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.
