August,1865 –
Crawley, West Sussex
Swallowing his bile, Longstreet managed to spur his confiscated horse westwards towards the Carolina Division's position along the extreme left of the battlefield. Gazing northwards through the pastures of happily grazing sheep, oblivious to the carnage about to interrupt their tradition routine, Longstreet grimaced at the realization such a bountiful land should soon be exposed the ravages of war. In these isolated country huts and tiny villages interspersed among the small groves of trees and verdant green fields of southern England, ordinary people, many undoubtedly as baffled as the sheep as to the presence of so many thousands of armed men, would momentarily find their idyllic existence disturbed in the most heinous fashion. Even should simple country folk escape with their lives and homes intact, their lovingly harvested stores of grain would likely be pilfered by roving commissaries, their sheep gathered up and herded towards the cooking pots of whichever army emerged victorious. And the inhabitants of this lush glen would face the specter of hunger until spring.
From their point of view, there will be no "victor" today, Longstreet thought glumly, wondering why the forms of war did not demand combat restricted to the most vacant of lands, so the innocent may be spared its ravages. A dozen miles northward lay the town of Crawley, probably already picked clean by the Republicans.
The Carolina Division held the left flank of the battlefield. The Artillery Regiment had been intermixed among the 1st through 4th South Carolina Regiments, all attached to his own 1st Brigade, and the 1st and 4th North Carolina Regiments of Cleburne's 2nd Brigade. The 2nd and 3rd North Carolina Regiments, as well as the sole Cavalry Regiment, (though Longstreet was loath to admit it, the North Carolinians made for better horsemen than their southern countrymen, the commanding Colonel, Wade Hampton III, being a rare exception. Of course, Hampton spent a large portion of his life upon the pleasant red soil of the south), milled grudgingly in the rear as a reserve.
Longstreet discovered his immediate subordinate atop a low rise (the "high ground" in England resembling that of the smooth slopes of South Carolina, offering very little of an advantage) gesturing northward towards the English Republican Army, Longstreet's young aide-de-camp, Arthur Freemantle, at his side. Not of sufficient social stature to receive a commission in the aristocrat-dominated Household Guards Division in New York, the talented young Englishman volunteered for service in the Commonwealth.
"General Cleburne, Captain Freemantle," Longstreet did bother with any preliminaries, "we do not have the honor of the first strike. The Household Guards shall charge from the center."
"The center," Cleburne was visibly astonished, his head snapping north, "Pete...General…surely it is obvious that the center is the strongest point in the enemy line. The central hill is the highest, the defenses the strongest, the bulk of the enemy artillery close at hand for support. The flanks are less well protected."
Freemantle, a handsome fellow of perhaps thirty years, understood immediately, "The Duke wishes the Household Division to claim the glory for liberating England."
It was a statement, not a question, so Longstreet didn't bother to respond beyond a short nod. In the disheartening years following the monarchy's flight from Britain, the once-proud Royal Navy and British Army dwindled to a fraction its former glory. The Royal Navy, which once sailed the world's oceans with impunity, had been reduced to a handful of revenue cutters along New York and Montevideo, largely protected by their former colonists. The Army, defeated and crushed by the French invasion of 1830, was abandoned by the flight of the British upper classes to British America. Only a handful of the common soldiers managed to make their escape, their devotion to the Queen hardly stymied by the harrowing voyage across the ocean in the winter. These men, the remnants of a hundred infantry, cavalry, and artillery regiments, were amalgamated by necessity into a half-dozen regiments, all the beleaguered ratepayer in the Dominion of New York and Her Majesty’s other Dominions could afford.
It was determined within a year of landing in New York that the Household Guards Division should be reestablished. As the senior in terms of continuous British service, the elite Regiments retained an unmatched cachet amongst the people. The Household Guards included: two cavalry Regiments, the Life Guards and the Royal Horse Guards, the Royal Artillery Regiment (a recent addition to the august division) and three infantry Regiments. The first in terms of precedence was naturally the 1st Regiment of Foot, having been raised in the time of Charles I. The 2nd Regiment of Foot Guards, the Coldstream Guards, maintained a history no less distinctive. The 3rd Regiment of Foot proved slightly more problematic. Historically, the 3rd of Foot was also known as the Royal Scots. With Scotland's nefarious secession from Great Britain to avoid French occupation, no right-thinking Englishman stomached the idea of maintaining a regiment of such traitors. Queen Charlotte herself proposed the 3rd of Foot to be renamed the Royal Welsh, in honor of the sister nation who maintained the faith in their common British roots and refused to placate the French occupying army.
These Regiments, along with the New York territorial militia, provided the main line of defense for the embattled Queen in her final stronghold in America. During the late 1830's and early 40's, rumors ran rampant every spring that this was the year that the French would finally sail the Atlantic to at last grind the last vestige of British liberty into the ground. Nobles huddled in taverns fearing for their unfortunate kin as anecdotes describing every sort of persecution and detention inflicted upon the native British aristocracy unseen in Europe since the English conquest of Ireland. The gentry volunteered en masse to command the Household Division out of a deep-seeded sense of outrage (and to claim one of the few miserable avenues of income in the colonies suitable for a gentlemam). The Household Guard became the exclusive domain of the exiled upper crust where Barons and Earls maintained the pretense of power. In agonizing irony, the shameful truth soon revealed. The French assault on New York or, for that matter, Newfoundland, or Jamaica, didn't materialize for one reason: The United States of Columbia and the Commonwealth of North and South Carolina pressured France to withhold the killing blow.
The bitter remnants of the mighty British Empire, which had so presumptuously dared to claim mastery of the earth less than a century before, endured by hiding behind the skirts of her rebellious former colonies.
Bringing his thoughts back to the moment, Longstreet conceded, "No, gentlemen, in truth I cannot blame the Britons for demanding the first strike. But I fear our army might rue the Duke's ram-them / damn-them approach to the martial arts. Our Carolinians are fierce soldiers and largely more experienced and disciplined than any of the British units, save perhaps the Household Division. His Lordship might be well served to utilize our Regiments for something beyond "left flank" to the glorious British expatriates."
Longstreet's ruminations were presently interrupted by the roar of cannon-fire belching spasmodically from the Duke of Cambridge's position by the Royal Artillery Regiment. Devoid of any orders to contribute, the South Carolina Artillery Regiment's guns remained silent as loaders, gunners and officers glanced longingly at their commander for permission to engage the enemy, consent they did not receive from the rigid Carolinian General. The ERA "riff-raff" would be swept from the field by the Household Guard.
In short order, the enemy artillery erupted in response and great numbers. Fortunately for the Carolinians, the bulk of the enemy fire centered on the redcoats in the center of the Monarchist line, rather than upon the butternut-clad men of Longstreet's division or into the ranks of the British colonial Regiments donning green. Cannonballs of all calibers careened back and forth, occasionally opening a minor wedge among the nervous ranks of the infantrymen manning the forward lines. Canister exploded at random points. Though the battle was young, it appeared to Longstreet that the ERA held the advantage in quantity, if not quality, of gunnery. The true decisive factor would likely prove to be the terrain. The Carolinian called for his binoculars; a fine set produced in the Bronx just across the river from British New York and scowled into the glass. The fading sun at his back, the glasses offered a fine view of the battlefield under the fall gray sky.
"Damn, the Republicans are better entrenched than I expected. We'll lose this duel, no doubt, and waste a tremendous amount of irreplaceable powder for the effort. His Lordship is an imbecile. It's too late in the day for this nonsense. Paddy, any idea as to wh…"
Longstreet's question was lost in the abrupt cadence of drums that established itself across the center of the battlefield. Within moments, the beat changed, buglers barking out an advance, and thousands of meticulously appointed British soldiers marched forth in three ranks to reclaim their homeland. At the standard step, forty yards per minute were crossed. It would take only five minutes to reach the hastily assembled wall of logs, rocks and earth protecting the first rank of ERA infantry. But the enemy artillery ensured it would be very long five minutes, indeed, for the pace of ERA fire expanded precipitously even as the Army of Liberation's cannons silenced for fear of bombarding their own men.
Longstreet flinched as his binoculars randomly rested upon a platoon of Jamaican Volunteers, obvious even at a distance due to large number of black faces, reacted in horror as a four-pounder plunged into the ranks and carried away three of their fellows. Arms, legs, and heads disconnected from bodies as the screams momentarily eclipsed the bellowing crack of cannon ejecting their contents towards frail human flesh. A shell fortuitously fell directly among a squad, killing or maiming twenty men, throwing broken bodies to the ground like ragdolls. Nothing could dispel the horror of the events, not a lifetime of regimented training, nor the bravado every soldier wore like armor. The unremitting cannon fire forced proud men to hunch low, sinking almost into their boots, in a vain effort to present a smaller target. Cruelly, the Republican infantry opted at this moment to open fire along the length of their line.
"Too soon," Cleburne murmured and his commander nodded in agreement. Volleys should be reserved to within one hundred yards at the maximum. Muskets were simply too inaccurate beyond that range and only a few riflemen presented themselves among the enemy ranks. The Duke's line was still at least one hundred and twenty yards from the ERA defenses. Only a handful of crimson-clad soldiers slumped the ground.
"Sir?" Freemantle inquired, his body language a portrait of tension. "Do you know what this reminds me of?"
"What do you mean, Arthur?"
"Do you recall the history books’ take on the Boston Massacre?"
Longstreet comprehended at once. During the opening stages of the War for Independence, the northern colonies had surrounded the small British garrison assembled in the city of Boston by taking the heights of two peninsulas. Bunker and Breed's Hill dominated one and, oh, what was the other? Ah, yes, the Dorchester Heights. The British Commander ordered a seaborne invasion from the Boston Peninsula to the beaches of the respective hills, followed a dual-pronged assault on well-entrenched rebel positions…and were utterly massacred. The trauma of that ordeal severely shocked the overly confident British commanders, some say to the extent that their cautious actions over the next five years led to the loss of the colonies and the eventual establishment of the Commonwealth of the Carolinas and the United States of Columbia as independent sister nations (along with the Republic of Rhode Island and the French colony of Acadia, but those little lands hardly mattered). Only offshore bastions like the Royal Islands of New York and Newfoundland, protected by the Royal Navy, remained under the British Ensign.
"Not entirely an accurate parallel, Arthur, those low hills are hardly as daunting at those faced by Gage in Boston."
"Aye, sir, but British arrogance remains unaffected."
Neither Longstreet nor Cleburne could summon a suitable retort. Every few dozen paces, another round of fire emerged from the enemy position, far too quickly for any novice army to reload. Obviously, Nolan had devised a capable system of rotating his own ranks. As the gap closed, each salvo cut down ever increasing numbers of courageous soldiers. Cleburne excused himself momentarily to check with his officers. Longstreet didn't avert his gaze for a moment from the tragedy unfolding before him. Every time a soldier in the front row fell, the man in the rank behind grimly stepped forward to take his place as the infantry regiments ground inexorably up the hill's gentle slope. Already, a full fifty yards from the ERA soldiers manning the summit, those gaps ceased being filled. Longstreet couldn't even begin to estimate the casualties incurred; a rate sure to worsen should Cambridge actually make the breach. The British line was close enough to be partially obscured by the smoke concentrated by repeated volleys belched from ERA muskets.
"General!" Longstreet turned to witness Cleburne sprinting back. "One of my officers noted a disturbance to the east, at the extreme right!"
Longstreet immediately raised his binoculars across his face. A momentary gust of wind blew his ample beard upward, blocking his view. With a curse, he swiped the renegade follicles away and reaffixed his gaze eastward. At the far left of the line, where the Banda Oriental forces had been stationed, hundreds of horsemen milled in confusion, pale forms intermixed with the traditional red.
"A cavalry clash," Longstreet nodded as if in approval. "Nolan tried to sneak his cavalry through that forest into our rear while Cambridge was distracted by his frontal attack. Very clever, but it appears Lord Cardigan has the matter under control."
"Its nigh impossible to estimate how Cardigan is faring, sir," Cleburne pressed, "Perhaps, we should order Colonel Hampton’s Regiment to reinforce…"
"No, Paddy, we've received no command to that effect. Cambridge knows we are here. We must not begin writing our own orders, no matter how much we might dislike their intent. Inform Hampton to be on the lookout for the enemy to try the same thing on our flank. That swamp to the west is daunting…per perhaps not impassible. And have his men mounted just in case they are called to reinforce the Brits."
Cleburne nodded unhappily but departed to see to his orders. Longstreet returned his gaze to the main drama unfolding before him and cursed, "Damn it to hell."
Even from this distance, the events obscured by the acrid smoke sweeping over the battlefield, the roar of cannon-fire reached his ears. But these cannons discharged from slight fissures in the enemy wall. At this range, it could only be…
"A whiff of grapeshot," Freemantle breathed, "Napoleon I's gift to artillery."
The little Corsican made his name in the early French Revolution by confronting the Paris mob with cannon loaded with buckshot, spent bullets, belt buckles, nails and every conceivable variation of metal that could be transformed into a projectile. As the British line approached the center of the French defenses, the entrenched cannon, which had been hurling shot and shell into the air and down upon the attackers, simply leveled their barrels and blasted an expanding wave of steel detritus into the exposed human flesh below. In synch with one final salvo from the Republican muskets, the mighty Regiments of the Household Guards visibly shrank before the onslaught and stumbled backwards towards the relative safety of their own line, leaving a bloody trail of scarlet uniforms, their fallen brethren, behind.
Longstreet flinched, forcing himself to lower his binoculars to escape the unraveling disaster before his eyes.
"Mother of God," Freemantle breathed.
"Amen, Lord, please look after your own." Cleburne returned.
Cheers and catcalls chased the defeated Guardsmen across the battlefield, replacing the bullets, balls and shells which had broken Cambridge's advance. Longstreet could not comprehend that only hours had passed since the idyllic afternoon chat with the Republican leaders that afternoon. Cambridge's imagined triumphant progression through the gratefully unshackled people of central England might have received a check crueler than the sullen reception the Army of Liberation received from the general populace of southern England.
Longstreet opened his mouth to summon his aides to prepare for the inevitable counterattack when a young rider bounced unsteadily towards him. A pale hand delivered a note to the Carolinian before saluting the senior officer and raced back from whence he came. The General called for his staff even as he half-trembling digits opened the letter. A slight sigh.
"Paddy, we've been ordered to advance along the enemy flank and drive the Republicans off that damn hill."
Twenty minutes later:
“You remember, boys? You remember that god-awful holla’ you spewed at the coons and the vermin at night?”
A rousing cry emerged from the 2nd South Carolina, exactly as Longstreet expected. One could always count upon the southern elan.
“Well, then, once you hear the call for the double’step…you let the buzzards have it, full square!”
The boys in butternut huzzahed their commander till their voices went hoarse. Longstreet waved his hat, spurred his gallant charger, and drove it along the length of the line, every Regiment adding their cries until the Carolina division spoke with one voice. With a prearranged stab of his sword, the central drummers tapped out their cadence, the outer Regiments adding their own beat, until the proud men of North and South Carolina advanced at the single step, thousands singing in unison. The slightly bedraggled uniforms of the “provincials” looking positively Spartan compared to the elegantly coifed scarlet of the Household Guard. However, Longstreet would bet his widow’s pension that his boys would take that damned hill.
Unlike several of his British compatriots, many of whom had undoubtedly lost their lives in the previous attack, Longstreet ordered his senior officers to march behind the three thin lines of butternut rather than before. Though some grumbled at suffering such an undignified position behind the men under their command, most recalled the tales of the War for Independence and the terrible toll taken against British officers by rebel sharpshooters. The obsolete and narrow European ideal of chivalry held no place in the world of modern weapons. Any officer presenting such a tempting target would simply not live long enough to inspire his command. The General gazed left and right, absently fingering his beard. Good, he thought, Cleburne and the Colonels appear to be obeying my command, remaining near the drummers and aide-de-camps, close enough to rally the men but not so close as to invite direct fire.
Without any warning beyond a distant echo, Republican artillery slowly rose to a crescendo as the first cannonballs and shells began to land disconcertingly near Longstreet’s command. A few cries of alarm rang out among the ranks, but the General noted no overall panic, just the reasonable apprehension of inherently brave men facing fire for the first time. Certainly, their commander couldn’t lay claim to previous experience. Like the lion’s share of his men, James Longstreet’s character would soon be laid open for all to see.
Longstreet glanced left. Beneath the glare of the setting sun, the 1st and 4th North Carolina and the 1st South Carolina strode forward, their shouldered bayonets gleaming in the flagging light of the English evening. Each having loaded round long before. Had his men born more years of service on average than their ERA counterparts, then perhaps Longstreet might consider ordering a halt at fifty yards and trading volleys until the more professional unit won out. Certainly, the British won many a battle during the War for Independence against their amateurish colonial militia. But Longstreet witnessed the mettle of his enemy once today. Unlike Cambridge, he determined not to dismiss the ERA soldiers as “amateurs” playing at soldiers. At the very least, the broken and shattered bodies of the Household Guard littering the ground of southern England attested to that.
The commander of the enemy flank waited longer to open fire than his central counterpart. The lengthening, east-leaning shadows trailing Longstreet’s division maintained their steady march, diligently following orders under the haphazard enemy artillery bombardment. Hardly as punitive as our British friends received, Longstreet mused as he scanned the 2nd , 3rd and 4th South Carolina Regiments on the right. Most of the ERA artillery must have oriented upon the center. Thank heavens for small favors.
The Carolinian General’s mood darkened as the telltale signs of carnage emerged: shrieking and weeping soldiers fell out of line after bits of shrapnel tore into their bodies, or a springing cannonball tore off a limb before the unwary soldier grew aware of the threat. Longstreet’s horror at the loss of life warred with the iron determination crawling through his spine demanding the sacrifice of so many good fellows would not go in vain.
A hundred yards remained along the deceptively idyllic meadow separating the two armies. Unlike the right flank, there were no hedgerows to disrupt the synchronicity of the charge. Unlike the center, the preponderance of the enemy artillery remained out of range. The enemy advantage lay on nominally high ground which wasn’t necessarily that imposing.
This is a fair fight, Longstreet abruptly realized, his hopes rising. He’d take his boys in a fair fight any day.
The Carolinians passed reached within a hundred yards, then ninety, then eighty without facing a volley. Cocky Bastards! The General cursed with a grim smile of admiration. At seventy-five yards, the ERA opened fire. The Carolinian line hesitated for the briefest of moments…before resuming their march in earnest. Sixty yards, fifty, forty-five and a second salvo smashed directly into Longstreet’s plucky troops.
Without a moment’s hesitation, grateful at the gift of time and space he’d been granted by the enemy commander, Longstreet bent low in the saddle and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Drummers! Double step! Double step!”
At once, the trio of drummers increased their tempo, hands twirling in exertion. Within moments, the nearby sergeants and lieutenants followed their commander’s prearranged orders and bellowed, “Double step! Charge! Charge! Charge!”
One regiment after another took up the call, only to find the lucid orders battered down by a blood-curling shriek spewing forth from the Carolinians at they broke into a near sprint, dashing forward with reckless abandon at the momentarily stunned English Republican Army. An hour prior, these patriots huzzahed in delight at the victory of their fellows over the arrogant Monarchists in scarlet were slapped aside like whipped curs and sent the much-heralded Household Guard running for their lives. Many felt oddly disappointed when lined against these strange men clad in tan uniforms. Were these the Jamaicans and Barbadians rumored to be among the Queen’s Men? There were few black faces among the ranks, so they couldn’t be West Indians.
When the men in the light coffee-colored uniforms approached, the ERA officers allowed a certain proximity before granting the order to fire. Powder was at a premium, after all, and one does not waste shots. Two volleys fired, stiff blows the enemy soldiers absorbed with commendable aplomb. The six thousand defenders of the ERA’s right flank had yet to feel the sting of musket fire when the most shocking clamor in creation disrupted the easy confidence festering in the ERA soldier’s breasts. What on god’s creation…?
In contravention of every sane conviction the savior bestowed upon humanity, these foreign devils CHARGED! They raised bayonets and sprinted forward with abject contempt for military doctrine, common sense or self-preservation.
Twenty-five yards. A handful of startled defenders managed to fire off a haphazard third volley. Most did not, instead continuing to stare. The ranks behind starting jostling forward or demanding information as to the source of that bloody racket.
Fifteen yards. The fanatical gleam in the attackers’ eyes could be discerned. Impossibly, they shone brighter than the sparkling bayonets.
Five yards. The cry rose to deafening heights. The banshee shrieks only momentarily battled to a draw by the spontaneous discharge of hundreds of rounds, the bullets loaded into the muskets hours earlier and enjoined to remain there until reaching the shallow enemy redoubt. ERA sergeants shouted for order. Lieutenants brayed for a concentrated volley. Utter confusion reigned as men in the first rank, having expended their ammunition, lacked the time to reload or the orders to fix bayonets. The second rank, in confusion, pushed forward.
Into the rapidly descending chaos of the English Republican Army’s right flank, a single Carolinian soldier leaped into the air and plunged, bayonet first, into the mass of humanity. He was followed a moment later by twenty more. Within two ticks of a stopwatch, a hundred and fifty more joined them. Within twenty seconds, virtually the entire Carolinian line smashed into their counterparts, stabbing, shooting, slashing, punching, kicking and biting their way through.
Ignorant that such bestiality could emerge from a human soul, the British defenders attempted to resist, by Regiment, by Company, sometimes an intrepid soul would fight to the last when all his mates fled. But the inexorable tide shifted the ERA soldiers off the peak of the gentle hill, and by waves, the brave Republicans retreated in chaos, many throwing aside their weapons to hasten their flight. Within minutes, the survivors of six thousand British soldiers were fleeing headlong into retreat as their vanquishers howled in delight at the scene.
A graceful figure on horseback sauntered past, blood dripping from his sword, staining his elegant butternut coat. At the sight of their commander, the Carolinians emitted a spontaneous huzzah for the victor of the Battle of Crawley. What they didn’t know was that James Longstreet would shortly be called upon to win it again.
A half mile east:
Louis Nolan fumed at the sight of his entire flank collapsing. How the hell did could this happen? There should have been more than enough to hold that hill!
Made almost euphoric by his victory over the grandiose (and obviously exaggerated) Household Guard only a half hour prior, General Nolan expected greater slaughter once his incredulous eyes detected a second Royalist assault along his right flank. These must be the Americans from Carolina as evidenced by their grotesquely ugly tan uniforms. Didn’t the enemy colonials just see the Queen’s men slaughtered like pigs?!
There were at least a thousand lying dead at Nolan’s feet and probably that many more Royalists stumbling south wounded.
But that fool Ramsay waited too damn long to fire! He’d only managed a couple of ill-aimed volleys before the Americans charged forward with that ear-shattering scream and drove General Ramsay from the field.
If that doddering fool lived, I’ll see to it his next command will be a prison in Yorkshire. The idiot didn’t build defenses as ordered! Nolan growled audibly, causing his aide-de-camp to jump. Surely that would have made a difference!
Recognizing Ramsay’s division was too scattered and disheartened to respond to a swift call back to arms, Nolan uttered the only possible order. “General Bryce…summon the reserves and drive those damned Americans off that hill post-haste. I don’t want them reinforced.”
Bryce nodded, glanced westwards and noted, “Sir, we have but an hour and a half of sunlight…”
“Then you had better make the best of what you have!”
Twenty minutes later:
Longstreet accepted the adulations for about thirty seconds before dutifully returning to the task at hand. Along the length of his battered line, he bellowed for order, to return to their Regimental units. Glancing nervously northward, the Carolinian was pleased that the original defenders of this hill continued to mill about in confusion. But the steady thrum of drums lent evidence new challengers rapidly approached under the cover of hundreds of mighty oaks sheltering the enemy reserves.
Those big trees must provide shade for the sheep, Longstreet guessed before wondering why he would waste a moment on such trifles now. Collecting himself, he shouted, “All soldiers to your sergeants! Form three lines, the riflemen up front!”
“Pete!” Longstreet turned to discover his friend had survived. Cleburne was perhaps a little wild-eyed but appeared none the worse for wear. A revolver was gripped in the Irish-Carolinian’s hand. He wondered absently if Cleburne’s total eclipsed the three Britons he’d sent to their maker via his sword this day.
Without a word of welcome, Longstreet repeated, “Gather up your men, riflemen to the front. I’ve sent Freemantle for the 2nd North Carolina, they’ll be here in five minutes to support.”
“In the meantime…” Longstreet concluded with a twinkle in his eye, “Let us show the Duke what a Henry Rifle can do!”
Cleburne saluted and nudged his mare towards his North Carolinians.
If the 2nd South Carolina was any indicator, his army would be well ready to repel the enemy from this hard-won ground. Dozens of men still jostled about in disorder but most successfully found their sergeant or officer in the confusion…or simply momentarily joined another company to see out the fight. Three ranks of infantry had taken this hill. The first two marched with bayonets locked and a round in the chamber. The third lacked any bayonet at all…for these men carried the Henry Rifle.
"Come, boys! Third rank forward! I want those Henry's on the ground now! Form two ranks of muzzleloaders immediately behind! Hurry lads, we only have minutes!"
Months ago, when presented with a new Henry Rifle as a gift from his allies as a token of their esteem, the Duke of Cambridge glanced disparagingly at the weapon, declining to even touch the sleekly designed rifle.
"Ridiculous. A weapon without a bayonet! Every British battle of the last two centuries have been won by the bayonet and now you propose to retake the homeland with this…this…toy?!"
Longstreet, having already received more than his fair share of the Duke’s peremptory pronouncements and less-then-subtle insults, replied snidely, "Sir, when you fire twenty-eight rounds a minute with previously unknown accuracy and range, no bayonet will come near you."
Predictably, the Duke demanded that the Carolinians leave the untested weapon at home. Longstreet retorted he'd be happy too provided that the Crown purchase their replacements. The ships had sailed without the matter being resolved and the Henry Rifles remained in the hands of the six hundred finest sharpshooters in the Division.
Discovering several enemy heavy guns still lodged in place (minus the gunners and horses), Longstreet belatedly realized the British had not yet turned the dozens of cannon from their main formation atop the adjacent hill towards the west. Perplexed, the soldier gazed east, wondering why Nolan hadn't ordered his main artillery to bombard this position. Certainly, the Carolinians were within range. Eying the captured guns, Longstreet briefly considered turning them around and using the weapons to defend the position. In short order, he dismissed the idea as impractical. They were of a different caliber than his own cannon and very little ammunition appeared present. Besides, infantrymen tended to make poor gunners. Most ended up clogging the barrels to the point of rupture or simply lacked the background in mathematics to properly gauge the trajectory and reach their intended target.
"Freemantle," he called out, noting his Aide-de-Camp returning with the 2nd North Carolina, "Find fifty men and have them drag these guns back to our original line. Then order the Carolina Artillery forward and request that Lord Cambridge support with his own guns."
"Sir!" The Englishman replied with a quick salute and Freemantle was gone. Longstreet liked men who did not waste words at an inopportune moment.
So intent on bringing order to the surrounding chaos of the closest regiment that Longstreet nearly missed the warning shout, "Here they come, boys!" The British counterattack had finally materialized from the lush vegetation of the valley. Noting the British surging forward at the double-step, bayonets already jutting menacingly forward, the Carolinian felt an odd sense of vindication at his own choice of tactics of the enemy was already imitating them. Only this time the bayonet faced his own direction.
"Hold your line, boys! Hold your line!" The call echoed from a hundred officers' throats, typically followed by profanity of a more personal nature by less refined NCO's promising retribution to any man who ran.
Sweat dripped down his brow. The English afternoon was not particularly hot, certainly not for a South Carolina boy, but Longstreet's racing heart seemed intent on flushing the moisture from his body.
I hope to hell Cleburne has his men ready, Longstreet thought as he spied the first wave of ERA soldiers approaching his position, because we’re damned well out of time!
Slowed slightly by the denser vegetation, in addition to the trees, there were also some evil-looking thickets along the hill’s northern slope, the Republicans nevertheless approached with resolve. Even as the first artillery shells began pummeling his position, four columns of English soldiers bypassed the worst of the thickets and trod inexorably forward, bayonets glinting menacingly in the fading twilight.
The convenient undergrowth managed to funnel the Englishmen into four or five channels up the eastern hill. Longstreet offered silent prayer for God’s favor for the General could not have chosen better ground had he his pick throughout southern England. As the English approached, the narrow passages through the grasping scrubs concentrated the assailants to the point where most of the battalions marched only eight to twelve abreast. At one hundred yards, Longstreet gave the signal.
The Henry Rifles, ably carried by the finest marksmen in Carolina, pored their fire into the massed white-clad soldiers. Almost every member of the first two English ranks fell within five seconds. The Carolinian musket men, the breech-loaders fully armed, spewed forth the cruelest and most wonderful slaughter their commander ever witnessed. One rank, then the second, the third, the fourth and fifth, each was cut down like the wrath of God. Hundreds of brave Englishmen were cut down with as little resistance as wheat offers to the scythe. Round after round were fired without the necessity of reloading. Sixteen rounds of a magazine in the most accurate weapon on earth emitted a steady stream of steel into the courageous British infantry.
My god, Longstreet mouthed silently, horrified at the carnage wrought by his own order. These weapons will change the world.
“Damn it,” the General suddenly shouted as a cannonball suddenly bounded directly past his line of sight, perhaps five yards before his perch atop the hill. The metal sphere bounced off an odd rocky ledge and caromed northward, away from his men. Longstreet turned east, pulling his binoculars to his face. The topography of the main English formation on the adjacent hill did not allow for much flexibility for the enemy commander. Basically, the central hill, which had successfully beaten back Cambridge’s rash charge, was a narrow ledge, running almost perfectly west to east. Nolan simply could not orient much of his artillery westward. The cannon fire discharged toward the Carolinians probably originated from only the four or five westernmost English guns. Unfortunately, even that small amount was threatening Longstreet’s position.
Recalling his earlier order, Longstreet gazed southwards and breathed a sigh of relief. Four of his own Carolina batteries had nearly scaled the hill, the draft-horses shrill whinnies lending proof of their own inexperience in battle, much like the vast majority of the soldiers employing them.
“Lieutenant!” Longstreet bellowed at a nearby Ensign, “Instruct Captain MacLean to hit that English position with shells. I want those damnable guns silenced.”
The wide-eyed youth sprinted off, paused a moment to turn and salute (to Longstreet’s brief amusement) before rushing off to deliver his commander’s orders. The Carolinian wasn’t worried. MacLean was an exceptional officer, a teacher of artillery at the Citadel and publisher of several books on the subject. He needn’t require any real instruction in his duty.
“General!”
Freemantle had returned, his breath haggard for his exertions. “MacLean is taking up position to the east with four guns, per your orders, while Lieutenant Baker is currently unhitching his guns to the west to support Cleburne…”
The Captain was momentarily interrupted by a stray English shell bursting fifty feet away. The near-deafening blast did manage to momentarily suppress dozens of agonized shrieks in the background.
“General, shall I order Baker east to assist in suppressing…?”
“No, Captain, I’m sure MacLean can do the job with the resources at hand. I find it unlikely an artilleryman of such caliber exists on this nation’s soil to match him. Let Baker brace Cleburne’s position. I haven’t heard from him for some time.”
“It seems that you have won, General,” the Englishman noted, nodding towards the northern slope.
Longstreet twirled at once and grunted in satisfaction. Indeed, the ERA attack had completely petered out all along the line. White uniformed figures sprawled along the bloody ground with grotesque regularity. At some chokepoints, one could probably walk for hundreds of feet without touching the ground, the bodies stacked so densely that one could march along the backs of the English dead. Pathetic wails of pain interspersed with the occasional shot or shell. Within moments, closer eruptions proved that the efficient Captain MacLean was already returning fire.
Recalling Freemantle’s other order, Longstreet inquired evenly, “I requested that the Duke assist in suppressing the ERA cannon atop their central hill. Yet, at no point did I notice any fire from his position.”
The Captain spread his hands helplessly, “I did, of course, directly request the Duke’s intervention, General. He replied by…nodding and then turning his back on me.”
Fury boiled up through Longstreet’s spleen like bile. However, his ire was soon waylaid by more urgent circumstances. A chorus of “They comin’ again!” echoed across his defensive line. With Freemantle in tow, Longstreet moved towards a more central location, raised his binoculars, and muttered, “It’s the men we drove off this hill. Seems the enemy finally collected itself.”
Freemantle noted, “Sir, I took the liberty of having some additional ammunition brought forward, especially for the Henry’s. Given the rate we’re firing them off…”
“Well done, Arthur,” Longstreet nodded absently as he inspected each position. In every case, the sharpshooters lay or kneeled before those armed with the more conventional muskets. Longstreet spied one marksman speedily reloading his sixteen rounds into the breach of his Henry.
“Son? How is the Henry performing?”
Bright green eyes stared up in shock before a grim smile spread across his powder-streaked features. “Suh, this rifle is a gift from the angels. Never jammed once and I think I must kill a man with every round. But can you do one thing, suh?”
“What is it, son?”
“Can you tell these musket boys to stop firin’? All they really doing is blinding me with all that damn black smoke. I’ll kill more Republicans without all that racket behind me.”
Chuckling at the growls from the second and third ranks, their apparently obsolete Enfield rifles, built with precious tools carried from England in 1830, clutched in their hands, Longstreet promised, “Let us win this day, private, and I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Here they come!”
Longstreet turned to witness the original inhabitants of this hill charging steadily upward over the tightly packed bodies of their fallen comrades in a desperate attempt to regain their honor. With a near consecutive series of volleys from the Henrys, the Carolinians signaled their response.
That evening:
“It was murder, General, nothing but,” Cleburne reported wearily. “Those damned Republicans came at us with everything they had but, fortunately, the favorable terrain and the Henrys carried the day. The ERA only came within reach of the summit against the 2nd North Carolina’s position. Captain Baker’s battery dealt with that with one shot of double canister. Fifty men killed in one blast. God, I’ve never seen such carnage.”
“Well done, Paddy, well done,” Longstreet mumbled as he stared disconsolately at the splayed bodies of his soldiers cast in jumbles across the southern slope of the dearly purchased real estate. The fact that far more bodies in white lay on the northern slope did little to comfort the officer.
The moon was high, combining with the torches and campfires along the ridgeline to offer an unsought glimpse at the killing fields south of Crawley. To the east, the Duke of Cambridge’s forces now occupied without incident the heights for which almost a thousand Household Guard and various other British soldiers died in a vain attempt to take by force. Seeing the Carolinians drive off two waves of ERA counterattacks, General Nolan evidently deemed his position untenable and withdrew during the night. A chill wind gusted across the knolls, reminding the Army of Liberation that winter was approaching.
“Perhaps you should get some sleep, Pete,” recommended Cleburne, noting the weary lines across his commander’s grim features as his listless eyes took in the bloody scene. Equally exhausted soldiers continued to carry the wounded and dead back onto the plains. “The Duke is summoning a council of war tomorrow at nine, provided the ERA doesn’t counterattack again in the morning. A few hours respite might do wonders for…”
“Too many of our boys have met their maker this day, Paddy,” Longstreet shook his head. “Until I am sure that the position is secure, and I have done what is possible for those souls still residing in this world, I shall not close my eyes.”
Cleburne sighed and gazed around. Many of the fallen Cleburne had personally recruited, trained, bullied, cajoled, threatened, or laughed among. To have hundreds of such fine boys…
As the Carolinians, one native born and one adopted son, supervised the establishment of the Carolina Division on the ground so much had been sacrificed to take, both silently wondered if devotion to the Queen merited such slaughter.
The following day:
“…and, of course, the fine charge of the Carolinian Division, must be commended as well. You appeared almost British in your steadfastness, sirs,” the Duke of Cambridge conceded, almost through clenched teeth.
Like most of the Carolinian senior officers present, James Longstreet found the “official celebration” of the previous day’s victory somewhat surreal in its agenda. Originally assuming the Duke intended to honor various officers and regiments for a few minutes before getting down to the business of continuing the damned war, Longstreet swiftly discovered that the Duke held other plans.
The council of war come “official celebration” was little more than an elaborate banquet in honor of the Queen (naturally) where most of the officers present drank themselves into a stupor by ten o’clock. Fifty senior officers assembled for a lavish feast in Cambridge’s expansive tent. Dozens of servants raced back and forth with delicacies of every variety. Longstreet wondered how much precious tonnage in the Queen’s armada had been allocated to such ostentatious nonsense as crystal wineglasses, the finest Madeira and silk tablecloths.
The Duke spent a half-hour honoring the late Lord Cardigan, the elderly cavalry commander whom fell dead of a heart attack while milling around aimlessly with a few dozen of his cavalry in a “melee” against an equal number of ERA cavalry. As best Longstreet could tell, this action had no effect whatsoever on the battle’s outcome. In the Carolinian’s estimation, this still put Cardigan ahead of the Duke of Cambridge based on the fact that at least Cardigan didn’t take over a thousand of his men with him (unlike the Duke’s idiotic charge into the center of the enemy line). Longstreet rather suspected the “glorious charge of the Household Guards” would be given prominence over the Carolinians own offensive in the Duke’s dispatches, despite the minor fact that it was the Carolinians whom carried the day and drove the ERA from their position.
“You are most gracious, Your Lordship,” Longstreet replied dryly, suspecting his host probably wouldn’t detect the sarcasm intended in the retort.
“No, no,” the Duke waxed on, slightly unsteady. “With the conquest of Britain concluded, the part of the Carolina Division shall be adequately chronicles in the history books. You must be quite proud, General…”
“Concluded,” Longstreet echoed incredulously. Though sleep-deprived, the absurd statement tore through the Carolinian’s consciousness. “Your Lordship, surely you don’t believe the war is over?”
“Of course, General! We swept the traitors from the field! With one blow, the upstart Republican government with fall…”
“Swept them from the field?!” Longstreet recognized that he should modulate his contemptuous tone but could not summon the energy to pretend the fat idiot was worthy of respect. “Your Lordship cannot be serious. The English Republican Army retreated in good order. They are probably selecting their next defensive position now while we waste our time…”
“Really, General,” Lord Bingham inserted roughly, though the several rolls of the balding aristocrat’s eyes during the Duke’s speech lent evidence he also found his commander’s opinions ludicrous, “remember you are addressing the Duke!”
Dozens of British and Carolinian officers silenced at the raised voices. In nothing else, command-level spats were amusing, especially when public. The Carolinians appeared in universal agreement with Longstreet while the most of the British concurred as well, if less verbosely. But the latter appeared vastly more concerned with Longstreet’s lapse in protocol than the fact that the commanding general appeared utterly insane in his assessment of the current military situation.
As best Longstreet could tell, the previous battle altered the situation not a whit and was too tired to pretend to care about noble sensibilities, “Your Lordship…two equally matched armies collided yesterday. Today, two equally matched armies are burying a couple of thousand dead. Beyond that, I don’t see the circumstances overly changed.”
The Duke appeared to sober instantly at the Carolinian’s impudence. Fixing his nominal subordinate with a condescending sneer, the portly officer snidely explained, “Though I should hardly expect a mere colonial to comprehend civilized warfare, the General must understand that the ERA traitors are probably boarding ships destined for neutral countries by now for our superiority is established. Whomever is left will likely seek an armistice shortly in hopes of salvaging their lands and privileges, not that I plan to offer a trace of leniency...”
Longstreet guffawed, an ugly sound rarely emitted from the elegant southern gentleman, “Sir, do you imagine yourself the lord of some German petty state at war with another minor prince? If so, then I understand quite well. Wars between European nations are, in all reality, wars between autocratic monarchs eager to expand their own pathetic sphere of influence. After exploiting every conceivable resource of their downtrodden peasantry, a princeling makes war over a perceived weaker rival. After a token battle, the two monarchs sit down and agree to the cession of a few border towns, whose inhabitants are not consulted on the matter, and both sovereigns go home.”
Longstreet paused long enough to take in the open-mouthed stares proffered by the aristocratic British officers dominating the Household Guards and various colonial regiments. Long since bored of their presumed entitlements and privileges, the Carolinian spoke with increasing contempt.
“Unfortunately, Your Lordship is not at war with any European potentate. You choose to confront free men, defending what they value most…their ideals and their families! That army who massacred the Household Guard yesterday will not simply pack it in and concede their rights. The farmers of the former great midland estates will not simply yield their lands to a returning feudal lord with a shrug and return to groveling at their landlord’s feet because their army…their still-intact English Republican Army…lost a damned rolling hill to the enemy.”
His voice rising, Longstreet continued after brushing Cleburne’s hand off his shoulder, “The people of Newcastle and Liverpool with not say “Oh, dear, I suppose we have lost little knoll south of Crawley. I do so hope a titled nobility will return soon and roll back the establishment, so I don’t have to cast my vote anymore! Oh, perhaps they might tax my hard-earned wages to support their inbred aristocracy as well!”
Finally, the Carolinian rose to his feet and glared daggers at the astounded senior officers.
“Though you might not know this, a similar situation occurred some time ago. Perhaps you might recall from the Duke’s history book. Eighty years ago, an arrogant gentry deemed that their colonies shall have no say in their own governance. Patronizing and amused at the colonies’ antics, an army was dispatched three thousand miles to remind them of their true master’s might. Many dozens of battles were waged, most resulting in victory for the Empire. But after each engagement, a strange result ensued. In place of the expected supplication for forgiveness and assurances that the colonies held no desire greater than to be dictated to by their glorious imperial masters, the colonies refused to submit.”
“You see, Your Lordship,” Longstreet spat derisively, “when a long-oppressed people experience even the slightest taste of liberty, the absence of an established hereditary ruling class, they tend to enjoy the flavor. And oddly enough, they will not allow a minor setback to dissuade them from demanding more.”
“Now,” Longstreet conceded, his voice lowering slightly in the astonished hush, “it is possible that the twelve million English and Welsh souls embodying this nation will elect to cast aside their freedom because they lost a hill and few thousand soldiers. But I rather think not.”
With a supple bow toward the fuming Duke, he apologized, “Sir, I fear the night’s labors have fatigued me. If I may, I shall seek my bed.”
As the Carolinian turned his back, Cambridge leaped unsteadily to his feet and bellowed, “Sir, you are a traitor for questioning your monarch’s divine right. The ERA was defeated and this Republican conspiracy ended yesterday.”
Barely suppressing his contempt, Longstreet retorted, “Yes, that’s what Mad King George thought in 1776. Recall how well that went.”
Without another word, the Columbian swept out of the room, utterly indifferent to the glare of the Duke of Cambridge.
