Rallying troops for the upcoming battle proved not to be difficult as of late, the morale of the patriots had been much improved since winning the skirmish at Trenton. Whereas before hand, the loss of New York City had certainly depleted the new Americans morale, a key tool very often employed by the famous General Washington, but as of now the gleam of pride in the eyes of the soldiers seemed to say that a battle had never indeed been lost to the much hated red coats.
The revolution that was currently being waged for independence had certainly taken its toll. Of course, the men did not look upon the fact that they may lose their lives in the upcoming battle, for any sacrifice was considered worthy of such a glorious cause. Although, ever since surviving the outbreak of disease and deprivation of provisions at Valley Forge, many outright refused to speak of death. The patriots had all seen their fair share, they said, and simply did not feel the need to discuss such disheartening matters.
The very air seemed tinged both with excitement and apprehension, the latter perhaps proving to be more prevalent. If asked, most would agree to the former, after all, why be weary of the British? This was, at least in part, the answers their vanities provided. Common sense however did triumph in some of the minds of the more sensible and they sobered at the thought of the losses at New York. It was known amongst the ranking officials that many red coats were within the vicinity, for both General Howe and General Burgoyne of the opposing army had succeeded in placing themselves in the positions that may very well end in the splitting of the New England and southern colonies. That, and the fact that they were both outmatched and horrifyingly outnumbered.
Understandably, those that were aware of that kept to themselves, quiet compared to the rambunctious youths chatting loudly outside the camp. This was quite possibly the last great effort of the patriots, arousing fear in the hardened hearts of those with such dire knowledge of the situation. Despite the gravity of the situation, one of the younger higher ranking officials hopped atop a makeshift stand made of crates, addressing the soldiers clustered around.
A mixture of poorly hidden whispers broke out amongst the men. 'Whom was this person doing attempting to get their undivided attention? Why, this soldier's no more than a boy!' and 'What's his rank?' were all commonly heard amongst the still gathering crowd.
Smiling understandingly, the stranger rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat for emphasis before speaking. "For those of you who don't know me, I am colonel Alfred F. Jones. I am not here to just command you, but provide support as a fellow patriot fighting for the freedom of our newly formed country." Several men could be seen nodding amongst the disorganized, clustered listeners. "I won't lie and tell you today will be easy, that you're guaranteed to make it to the end of the day alive. But..." He glanced and met the eyes of the crowd." I have confidence in you, confidence that we, the Americans, will manage to pull through this." The cocky grin spread so wide across his face as to greatly crinkle his eyes, twinkling blue and silently radiating certainty.
Signaling that the pep talk was over, he turned to a moderately sized group of officers and began issuing out orders. Alfred, otherwise known as America in other circles, sent a small squad of troops to protect the rear flank (secretly he believed that it wouldn't make much of a difference, his theory was the worst threat was the kind that you could see in terrifyingly large numbers). Aside from a few men milling about that had yet to receive their ration of bullets, the majority of the soldiers were prepared for battle.
A thunder-like sound could be heard in the distance -a distance seemingly all too short- from the stomps of meticulously polished boots on the soft, wheat covered earth. Orders were barked out from a superior, unfortunately Alfred had not payed attention to the name of said commander, and men frantically ran to form a line of defense. Since Valley Forge, improvements were apparent in many men, although for those who had been stationed elsewhere many blunders were equally noticeable.
While the process of lining up took possibly somewhat longer that it should have, the rows of gleaming bayonets were unmistakable. If one was to look upon the expressions of the eight-thousand men, he or she could easily infer that all the men held one expression in common.
Defiance.
America was no exception to this.
The biting chill that accompanies fall could be even be felt through the fabric of his high quality scarlet coat, noted brigadier general "Arthur Kirkland" with disdain. While it was of little consequence, the brisk air blew gently at irregular intervals causing him to suppress a shiver. Cold weather was certainly not helping ease the Briton's already irritable mood.
While marching forward, the sound accompanying the thumping boots and hooves was a harsh slopping of thoroughly drenched earth beneath their feet. The ground underneath them was gently sloped in some places, while other parts remained flat as farm land tends to be. Pine trees surrounded the battlefield, densely clustered in seemingly random areas. The sky itself was bitter, devoid of sunlight, and currently purging the somber clouds of rain. The scene well complimented the rising tensions of the people within it, thought England morosely.
Before long, the rebellious colonials came into direct view, standing erect and posed in formation. England met the furious glares with a calm indifference, simply awaiting the orders of a superior to be allowed to carefully aim his well-oiled musket and fire.
For several minutes, each side waited impatiently for the other to fire first. To some it seemed as if a few moments could last forever, and to the remainder it felt as if the time passed too swiftly. No matter the opinion of each individual solider, they stood an equal amount of time all the same. In the end it was the colonists that fired first, attempting to reduce the army of thirteen-thousand to a much more tolerable number.
In retaliation, the exceptionally trained infantry took the places of the fallen or injured, and shot those whom had harmed their fellow Englishmen. Being a cavalry officer, England was farther back from the brunt of the action, as the horse provided a rather sizable target. As he began to reload his gun by ramming down gunpowder and a bullet into the barrel, the red coats pressed on further, forcing the rebels back.
The front lines were frenzied, each man trying to reload faster than the man opposite of him. In that type of situation, being able to shoot before the other was a matter of life or death. Blood stained many men's pant legs due to wading through the dampened carnage surrounding their feet. The stench of death and gunpowder was overwhelming to the senses, the agonized screams beyond indescribably terrifying.
Still, the self-proclaimed Americans were hell bent on pressing forward.
While less determined, the British continued to force the patriots to retreat closer still to their camp. They men clad in blue and white had loss so much ground, and it was apparent without reinforcements there was no hope of regaining it.
England smiled, nothing more than a slight curl of the lips in an upward direction, satisfied. There was no doubt this campaign has succeeded. No longer any doubt of losing what he considered simply a civil war.
The British Empire never failed to be the triumphant conqueror. Most of all, he did not plan to lose to his beloved younger brother.
Still somehow, he knew something was amiss. For a reason he didn't understand, the feeling of happiness did not materialize in his heart. It was a strange sensation to feel empty while winning what he had worked so hard, and for so long a time, for. But before he analyzed that peculiar feeling any longer, he dismissed it and stifled the achingly familiar emotion.
In that instant, his horse reared on its back legs, neighing in agony, and the Briton slid to the ground. His messy blond hair buried itself in a layer of mud, and the auburn mustang also collapsed, eyes glazed with the morbid stillness of death.
Perhaps I deserve this, he thought as his emerald eyes met blazing blue sapphire ones. He could not explain why, but he was not surprised to see the youthful boy he had raised. Fate was never one to be kind. In fact, if fate were also personified, he perceived it to be of the sadistic sort.
America, his brother, held a bloodied bayonet at his exposed throat, eyes brimming with righteous anger, the rain streaking across his face indiscernible from tears.