• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1262 0

sea had surprised the supply officers, and as the journey lengthened, it became clear that the ships could not carry enough forage for the horses to survive. In just a few weeks they began to die. He had no special love for horses, had always enjoyed a capable mount, but the long sea journey had opened up a new horror in him, the spectacle of the helpless animal who endures its own starvation without complaint. Once it began, it was constant. Each day the animal transport ships met the dawn by sliding carcasses over the side, the animals who had not survived the night. When Howe ordered the armada out of the Delaware River, it was obvious that the fleet had many long days still to sail, and the request came from the supply officers, permission to cast off the weaker animals, those whose survival was in doubt. They would simply be pushed overboard, the most humane way for the horse transports to preserve the supply of grain and fresh water for those animals that still had strength. Cornwallis had objected at first, horrified at the waste and the cruelty. Even Howe had reacted to that, and Cornwallis could not avoid the feeling that Howe might have more sympathy for the horses than for the suffering of his men. But the supply officers made their case, and Howe had given the order with one condition: The crews of the transports would carry out the grim duty after dark. Even now, in the roaring misery of the rain, Cornwallis could hear that awful sound, the heavy splashes that would echo across the black water. He thought of the one small consolation, the only kind of peace he could find through those dreadful nights. At least, as they drown, they don’t cry out.

He could hear the wind again, knew there were thick trees around him, another deep patch of woods. He heard the familiar whine, the mosquitoes darting around his face. He wiped at the air, a useless gesture, the movement opening up a new part of his uniform to a small flood of water. The mosquitoes swarmed over them from the woods, the patches of low ground, swampy, the birthplace of so much human misery. These narrow roads were the only way through, and he knew that out in front, the skirmish line was probably massed into the road itself, that no officer would order his men into these swamps at night. It hardly matters, he thought. The rebels are nowhere to be seen. They are in their homes, with their wives. Dry clothes.

There was a sudden burst of light above him, a hard slam of thunder. The lightning reflected off the men in the road, and he jumped as they did, jarred awake by the startling sight. The horse seemed to stagger, and he held the reins hard, pulled the animal to halt. The horse grew calm again, and he nudged it with his boots, the animal resuming the uneven gait. A fresh gust of rain blew into his face, clouding his eyes yet again, and he blinked hard, thought, Even the ships were not this bad. Well, perhaps.

He felt a sharp sting on his ear now, slapped it away, could not help a small quiet laugh. A soldier’s life. Torture by design. He thought of the stories from his childhood, the stern lesson from a frightening schoolmaster. We shall be punished for our sins. And, so, here we are, in all our biblical absurdity. We have suffered the plague of locusts, and the flood of Noah. What is left? Shall Mr. Washington part the colony of Pennsylvania, and swallow us up? Perhaps that will be the fate of General Burgoyne, guilty as he is of the sin of ambition. How dare this man usurp the glory rightfully due to General Howe?

The horse stumbled, and he pitched forward, caught himself on the horse’s mane. Behind him came a voice, one of his aides, “Sir! You all right?”

“Quite so, Major.”

The humor was gone now, and he pulled himself upright, thought, So they are watching you after all. Not everyone sleeps in the saddle. I suppose, if this army is going to match the successes of our rivals, we should stay perfectly awake. Gentleman Johnny must have no advantage.

They had received news of Burgoyne’s capture of Ticonderoga with a mix of congratulation and dismay.