And here is part two of the climactic battle! I'm finally almost done with this story; just a few more chapters to go...
The Prussian and rebel assault slowed down as British artillery rapidly thinned their ranks, but with the surprise attack having relieved the pressure from the gates of the fort, Lafayette's forces began pouring out, assisting their allies from the opposite side of the battlefield. Unfortunately, with the field still clouded with smoke, the appearance of Lafayette's troops went unnoticed for the first several minutes after the gate opened.
But if the rebels saw the change in the field, the battle would effectively be over.
With such a small window, England frantically scrambled to rally his troops. Even though a surprise attack had been expected, its unexpected size had reduced England's contingency plan to a desperation maneuver.
The British artillery fired another round at the rebels. Each gun fired within less than a second of the gun before it, resulting in a continuous rain of lead that concentrated on the rebel center. The resulting hole in the line split the rebel army in half. And before they could consolidate, the British soldiers rallied and charged.
England stayed with the artillery to reload his musket. A simple task of only fifteen seconds' length became torture as his ever dwindling window of time pressed on him. When he finished, he shoved the ramrod back into place and sprinted down after his army. They had charged down what used to be the rebel center, and with their bayonets, made a wedge to drive the two halves of the rebel army even further apart. On the slope behind him, England's artillery prepared another round, this time aimed at the extreme sides of the rebel army. In a minute, British bayonets would push more rebels into the exact spots the artillery were aiming for, right as the cannons would open fire.
They won't be able to go on with such high casualties, England thought. Even if they maintain morale, they simply won't have enough men to be able to break my lines.
"Fall back!"
The command echoed several times throughout the rebel ranks. Their general, instead of allowing his army to be pushed apart, was trying to regroup.
England swore.
"After them!" he shouted. "Keep pushing them back!"
The rebels fired a volley at the British before retreating further. However, that volley did not even slow the British down. They continued to pursue, and the rebels continued to flee, but backwards, rather than to the sides.
England halted mid-run. He stole a glance behind him, at the batteries of artillery as they prepared to fire. Just as he turned, the first cannon fired. After it, the rest quickly followed. While the barrage didn't inflict anywhere near the casualties England had expected, his army nevertheless had the rebel army in retreat at last. The Prussian army was still a problem, however. Worse, Lafayette's forces were also inflicting heavy casualties from the other side of the field.
The wind pushed the smoke clouds in the direction of the rebel retreat, obscuring their view of the field, which was rapidly changing in their favor. However, as long as they remained unaware, England held onto hope that his desperation attack could turn the tide of battle. Cornwallis had pulled in the army's extreme left to help combat Lafayette and the Prussians. By now, the gates of West Point were completely forgotten in the mad scramble to fight off the rebels and their allies from three sides.
Unexpectedly, the rebel commanders suddenly called out a halt. Nonplussed British commanders halted their regiments as well. Meanwhile, further up the field, Prussian artillery opened fire on the British left. The British responded with their own barrage of cannon and musket fire.
On England's side of the field, commanders on both sides gave orders to prepare volleys of musket fire. England jumped in with the nearest company of soldiers and readied his musket. He took a quick, sweeping glance of the field while waiting for the order to fire.
The two armies stood dangerously close to one another. There was no way anyone could miss at that range.
"Fire!"
England was temporarily deafened by the report of over a thousand muskets firing at once, and smoke engulfed the field. Immediately following the sound of the muskets came the cries of scores of wounded and dying men. Having somehow escaped injury, England forced himself to ignore the screams and reload. He, and the rest of his men that remained standing, readied their muskets for another volley.
Barely visible through the smoke, there was suddenly a surge of forward movement in the rebel ranks. A few seconds later, after the wind had helped to dissipate the smoke a little, the rebel line became clearly visible. Standing at the forefront of their army, one of their soldiers stepped forward and lifted his rifle.
Curiously, the huge bloodstains all over his front made this man look like he should have been among the fallen. Yet he stood firm, eyes narrowed in determination.
"Take aim!" cried the British regimental commanders.
England pointed his musket. The soldier turned slightly, and he and England locked gazes. The sight nearly made England's heart stop.
Cornflower eyes. Messy blond hair. And a horribly bloodstained blue uniform.
England froze, staring unblinkingly at the blood on the younger nation's uniform. As he stood there, momentarily paralyzed as it were, his mind suddenly went back six years, to that fatal moment on the grounds of West Point. Suddenly, this was not Canada standing in front of him. It was America.
Alfred…? I… what have I done?
"Fire!"
"Angleterre, no!"
Hundreds of muskets fired at once, and smoke engulfed the field once more.
(-)
Although he was not out for very long, Columbia nevertheless woke up alone, surrounded only by the bodies of fallen rebels. The soldier that had assisted him earlier had disappeared. On moving his arm to try to push himself up, he brushed the muzzle of his rifle. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the weapon and pulled it closer to him, then lifted his head in an attempt to get a better look at his surroundings.
Although the armies themselves were not visible from his position, the sounds of battle quickly indicated where his army had gone. Fortunately, the gunfire and shouting sounded close enough that Columbia would not have very far to walk to catch up with his army.
Using the rifle for support, he pushed himself up slowly into a seated position to inspect his wound. The rebel soldier had clearly done his best to stanch the bleeding, but even the improvised bandaging was now thoroughly saturated with blood.
He must have given up, Columbia thought. Thought I was dead, or so close as to make no difference.
At that, he hurriedly pushed himself fully upright. But the dizzy spell that struck almost immediately made him regret it. He leaned heavily on his rifle and waited for the world around him to stop spinning. It took about a minute for him to stabilize and everything to come into full focus. He started walking forward, but kept a slow pace.
The wind had blown all the musket and cannon smoke in his army's direction, obscuring much of the British and Prussian lines, and making the gates of West Point completely invisible from his position. As Columbia neared the battle, another, more disturbing development became apparent. His men were retreating.
"Oh no…"
Columbia looked down at the wounds in his chest and abdomen. Blood still flowed freely from the wounds, yet at the same time, the vertigo had subsided, and his pulse had strengthened from when he first woke up a few minutes earlier.
Maybe the army is just regrouping, Columbia thought.
He continued walking toward his army, while his army continued to retreat in his direction. Soon enough, Columbia rejoined his men. As he made his way to the front line, the regimental commanders began ordering their men to halt. The men halted, but Columbia kept going forward through his men's ranks, looking for the commander on the front line.
All around him, soldiers aimed their muskets at the British. Columbia halted, and took a sweeping glance over the enemy line. A weak groan escaped his throat, in anticipation of what he knew was coming.
Commanders on both sides shouted the order to fire. Columbia just stood still as the smoke cloud from the musket volley completely obscured his vision. His wounds throbbed with pain as men fell by the dozens. The dizzy spell returned. Nevertheless, after that volley, Columbia began to walk forward, and was quickly followed by his men.
A gust of wind helped dissipate the smoke from the musket volley. Columbia briefly halted for a few seconds, until he was steady enough on his feet to take another couple of steps forward, and then he lifted his rifle. On the British side of the field, their commanders yelled out the order to take aim. Hundreds of British muskets were then pointed back at Columbia and his rebels.
Columbia turned as he surveyed the British line. A split second later, he froze, having just locked gazes with the last person he wanted to see.
England.
Columbia tightened his grip on the rifle, but his legs suddenly grew weak. The pain in his chest intensified, right as the area around him became completely enshrouded in smoke. He stumbled a bit, eyes squeezed shut. Meanwhile, the sounds of battle grew distant.
Oh God… not like this… six years… America…
The battle sounds returned with a vengeance, but somehow seemed different upon their return. Aside from the sudden silence from both sides' artillery, there seemed to be a great deal more shouting along with the gunfire and wounded screams instead.
Columbia's eyes flew open. Though something seemed off about the field, he never got the chance to get a good look, for England was still standing there, musket raised. And no sooner had Columbia opened his eyes than England fired his musket, and the shot struck Columbia right in the heart.
A scream escaped his throat, but something about his voice didn't sound right. It sounded like someone else's.
Both of Columbia's hands flew to his chest, and he heard the light thud of his rifle hitting the ground. He tried to reach down and pick the weapon back up, but realized with horror that his body was no longer listening to his commands. Instead, his hands remained clutching his chest, where blood spurted out with every beat of his rapidly failing heart.
No! Please, no… I can't die! Six years… all in vain…
His eyes looked up at England, who had dropped his musket, and stared back at him with a horrified expression on his face. England's lips moved, but whatever he said was drowned out by the gunfire around them.
What little strength had been left in Columbia's legs vanished, and he dropped to his knees. Despite his desperate effort to stay up, his body continued to ignore him. He fell face down in the grass.
He heard the rapid footfalls of someone running towards him, and presently, that someone grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him onto his back. Columbia's head turned to look at the individual.
America?!
He tried to say his brother's name out loud, but his body still wouldn't listen to him. Instead, he lay there, totally helpless as his dying body continued to act without his volition.
"You… lied to me… you said I won the war… that I'd be free…"
What…?
The words had come from his own mouth, but the voice sounded like America's. America, who was now kneeling right next to him, still holding him by the shoulders, widened his eyes in alarm at the statement.
"Don't be ridiculous," America said, the panic clear in his voice. "I wasn't lying… You'll be fine; you've survived things like this before… come on…"
As America spoke, his voice seemed to grow distant. The sounds of battle also became muffled. Columbia's vision went blurry for a brief second before his eyes fell slowly shut. He panicked, and redoubled his efforts to speak, or even just open his eyes, but at this point, his body had finally given out, and stopped moving entirely. Even his heart had stopped beating. Death was mere seconds away now.
All in vain…
All of his senses were quickly fading from him. He just barely registered his body being vigorously shaken as America tried to wake him up, and when America cried out, his voice sounded so distant as to be almost inaudible.
"Come on!" he said. "Get up! Please!"
Forgive me, brother…
After that, the world went totally silent.
(-)
France caught up to the rebel force, but his panic only escalated when he tried to seek Columbia out among their ranks. By the time he reached them, British artillery had destroyed much of the army's center, and the rest had been forced into retreat. He searched frantically through the chaos, but the younger nation was nowhere to be found.
Cursing under his breath, France followed the rebels in their retreat. As he went, he ran into one of the regimental commanders.
"What is going on?" France asked.
"We're pulling back to regroup," the officer replied.
France glanced behind him at their British pursuers, then rejoined the officer and his regiment. They covered several dozen meters before someone called out a halt. Other commanders called their regiments to halt as well, and eventually, the entire rebel army had stopped.
Before the order was even given, France began loading his musket. He worked quickly, and frequently stole glances into the rebel army for any sign of Columbia. Unfortunately, from where he stood, in the middle of a regiment of the army's extreme right, he had a rather poor view of the rest of the army. He bit his lip and aimed his musket with the rebel soldiers.
"Fire!" the commander yelled.
Both sides unleashed their musket fire. France then immediately took off running, headed for the rebel army's center. At full sprint, he got there in under a minute.
Meanwhile, on either side of him, both sides prepared another volley. France stopped in his tracks and looked around again.
He noticed Columbia first. The younger country appeared to be bleeding heavily from wounds to his abdomen and chest, yet was still able to stand upright and aim his rifle without help. France then glanced at the British line, and his heart plummeted.
England was right there. And he had his musket pointed at Columbia.
Without even bothering to reload his musket, France broke into a run. He only made five paces before someone gave the order to fire.
"Angleterre, no!"
France's cry was drowned out by the sound of musket fire, and smoke obscured his vision. He halted yet again, waiting anxiously for the smoke to clear. His patience only held out for a few seconds, by which time the wind had cleared away much of the smoke. Then, France started walking forward, eyes fixed on the spot where Columbia had been.
When he couldn't find him right away, France sprinted forward yet again. At last, he made it to Columbia's position, but choked at the sight that greeted him.
The younger nation lay spread-eagled on his back, eyes glassy and unfocused. His right hand still held tightly to his rifle, while his left rested on his bloodstained chest.
"Mathieu!"
France turned his head sharply, quickly locating England, who had not moved. The British nation lowered his musket slightly, staring wide-eyed, not at France, but at Columbia.
Neither nation paid attention as the rebels fixed bayonets and charged the British position. The British soldiers fixed bayonets as well, but took a defensive stance. England temporarily disappeared from France's view as the rebels pushed the battle back towards the fort. France returned his attention to Columbia.
"Oh God, Mathieu… why?" France said weakly as he blinked back tears. "It's not enough for Arthur to kill his own brother, now he must take mine?"
Laying his musket aside, he knelt beside the younger nation, and a small movement suddenly caught his attention. France blinked, and watched closely for a moment.
It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but Columbia's chest rose and fell occasionally. France's heart raced. He reached for Columbia's hand, pulling gently in an attempt to elicit a response.
Columbia blinked, but otherwise did not respond to the touch of France's hand. Although the movement of his chest indicated steady breathing, the dull, distant look in his eyes too closely resembled the looks in the eyes of slain soldiers nearby. France released Columbia's hand and grabbed his shoulder, and shook him. Columbia's arm twitched, and his lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Wake up!" France pleaded. He sighed and took another look around him, but immediately regretted it.
England emerged from the battle, and approached France and Columbia. France let go of Columbia's shoulder and fixed England with a death glare.
"Is he…?" England asked.
France seized his musket, pointing it at England.
"Get away from him," France snarled, slowly rising to his feet, keeping his musket trained on the other nation.
A single tear streamed down England's face.
"France, please…"
France took half a step forward. He did not speak; the anger and grief in his eyes said it all. England threw his musket down and held up his hands in surrender.
"Enough!" England said, as more tears began to fall. "Put the gun down… please… just let me see my brother."
Before France could reply, both nations were distracted by a sudden gasping noise. France turned and looked down.
Columbia was starting to show more pronounced signs of life. His arms and legs twitched occasionally. The gasping noise, it seemed, was his trying to take a full, deep breath. He blinked several times as his eyes slowly regained focus.
"Oh, thank God," England breathed. "He's still alive…"
England's voice prompted France to immediately turn around. England had started to take a step forward, but the threatening look on France's face made him freeze mid-step. Taking another couple of steps forward himself, France then positioned himself in between Columbia and England, keeping his musket raised and his glare fixed on the British nation.
Columbia groaned and rolled onto his side, letting go of his rifle as he moved. His own movement startled him, and he made a kicking motion with his legs, while he seized a fistful of grass in each hand, staring at the ground in bewilderment. England watched the display with a similar expression on his face. Meanwhile, France, not wanting to let his guard down, could only afford a quick glance.
Oddly, as Columbia recovered his physical strength, he acted increasingly panicked and confused. Upon getting up on his knees, he placed a hand over his heart, and just stared off into the distance with a confused expression on his face. Then, he rose gingerly to his feet, turning his head quickly in every direction, looking around wildly. He looked right past England and France at least twice before finally stopping, staring directly at them.
The three nations stood in awkward silence for several seconds. Then, without warning, Columbia strode forward, ignoring France and going straight to England.
"You…" Columbia said.
His gaze drifted from England's face to England's musket, which lay forgotten on the ground next to its owner. He frowned at it, looking closely at the weapon's flintlock before suddenly reaching down and picking it up.
"Canada," England said nervously. "What are – "
Columbia spun around and aimed the musket at the trees off in the distance, and pulled the trigger. The shot fired, landing harmlessly in the grass somewhere. Columbia dropped the weapon and faced England again.
"What happened?" Columbia demanded.
"What do you mean, 'what happened'?" England asked.
Columbia seized England by the collar, prompting a shocked France to drop his gun and reach for Columbia's arm to pull him away. Without even looking at the French nation, Columbia swatted France's hand away with his free arm, and proceeded to drag England several paces away. When England resisted, Columbia just tightened his grip.
"Right here, at West Point, six years ago," Columbia said. "Tell me what happened!"
"I don't know… what there is to tell," England said, nearly choking on his words against Columbia's vise-like grip. "You… already know…"
"I know you didn't tell me the whole story," Columbia said. "So tell me right now."
All England managed was a choking noise. Belatedly realizing just how strong his grip was on the other nation, Columbia let go of England's collar, and the latter took several steps backward, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Before Columbia could resume the interrogation, someone approached the three nations, from the direction of the battle, which had gone on without them. Now that their attention had suddenly been drawn in that direction, they realized from the cheering – and cessation of gunfire – that the battle was actually over.
"Hey!" called a familiar German-accented voice. "What are you guys doing? The party's back that way!"
Prussia strode over to join his fellow nations, grinning broadly and jerking his thumb back in the direction of West Point. He abruptly stopped, however, and his grin faded upon seeing Columbia's wounds.
"Kid, I told you to stay off the front line," Prussia said. He shot an accusatory glare at England. "And what the hell are you doing here? Get up there with your general and surrender like the loser you are."
England returned the glare, but said nothing. Columbia gave up on the interrogation and went back to pick up his rifle. With the gun in hand, he rejoined Prussia, and France quickly went to grab his musket as well. England's musket, however, would lay forgotten in the grass, for Columbia, France, and Prussia escorted the unarmed England back to the gates of West Point.
France and Prussia walked on either side of England, while Columbia hung to the rear, walking with his head lowered.
What I saw can't have been what actually happened to me, Columbia thought. It ended just like that nightmare… what is it?