Author's Note: This battle will need to be spread over two chapters, I'm afraid. Here is part one; part two should be up soon!
June faded into July, and still no word came of a British offensive on West Point. France had taken his leave of the camp in the last week of June, though he had promised to return 'shortly'. The British camp in between the Prussians and the fort continued to prevent Columbia from going over to visit Lafayette and check on the fort's status. To vent that frustration, Columbia took to pacing alone in his tent in between meals and training sessions. Several more days passed, and one day, Columbia broke routine and left camp rather than retreat to his tent. He didn't go far; just down to the banks of the Hudson.
A summer breeze ruffled his hair, occasionally blowing his lock of unusually long, curled hair into his face. Brushing the lock aside, Columbia sat cross-legged at the river's edge and looked down, examining his reflection for the first time in quite a while.
Dark circles had formed under his eyes from chronic sleep deprivation. But that wasn't what had caught the young country's attention. Columbia blinked, and leaned forward, looking more closely at the reflection of his eyes.
When did that happen?
Unbeknownst to him, his eyes had been gradually losing their lavender hue over the course of the war. Now, the lavender was totally gone; replaced by cornflower blue.
"Did anyone one else notice…?"
Columbia closed his eyes and thought for a minute. When he reopened them, he surveyed his surroundings briefly before returning his attention to the water. Keeping his gaze focused on his reflection, Columbia attempted to brush some of the dirt off his faded blue coat, even though the dirt and blood stains were permanently set into the fabric. He quickly gave up on the exercise, and instead, he lifted one hand to push that errant curl of hair behind his ear.
Columbia's eyes went wide, and he quickly dropped his hand, allowing the curl to fall back into place. He sat there for several seconds, continuing to stare contemplatively at the water.
What am I doing…
Presently, he reached forward with both hands, cupping a handful of water and splashing it over his face. Then, he rubbed the dirt and sweat off his face, and shook his head vigorously to get the water out of his hair. The water slowly settled, until once more Columbia's reflection became clear on the water's surface. This time, however, Columbia ignored it, and stood up.
He turned to face in the direction of West Point. From this distance, most of it was obscured by forest, but part of the wall overlooking the water was visible. Columbia stared in that direction, not focusing on anything in particular, however.
It's been ten years exactly since America declared his independence, he thought. Today would have been his birthday.
His gaze drifted away from the walls, and to the trees in front of him. Though those trees blocked the sight of British camps just a little ways ahead, Columbia knew they were still there.
I wonder…
Columbia headed back into the camp, frequently stealing glances in the direction of West Point as he walked. Once he was back inside the camp, he quickened his pace, taking the shortest route possible to the general's pavilion. When he arrived there, he found Prussia and his general poring over a map, conversing with each other in German.
British activity around West Point since Columbia's arrival had seemed to support Prussia's prediction of an imminent attack. They had surrounded the fort as much as they could from this side of the Hudson River, and rebel spies had brought reports of Cornwallis trying to call for reinforcements from the western frontier, as well as rumors from within Cornwallis' camp that the British fleet was on its way to the North American coast, thus bringing not only naval support, but, if and when they reached the shore, more troops on the ground.
The only problem was that the attack still had not happened. Neither the ships nor the western reinforcements had arrived.
"General Beilschmidt," Columbia said as he let himself into the tent.
Prussia looked up even before Columbia opened his mouth.
"What is it?"
Columbia stood next to the other nation and gestured to the map on the table in front of them.
"Any news?" Columbia asked. "From… any front?"
"Not much," Prussia said. "If Cornwallis is getting any reinforcements, they won't arrive for quite a while."
Columbia nodded. He leaned over the table, looking at the map as well. Prussia's sketches showed the British had camped no closer than a mile to any of West Point's fortifications, but their camps had made a semicircle around it, cutting off any retreat or entry from the fort in any direction other than by water. The Prussian camp was nestled close by the riverbanks just a little further south of the southernmost British camp.
"Do we need to wait that long?" Columbia asked.
Prussia smirked. "Oh, you mean attack now, and force a surrender before those reinforcements ever get here?" he said. "That's exactly what we were discussing before you came in."
Prussia traced the semicircle that the British had made with his finger. Stopping over the southernmost camp, he tapped it a couple times.
"We were expecting them to have attacked by now," he said. "But, since they haven't, we've been trying to figure out why."
"And…?"
Prussia exhaled sharply, now tapping randomly on the table's surface.
"There's no way to know for certain what they're up to," he said. "I, for one, am all for taking the risk and kicking British ass right now, but on the other hand, they might have something up their sleeve we don't know about yet."
Columbia looked at the Prussian general standing next to his country. The determined look in the eyes of both the general and the nation quickly answered Columbia's unspoken question. However, with that answer came another question. Namely, a specific timeframe.
"When do we – "
Columbia halted mid-sentence at the sound of a low and distant rumble. The clear skies outside showed no signs of an incoming summer thunderstorm; that sound could only mean one other thing.
Cannon fire.
All three men hurried outside the tent to investigate, with Prussia leading the way. Just a few paces outside the tent, Prussia's fast walk turned into a run. His running came to an abrupt halt as he almost collided with France, who had been running towards Prussia at the same time. The two nations took a step back, giving each other awkward glances.
"What's going on?" France asked.
"Where have you been?" Prussia said indignantly.
Columbia groaned in pain and clutched at his chest.
"General!" cried one of the men as he was running toward the group. "West Point is under attack!"
Prussia's expression hardened.
"Right," he said. "So this is the attack we were waiting for."
"Sir, your orders?" the soldier asked.
"Get with your regiment and wait for the order to march!"
The soldier practically spun around and ran off. Prussia ran in a different direction, barking out orders in German as he went. Columbia went back to his tent to fetch his gun, and France followed him.
"Mathieu – " France began.
Columbia went into his tent, grabbed his rifle, and came right back out, where France waited. The young nation almost took off without a word, but stopped at the sight of the roll of parchment in France's hand. Before he could ask what it was, France thrust the document into Columbia's free hand.
"Put this somewhere safe," France said.
"What is it?"
Prussia suddenly appeared again, interrupting France's reply.
"Bonnefoy! Williams! Get over here!"
Columbia shoved the paper into his satchel and ran after France as the elder nation went to rejoin Prussia.
"Hurry up," Prussia said, taking off at a brisk walk right as the other two nations came up beside him. "We need to launch our surprise attack as soon as possible, before their vanguard breaches the fort."
The pain in Columbia's chest intensified, causing him to bite down hard on his tongue to stop any potential groans or cries.
Yes, he thought. Please, hurry…
Without warning, Columbia quickened his pace, and soon overtook Prussia, tightening his grip on the rifle and gritting his teeth against the worsening pain. Prussia swore and ran to catch up.
"Hey, kid, get back here," he said. Then in a lower tone, added, "Remember what I told you."
"England will be leading the assault on the gates himself," Columbia protested. "As long as I stay in the force attacking the British rear guard, he won't find me."
Prussia was silent for a moment, but he eventually relented.
"Fine."
With that, the three nations went on the rest of the march in silence. However, that march was very short; the rear of the British army was positioned within just a few miles. The distant booming of cannon fire helped conceal the sound of the Prussian army's movement for a little bit, but as they neared the enemy line, they abandoned all attempts to remain hidden.
Columbia's rebel cavalry made the first strike. They charged in well ahead of the main army, which, being comprised mostly of infantry, still needed a few minutes to catch up to the advancing British lines. Their strike proved fast, but weak. Rebel sabers only felled a handful of soldiers before the British commanders caught on and prepared a counterstrike. Several entire companies of British soldiers fired a single huge, punishing volley at the retreating rebel cavalry, littering the field with the bodies of men and horses. The British soldiers cheered, but their celebration was short-lived, for now the rest of the combined Prussian and rebel army had caught up.
From across the field, Columbia and Prussia gave orders to prepare an answering volley. They halted several dozen meters away, muskets ready. After the order was given to fire, the British line quickly fractured as men fell by the dozens, and confusion and fear began to diffuse through their ranks.
Prussia grinned and pressed his advantage. His Prussian soldiers marched forward a little bit more and prepared a second volley. However, during that time, the British gave their answer with another volley of musket fire that cut through the Prussian ranks. Undeterred, Prussia gave the order to fire. More British soldiers fell.
While Prussia tackled the British head-on, Columbia's rebels swung at the British right. They poured their own volley of lead into the enemy ranks, and as the infantry reloaded, the cavalry charged again, their sabers cutting down whatever the muskets missed.
The British line continued to recede. Even though they had long since lost the element of surprise, the damage Columbia and Prussia's combined forces had already inflicted on the British was doing plenty to devastate the enemy's morale. After letting out a yell of triumph, Prussia pushed his troops forward yet again. Columbia's forces did the same.
Their cheers were drowned out by the deafening report of multiple cannons firing. The Prussian artillery pieces were finally in position, and had opened fire. Unfortunately, at the same time, some of the British artillery officers, in an attempt to save the rear guard from collapse, had redirected their fire from targeting West Point. Now, artillery fire from British guns tore gaping holes in the rebel line.
In the same instant that British cannons had devastated his line, Columbia dropped his rifle and fell to his knees. The wound in his chest reopened, and blood now soaked his uniform yet again. His cries went unheard under the cacophony of everything else happening on the battlefield, and his army pressed forward without him.
He tried to push himself back onto his feet, but ended up having to put his hand out in front of him to stop himself from falling flat on his face. He swore and tried again, but this time he was assisted by one of his men, who had doubled back in search of the fallen commander.
"General Williams!" the man said, hoisting Columbia up by the shoulders.
"I'm fine," Columbia said weakly. He groped about blindly with one hand. "Where is… my rifle…"
"But sir, your wound!" the soldier said. He watched the blood flowing out of Columbia's chest with increasing worry. "You'll die if you don't get that treated!"
"No… I won't…" Columbia insisted. "Arthur's not here…"
The soldier paid no attention, but produced a thick piece of cloth from his pack, which he used to compress his country's wound. Columbia winced at the touch, lost his balance, and collapsed onto his soldier's shoulder.
"General!"
Keeping one hand pressing down on the cloth, the soldier gripped Columbia's shoulder with the other, and carefully lowered him to his knees.
"Al…fred…" Columbia mumbled.
The soldier released Columbia's shoulder. Columbia swayed briefly, vainly trying to keep his balance before eventually falling onto his side. First, everything went blurry, and then it went black.
(-)
"Damn it, I knew this would happen."
The sight of the oncoming Prussian and rebel armies alerted England to the surprise attack even before word of it reached the vanguard. He abandoned the front line and ran back to join the commander of the rear guard, taking sweeping glances of the field to apprise himself of the situation as he went.
It was bad. The Prussians had gone straight for the center, and had already punched a big hole in it. Meanwhile, the rebels attacked the right flank, assisted by lightning fast hit-and-run tactics courtesy of their cavalry. The British rear guard desperately tried to defend itself with bayonets long enough for the artillery officers to reposition their cannons. England stood alongside one of the officers right as his men finished moving the piece.
A handful of soldiers worked together to load and prepare the shot. Seconds later, the gun fired, letting off a deafening boom while a cloud of smoke flooded the field. England looked through the smoke, seeing that the gun had hit its mark. About a dozen rebels had been felled by that single shot, and more fell alongside them as the rest of the battery unleashed its shot at the advancing rebel line.
England's face fell.
"They're not slowing down…"
Despite their losses, the rebels continued to push the British line back. England cast a glance behind him, at the fortifications of West Point, to see if the vanguard fared any better. As far as he could tell from this distance, they had not yet breached the gates.
Cursing under his breath, England ran to his army's center, to assist his troops against the Prussians. His men had fixed bayonets, and fought hand to hand to try to repel the Prussian attack. Standing a little further back, England and a handful of men that were still out of reach of Prussian bayonets aimed their muskets and fired.
England did not bother reloading his musket. And smoke had so thoroughly covered the field that he couldn't see how much, if any, help that volley had made. He fixed his bayonet to the end of his musket and charged. Leaping over one of his own men, he promptly sunk his bayonet into the chest of the first Prussian soldier to come close. The man grunted in pain, and England kicked the body away as he pulled the bayonet out of his enemy's chest. He raised his musket again, ready to impale his next target.
The yells of a familiar voice from somewhere within the Prussian ranks made England come to an abrupt halt. He surveyed the chaos in front of him, trying to locate the voice's owner.
The owner found him first. As England started to run forward again, he was tackled from the side, and he barely kept his feet under the force of his attacker's weight on his shoulder. England pushed him off, then swung with his musket, striking his attacker on the side of the head.
"France," England growled.
France stumbled a bit before steadying himself, then pointed his musket at England.
"Why are you here?" England demanded. "Aren't you supposed to be with Canada, down in Maryland?"
"I could ask you the same question," France said. He ran forward, bayonet aimed at England's chest.
England leapt to the side, but before he could answer with an attack of his own, France pivoted to face him once again. Both nations ignored the fighting around them, each focusing their attention solely on the other.
"How did you get up here anyway?" France said, taking another swipe with his musket, which England dodged.
"Wouldn't you like to know."
England went on the attack, and France blocked England's musket with his own. Then England followed up with a kick to France's gut, causing the Frenchman to stumble backwards a few paces. Still bent forward, France coughed as if trying to breathe after having the wind knocked out of him. England pressed his attack, not realizing France had deliberately feigned that moment of weakness. France blocked England's next blow, shoved England's musket aside, then, releasing one hand from the grip of his own musket, punched England in the jaw.
Unfortunately, before France could follow up that attack, Prussian soldiers charged past him, and one accidentally bumped into him, causing him to temporarily lose balance and focus. In the two seconds it took France to recover, England also recovered, and now the two nations stood several feet apart, muskets aimed at each other.
Behind England, the British cannons fired a second round at the Prussian and rebel armies. The Prussian unit closest to France and England's position took a direct hit. While the resulting shrapnel narrowly missed both nations, it was enough to distract them, and they took their attention away from each other for just a second. England recovered first, and took the split-second opportunity to retreat back into his own ranks.
France yelled incoherently in frustration, aiming his musket at the British line. But he never fired; just as soon as he had lifted the weapon, he lowered it again, cursing under his breath in French as he did so.
For a minute, he just stood there, musket lowered, watching the battle in front of him. Then, as if the notion had belatedly occurred to him, France began reloading his musket.
"Where does he think he's going?" he muttered to himself as he pulled the ramrod out, tamping the musket ball all the way down the barrel. "I don't think they've breached the gate, and the rebels are advancing on their…"
France stopped. His grip on the ramrod went slack as he stared down the field. Columbia's rebels had pressed surprisingly far forward, given the severity of their losses. Columbia himself was in that mess somewhere, leading the rebel charge.
But England had fled in that direction.
France hurriedly put the ramrod away and broke into a run, headed straight for the rebel line.