A second column of redcoats surged through the trees as the British main force arrived at the farm’s clearing. Rhys could hear the cadence of Hawkes’s drum above the melee as more redcoats rushed over a grassy rise like ants on a hill.
Still shouting, he ordered what Rifle Corps he could into the woods south of the farm. “Protect the line’s right flank!”
To his right, Hessians were advancing as cannons fired from both sides, bodies and earth shattering. He dropped down on one knee, rifle raised. Burgoyne was in his sights as he rode toward another officer atop a fancy saddle. Sweat streamed into Rhys’s eyes, stinging and blinding him as another shot rang out, close enough for him to hear the whistle of the lead ball as it spun past and felled an unknown officer.
Everywhere he looked chaos reigned. Swiping his forehead with his sleeve, he aimed again and fired, reloaded and fired again, never missing a mark even as he became a prime target moving from forest to field. Winded and so parched it hurt to swallow, he continued amid the blood and screams as men fell.
Artillery officers and crews lay in heaps about their armaments, allowing a few frantic moments for the Americans to capture several cannons. And then the enemy rushed in to take the cannons and turn them against the Continentals once again.
Where in heaven’s name were Gates and the Continental main body? Held back at Bemis Heights, unwilling to venture out? Though they’d started strong, reinforcements were needed lest they all die in a desperately undermanned fight. Arnold had led the action, and now his own riflemen were ferociously forcing the British back even as the enemy rode in with more cannons to halt the American advance.
“Let it never be said that in a day of action,you turned your backs on the foe;let the enemy no longer triumph.”
Washington’s words ricocheted through his mind, driving himon despite a flesh wound to his shoulder. His hunting shirt was torn, scarlet soaking the linen in a warm rush.
“They brand you with ignominious epithets. Will you patiently endure that reproach? Will you suffer thewounds given to your country to go unrevenged?”
Dizzy, he blinked as two of his riflemen pitched forward, felled like trees, before the crushing roar of cannon fire that shook the earth left his ears ringing.
“Will you resign your parents,wives, children,and friends to be the wretched vassals of a proud,insulting foe? And your own necks to the halter?”
Taking cover behind a tree, he aimed at an advancing Hessian. The expected crack of gunfire faded to a choked fizzle. With no time to check the flint or clear the barrel, he swung the rifle like a club as the Hessian ran toward him, bayonet fixed. The wooden stock struck the side of his helmeted head, knocking him to the ground. A kick to the enemy’s musket sent the weapon into the brush as Rhys moved past him to an oak. His back to the trunk, he heaved a breath as his bloodied hands took hold of his rifle’s ramrod and dislodged the fouling from repeated firing.
“Nothing then remains, but nobly to contendfor all that is dear to us. Every motive that can touch the human breast calls us to the mostvigorous exertions. Our dearest rights, our dearest friends,and our own lives,honor, glory,and even shame, urge us tothe fight.”
He returned to the field as Burgoyne pressed reinforcements forward, threatening to overrun his Rifle Corps position. Sick to his stomach, head splitting, he was reaching the end of his tether. Back and forth, bluecoats and redcoats ebbed and flowed, a tide of men battling to the death amid choking smoke.
“And my fellow soldiers! When an opportunity presents,be firm, be brave; shew yourselves men,and victory is yours.”
More glaring redcoats, more Hessians tearing through the woods, bayonets flashing, Indian allies shrieking above the smoky fire and clash of weapons.
How much longer? How many had they lost?
Toward dark, the British held the field, but the Americans had pushed them back till they begged for reinforcements. Finally the smoke cleared and the fifes and drums quieted.
He hadn’t once thought of Mae.
In the bitter aftermath of battle, Rhys wanted to shut his ears to the groans of pain and cries for water or medicine from too many Americans. He emerged from the field hospital tent, his thoughts straying from Bemis Heights to Mae.
Jon Bohannon waited outside, his beleaguered face grim, battered hat in hand. A hole from a musket ball only added to its condition. “You all right?”
Rhys ignored the pain that tore through his bandaged shoulder. “I’ll mend.”
“How many Continentals dead?”
“Ninety all told and two hundred forty or so wounded. The British lost thrice that, mayhap more.”
There was no triumph in his words. Though the enemy proclaimed it a victory simply because they’d held their lines, it came at a frightful cost. A tactical draw, Howe said. Burgoyne was hemorrhaging troops and in dire need of reinforcements.
“God rest them all.” Jon shut his eyes as if uttering a prayer. “And preserve those suffering and still standing.”
The burial detail had been at work since both sides had withdrawn from the field. Bodies were retrieved ahead of prowling wolves intent on the carnage, but identification was often impossible due to the sheer numbers and savage condition of the lifeless soldiers. As it was, the battle had raged from noon till dark, finishing many who might have been saved had they had proper medical treatment. Mass graves were dug for both sides.
“If I hadn’t seen James fall, I’d remain uncertain,” Jon said as they walked toward Gates’s headquarters on a bluff. His voicebroke, and he swiped at his eyes with the back of a grubby hand. “But there’s no surviving cannon fire.”
Bohannon had, unlike many, been killed instantly. Mae would be undone. Rhys pushed the thought away, only to have it circle back again. Outside the heat of battle he couldn’tnotthink of her. Think of her he did, in equal parts ire, regret, and desire. It didn’t help that a group of fifers burst into “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” The jaunty tune did nothing to soothe his ragged spirits.
Maebel Bohannon Harlow.
