Rebel Arms

Welcome, thank you for reading. Please be aware, this story contains depictions of combat that some may find upsetting, so reader discretion is advised. I do hope you enjoy!

"Fire!"

In a rippling explosion, scores of muskets erupted in fire and smoke. Thomas was briefly deafened by the roar of the volley and the butt of his heavy weapon punched his shoulder. His view of the rebel formation across the field was blotted out by an acrid white cloud. Soon the cloud was scattered by the wind, but wisps of smoke lingered over the field like fog.

"Prime and load!" came the next order. Thomas's right hand reached behind him to fish out another paper cartridge. As he tore the cartridge open with his teeth, a few grains of salty gunpowder came away on his already parched lips. Despite the close-packed mass of men, he moved with clockwork precision born of years of training. Down the line, the other companies of the regiment poured out their splintering volleys that thundered over a constant crackle of steady musketry. Returning his loaded musket to his shoulder, Thomas had just a moment wipe the sweat from his face with the smudged wool sleeve of his scratchy uniform coat. The midday summer sun burned on his neck and scorched his brow.

The orders came again.

"Make ready!" The men brought their muskets off their shoulders and hauled back on the hammers.

"Present!" Each man turned a half step to his right and brought his weapon to bear. The men in the rank behind leaned over the men in front with the barrels of their muskets extending past the heads and shoulders of their file partners.

"Fire!" Another explosion of shots and another cloud of smoke.

The rebels were firing too. Over the roar of gunfire came the occasional whine of a ball in flight. They thudded like lethal hail on the fences, buildings, and trees of the farm the regiment had advanced across. Sometimes they struck men. Another rebel volley rang out. The man to Thomas's left dropped his musket and fell to the ground grasping his leg and screaming. Another man simply folded over, dropped, and lay still. The screaming man was helped to the rear by a young drummer boy. The dead man was dragged behind the line and left there for the time being. The fighting went on. Another soldier pitched backwards with a grunt and sprawled on the grass.

If not for the war, the valley would have been one of the most beautiful places on God's earth, or so Thomas had thought as the regiment trudged north through its heart. On the horizon, rolling green mountains punctuated by stony outcrops boxed in a fertile land. It was a verdant patchwork of fields of crops, pastures, and tracts of wood divided up by stone walls. In the pastures, cows and sheep munched the grass and absently contemplated the soldiers. Here and there, behind the slopes of hills or copses of trees, church steeples marked where villages lay nestled.

Where the regiment passed, the tranquility was destroyed. The troops had marched north to seize a cache of rebel arms. The valley was known to be a base of rebel support, but the arms were the objective. As they searched every building for weapons and gunpowder without good cause or warrant, the red-coated men made no effort at civility. Anyone who tried to stop them was shot down or beaten. This was not necessarily intended as a punitive expedition, but any subject that resisted the King's men became the King's enemy. Columns of smoke from burned farms scarred the idyllic scene.

The British officers had been expecting only local militia in the area. Such a foe would not dare to stand in line of battle against British regulars. However, instead of militia, the regiment now found itself squaring up with a force of continental regulars. No matter. No army of men who were lately only shopkeepers and farmers would prevail against British foot in open battle. They were the best professional troops on the face of the earth.

Thomas heard a ball whiz close by his ear. He flinched from the sound of it.

"Don't mind that, Tommy," said private John Miller, who was standing in the rank behind him. "If it was a ball for you, you'd like as not be dead before you heard it."

"Oh, shut it, Johnny," said Thomas. Evidently, Johnny thought this was funny because he roared out with laughter and slapped Thomas on the shoulder.

"Silence there!" bellowed a sergeant. This was no time for jokes. It was discipline that made the regiment a fearsome weapon. Hundreds of hours of drill had been spent over weeks and months to teach these men the British way of war. Mistakes and transgressions had been punished until each man, in battle, would follow orders without fail, though shot and shell may rain around him. A British regiment was like a wound clock -- a machine. Each part moved in sequence to the cadence of the shouted orders. Except, instead of chiming the hour, this machine belched fire, smoke, and lead to vanquish the King's enemies. They were feared by those enemies and they were proud men.

An officer on a horse rode up bringing fresh orders to the light company's commanding officer. Rebels had been spotted trying to enter the wood to the left, Thomas overheard. As the light company was on the far left, the rebels might soon be able to outflank the entire British line. That could not be allowed to happen.

The officer shouted, "Take your men into the wood! Form them in skirmish order and drive those rebels back." The officers of the company gave orders for the men to extend the line and deploy into the wood.

Thomas trotted after the next man in line and crashed through the tangled thicket at the edge of the wood. A stinging nettle lashed his wrist and thorns ripped at the canvas gaiters protecting his legs as he forced his way beyond the brush. Here in the still air of the trees, the gun smoke carpeted the low places in thick curls. The floor of the woods was clearer than the margins, and Thomas was able to quickly move to his place in the skirmish line. Johnny was his skirmishing partner and closed up to join him.

"Here we go again, mate," Johnny said, with a chuckle. "Time to show these rebel bastards how a real soldier fights." Thomas grinned back at him and patted the stock of his musket with a smile. They had served together for several years and this was not their first action in this war. The company was the closest thing to a family that Thomas had ever known and Johnny was like his brother.

Thomas was a bastard. He'd been abandoned at a foundling home as an infant and raised in the institution. When he was only twelve, a recruiting sergeant had come to take him away with the strongest of the lads to be a drummer boy. Now, he was a soldier because it was the only life he knew, but he was happy in the army.

The company advanced through the trees in pairs. After one man fired, the other leapfrogged forward while the shooter reloaded. The rebels fell back in the face of the disciplined advance. One rebel, braver than the others, stood and leveled his firelock at Thomas. Johnny shouted a warning and banged off a shot that spun the rebel around and threw him to the ground. As they trotted past, Johnny slammed the brass butt of his musket down on the fallen man to be sure of him and rifled his pockets. Soon, the light company had cleared the wood as far as the tree line. The men found covered positions and kept up a desultory fire as the rebel American skirmishers slinked away across open ground to find more cover.

"That's the way boys!" Johnny called out with a laugh and thumped Thomas on the back. The band of rebel skirmishers found shelter behind a wall and the two forces exchanged pot shots across a field. The redcoats had a decisive advantage in numbers on this part of the battlefield now. The rebel flanking attempt seemed to be defeated. The men of the light company began to relax a bit after the excitement of the rush through the woods. Their role now was simply to hold this position in the tree line.

"Thanks, Johnny," said Thomas with relief. "I never saw that bastard before you shot him down. He'd have had me for sure. I think I owe you."

Johnny shrugged it off. "Nonsense. Fucking rebels can't shoot a house at ten paces." After a pause he said, "But if you want to give me your next ration of rum, I won't refuse it." He gave Thomas a wink and bellowed out a laugh as he thumped him on the back again.

To their right, the sounds of battle seemed to be growing more intense. The crackle of musket shots had become a steady roar punctuated by the boom of a field gun that Thomas felt in his chest. The sound of cannon was concerning to Thomas, because the regiment had marched without artillery. No new information came to them in the woods from the regimental staff, so the light company was left in the dark about what was happening around the farm to their right.

After a time, Thomas grew nervous. The light company was exposed on the edge of the line. Surely the order must come soon either to withdraw back to the main body or else to advance and press the attack?

Behind the light company, Thomas heard the rustle of troops moving up through the woods to their rear. While Johnny scanned in front, Thomas turned around to see if the approaching men carried fresh orders. As he peered through the trees, Thomas's blood suddenly ran cold. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw blue uniforms moving there rather than the red of the British army. He looked around for his officers and saw a young ensign hustling down the line.

"Sir!" he called. "Sir! Look there." Thomas pointed back in the trees. "I think those are rebel troops behind us. What are the orders?"

"Orders?" the Subaltern said confusedly. "I don't have any orders. I'm looking for the captain."

"Sir, if they are rebels, we must fall back to the regiment. We'll be cut off."

"Fall back?" the young man said, as he tried to peer through the trees with concern. "But I haven't received any orders to-"

The thought was cut off, along with the rest of the boy's young life, as a musket ball snatched him backwards to land in a heap on the forest floor.

Behind the light company, a massive volley had exploded and scores of musket balls whined and snapped though the trees. At least a dozen of the light infantrymen went down in the first devastating hail of shots and cries of pain and woe mingled with the sound of the firing. With no escape back to the regiment possible, the only way out was to charge into the open ground and try to fight through the rebel skirmishers to the front.

"Run for it!" someone called.

Johnny slapped Thomas on the shoulder. "Time to go now, mate. Let's move!" Johnny took off into the open. Thomas raised his musket and fired a last shot at the rebels that had surprised the light company before he jumped up to run after Johnny. As he turned to flee, the rebels fired again. Thomas felt blows on his head and leg and he crumpled to the ground. Mercifully, the world around him went dark before the pain became unbearable.

* * *

Thomas came to sometime late in the day. It was the pain that woke him. His head throbbed worse than anything he had ever experienced and there was a searing pain in his leg. His throat burned for water. Fumbling, he found his canteen and drained it. With a massive effort, Thomas heaved himself up from the brush. He found his musket lying on the ground and used it as a prop to pull himself upright. The summer sun was low in a burning red sky and he knew he must have lain in the thicket for several hours.

He could neither hear any firing now, nor see anything of the fighting. Looking around, Thomas could see several motionless figures in red wool coats lying tangled on the wood floor. Out in the field before him, there were several more of his fallen friends strewn about. Thomas guessed the regiment had been defeated and withdrawn, or else someone would have come to claim these men. He would have to move on from here in case rebels were still in the area.

He took stock of himself next. His leg wound was still bleeding, but only a little. The leg of his trousers and canvas gaiters were dark with dried blood. Likewise, he could feel blood caked in his hair and on his jacket. Although it ached and throbbed, Thomas perceived that his headwound was slight. His other wound seemed to be more serious. Thomas found he could not walk on his injured leg. It would not take his full weight before the pain was unbearable. Using his weapon as a crutch, he was able to hop along and he braced himself against the trees.

It was slow going. He had to stick to the woods whenever he could. He didn't know if anyone he would meet might be a rebel. In fact, in this valley, Thomas assumed they would be. He felt lightheaded as he limped along, but he was able to keep going. The red setting sun blazed brilliantly to the horizon and disappeared, leaving Thomas to stumble through the blackness. The only sounds he heard now were the chirps of crickets and the sound of his own feet rustling through the leaves. The darkness in the woods was near total. The temperature dropped and a fog rose up in wisps from the low places. For long hours, he slogged forward, not really knowing where he was going. He thought he was heading back south -- the direction from which the regiment had marched.

He was getting tired. He hadn't had anything to eat all day and not nearly enough water. He knew he had bled a great deal as well. He needed to find food, water, and shelter against the chill of the night. Eventually, a building loomed up in the darkness. Thomas stopped to listen. There was still no sound except the crickets. In the distance he heard the hoot of an owl. Thomas tripped and stumbled to the front of the building, which turned out to be a small cabin. Peering into the darkness beyond the cabin, Thomas thought he detected a clearing ahead, some other buildings, and maybe a candle burning in a window. He would take his chance with the cabin, which looked deserted. Thomas found the bolt on the door, slid it open, and ducked inside. Once indoors, he closed the door, shot the bolt home, and found a corner to curl up to rest. Though he was still in a great deal of pain. He was exhausted enough to sleep.

* * *

The sound of the bolt in the door sliding open jolted Thomas awake. As he raised his head, he had an image of a young woman floating toward him. In his fog, he thought she must be an angel to carry him off. She was not an angel, and she screamed in surprise and splashed the bucket she was carrying.

"Please," croaked Thomas. "Help me." He raised a piteous hand to her.

The young woman stood rooted in the door for a moment and regarded him. Shaking her head, she set down her bucket and took a step toward him.

"God in Heaven, who are you? What's happened to you?" She was a slender young woman. Her clothes were plain, but well-made and clean. She had a handsome face with fair skin. Her hair was a dark brown, as were her soft eyes. She took two steps toward him, as if to offer her assistance, but she froze and seemed to recoil. "That uniform. You're a British soldier," she said in disgust. "I must tell my brother to fetch the militia." She turned as if to go.

"No. Please," Thomas appealed. "Have some mercy. I just need some help and I can be on my way away from here. I don't want to cause any trouble."

She hesitated and turned back. "What happened to you?" she asked. Thomas read her indecision on her face.

"I've been shot, miss. I was left for dead. But I am still among the living, praise be to god. Please, I just need a little mercy."

"Anne, is everything alright?" called a gruff man's voice from outside. The girl -- Anne apparently -- stood considering a moment longer.

"Please," said Thomas again, a little quieter, "I'm no monster. Just a man in need of help."

Anne sighed, but then she raised her voice to call to the man outside, "I'm fine, brother. It was just a spider that startled me, but I'm fine." In a lower voice to Thomas she said, "Nat will be working in the fields the rest of the morning. We have some time to get you sorted. No one comes in here anymore except for me to keep it clean." She disappeared out the door, returning a few minutes later with cloth for bandages and a bowl full of clean water.

Thomas sat upright against the wall of the cabin and Ann dragged over a small wooden stool. She helped Thomas take off the military equipment that hung from his shoulders and shrug out of his blood-caked uniform jacket and shirt. Taking the water and a clean cloth, she washed much of the blood away from his head wound.

"How does it look?" Thomas asked with a wince as she cleaned the area as best as she could.

"It looks like you were lucky with this one, soldier," she answered. "Although you may have a scar here forever, it's not a deep wound. I don't think your skull is broken."

"My name is Thomas," he said. "I think if I were lucky, I wouldn't have been shot at all."

Anne couldn't resist a chuckle. "Well, that may be, but this could have been worse." With the head wound cleaned up and wrapped in a linen bandage, she turned to his leg. "Come. Sit on the bed in the corner so I can deal with the other wound." In the light of day, Thomas could see there was indeed a bed on the far side of the cabin. Anne helped him to stand and hobble to the edge of the bed. Once he was seated, she pulled off his boots, canvas gaiters and stockings. "I need you to take of your trousers off so I can see your wound," she said. Looking around, she seized a blanket that had been sitting on the foot of the bed and gave it to him to cover himself.

Thomas was in too much pain to be much embarrassed at disrobing in front of a woman and he did as he was instructed. In pain though he was, he still noticed that Anne did not avert her gaze while he removed his ruined uniform trousers. Instead, she seemed to curiously explore his nakedness with her eyes until he covered himself with the blanket. Anne had to help pull the trousers free from where blood had dried around the wound. In doing so, she opened the wound again. Thomas gritted his teeth and winced. She cleaned the large gash on his leg and staunched the flow of blood with more clean cloth. Before she wrapped it in bandages, she explored the wound to remove any scraps of Thomas's trousers. He stifled a scream.

"How do you know what to do with a wounded man?" Thomas asked when the pain returned to a steady throb and ache.

Anne shrugged. "We live on a farm here. Sometimes Nat, Uncle, or my father got hurt with tools. Animals get hurt sometimes, too. Doctor Johnston always says just to stop the bleeding with pressure and keep it clean. He says a clean cut is less likely to turn putrid." She continued bandaging the leg. "It looks like the ball passed through your flesh, but missed the bone. If it doesn't turn gangrene, you should be fine."

"What happens if it turns?" Thomas asked.

Anne shrugged again. "I don't know, but I would guess Doc Johnston would say the leg would come off."

Thomas shuddered and decided not to linger on that thought. "I guess I'll just have to keep it clean." Changing the subject, he asked her, "Where are your father and uncle? You mentioned them, but you didn't say where they were when you said that Nat would be in the fields."

"No, I didn't," Anne replied. "It's just me and Nat now." She looked down at her hands as if to conceal her emotions. "Father and mother both passed on several years ago from a fever. Uncle Joseph came to live with us to help with the farm, but he left to join the Continentals last year." Now she lifted her head to look Thomas in the face. "He was killed by the British army in last summer's fighting. This was his cabin"

"I-I'm sorry," said Thomas. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"No," said Anne. "I expect not."