Author's Note: Hello all! I'm back with a mostly action-packed chapter. At last, we finally get to the battle! I certainly took my time building up to it, didn't I? I'm such a hopeless procrastinator. Anyway, I would like to sincerely thank all of my readers and those that reviewed the last chapter, SpacePotato, LazyChestnut, Scribe Of All Trades and Mona Lisa23. And I would like to especially thank my amazing, wonderful, dedicated beta, Scribe for getting this chapter to me despite all the stress in her life. Thanks a million! As for the rest of you, I do hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the Patriot or its characters. However, I do own all OCs mentioned within including Colonel Catherine Bates.
The Battle of Princeton
Gabriel Martin flung up his arm and wiped a sticky stream of sweat from his brow. His musket slipped, sliding forward in his hands as he groped for yet another cartridge. Flakes of powder blackened his mouth and made his tongue taste like ash. Around his feet, the snow was thickened with mud.
The steadying beat of a drum slowed his motions and he struggled to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the men next him, fighting at every moment the churning panic in his stomach.
After the initial assault, the British had formed up their soldiers in a nearby orchard and with one single, well-formed charge, driven the Continentals out. General Mercer, their commander, had been mortally wounded and then viciously bayoneted. Colonel Haslet, his replacement, was shot in the head and fell dead upon the slush.
Colonel Catherine Bates took charge of the line then, under the fire of two light British guns. She tried her best to rally them, cantering from one flank to another, her coat falling open and revealing a heaving chest.
Gabriel didn't think she looked much like a warrior now, the fear in her eyes too great to be trusted in. He felt his own legs weakening and soldiers began to flee. Bates hollered, her strained voice ricocheting weakly over the musketry and general chaos.
Finally, she pulled her horse straight up in front of the line and in a wild frenzy, smacked the flat of her sword against her breast.
This primal gesture shot new warmth into Gabriel and he saw her there, alone, with the great flashes of gun fire at her back.
He stepped forward through the muck and reloaded.
She raised her sword. "Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"
His gun jumped back. An uneven volley streaked towards the now confident British. But more Continentals were surging forward, filling out the line.
"Make ready! Take aim! Fire!"
A great barrage seemed to shake British bravado. Colonel Bates urged them on with cries that clenched guts and set jaws and reminded them just why they were scrounging like dogs in this muddy New Jersey orchard.
Tired as he was, Gabriel followed the rhythm of battle, now ingrained in him like any old instinct. He reloaded and fired and advanced a step when the British fell back. Reload, fire, advance. Reload, fire, advance.
A sudden ripple ran through the line that His Excellency, General Washington, was nigh. Gabriel knew well enough not to believe such myths, but sure enough, the man himself was soon at hand, rallying the troops like Colonel Bates.
General Cadwalader arrived soon thereafter with reinforcements.
With a pleasant and shocking jolt, Gabriel realized they had enough to take the orchard and drive the British away for good. His fingers ached, protesting as he reached for yet another cartridge. The ramrod dug into his palm and blisters burst open, spilling blood over his hands. Gabriel gnawed at his lower lip, cringing inwardly as the British guns belched more lead at them.
A man a few feet away gasped, then buckled. Gabriel's head snapped to the side.
"Don't worry, boy," the wounded soldier muttered. He probed at his shoulder and pulled away bloody fingers. "It's just a small one."
In a moment, he was on his feet again, musket reloaded.
Gabriel suddenly became aware, with nagging worry, that he was running low on powder. A woman to his right offered to top him off, but wasn't able to pass him her horn before the British were pounding towards them.
Unable to stop himself, Gabriel took a step back as a redcoat flung himself straight into the line. The man was burly, fat, really, and his weight nearly brought Gabriel to the ground.
Bayonets flashed, the sharp-edges slick with frost and in some cases, gore.
Gabriel grunted and with the strength in his farmer's shoulders, managed to push the man off. A Continental officer drove his sword through the lobster's leg and sent the man howling and limping lamely back across the orchard. He never made it back to his company though, as a keen-eyed American took a shot and downed him once and for all.
The fresh swell of Cadwalader's men and the newly arrived General Sullivan helped them hurl the British back, but yet another desperate charge was employed.
This time, Gabriel could not so easily repel his attackers. The men and women stampeding over the Continental line were wild with fear, animals, trapped in some tight hutch and frantic to escape.
Gabriel saw his fellows knocked to the ground, the woman who had lent him powder stumbling as a tall redcoat slammed into her. The two grappled for a moment and Gabriel forced his way forward and with the butt of his musket, he rapped the redcoat over the neck.
To his surprise, the lobster was a woman, a skinny, skeletal thing that whimpered as she fell and fought to get to her knees.
Gabriel reeled, startled by her bloody, broken nose and terrified, blue eyes.
Indecision raged within him and he thought back to those genteel visits to Charleston, where ladies were bowed to and flattered and courted.
But now this woman before him was squirming in the mud, trying to gain her feet and run for her life.
Gabriel lowered his musket.
The redcoat spotted her opportunity and in a flash, she was driving at him with a bayonet and her face was now gaunt, now hungry, now lusting.
He hadn't the time to fend her off.
Yet then she stopped, the bayonet falling, only slicing Gabriel's cheek. She staggered as the Continental behind her sliced her leg open with a dagger and then finished the job by slitting her neck.
Gabriel stared at the female Patriot, slack-jawed.
She nodded tersely. "You can't trust these bitches."
By the time they both recovered, the British had already fled the orchard and were now flying down the road to Trenton. Gabriel sank down, unmindful of the thawing snow and shards of melting ice.
Pain seared through his lungs and his breath came fast, spurting out through his partially parted lips. Colonel Bates was once more riding along the line, assessing her losses in the quick, calculating way only officers can.
She dipped her head at Gabriel as she passed and he saluted weakly. The smoke from freshly fired guns was ceding.
The woman who had killed the redcoat smacked him on the shoulder.
"See that there," she said and extended one long arm, pointing to a not so distant cluster of trees.
Gabriel squinted and saw, within the grey, bare branches a spot of red. There sat several officers mounted on horseback.
"Scouts," his companion whispered. "I'd bet my life on it."
"But from who?" Gabriel asked, his hoarse voice making his dry throat throb. Their officers had reckoned that there were only a few hundred British left in Princeton and Cornwallis couldn't have made it up from Trenton after they had disabled some of the bridges.
Gabriel didn't have much time to ponder though or even to warn Colonel Bates. He noticed a flash of steel, a pistol being raised and pointed at their mounted commander.
His blood still boiling, still thrumming with energy from the battle before, Gabriel snatched up his musket and fired off one shot.
When the smoke cleared, the redcoats had disappeared.
Author's Note: So, instead of bogging you all down with a long, boring note, I'll simply say that everything mentioned in this chapter actually happened at the Battle of Princeton except for the appearance of Colonel Bates and the British scouts.
Thanks so much for reading and stay tuned for the next chapter, in which Percy shamelessly flaunts her battle prowess and proves that hubris is indeed the greatest sin of them all. I hope to have it written soon, but I have been terribly busy with my new Harry Potter fic, "Consumed". You can find it on the HPFF site or on this site, whenever I decide to post it. (Speaking of shameless, wasn't that a painfully obvious plug? Sorry about that!)
Have a great week everyone!