Warrior Conflict: George Washington and the Continental Army versus Napoleon Bonaparte and the Grand Armée.

Author's Note:  You can find the Warrior Bios for George Washington and Napoleon Bonaparte in the links provided in their names in this sentence.  Follow me on Twitter (@mikezglr) to get the first notice of new segments going up!

Image used without permission from http://www.ohranger.com/.

Major General George Washington, commander-in-chief of the Continental Army of the United States, tried to focus on the matter at hand as thousands of men, horses and other material mobilized outside of the tent he and his General Staff occupied.  The gathered officers were poring over a hand-drawn map of the surrounding area – a wide, grassy valley with mountainous foothills to the northeast and dense, dark forests to the southwest.  A shallow but swift river, running very low for the season, crossed the field, splitting and rejoining with a long stretch of marshy floodplain in between the separate courses.  It was near the middle of fall, a time when most men would have been home tending their crops and families before the next winter fell.

General Washington and his Army had been on campaign the previous summer, seeking to relieve the besieged city of Philadelphia from the British Army.  Spirits had been high – there was word from Congress that a great fleet was en route from France to aid the American war effort, and barring a few brief skirmishes the Continental Army was still fresh from the deep winter at Valley Forge, where it had undergone much reorganization under the watchful eyes of the new Prussian officer, Inspector General in reality and Major General on paper, Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben. 

The Continental Army had been about two weeks’ marching from Philadelphia when grim news reached it.  The French fleet that had been soon to make landfall had turned out to be an army of enemies rather than allies – calling itself the Grand Armée, it was led by a self-proclaimed Emperor styled Napoleon Bonaparte.  This Bonaparte had somehow maneuvered himself into a position of grudging ally to the British forces in occupation of the American colonies, with the end result being that he and his Grand Armée would take over military operations in the New World from the British armies in the area with a hefty amount of reparations paid to the English Crown.  General Washington himself did not know the specifics of the deal made between the English and the French – the messengers from Congress had not thought to reveal those secrets to him.  All that mattered to him at this point was that the face of his enemy – the enemy to American independence – had changed.

To that end, he had managed to distract his new foes with his army, leading them out into the wide, empty lands far from any civilian targets. The attempt had been somewhat successful – no further towns were besieged, with the active sieges simply turning hands from English to French while the bulk of this Bonaparte’s army continued to follow the Continental Army.

General Washington looked up from the rough map to the Marquis de Lafayette.  Despite the chaotic changing of alliances and enemies outside of American shores, ultimately bringing his homeland into the opposite side of the conflict, the young man had remained loyal to the Americans.  Naturally there were rumors of his wavering alliance, but to date Washington had seen nothing to raise his own concerns over where the man’s loyalties lay.

He turned his gaze to Brigadier General Nathanael Greene.  A master strategist, Greene had served under General Washington in multiple campaigns in New York, New Jersey and ultimately Pennsylvania, proving himself a highly capable commander of the rifle-wielding irregular infantry.  Before the situation had been so greatly altered, Washington had been in talks with Congress to deploy Greene into the southern colonies under his own, independent command, but now there was no point in so splitting his forces.  After several disastrous confrontations with British dragoon units, Greene had managed to use his civilian office as Quartermaster General to mount an entire unit of the irregulars, making for a very mobile, dangerous fighting-force.

The next man in the circle was Casimir Pulaski – like Lafayette and von Steuben, a foreign volunteer that had come to offer his services to the embattled Americans.  A natural-born leader and cavalry officer, Pulaski was a lion on the battlefield and an inspiration to his men; Congress had named him, “Commander of the Horse”, and he had taken the title in stride.  He had taken it upon himself to regulate the few cavalry elements of the Continental Army, ensuring that they were all properly armed with pistols and sabers.  He was still badgering Washington to authorize new units of lancer cavalry, as was done in his native Poland, but with the lack of resources Congress was loathe to spend more when there was so much that still needed doing. 

The final senior officer under General Washington was Major General Henry Knox, an artillery specialist and the man solely responsible for the Continental Army even possessing field guns.  He had captured the British Fort Ticonderoga late in 1775 and brought the many cannons stored there to Boston, eventually forcing the British to flee the city.  General Knox was one of Washington’s most experienced officers; he had fought in nearly every major engagement with the enemy since then, and had succeeded in turning his ill-equipped and –trained recruits into true artillerymen.

The men were looking at him, patient in manner – but wariness shown in their eyes.  Washington cleared his throat and bent down over the map, resting one hand on his sword and putting an index finger on where their bank of the river was represented on the map.

“You all can see the map, yes?”  There was a chorus of low murmurs of affirmatives, and Washington continued, “Very well.  General Greene, how are your irregulars positioned?”  The year before, at the Battle of Germantown, due to a heavy fog and various other mishaps Greene had delayed in bringing the units under his command to the battlefield, playing a role in the defeat of the Continental Army and sending him into a swift and deep depression.  However, he had managed to coax the man out of it, and ever since he had made a point of positioning his troops into the field earlier than the rest of the army to ensure that they would never again be late to a battle.

General Greene shifted his feet and responded gruffly, “I’ve taken my three units, two foot and the one horse, and distributed them as such.”  He took three buttons from his pocket and placed them on the map, one near the hill-country, one at the riverside, and the third not far from the dense woodlands to the south.  “That’s my mounted unit,” he said of the last button, “which I intend to personally lead into the field.  They have more ground to cover than the others, and will have to reach the forests, scout out for enemy foragers, and get into position before they send their own light infantry into it.  If it pleases you, General Washington, I’ve placed them at the edge of our pickets so as to begin riding for the wood at your command.”

Washington nodded his head.  “It does please me, General Greene.  Lafayette, send an aide to give them permission to advance.  But what is this of pickets?”  The Frenchman selected one of the lower-ranked officers lining the tent’s sides, who ran outside to deliver the command.

“I was getting to that,” Greene replied, “I’ve had one of my foot units spread out in wide pickets, one man every fifty yards in a concealed position, not five hundred yards from the river.  They have orders only to engage the enemy if they begin crossing over to our side, and to send messengers at once if that happens.  I had a few men left over, so they’ve begun making fortifications along the riverbank under Brigadier General Duportail’s direction and with the aid of his engineers,” he paused for breath, then continued with a wry grin, “You can’t tell from this chicken-scratch, my own handiwork of course, but there’s a stout rise in the ground from where the river is normally much higher.  It’s low for the season, so the ground there is dry and dusty, and will be difficult to move infantry or artillery over, though cavalry will find it an easier obstacle.”  Pulaski smiled and crossed his arms, making the pistols on his belt easier seen than before.

Greene was not yet done, it seemed.  “That in mind, I’ve had the men dig a shallow trench behind the crest of that rise, piling the earth they’re digging up into a low wall before it with topped with whatever stakes and sticks they can find.”  He paused, looking around the room.  “It’s really much more simpler than it seems, believe you me.”

Washington smiled at him, and the other officers exhibited similar gestures of appreciation.  General Knox slapped him on the back, saying, “Well lad, you aren’t planning on making it easy for them, are you?”

“Never,” he countered, “I’ve said in the past that we rise, get beaten down, and rise again.  I’m tired of being beaten by lesser men.”  His formerly self-deprecatory grin turned into a wolfish grimace as he said that.  “And I’m afraid that the third unit has gotten it easier than the others.  They’re awaiting your order to take the hills, sir, making it easier for one of the regular units to follow them in.”

“Very good of you, General Greene.  You’ve done some fine work today, no doubts about that.”  He looked around the room, eyes glinting.  “Well, well.  What do the rest of you have to say for yourselves?”

Suppressing a chuckle, Pulaski replied in his strange, accented English, “The units of horse have taken quick-response places near the foot corps, to intercept any raiders before they can do much ill to ours.”  He paused in thought, “Ah, I mean ‘before they can do much “harm” to ours, my apologies.”  His visage was serious for a moment, and then relaxed into a state of calm preparation for what he knew lay ahead.  Fire.  Death.  The trials and casualties of combat.

“The field guns,” General Knox spoke up, “have all been cleaned and restored to top condition following the march up here.  My crews have been test-firing them all morning, and I’m pleased to report that there are no problems among them for the foreseeable future.  They’ve taken positions along the flanks of the infantry, and are ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice… though it will take longer than that for them to get set up again, I must admit,” he added after a second’s hesitation.

“That’s quite alright,” Washington answered, “between the pickets of irregulars and the cavalry already in position, I don’t think that we’ll need them before hostilities erupt in earnest.

“Right, gentlemen.  Let’s review the infantry and get moving. They aren’t going to wait for us to come to them.

“Von Steuben, if you could please inspect the troops before we set out.  I feel your presence will help morale.”

The Prussian spread his hands and said, “Gut, gut. Das ist worfür ich hier bin.”  Good, good.  That is what I’m here for.  Though immensely capable as an officer, von Steuben the man had never bothered to learn English beyond a few useful phrases.  “Sie, mein Junge,” You, my boy, his voice turned slow and careful as he placed a hand on his aide’s shoulder, “come swear for me.”

Image used without permission from http://memirr.com/.

“Maréchal Murat,” Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte intoned, “vous de prendre les carabiniers et les Mamelouks, et prendre les collines du nord. Je vais détacher le Artillerie à cheval avec vous pour les aider à sécuriser, mais en six heures je vais envoyer une unité d'Artillerie à pied pour les soulager. À ce moment vous pour rejoindre la Horse Artillery avec l'armée principale.”  Marshal Murat, you are to take the carabiniers and the Mamelukes, and take the northern hills.  I will detach the Horse Artillery along with you to help securing them, but in six hours I will send one unit of Foot Artillery to relieve them.  At that time you are to rejoin the Horse Artillery with the main army.

The Grand Armée had pursued its prey relentlessly, but not without due caution.  Though distrustful of him, the British officers and soldiers that Bonaparte had replaced had been quite clear in that he should not underestimate the rebels – even though they were poorly-trained and poorly-supported even by their own government, and by all accounts should have been broken years before, they and their cause had survived with a great tenacity that surprised their enemies time and again.

But that was the past; the present was what truly mattered, he thought.  And so here he was, setting in motion his plan to defeat this General Washington that had so confounded the British, their mutual enemies.  And enemies they would remain, once this problem was resolved:  his plan was to conquer the formerly-British colonies on promise of returning them, but he would not.  His true intentions were to occupy these shores, spiting Britain of its prize, and using the vast tracts of land and resources to enrich France’s economy.  Regardless of that, though, the fact remained that he was here on the eve of battle, ready for glory today and rewards tomorrow.

“Je voudrais d'infanterie légère de balayer les forêts à notre ouest. Bien sûr, les Américains vont essayer de les envahir et prendre notre flanc, mais je ne le permettra pas. Voir à ce que cela est fait,” I wish for the Infanterie Légère to sweep the forests to our west.  Surely, the Americans will attempt to invade them and so take us in our flank, but I will not allow it.  See that this is done, he told to no one in particular.  One of the many aides in his command tent rushed outside of it to relay the commands to the officers responsible for carrying them out. 

Marshal Lannes spoke up from the chair he was seated in, saying, “Puis-je conduire les tireurs d'élite, l'Empereur? S'il tu plaît, bien sûr,”May I lead the skirmishers, Emperor?  If it pleases you, of course,” he added sheepishly. 

Napoleon snorted, but hid it from the young man.  Like several of his other officers, Marshal Lannes had started out as a mere enlisted recruit (though a volunteer, not a conscript) and had fought his way up the chain of command to his current status as one of his most trusted infantry commanders.  His ambition had not gotten him to his current status unharmed; he had suffered several mild wounds so far from leading his soldiers from the front, rather than the rear like a less-suicidal officer.  But if such behavior had not gotten results, then Napoleon did not know what would have.

“Il n'a pas, le maréchal, il n'a pas,” It does not, Marshal, it does not, he smoothly answered.  “J'ai quelque chose de beaucoup plus grand dans l'esprit pour vous. Évidemment, ces deux manœuvres ne sont pas à vaincre l'ennemi, mais de les piéger pour l'assaut principal de les briser. En contrôlant les forêts, nous aurons une brèves voyage, et peut envoyer des forces lourdes à travers elle, sans incident.”  I have something far more important in mind for you.  Obviously, these two maneuvers are not to defeat the enemy, but to trap them so that the main assault may break them.  By controlling the forests we will have a shorter distance to travel, and may send heavy troops through it without incident.  Napoleon placed the end of the light baton in his hand on the corner of the map nearest him, where a series of rising hills and cliff faces formed the foundation of a great mountain.  “En organisant ce terrain élevé, nous aurons une bonne position pour l'artillerie lourde pour briser leur aile gauche.”  By holding this high ground, we will position the heavy artillery in an ideal position with which to break their left wing.

“Le maréchal Lannes ici mèneront l'assaut principal sur la rivière et les zones humides, en tenant tous les trois unités d'infanterie, le lancier et de hussards de cavalerie, et l'un de l'artillerie à pied. Distribuez-les comme vous voulez. Le maréchal Davout, vous devez rester au camp avec les Grenadiers, régiment de cuirassiers, et l'autre unité d'artillerie à pied. Ils sont de maintenir la position jusqu'à ce que vous recevez des ordres directement de moi. Eh bien, laissez-nous commencer.”  Marshal Lannes here will lead the main assault across the river and the wetlands, taking all three infantry units, the lancer and hussar cavalry, and one of the foot artillery.  Distribute them as you wish.  Marshal Davout, you are to remain at camp with the Grenadiers, Cuirassiers, and the other unit of foot artillery.  They are to maintain position until you receive orders directly from me.  Well, let us begin.

The command staff broke, then, each man offering a brief salute before leaving to attend his station.  The Marshal Murat had his horse held directly outside of the tent; he quickly leapt into the saddle and rode to where the cavalry were stationed, his subordinates trailing in his wake.  Napoleon mused on him – Murat was a natural horseman, and fiercer than any lion in a fight, and loyal to his core.  And yet he was ambitious.  He cut an imposing figure to his men and fellow Marshals, but in Napoleon’s eyes he was just another, if talented, soldier.  If fortunate had smiled on him, he would have remained just that – but instead he had become the Emperor’s own brother-in-law.

He set course for the artillery batteries, where he would personally oversee the beginning of the assault.  In years past, he had made good use of small, four-pound cannons and medium weight eight-pound field guns, but he had since progressed to utilizing two main artillery cannons:  the six- and twelve-pound guns.  The six-pounders were slung on light carriages, and were used primarily by the horse artillery.  The heavier twelve-pounders were used by his foot artillery, as they were easier to move along with them than their quicker cousins, who were better suited to accompanying the cavalry into the field.

“Je Ne Peux Pas tenir ma paix, mon Empereur,” Marshal Davout said, “S'il vous plait Ecoutez-moi.  Je ne pense pas qu'il est sage pour vous d'envoyer l'artillerie à cheval de suite avec le maréchal Murat - nous en aurons besoin dans l'assaut à venir, non pas dans les montagnes où ils sont hors de portée bien. Si nous allons comme prévu, et attendre que la bataille est rejoint dans son intégralité pour les faire pivoter avec l'unité d'artillerie à pied, puis nous allons placer notre infanterie à un désavantage et éliminer la menace notre artillerie posent jusqu'à ce qu'ils soient remis en position.”  I cannot hold my peace, Emperor.  Please listen to me.  I do not feel that it is wise for you to send the horse artillery away with Marshal Murat – we will need them in the coming assault, not in the mountains where they are out of good range.  If we go as planned, and wait until the battle is joined in full to switch them with the foot artillery unit.  To do so will place our infantry at a disadvantage and remove the threat our artillery pose until they are back in position.  The older man paused, waiting for a response.

Napoleon waved a hand in dismissal of his fears.  “Tout ira bien, mon maréchal. Croyez-moi. Les canons américains sont trop rares et trop éloignés pour faire beaucoup de mal à nos forces; de cela je suis certain,” he clapped a hand on the veteran’s shoulder.  “Toutes les batailles ont une accalmie dans l'action; celui-ci sera pas différente, et c'est alors que nous allons tourner notre canon. Maintenant, allez sur et s'assurer que vos unités d'élite sont tous sobre et prêt pour la bataille - nous en aurons besoin.”  All will be well, my Marshal.  Trust me.  The American cannon are too few and too far apart to do much harm to our forces; of this I am certain.  All battles have a lull in action; this one will be no different, and that is when we will rotate our cannon.  Now go on and ensure that your elite units are all sober and ready for battle – we will need them.

And then the Emperor of France stalked into the mess of humanity, his bodyguard and support staff around him.  They had a battle to win.

Image used without permission from http://www.rogersrangers.livinghistory.cz/.

“Careful, lad,” General Nathanael Greene whispered to the young rifleman next to him.  “Gently now.  Don’t breathe too quickly or too shallowly.  Take your time with this, I want it done right or not at all.  You know that,” he glanced at the boy’s hands, particularly where he had his finger on the trigger of the long rifle.  “Kiss it.  Kiss it like it’s your sister’s cheek.”

The young man – he couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old – suddenly spasmed and jerked his finger so hard that the trigger audibly clicked against the stock of the gun.  Greene watched with bright eyes as the iron gooseneck fell and hit the flashpan – the small, thumb-sized shard of flint scraped violently against the black powder held in the pan, ignited it.  The gun rocked backwards, hard against the shoulder, then leapt forwards as the ball inside of the barrel was discharged from its muzzle.  He was barely able to discern a black shape in the cloud of flame-heralded dust before it leapt from the rifle and out of his line of sight.

One-hundred thirty yards away, a French light infantry officer’s head turned sharply to the left as he collapsed to the ground, a bloody fog marking where he had stood only heartbeats before.  The man’s charges began to scurry and shout, the lucky ones taking cover in the dense undergrowth to return fire from their muskets.  Their unfortunate comrades were taken down mercilessly.

Greene looked at him.  “A little too quick on the delivery for my tastes, but effective nonetheless.  I think that you tore the poor bastard’s head off; maybe we’ll collect it after this is over.”  He paused, grinning without showing his teeth.  “It would look lovely over your mantle, maybe with a hot on top of it.”  The boy’s face turned pale, then green as he began to reload his piece.

“Keep up the good work.”  Greene slapped him fondly on the shoulder and then stalked down the line, seeing how his other riflemen were doing.  They were tearing holes all in the French position – and it couldn’t have been a better one.  They’d managed to surround the French light infantry deep in the forestland, on a low, rocky ridge that thrust up over the surrounding countryside.

They’d waited until the French had stopped for water to assault them – spread out in wide picket lines, Greene had waited until most of the French lines had converged into a single mass, and then he tightened the noose.  His irregulars – though by now most of them were seasoned enough to not count as such, with exceptions like the young John Crocket he’d spotted for earlier – had charged in, screaming and whooping like Indians.  The terrified French had done what was logical – taking the high ground, they had fled for the low ridge, and as far as Greene was concerned they were welcome to it.  There were few trees on it, and the ground was mainly unsteady shale and gravel; but all about it was a verdant green sea of pines and conifers from which his men could loose shot at will. 

It appeared that his plan was effective – the French guns had shorter range than his rifles, so they had to make sorties just to get within accurate shooting distance of his men.  While they did prove to have a greater rate of fire than he’d anticipated, most of them overshot from their elevated position, missing altogether the dark-clad men in the trees.

The ring closed nearer as his men advanced, slowly and carefully, up the ridge’s slopes.  Darting from to tree and boulder, the irregulars were taking a heavy toll at little cost to their own, save in ammunition and powder.

Seeing this, Greene sent orders down the lines that only the first man in three were to continue firing – the French were beaten, even if they did not know it yet.  The others were to retire behind the lines, to see to their wounds and equipment, with the more grievously wounded (few as they were) sent back by horse-drawn wagons to the army’s headquarters for better attention than the field could give. 

After an hour of combat, bits of white cloth and genuine surrender flags began to be seen all upon the ridge.  Distrustful of a trap, and unable to speak French himself, Greene sent a party of his subordinates up the rise to accept their enemy’s surrender.  They gave it without trouble, many of the men simply wanting to escape the sight of their dead and dying comrades.  They were all disarmed, and he set them to marching to the American camp under a light guard – mainly of his lightly wounded men.  Greene had spoken with one of the few enemy officers still alive, through interpreter, who had revealed to him that they had not sent any messengers back to their command, believing that there were no enemies in the forest.  After that, the dead of both sides were buried in shallow graves at the base of the ridge, wrapped in oxhide cloths, and by midafternoon Greene and his irregulars were progressing south and east, towards the river.

They were getting ready for the next wave of unsuspecting enemies.

Image used without permission from http://getasword.com/.

Marshal Joachim Murat brought his grey colt to a rest near where the commander of the artillerie à cheval was setting up his piece.  Short and swarthy, he cut a sharp contrast to Murat, his dusty blue artillerist’s uniform unkempt and filthy from their quick trek across the country.  He did not even possess a military shako, instead relying on his voice and gesticulations to show his men who was in charge.

Murat sniffed in deprecation of that.  He was tall and fair-skinned, and cleanly shaven.  He was wearing one of his more ornate uniforms, a deep sapphire tunic with cream-colored edging.  His helmet was brass-embossed steel and had a tall horsetail plume to make him look fiercer. 

He bent over the in the saddle and inquired, “Sommes-nous prêts, mon ami, ou devrais-je descendre et vous aider?”  Are we ready, my friend, or should I come down and help you?

“S'il vous plaît,” he replied jokingly, “il n'ya pas de bordel entre votre cheval et mon fusil. Sans personne pour vous guider, je crains que vous ne savez pas le chemin.”  Please, there is no whorehouse between your horse and my gun. Without one to guide you, I'm afraid you are unsure of the path.

Murat laughed out loud and coaxed his steed into a trot with a word and nudge with his heels, riding along the edge of the cliff to inspect their position.  His outriders had encountered elements of the enemy moving quickly into the hill-country; at his orders, though, they had not engaged them, and instead faded quietly back into the foothills without a fight.

His plan was for the rebels to advance quickly and without caution, believing there to only be a small presence of the Grand Armée in the region.  Instead of taking the high ground without resistance, though, they would find a full unit of six-pound field guns and two units of carbine-wielding cavalry – one of native chausseurs and another of foreign Mamelukes.  Though the carbines did not have the range of the American rifles, in the rough, labyrinth-like terrain it would not matter.  Murat had half of a mind to let the cannons lining the cliffs to hammer away at the advancing rebels, letting the ragged, disorganized men get nearly on top of them before letting loose with a charge of carabineers from multiple hidden positions.  Once they were broken, they would rout them from the field, pursuing the fleeing infantry back to their own lines.

Suddenly a resounding crack split the air.  Murat instinctively snapped his head down near to his horse’s, and looked sharply left and right.  Not ten feet to his right, one of the artillerists manning a gun had fallen to the ground, bleeding profusely from a bullet-.wound in his upper chest.  More reports erupted and more men fell; Murat spun his horse around and bellowed for the commander.

Without his distinctive shako but small physique the man had managed to make for a poor target, and was busy shouting orders at his own men while crouching behind his piece.  The rate of fire from the enemy muskets – rifles, surely Murat thought – began to slacken as more artillerists began to take cover.

Before he could speak to him, the artillerist had already gotten his subordinates into the familiar process of loading, firing and reloading their gun.  The ground shook as a twelve-pound shot arced over the battlefield, and a cloud of dust and loose grass jumped away from the barrel of the cannon responsible.  Nodding to himself as the rest of the battery began to deliver its firepower to its attackers, Murat rode swiftly away, careful not to rush his horse down the slope of the hill and risking breaking its leg.

At the base of the hill were his carabineers – Frenchman and Mameluke alike, they were all armed with the weapon from which they claimed their name, a cavalry saber, and a brace of pistols.  Drawing his sword with a dry rasp of steel on leather, Murat spoke a few quick words, old jokes they all knew, and turned his horse around.  He spurred the colt, and it leapt forward, gathering speed, pacing quickly up to a trot and then a gallop.  His carabineers followed behind, their short muskets already loaded and ready.

As the long column made its way through the rough hill-country, Murat noticed with satisfaction that his scouts’ reports were correct; the ground sloped down quickly, but not at an angle that endangered his men or their horses to falling.  Gradually, the various companies that constituted his force split up and filtered into the maze of hills, cliffs, and ravines, each seeking its own path to the enemy.  The field guns were continuing their barrage; their sharp resonations sent flakes of slate and stone rattling to the ground and rocks leaping about the hooves of the horses.  The smaller, but no less lethal, reports of the rebel rifles continued to sound in the mid-morning sky.  The field hospitals were gathering a bountiful harvest.

The first contact was bloody.  A company of Mamelukes had spotted a score of the rebels taking cover within a copse of trees, doing dreadful damage to the artillerists back on the cliffs.  Taking them at unawares, the Mamelukes had rushed into the woods with a salvo of irregular carbine fire and then a headlong charge with sabers drawn.  Despite their superior firepower and unusual tenacity, the skirmishers were routed and sent running under the weight and shock of the cavalry.

Murat himself had not encountered any of them himself as of yet, but the message-couriers from his subordinates kept him busy enough.  There were remarkably few pockets of uniform resistance – it appeared that the irregulars were more than willing to cut their losses and run than stand and fight his cavalrymen.  He did not wish to think the mountain men cowards – the horrendous losses they had given the British spoke for their courage – but this lackluster fight seemed to run contrary to his expectations.

There was an explosion of movement one hundred yards in front of his party.  A crack of sound snapped the air, sending his horse into a flurry of panic.  Spying the motion of a man reloading his long-barreled musket stealthily in front of them, Murat shouted a challenge and lifted his sword, his colt outpacing the horses around him.

Eight yards.  Fifty.  Twenty.  Ten yards away, and the man lifted his flintlock to take a second shot at him.  Murat leaned out of the saddle and swept his saber in a wide, arching slash.  There was an explosion of fire and black powder.

The colt fell to the ground and rolled, screaming in agony.  The Marshal’s guardsmen halted and dismounted, frantically searching for their charge.

The rifleman’s head was found several yards from his shoulders, a look of shock – but not pain – clear upon its features.  The colt stirred weakly, whining painfully.

Murat crawled out from under his steed and lifted one of his pistols, placing a ball into the crippled animal’s temple from less than a foot away, putting it out of its misery.  His fellow cavalry troopers gathered around him, their faces mixed with gratitude that he was alive and sympathy at what he had had to do.

Ignoring them, the Marshal of France began the process of reloading his sidearm and looked for his lieutenant.

Satisfied, he took a handkerchief from one of his pockets and began to clean the blood, dirt, and powder refuse from the muzzle of his pistol.  “Je vais avoir besoin d'un autre cheval, et que quelqu'un me faire mon épée,” he said, voice calm and balanced, “.” I’ll need another horse, and someone get me my sword.

One of the men led an unsaddled spare to him, and a few others took the Marshal’s equipment and gear from the body of the colt.

“Signaler,” he barked.  Report.  The couriers scrambled and assembled before him.

The rebels had been driven from the foothills, and by the initiative of the horse artillery’s commander the field guns were already progressing deeper into the hills, seeking to link up with the cavalry and provide them with supporting fire.  Not to mention the security several thousand heavily-armed carabineers provided them, Murat mused.  Very good.  He did not care for this mountainous style of warfare; as soon as the horse artillery arrived, they would advance on to the field, leaving a guard to watch the high ground and anticipate the arrival of the foot artillery.

The Emperor had commanded him to take a good position for his heavy artillery – this he had done.  Now he would take the field and do more in service to his country, and to his ego.

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“Step it up lads,” shouted Major General Henry Knox, “we’ve got to get these batteries into position.  The French already crossing the river, and they’ll be able to bring their own guns to bare soon enough.  Unless we’ve got anything to say to them about it, that is.”

The artillery batteries of the Continental Army – such as they were – were struggling to reach the earthworks set up by the infantry under Washington’s direct supervision.  Men and horses toiled mightily against the weight of their cannons, hauling them with ropes across the rough terrain.

“Just a little more,” Knox muttered to himself, “just a little more.”

The detachment of irregulars that Greene had left at the river had eagerly given the duties of digging and piling the thick, red clay fortifications to their counterparts among the regular infantry, and joining with Casimir Pulaski and his cavalry had set out at a quick pace to slow the enemy advance across the river and through the march.  Knox had seen those men fighting before – they would not do so well in the open field as they had in woody hills, but their superior range and accuracy would play like Hell on the French officers.

Brave and tenacious though they were, the skirmishers could not hope to turn the enemy back at the ford – but they could slow them down, weaken their infrastructure, and sow confusion in the ranks, all of which would buy time for the main Army to prepare for the coming assault.

Over the next hill, Knox saw a half dozen men and horses anxiously standing at watch.  Espying the advancing artillerists and their machines, they jogged over to help them haul the cannons over the final stretch and into a loose semblance of order.

“Thank you for the assistance,” Knox said, “it isn’t quite as easy as it looks to move those infernal contraptions.”

“I’ve no doubts about that,” the leader responded, his thick Bostonian accent swallowing the consonants and stretching his vowels, “but this is where we take our leave.  General Washington only ordered us to see you to your position, and then to rejoin the lines.  Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?  And we aren’t where we’re supposed to be, so we’ll be heading that way right quick.”  The boy tipped his hat – his hand was swathed in bandages, but most men’s were – and mounted his horse, his companions doing the same, and they rode off towards the front lines at a breakneck pace.

Knox had worked with the young man before.  Corporal Tremain was an excellent shot and leader, and had often earned praise from his superiors for coolness under fire.

Turning to his own men, Knox began bellowing orders for them to get set up and ready for firing – the skirmishers would be back any moment, and behind them would be several thousand screaming Frenchmen.  They would need these cannons if they were to hold the riverside.

The artillerists answered with multiple variations of Yes, sir, Aye, Ox, and other responses that were less than polite, but set to their work quickly and nearly professionally.  Good for them, he thought; they had seen what happened to lesser-willed men in battle before.

After ten minutes every gun was primed and ready to fire, with paper packets of black powder and pyramids of solid shot stacked neatly beside their crews.

Knox nodded his satisfaction.  “Very good.  Take some water from your canteens, but do not leave your pieces – we won’t have much more to wait before it’s time for us to do our part.

“Now, if only Pulaski could get back here.”

---

Elsewhere, Pulaski barked a laugh and swept his saber in three short arcs, the first taking the head of a lance headed for his heart, the second a distraction to force the enemy horseman to blink and freeze up, and the third destroyed his throat, nearly severing his head from its shoulders.

As the body fell out of its saddle, Pulaski rode on, flicking the blood contemptuously from his sword, and then plucked one of the many flintlock pistols he kept in his belts.  He snapped it up, aimed at a passing hussar, his own saber held high, and pulled the trigger.  The gooseneck slammed down into the flashpan, struck the powder there, and sent a heavy ball rocketing at him.  The man slumped in the saddle – not that that meant Pulaski had hit him, someone else may have gotten lucky – and fell to the ground.  He stuck the now-empty pistol into its place on his saddle and took the reins again.

He had led the rebel cavalrymen – with a large unit of their irregular riflemen keeping pace with them – over their side of the river and across the marshland.  They’d encountered lone parties of French hussars and lancers, but had crushed them easily.  This was the first contact they’d had with significant numbers of the enemy, and from the look of things they had found the bulk of the French army with its pants down.

Another hussar rode up at him, screaming a challenge.  Pulaski spat an insult at him in Polish and returned the charge, making a broad sweep along the man’s ribcage.  He coughed up blood, missed with his own stroke, and continued on past him.

The infantry and artillery were not in order of battle – they were crossing the river with their cavalry flanking their advance.  The riflemen had spread out and were whittling away at the enemy officers.  But even with their best efforts, the sheer mass of men and materials was pushing the rebels back and extending their front along the marsh.  It would not be much longer before the French infantry could engage them, and worse still, their artillery.

Pulaski’s bugler had taken a lance to the gut, unhorsing him before another Frenchman executed him with a pistol.  He had managed to drive them away from the body and had retrieved the bloodstained trumpet.  Lifting it to his lips, he took a deep breath and blew several short, sharp bursts; the rebels broke away from the combat and began to navigate their way over the damp, battle-torn soil towards their own lines.

They still had work to do.

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Marshal Jean Lannes stared out from under his shock of grey hair as the blue-clad mass of soldiers and war machines began to spread out into mixed order on the other side of the river.  There had been some difficulty in making the crossing – rebel cavalry and infantry skirmishers had made the maneuver hell on the troops under his command.  But despite that obstacle, the sheer volume of soldiers, horses, field guns, wagons, and field hospitals had overcome the odds and were currently consolidating their losses before the new advance.

Lannes whistled an odd tune as he led his horse through the swift-running stream.  The cold mountain water, fueled by melted snow, ran nearly to the tops of his riding boots and caused his colt to jump and shiver.  He had to be careful not to rush the thing – if the horse slipped on a loose stone it could break a leg.

Fortunately, it was not a long trek – maybe a stone’s throw – and they were out of it, Lannes putting one foot in the stirrup and then lifting himself into the saddle.  Unlike most high-ranking officers of the cavalry, he did not wear his sword among the kit and gear on his horse, but kept his saber on his belt like a commander of the infantry.

He mulled over that.  He had seen horses shot down before, and men killed or captured because they could not defend themselves due to their swords not being handy.

Now, nearing thirty-nine years on this earth, Lannes had no intentions of joining their ranks behind the lines of the enemy or the Lord.  And so he kept his saber near at hand.  Spurring his horse, he and his mounted companions began to ride for the front of the lines.

His guards had gathered around him and his command staff – cuirassiers, tall men wearing polished steel chest- and back-plates and pistols in their belts.  Lannes rode ahead of them, standing up in the saddle to salute the eager infantry around them.  There was no shortage of disappointment among the foot soldiers, as the enemy skirmishers had fled back across the marshland before they could enter the fight.  There were still reports of occasional riflemen taking shots at isolated officers, but for the most part the combat had turned to a lull.

By the time that he had reached apex of the Armée’s front, the rest of the marching column had crossed the river and was in place to advance.  Three massive blocks of infantry, wider than they were deep, stood at attention while two wings of cavalry – units of hussars and lancers mixed among one another – flanked the force, a third unit spread thinly along the front of the formation to screen it from more skirmishers.

Lannes beckoned to one of his aides; the man rode off to send out the scouts.  In an ideal situation, he would have sent out dragoons for the task – they could quickly ride out and then dismount to weed out enemy holdouts in the difficult, marshy terrain.  However, now he had to make do with his hussars, whom he would rather have saved for the full assault yet to come.

Something smacked into Lannes’ head.  He fell from his horse, which had started to scream.  His guards were shouting in alarm and the massed infantry were starting to panic.  He felt the damp earth on his face and a warm wetness creeping down over his scalp and eyes.  Then darkness took him.

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Major General George Washington and his command staff were riding along the lines.  As he had hoped, the American regulars had managed to complete the field fortifications along the riverside – the advancing French soldiers would have to cross the river and charge up a slope of thick red clay before they could close into melee combat, and there they would find a rough but evenly four-foot tall wall of turf between them and their enemy.  Behind said wall was a shallow trench from where the earth had been taken, giving the Americans excellent cover from which to fight.

                        

“Not long now,” Washington said, “not long at all.  I’m sure that Pulaski gave them a fight and made the crossing terrible, but there’s no stopping that advance with just the horse and irregulars.

“Von Steuben,” he inquired, “are the regulars ready for combat?”

“Die Männer sind so bereit, wie sie gehen, um zu bekommen,” he answered, “bist du?”  The men are as ready as they are going to get; are you?

Washington mulled that over.  He had led men into combat before, from the front or otherwise, but seldom on this scale with multiple elements in the field operating simultaneously.

He looked over his shoulder to where the Prussian sat on his own horse, and offered a curt, “Ja,” before continuing in English, “what choice do I have? Would any of you others wish to command these poor, slaving wretches?”  He raised his voice near the end as they passed a group of toiling soldiers.  The men paused in their digging to laugh aloud, offer a clumsy salute to their General, and quickly resumed their work.

His protégés, Lafayette and Hamilton, were among the others that surrounded him.  The Frenchman perked his eyebrows, but did not offer comment.  His visage was dark and grim – more than any other, he seemed to have a greater stake in the day’s events.

Hamilton, on the other hand, nodded his head and beckoned to the straight-sword belted at Washington’s side.  “Why have you forsaken the saber, General?  Do you intend to dismount?”

“Not if I can help it,” Washington said as he looked back over his shoulder, “but many years ago, in the Seven Years’ War, I was attached to a company of British regulars.  I rode a horse, much like today – and by day’s end, I had three of the beasts shot out from under me.  My saber did not perform as well as I would have hoped, and I may have lost my life that day.

“So I commissioned a new blade from one of the camp’s smiths.  Our friend van Steuben here provided the template with his own shortsword, called the Colichemarde.  All we had to do was scale it up to full-size, and here we are.”  He patted his hand lightly on the sword’s pommel.  “I do not intend to leave my seat, but I know better than that.  It is likely that I will all the same, and I would rather a proper weapon than some dashing cavalryman’s pig-stick.”

“Sound reasoning,” Lafayette coolly interjected, his clipped tones startlingly different from Washington’s Virginian brogue.

“I wonder if you knew the men that killed his horses?”  Hamilton said, his voice clear and innocent.  If looks could kill, Lafayette would have struck him down on the spot.

“Gentlemen,” Washington warned, “there will be time to bicker later.  There are ten thousand screaming Frenchmen headed our way right now.  Perhaps we should worry more about them?”

There was a rasp of steel on leather.  The three men glanced at the source of it; von Steuben.  He had drawn his smallsword, and was beckoning out beyond the wall of turf.  His eyes were dark.

“Sie sind hier,” he said in a low voice.  They are here.

Outside the wall and ditch, down past the slope of red clay and across the river and marshland, a tide of blue-and-white-clothed men materialized out of the morning fog.  Companies of infantry marched in good order, their uniforms clean and stately.  Long lines of horsemen flanked the perimeter of the formation, their helmets and sabers glinting in the pale sunlight.  Unit banners were common.

“Well,” Washington muttered, “we’d best get to work.  Lafayette, join with Pulaski and help him reorder his cavalry, then hold position on the left wing.  Von Steuben, take the right wing.  They’ll attack you first – see how their line is slanted?  Hamilton, send word to Knox that I want his artillery to maintain position behind the lines, and to begin firing at his discretion.”

The American regulars had already abandoned their digging tools and had taken up their muskets; they lined the rude wall they had constructed, many with unkempt hair or powder-stained faces.  But they did not falter in the face of the enemy.

Washington spurred his horse forward a few paces so that he could see better.  He drew his sword and raised it high, then shouted, “Prepare to load!”  Soldiers up and down the palisade got ready to do so.

The French artillery beat them to it.

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“Pour la gauche, maintenant,” Napoleon murmured.  To the left, now.  He had ordered one of his aides to stand directly before him, and to hold still so that he could level a monocular sight on the man’s shoulder.  The useful contraption was too lengthy and unwieldy for a normal man to hold alone, so a field stand was normally required – normally.  Unfortunately for the aide who was responsible for bringing the piece of equipment along to the battlefield, he had forgotten it, and so the Emperor had levied his punishment as serving to be the stand himself.

As the tall boy leaned ever so carefully to left, Napoleon mused on the situation.  Despite Lannes’ incapacitation, the forward advance had continued generally unimpeded despite the continued resistance of enemy skirmishers.  For a time, at least – a counterattack by the hussars had managed to drive them out of the rough marshland and back to their own lines.  Now that the whole of the main enemy body was in sight, Napoleon had ordered a general halt and let the artillery bombard their position.

He had not anticipated the earthworks.  Though very crude and not too substantial, they were enough to make direct assault with his infantry difficult, and protected the rebels well from his artillery-fire.  But they would be swept aside all the same.

The lack of reports from the light infantry dispatched to the forested country antagonized him.  He had already forgotten the name of whatever officer he had set over them, and was regretting it – any of his more capable, senior officers would have known better than to lose communication with the main force.  But he still took cheer; if anything negative had occurred, surely some of his soldiers would have escaped to bring word back to command.

The exchange of foot and horse artillery was soon to begin.  As expected, Murat had secured the hill-country with little effort, and was chomping at the bit to lead his cavalry out of the mountains and down into the rebel flank despite Napoleon’s express orders.  He would have to exercise patience with the Marshal.

Napoleon took his eye from the scope lens and removed a pocket-watch from his coat-pocket.  It was five minutes to midday – when the changing of the artillery was to begin.  At the same time, his infantry were to charge the rebel lines and begin their own barrage of flame and lead, preventing a charge of their own.  If what Napoleon knew of General Washington was true, he would need the added mobility of the horse artillery in the field and the additional range of the foot artillery on the high ground, where it belonged.  He could not afford to underestimate this man.

He looked over his shoulder.  His Mameluke bodyguard, Roustam Raza, had opted to remain on horseback despite the rest of the company – including the Emperor himself – dismounting to view the fighting and rest their legs.  The dark man’s face was expressionless as he watched the clash and crash of battle that lay before them.  His horse was grazing quietly on the bright green turf of the hilltop.

“Prenez-la,” Napoleon suddenly barked, handing his adjutant the telescope.  He strode away with purpose and climbed into the saddle of his own warhorse.  The men around him leapt into motion, packing away their maps and papers and taking to their own steeds.

“Envoyer mot de maréchal Davout. Il est de tenir la position avec les grenadiers, mais d'envoyer les cuirassiers avec moi. Je veillerai personnellement les conduire à travers la forêt et dans l'aile droite des rebelles, avec l'infanterie légère servant de mon escorte,” said Napoleon, uncomfortably aware of Raza’s dark eyes locked onto his like a bird of prey, “A mon signal, il prendra les grenadiers sur les marais et dans le front rebelle. Dans le même temps, le maréchal Murat sera d'attaquer l'aile gauche. La détresse combinée sera de les détruire et d'envoyer les fils du fermier courir vers leurs champs.”  Send word to Marshal Davout.  He is to hold position with the grenadiers but to send the cuirassiers with me.  I will personally lead them through the forest and into the rebel right wing, with the light infantry serving as my escort.  At my signal, he will take the grenadiers over the marshland and into the rebel front.  At the same time, Marshal Murat will be attacking their left wing.  The combined distress will destroy them and send the farmer’s sons running back to their fields.

“Laissez-nous commencer,” he finished.  Let us get started. 

--- 

“Où se cachent-ils?” one cuirassier grumbled to another.  Where are they hiding?

The column of French cavalrymen had meandered through the wooded terrain for nearly an hour or more, searching vainly for the light infantry that had come before them.  There was no sign of them – nearly a thousand men, all told, simply up and vanished.  No stragglers, or worse – survivors.  It was troubling to say the least.

Napoleon overheard the sarcastic inquiry, but did not take the bait.  He too was worried about where his soldiers had gone, perhaps moreso than their own fellows.  When last he had seen the main battle, the two bodies of regular soldiers were slugging away at one another in what looked to be a bloody contest.  The artillery exchange had gone faster than expected, with the horse artillery taking the field nearly fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.  He suspected that Murat’s own impatience had had something to do with that, though the bearded, hatless commander of the unit had little to say of his experience with him.

“On pourrait au moins une halte,” the malcontent continued, rubbing fitfully under where his chestplate sat on his shoulders, “Cette lourde chose est de me tuer.”  We could at least stop for a rest.  This heavy thing is killing me.

The slug took him low across the neck, right along the collarbone, barely bypassing his armor.  The cuirassier fell from his horse without a sound, mouth moving but throat torn out from the angle of the shot.  He was dead before he hit the ground.

More shots resonated all along the column and more men died.  Some were saved by their armor – but many others were not.  They returned fire as best they could at their attackers, but they were being assaulted by men like ghosts – shadows flitting between the trees that paused only long enough to take a life.

It was nightmarish.  Napoleon turned in his saddle to see Raza’s head taken from its shoulders by a hatchet-wielding wild man wearing a fur hat.  The irregular drew a pistol from his belt, but Napoleon already had one in hand – he lifted it up and set a bullet between the rebel’s eyes.

“Battre le rappel de!” he shouted wildly.  Rally!  But in the dense undergrowth, the heavy-armored horsemen had no advantage to the fleet-footed skirmishers all around them.  So this was what had happened to his soldiers, Napoleon thought frantically.

He lost feeling in his left hand and was jerked roughly in the saddle.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his arm off, hanging limply from the elbow down by just a thin sinew of flesh.  Blood was flowing out of the wound like a geyser, and his panicked thoughts had no substance before he fell off of his horse and into the blackness.

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“Come on boys,” Washington howled, “I know that they’re not shooting at you themselves, but without their officers those French bastards won’t know which side of the barn to miss!”

He was grateful that Lafayette was not near to be witness to that.  Hamilton, who was, grinned wolfishly from where they were crouched behind the earth-wall.  The soldiers nearest them laughed like mad men but did not stop the systematic process of firing, cleaning, reloading, aiming, and firing again.

Despite the heavy serving of artillery fire right at the beginning, Washington was content with how his men were performing so far.  Their losses were far fewer than they might have been without even the meager cover to hide behind, and for that he was grateful.

Now, though, he saw that the French were operating differently than his own soldiers; they loosed three volleys a minute, not two, and despite the lack of accuracy the sheer volume of fire they were able to place made up for it.  Down on von Steuben’s wing, they had locked bayonets and made a great forward advance, across the river, up the shore and into, but not over, the low wall.  To their own surprise, perhaps, the French soldiers had found their opponents to have their own bayonets waiting for them, and even now a deadly game of lunge and parry was contested over that stretch the field.  Lone officers stood like islands in the raging storm, fighting with sword, pistol and spontoon, but the stalemate looked to be soon approaching as neither side prevailed over the other.

There had been some relief of pressure from the artillery barrage, though from his black powder-obscured position Washington could not see why that was.  His own batteries under General Knox were doing as best they could, but ammunition was scarce and they were few and far between behind the lines.

“We cannot fight like this,” Hamilton growled, “they’re giving three volleys a minute for every two of ours, and their baggage train looks to keep that up all day if they need to.”

As if on cue, what sounded like two angry bees snapped through the air near their position – bullets.  Washington barely flinched, but Hamilton ducked his head down further beneath the wall despite already having ample protection.

Washington cleared his throat and said, “I believe that I see your point.  Would you like to lead the charge, then?”  His visage was serene. 

“Into that,” Hamilton deftly pointed his thumb in the direction of another French volley, “Why would I not want to?”

“We’ll need a distraction,” Washington mused, “Get me Lafayette and Pulaski.”

---

“It makes sense in theory, anyway, but what if they see us coming?”  Lafayette inquired in his lightly-tilted English.

“Bah,” Pulaski returned, “if they see us coming, it will just mean that it will be more inferring.”  His voice was proud, a little arrogant.

Lafayette was not amused.  “Interesting.  You mean interesting.”

“Cholera,” Pulaski retorted.  Damn it.  “I see that von Steuben had good reason to not learn this language.  So many rules!”

“But that was… vocabulary?”

“And those men up ahead look like French cuirassiers.”

Lafayette spat a curse and began to draw a pistol from his belt, but paused at Pulaski’s laughter.  The Pole was grinning broadly at his French counterpart, and had lifted a hand in greeting to the men ahead of them.

As they neared, the newcomers could be easily seen to not be the armored horsemen of the Grand Armée – rather, they were the motley, saber-wielding volunteers that Pulaski had managed to train into a half-respectable cavalry force.  They all exchanged a few words before advancing forward, the rest of the cavalry spreading out wide to flank the infantry that had marched up behind their escort, who had begun to break out of column and into order of battle.

They soon encountered a few hundred men – the remains of the irregular riflemen sent earlier to take the high ground.  Their news was grim; they had been defeated and driven out of the hill-country by French cavalry with loss, but a few stalwart scouts had reported that the French foot artillery would soon be in position to make long-distance attacks on the main body of the Continental Army.  They could not afford to let that happen.

Unfortunately for Pulaski, Lafayette, and the twelve hundred men under their joint command, there were nearly four hundred armed French cavalry between them and the artillery batteries taking position atop the cliffs.

“We outnumber them three to one.  We should charge ahead, smash their cavalry to bits, and then send the infantry right up those cliffs and into their artillery before they can open up on General Washington,” Pulaski mused, “do you object to this?”

Lafayette nodded his assent.  “I do not.  How will your horsemen fare against theirs?”

Pulaski grunted.  “We scattered their hussars easily enough, and outnumber those here before us, but they are better equipped and trained.  They also carry carbines.”  He spat the last word with vehemence.

“Carbines?”

“Aye, carbines.  Short-muzzled muskets.  They can be reloaded from horseback, like a pistol, but are not as long-hitting as normal muskets.”  He chewed the inside of his cheek.  “If we close in, we can beat them in sword-work, but the few pistols we have among us will not do well against them.  Not well at all.”

He spurred his horse and drew a pistol in one hand, holding the reins firmly in the other.  The six hundred colonial cavalrymen around them mimicked the gesture, quickening to a trot in anticipation of a full-charge.

Pulaski glanced over his shoulder.  “Unless they have a green-eyed demon among them, we should sweep them aside like leaves to the wind!”

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Joachim Murat snarled and ducked his head under his opponent’s saber-cut; the steel hissed through the air he had previously occupied, slicing the decorative pom-pom he wore atop his helmet in half, but otherwise missing him.  The Marshal of France thrust out with his own sword, the curved tip fluidly taking the enemy horseman in the gut.  He withdrew the blade; pale snakes fell from the man’s wound as he screamed in pain, but his horse’s momentum took him out of Murat’s vision.  He blinked the dust and blood from his dark, emerald eyes.

For all their numbers, the colonial cavalry found it near-impossible to defeat their French enemies.  What firearms they had among them did not have the range to outreach the French carbines, and when they did close for sword-work the superior training of the carabiniers was able to withstand them.  Blue-clothed bodies covered the ground, but more of them wore the ragged uniform of the Continental Army than that of the Grand Armée.

It appeared that the initial cavalry charge had been defeated, and a dangerous stalemate of thrust, cut, and parry was reigning over the field of battle.  The body of colonial infantry – mostly composed of regulars, but with a few hundred of their riflemen among them – had quickly changed formation into a box-like, defensive posture.  A young officer rode among the ranks on his horse, shouting and gesticulating at the soldiers to prepare them for the coming counter-attack.

Little good it would do them.  Murat glanced over his shoulder and barked an order; the attendant bugler lifted his instrument to his lips and sounded the signal.

Up on the hilltop, the cannons of the foot artillery leveled upon the colonials, took aim, and let loose their fire.  The massive guns bucked and shook with the fury of their discharges; the luckless men caught in their sights were thrown like dolls as explosions erupted among them.  The lone officer was thrown from his horse.

There was a shout of fury.  Murat looked before him to find an officer of the cavalry, a pale man with high cheekbones and a small, but fierce mustache, bearing down on him with saber in hand. Murat raised his own in defense, angling the flat of the blade to catch the other’s and turn the strike away, but the man would not have it – he pulled back his elbow and thrust behind Murat’s shoulder, where he could not defend, tearing through the cloth and flesh of his back.

The Marshal gritted his teeth against the pain, but had the presence of mind to kick his horse forward and wheel about to face the new enemy.  He had completed the same maneuver, faster than Murat would have guessed – or liked.  He was obviously a talented horseman as well as duelist.  Murat sniffed in distaste; he was both of those things, and more.  The cannon-fire still sounded over the field.

Murat lowered his saber nearly parallel to the ground and behind him, bowing down in the saddle to where his face was nearly touching the back of his horse’s neck.  He spoke into the animal’s ear, urging it to a faster trot.  The other man lifted his sword high in anticipation of a devastating, downward cut that would take Murat’s head off of its perch.  The pair advanced for the last time.

As they were nearly upon one another, Murat sat straight up, standing tall in his stirrups, and lifted one of the pistols he kept at his belt.  He aimed the weapon one-handed, letting go of the reins, and pulled the trigger.  The lead ball soared out of the barrel and into Pulaski’s throat, severing the arteries and windpipe.  He slumped in the saddle – as his horse slowed to a gentle trot, Murat finished the job by sweeping his saber along the man’s neck, killing him.

The rest of the rebel cavalry was turning back and fleeing back to their lines, even under fire from the artillery.  The infantry were in disarray, and the officer was nowhere to be found.  Murat signaled to his bugler; the young man relayed to the foot artillery the order to stand down.

Mamelukes and Frenchmen surrounding him, the victorious Murat rode to nearly within musket-shot of the colonials.  He again stood in the saddle and shouted in his strangely-accented English, “Surrender, or be destroyed.  Where is your commanding officer?”

Many, but not all, of the men had thrown down their muskets.  One of them stepped forward, the same young officer leaning on him, stunned by a nearby cannon-shell.

Murat looked down at him.  He was ragged, and covered in blood and dirt.  Then he looked closer.

“Who is this man?” he inquired.

The officer peered up and looked him in the eyes.  “The Marquis de Lafayette, at your service.”

Murat smiled devilishly.  “That’s interesting.  Find this man his horse – he is to ride with me.”

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Blades clashed, ringing in the air, thick with the stinking smoke of black powder.  Washington held his sword out in front of him, trying to part the fog of war.  There was a thunderous applause as the French musketry loosed another volley upon him and his soldiers, but few fell to the wild aim of the Frenchmen.  They were just outside of the Charleville musket’s effective range, and would now be forced to cover the remaining distance before the French reloaded.

There was no need to hurry – the French infantry fixed bayonets and ran through the smog, appearing like a wall of ghosts wailing their battle-cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” and brandishing their weapons.  The more orderly lines of colonials stood firm and absorbed the charge.  At the last second, Washington noticed Hamilton standing up not far beside him and leveling a flintlock pistol; he pulled the trigger and downed a blue-clad Frenchman not five yards away.  The fallen man’s shako was flung from his head, and he did not rise to replace it.

Despite their recent drilling and reorganization at Valley Forge by von Steuben, the colonial volunteers were no match for the professionals now brought against them.  Visibility was terrible – they could only see maybe twenty or thirty yards away through all of the smoke and dust, the pale rays of the sun barely cutting through the darkness.  Men discharged their rifles at impossibly close distances, doing appalling damage to the close-pressed bodies in the melee.  Cold bayonets still wet with the morning dew stabbed out, spearing men like fish and leaving many dead or dying upon the grass.

Washington parried an awkward thrust by a young man, his eyes wide and face bare of any hair.  He then turned his sword and skewered him on the spot, withdrew the blade, and stepped over the dying boy to duel a saber-wielding officer of the infantry.

It was a violent business.

Despite the differences in training, the colonial infantry had numbers on their side – they were able to corral the French by the volume of men on the field, limiting their mobility and keeping them at bay with hedges of bayoneted muskets.  The order of things appeared to be going in their favor as the French were pushed back from the ground they had held before.

And then the French gave way.  They openly fled back to their own lines, muskets held over their heads, men moving in chaotic bunches as each tried to outpace his fellows.  With a great shout the colonials followed them, some men pausing to shoot stragglers or having the presence of mind to target the officers still attempting to rein their men under control.  But most were close on their heels like dogs on the hunt.

Washington was among them, Hamilton at his side, as always.  He noticed the ground gently sloping upwards, and remembered something dire.  As the body of running soldiers crossed the crest of the hill, he saw that the French were reforming their orderly lines and taking time to reload their weapons.  While in other instances this would have provided a great opportunity, it was a troubling fact that the enemy infantry were taking cover well behind a line of French artillery guns, their crews at the ready.

His heart sank as a series of earth-shaking retorts spread up and down the line of cannon.  But the munitions that leapt from the titanic field-guns were not the solid shot he was familiar with, or even the chained shot he had seen carried aboard British warships; like a cloud of stinging bees, the grapeshot tore through life and limb.  Some men were vaporized where they stood, torn to so many pieces that it could not have been called a man after.  Many others were mortally wounded.  The unfortunate living men were left stunned, standing forlornly amidst a field of their fallen friends.  He could not spot Hamilton anywhere.

Before Washington knew what was happening, a ring of steel-tipped muskets and jeering Frenchmen were around him.  His sword was taken away and he was led by the field with the other survivors.

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A military band, French, played a bombastic anthem that was like sweet acid to Napoleon’s ears.  At least he could hear it, despite the double-doses of opium he had been given by the Surgeon General.  Marshal Lannes, whom he had thought killed in battle, had suffered the less-fatal injury of a lost ear stood nearby at attention.  Like his counterpart on the American side, General Hamilton, he had been concussed by the attack that had nearly lost his life.  With what was left of his arm in a bloody sling, Napoleon shared their pain.

The battle had gone worse than he had expected.  He had lost one in every five men, and for each of those two more were seriously wounded and the rest not fit to march for at least two days.  And yet they had won, as was his goal, and for that he was satisfied.  Men could be replaced.  Time and equipment could not be so easily returned to him.

Marshal Murat, of course, paced nearby like a hungry lion.  He had argued fitfully that they should not offer the rebels a formal surrender, and that they should instead be put to the guillotine as an example to the other commanders still active in the New World – Generals Arnold, Gates, and several others that he could not recall – of the consequences of their continued resistance.  But Napoleon believed instead that it would be better to show them that respect could be gotten, and that if they cooperated then the rebels could be treated better than prisoners of war.  In the long view, that did make more sense to his eyes.

“Le maréchal Davout, un mousquet rayé prit mon bras et l'oreille du maréchal Lanne, oui?”  Marshal Davout, a rifled musket took my arm and Marshal Lanne's ear, yes?  A wave of nausea swept over his body and a cold sweat collected on his forehead.  Napoleon reached up to wipe it away with his hand, but was stopped by the sharp pain where his arm had been amputated.  Cursing silently, he wiped it away with the other hand, which came away dry.

Marshal Davout watched him carefully, like an old sheep-dog.  He responded, “Oui, mon empreur.” Yes, my Emperor.  When Napoleon had been wounded in battle in the woods and the cuirassiers destroyed by the rebel skirmishers, his bodyguard, Raza, had managed to get a mounted messenger back to Davout, who led the grenadiers and foot artillery on a counterattack to save him from certain death, having the presence of mind to bring the Surgeon General and his staff along with him.  Though Napoleon had believed him dead, Raza had taken a mere flesh wound, and had done all in his power to protect the unconscious Emperor by rallying the survivors of the ambush until Davout arrived.  He owed them both his life, and loathed himself for making such a folly.

“Je pense que je tiens à donner à tous mes soldats rayés des mousquets.”  I think that I would like to give all of my soldiers rifled muskets.  He pursed his lips and turned his attentions back to the surrender proceedings.

On threat of execution, they had managed to coerce the Marquis de Lafayette into serving as an interpreter for the two parties.  The young man looked uneasy in the role, but he truly had no choice.  If he wished to not follow the fate of that fool Robespierre years before him, then he would do exactly as he was told.

Flags and swords were exchanged, and the band continued to play.  Napoleon, seated on a plush camp chair, went over the conditions in his head as Lafayette related them to the rebel commanders – those still alive, anyway.  General Washington stood front and center, of course, and General Hamilton at his left though his eyes were unfocused.  As he understood it, the young officer had been right near the barrel of one of the cannon when the grapeshot was deployed, and though untouched by the shrapnel he had been brutally shaken by the concussive force of the field gun, knocking him unconscious.  And yet he was here.

Washington’s other chief aide, General Knox, had been killed when a solid shot from a French cannon had hit a store of gunpowder near the gun he had been servicing, killing him and the other five men nearby instantly.  The Prussian whose name Napoleon had not caught was also present, though his eyes were distant and his face very pale.  He knew that the commander of the rebel cavalry had been personally slain by Murat.  There was another officer – his name was Greene – but he was not present, and it seemed that no one knew his whereabouts.  But Napoleon suspected that he had taken whatever soldiers he could gather in haste and departed to meet up with another Major General to continue the fight.  That was admirable, if foolish, of him.

As planned, Washington was ordered to house arrest on his plantation at Mount Vernon.  Hamilton was stripped of his rank and ordered to stay in New York.  The Prussian was to be sent back to his homeland, where he was forbidden to again take military service.  Lafayette would be detained as an ambassador to the rebel governments – their Continental Congress, they called it.  Napoleon had entertained the notion of keeping the institution in place so as to maintain stability in the colonies, making his own movements that much easier.  All of the rebel soldiers were stripped of their arms and ordered home, though they were allowed to keep their horses and what provisions they had.

Though he knew his bid for conquering the formerly-English colonies was far from over, Napoleon knew that he was off to a good start.  With the innovation of the new rifled muskets, he was well aware that they had much more to look forward to in this New World.