in the southwest, and where powder +burned the stanch old warrior was reluctant not to join the issue. +Nothing indicated that the enemy was anywhere save in the southwest. +On that basis he made his decision. + +“General Stirling, take the Delaware and Maryland battalions and support +the pass to the southwest.” + +Abner Cotton rose and inspected his gun. Presently the drums rolled and +the cry went down the line. + +“Marylanders, roll out, roll out! We’re going to march! Roll out, roll +out!” + +The sergeant leaned on his weapon and waited for formation. Uncle Putnam +was pacing back and forth like an impatient mastiff. He saw his scout +and came up. + +“Now take care of yourself, sonny.” + +The sergeant saluted gravely, fell in, and marched through the darkness. + +The firing that came out of the southwest seemed to advance on +successive waves, rising and falling, running in ragged volleys and +in sharp, explosive detonations. The column fell over the hill and +groped along an uncertain road. Up at the head of the line a cry was +picked up and carried on. + +“Watch out for horsemen! Make way to the right!” + +They grudgingly relinquished the road for the uncertainties of marsh +land. Three riders came by at a gallop. Questions were flung after +them and a shouted, unintelligible answer was returned. + +Sergeant Abner Cotton stumbled in the file-closers as they descended +the hill and crossed the lone bridge over Gowanus creek. The column +swung sharply to the southwest with the Delawares under Colonel Haslet +in the lead and the Marylanders following. To a man they were +jubilant. They sang, they swore, they laughed hilariously. After all +the weary weeks of waiting they were going into battle. Moreover, they +were going into battle under a Southern general and a man who boasted +being a Scottish lord. Fit commander for proud troops. If they did not +distinguish themselves this coming day, then let Maryland never again +claim them as sons. Somebody crooned a melody and in a moment the line +broke into song. + +“Stop that singing, men. Want to draw the whole British army down on us? +Close up--close up! We’ve got a long ways to go.” + +The singing subsided amid muttered rebellion. + +“Sure’s my name’s Alex Carroll, I’ll not vote for Ben Marshall as +captain next company election. He’s too strict to suit me.” + +“Well, old horse, we’re going to fight for a change. How’s that suit +your liver? Bet you wish Polly Mellis could see you now.” + +“That’s what we came for, wasn’t it? Let the New Englanders dig +ditches.” + +“Hurrah for Baltimore, boys! Guess the old town’ll hear something soon +enough.” + +“Well, anyway, the general had sense enough to pick out fighting troops +to take care of the heavy work. Wonder if we’re goin’ to have the honor +of whipping the whole British army on Long Island?” + + * * * * * + +Sergeant Cotton was silent. In all the extravagant, boisterous speech +he caught the twang of nervousness, the note of anxiety. They spoke a +little too loud and their laughter was pitched in an abnormally treble +key. He contrasted these fellows with his comrades who had stood behind +the redoubt at Bunker Hill and watched the flashing, close-ordered line +of British bayonets advance up the incline. They had not jested to hide +their nervousness. They had not been ashamed of that nervousness, even +though they were starting a great war and knowing that if they failed +they were all doomed to hang, as traitors to the English king. They had +been deadly sober when face to face with death. And they had fought as +well as men can fight. + +The column passed into the woods. The gravel crunched under their feet. +Accoutrements clacked and swished. They had worn off a little of their +vigor and for a half hour, and then another half hour, slogged along, +nearly silent. + +“Close up, men! Close up!” + +“You’d think, by ----, we were on the drill ground,” muttered Alex +Carroll. “Ain’t that fool got anything better to think of than ‘close +up?’” + +The sound of firing grew stronger in the cool air. A rooster crowed for +the morning and a light flared in a farmhouse window, winking through +the trees. A draught of wind struck Sergeant Cotton. The night shadows +were dissolving into the first false dawn. He saw the tree-tops against +the sky and found them parting to admit the road as it slashed through +the hills. Suddenly the firing bore down on them from ahead. The column +came to a halt while one of the lonely pickets who had borne the brunt +of the first attack filtered through the brush. + +The Marylanders were uneasy. + +“What’re we stopping for? This ain’t no place to leave a column. Might +be ambushed.” + +The picket laughed. + +“Glad to see you boys come. They ain’t in the woods. They’re out on the +far side of a meadow, poppin’ away like it was target practice. Ain’t +moved ten feet forward all night. Noise and bluster, but no real attack. +Wait ’till morning comes and then you’ll see fighting.” + +“That isn’t far off,” said a Marylander. “I’m right curious to see how +this gun shoots.” + +“Guess you’ll find that out, too,” prophesied the picket. “You Southern +boys been wantin’ to fight. Sure get a belly full of it before sundown. +Mark my word.” + +A Maryland corporal was thinking of grand tactics. + +“This may be a feint to draw us away from the main point of attack. +Sounds queer to me they don’t push forward.” + +“Why, you don’t figure we’re bein’ led away from the hot work?” + +“Either that,” replied the corporal darkly, “or else they mean to crush +us from the side.” + +“Shut up, Cæsar, and keep your commentaries for the barracks room.” + +The column dissolved and fell wearily against the banks of the defile. +Horsemen galloped to and fro and at each such excursion Alex Carroll +and his compatriots grew more and more fretful. They didn’t mind hot +work, they opined, but it was ---- uncomfortable, this feeling around +in the dark like a troop of gray ghosts playing tag. + +“Where’s the general? Hope he didn’t go back to the Heights and leave +us.” + +“Say! He wouldn’t do that! He’s taking a little reconnaissance of the +ground.” + +“Boys, it’s going to be a dreadful hot day. I can smell it in the air.” + +It promised as much. Sergeant Cotton, serenely watching the light +arrive, felt the breeze turn warmer on his cheeks. The stars grew +dimmer. It left him with a small regret until he saw newer beauties +in the August woods. + +The column cocked its ear. There was a roar and a plunk, followed by a +spray of earth and leaves nearby. Within the minute a second and closer +geyser baptized the foremost Marylanders. Grant had opened his cannons +as a prelude to the dawn. + +“Fall in! fall in! Hurry up, men, we’ve got to get out of here!” + +“I should think so,” muttered Alex Carroll. “If I’m going to get shot +I’d at least want to see the enemy.” + +“Close up!” + +Sergeant Cotton felt like a veteran. He echoed the command down the +column. + +“Close up!” + +The reaction from Carroll was immediate. + +“You ---- New Englander, keep your orders for your own kind. Don’t ever +attempt to shout me around.” + +“Tain’t no time to be quarreling. Do as you’re told and keep your eyes +to the front.” + +They debouched swiftly from the defile and found themselves deploying +on a sloping meadow. The Delaware men were already stretched in close +lines on the ground and Maryland followed suit. Stirling and his men +marched up and down the front, encouraging them by example. A compact, +ruddy fellow was Stirling, fond of pleasure; a stubborn, capable +fighter who had yet not quite emancipated himself from the drill book. +Grant’s Highlanders, across the meadow, were under the cover of trees. +Stirling counseled his soldiers and kept them in formation on the open +ground. + +“Don’t break, boys. Keep elbow to elbow, fire slow and look for your +man. Never mind shelter. Let the other fellow do that. We’re fighting +continental style now and not Indian bushwhacking.” + +The cannonading continued in full force, a full-throated monotony of +booming that battered away at the ear drums for an hour and more as the +sun rose behind a bank of heat clouds. The musket balls came through the +air with a peculiar sighing sound--_wheeee--wheeee_. Marylanders cursed +the noise and inevitably ducked their heads. + +“Sounds like a cussed bee bothering around,” explained Alex Carroll. +“You ain’t exactly afraid of a bee, but nevertheless you’re careful.” + +“Ah,” murmured the man to his right. Carroll turned curiously and found +a blank, dead face staring at him. + +Sergeant Cotton, kneeling in the grass, saw a line of skirmishers pop +out of the woods, zigzag a hundred feet and drop. The Marylanders opened +a more vigorous fire. The powder stung Sergeant Cotton’s nostrils. + +“Aim low,” he counseled. “You’re shooting too high. Make the bullets +plough the ground. That’s the thing to get the nerves.” + +Alex Carroll turned stubbornly. + +“Guess I can fight without help.” + +“Looks like we’ll need all the help we can get,” replied the sergeant. +“Especially the Lord’s.” + + * * * * * + +The advanced line of Highlanders were finding better marks. The puffs +of powder ballooned up from their line. Another wave of skirmishers +moved out stolidly, reached the hundred-yard mark and faded in the +grass, whereupon the first set rose and trudged to the protection of +a rail fence. Stirling brandished his sword. + +“See, they don’t dodge and scurry. Show ’em we’re of the same metal. +Don’t waste the powder. Wait until they come in full force.” + +Into the mêlée, which was as yet only a minor engagement, arrived the +witness of another struggle in progress northward. The rolling report of +musketry reverberated over the meadows and the oak copses, punctuated by +the steady assault and reply of cannons. A murmur of wonder ran along +the line of Marylanders, marked by uneasiness. + +“Who’s that? Somebody trying to flank us? Good ----, let’s get up and +have this over with.” + +“Cæsar, your prognostication seems dead right.” + +“But what is it?” muttered another, screwing his flint tighter in the +socket. “Are we to be clamped between a vise, or is the real battle to +be up there?” + +_Wheeeeee!--Wheeeee!----_ + +“---- that bee!” broke out Alex Carroll. “Does a man never get over the +eternal habit of ducking.” + +“It doesn’t take long,” advised Sergeant Cotton comfortingly. “Comes a +time when you can hear a tune in that noise.” + +“A devilish tune.” + +The echoing reports northward burst into unprecedented fury. The sky +seemed rent by the belching of the heavy guns. The sun broke through +the heat clouds in a blood-red aura. It seemed to be a signal; or +more likely the noise of the not far distant engagement was the +signal. At any rate, a fresh line of skirmishers broke out of the +woods and found their position. Then, behind them, advancing in +splendid order, bayonets flashing, drums rolling, bagpipes skirling, +came the main body of Grant’s Highlanders with their kilts riffling +against their knees. Stirling’s men dug in their heels and prepared +for heavy work. A continuous rattle of musketry ran down the line. + +Sergeant Cotton felt the heat of the oppressive day. The sweat rolled +over his nut-brown face and the chaff of the meadow grass crept down +his neck. It was desperate work in the meadow and he wondered that men +could keep their heads amid such a clamor. He wistfully thought of the +bracing air and serenity of his own native State and lined up his +sights on an advancing kilt. There were gaps in the Maryland ranks. +Alex Carroll fought, a dead man on either side. Sergeant Cotton edged +up to his erstwhile antagonist and the two blazed away alternately, +each announcing the man he meant to take. + +“----, I’m thirsty!” croaked Carroll. “Did you ever see such heat?” + +“The work has only started.” + +Carroll swore. + +“You’re a cool one. ---- if I don’t think maybe I like you.” + +“The fight northward has died down,” said Sergeant Cotton meditatively. +“That’s the British trying to get through the Port Road, I guess. One +side or the other’s winded.” + +Stirling stood as plain as any target and shouted encouragement. Not a +hundred yards away the Highlanders wavered and took refuge behind +another rail fence while reorganizing their ranks. The American fire was +effective and continuous. Their own marksmanship was only indifferent. +But they knew no backward road and in a short space were again crawling +over the fence and forming in solid line. Sergeant Cotton marveled at +their ability to face fire without flinching. + +A courier galloped out of the woods and dismounted by the general. + +“You are being surrounded, sir! There’s a force cutting your +communication with the Heights. The bridge across Gowanus creek has +been burned.” + +Stirling’s ruddy cheeks went crimson and he dipped the point of his +sword to the ground, watching the Highlanders press onward. + +“The hounds are upon the fox, eh? Evidently we are being hunted by more +than one pack.” + +He clapped his hand to his chest. + +“I conceive it my duty to give the enemy as much trouble as I can. We +will drop back down the road. Colonel Haslet, bring your battalion off +first.” + +The Delaware battalion gave ground slowly, keeping up a vigorous fire +as they climbed the meadow to the defile. The Marylanders were still +more reluctant to go and covered the Highlanders until Haslet had his +men through the pass. Then they backed away. Sergeant Cotton and Alex +Carroll were side by side as the broken companies poured through the +gap and down the wooded coast road. It was for a short while something +worse than confusion, with captains crying and raising their swords +and young lieutenants rallying the ranks until the original outfits +were assembled. + +“Now where?” + +“General’s taking us back to the Heights. What’s the hurry? I believe we +could whip those Highlanders.” + +“Powerful lot of soldiers there, my boy. ----, but I’m dry!” + +“Where’s he taking us, anyway? ---- if I care about running from those +Scotch skirts.” + +“Better to run and fight another day. Anything but digging ditches. +There’s my mind on that subject.” + +“Boys, the general’s stopping. Maybe we’re going back.” + +“Oh ----!” + +The column halted. Stirling rode by the Marylanders and looked them over +with the eye of a man bent on particular knowledge. + +“Not much worse for the wear,” said he. “Just a little winded and the +blood up. Colonel Haslet, I think we’ll cheat Mister Howe of part of +his bag. Take your men and retreat across the marshes, southward of +this road. The bridge is burned and I understand a force is coming up +to engage with me. You will avoid them and swim your battalion over +Gowanus creek. I shall stay here and cover you.” + +Haslet saluted and went off at the head of his battalion, dodging +rapidly through the timber, along a mere cowpath. The news flew down +the Maryland ranks. + +“We’re elected, huh?” + +“Rear guard action,” quoted the corporal dubbed Cæsar. “Boys, old +Baltimore will do some weeping tonight.” + +“To make a Roman holiday. No, not that. But, Lord, I love you, it does +look mighty slick pickin’s.” + +The five Maryland companies were stinging with the forced retreat and +somberly contemplating the future. The Highlanders were coming up from +the meadow. They could hear the rumble of the advance just over the +brow of the hill. Somewhere below, toward the Heights, a new foe lay +athwart their path. The last of the Delaware column disappeared through +the maples, going at the double. Stirling raised his sword, his ruddy +face lighted with excitement. Maryland retreated along their route of a +previous night. They had not gone a quarter mile before they flushed +the advance guard of this new British column. + + * * * * * + +The woods rang with fresh volleys. Sergeant Cotton came up alongside +of Alex Carroll and took his station by a maple. A storm of lead was +pouring into their position as the fresh regiment closed up, anxious +to decide the issue. Over the hill swarmed the Highlanders, eager to +resume the combat. Front and rear Maryland was taken. + +The deployed line had become circular and the proud continental style +of fighting was lost in the urgent necessity of protecting two sides. +Americans fought best as individuals, obeying their own wisdom as to +tactics and taking their protection wherever they could find it. +Stirling stood in the center of the narrowing circle. + +“Take your time, boys. Shoot straight and don’t be afraid of cold +steel.” + +Sergeant Cotton thought of the peaceful Connecticut home. Alex Carroll +loaded and fired with a kind of religious intensity. + +“---- the bees!” he shouted. “I’ll duck my head no more.” + +Sergeant Cotton nodded. + +“Now you’re baptized.” + +Some one next to him, reeling like a drunk and streaming in blood, waved +his weapon and cried---- + +“Oh, Cæsar, what a prophet you are!” + +His falling body knocked Sergeant Cotton aside. + +Stirling had seen one lone avenue of retreat and was waving his sword +again. + +“Come, boys! Up the hill for better cover.” + +Maryland turned to follow him, took a few grudging steps and then +halted. From one despairing throat came a cry-- + +“Good ----, look there, will you!” + +Sergeant Cotton had no need to look. He was already turned toward +the little vista of oak trees to which Stirling had pointed as being +better cover. But there was a sudden threshing of underbrush and the +filling of open spaces with men’s bodies. A higher, harsher shout +rang out in the glade and a third British column, flung in irregular +lines, joined the first two to form a triangle of steel and lead. + +Alex Carroll was sobbing in anger. + +“Oh, why can’t we have more powder?” + +Sergeant Cotton had long ago made his peace; he had nothing now to say. +As long as the ammunition lasted he continued to load, aim and fire +with the same sober precision. The ring closed in; the firing spat in +men’s faces and trembled on the tortured ear drums. Ricocheting bullets +whined and the little glade spilled over with struggling and desperate +men; interlocked combatants swayed back and forth, bumped over other +combatants and drew off to thrust with bayonet or club with gun butt. A +haze of burnt powder sifted like twilight through the tree trunks and +voices, once normal and human, screeched like mad. + +There were five companies of Marylanders in buff-and-blue. Those five +companies were wiped out, man by man. Stirling still kept his place in +the center, his sword always raised and his voice shouting the final +encouragement. + +It was a maelstrom of combat. Sergeant Cotton loaded for the last +time, shot a Highlander and instantly was engaged with a bayonet. The +calm deserted him and some ancient fire utterly betrayed his lifetime +training. He raised his voice to a cry of defiance. + +“Come on, you beef-eaters!” + +He knocked the bayonet aside and struck his opponent down. Behind him +was a war-whoop. Alex Carroll cried encouragement. + +“Good boy! You can fight! Go to ’er, New England, I’m right beside you!” + +The glade roared like a heavy surf. Sergeant Cotton’s nostrils were +stinging and his feet stumbled over bodies and slipped in fresh blood. +He had no more powder and his arms ached from the toil of struggle. He +knew nothing of the rest of his company. It appeared they were +swallowed up in the inextricable mass of dead and living British. He +did not care; a wine-like glow pervaded his body and he fought on with +one fact singing in his head. The Marylander had admitted him to +friendship. It was an accolade. They saw that New Englanders could +fight. He was vindicating his nativity. + +He slashed and struck and jabbed and parried until his eyes +distinguished only a blur. Something struck him sharply in the chest +and it felt as if a great wall were falling atop him. Successively +he was hit in the head and in the ribs. From a great distance he +heard Alex Carroll giving one tremendous heart-breaking shout. After +that all the bullets in creation did not matter. He could no longer +be hurt by them. + + * * * * * + +The roar of battle ebbed and the hot day drew to a close. The Delaware +men looked down from a safe position on the Heights. + +Howe collected his columns and, like a wary fighter, recoiled from too +close proximity with Putnam’s intrenchments. Washington came across the +East River and began a series of moves that led to his masterly retreat. +The great captain, never emotional, uttered one phrase that rang like a +trumpet throughout the land: + +“Great God, what fine men I have lost this day!” + +That was the epitaph of the Marylanders, whose buff-and-blue checkered +the little glade. At one particular angle of this forest theater two men +lay across each other. One of them, Sergeant Abner Cotton, was smiling a +dry, wintry smile. The other, Alex Carroll, rested face downward with a +broken musket in his hand. They were now fellow members of a great +company. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 23, 1926 +issue of Adventure magazine.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78480 *** |