Jake had no idea how much time passed before he became aware of what was happening around him. His senses were muted, as if he were witnessing a spectacle on the street from a table inside a café. His men were running away, or sprawled on the ground in postures of surrender, death or agony. Soldiers were crawling over the barricade, and shooting over the top of it. There were screamed commands and barked orders from enemy leaders. Jake couldn’t discern their meaning, as if he had suddenly forgotten every word of French he ever learned.
A soldier brought the butt of his musket into the back of Jake’s neck, knocking him unconscious. He crumpled over Franck, and was kicked until his unresponsive body was prone on the ground.
***
Over the course of the day, the surviving rebels retreated south and west, and collapsed into positions in the maze of narrow streets in the city center. They made their last stand in the old church buildings on the Cloître Saint-Merri. By dusk, it was over. The revolution had been crushed in a little over twenty-four hours. The army and national guard lost seventy-three men to the reaper, and sent three-hundred and forty-four to the hospital. Ninety-three revolutionaries were killed, and two-hundred and ninety-one wounded. The fighting went into the history books as The June Rebellion of 1832, and was lucky to get a page or two - if the book was thick.
The twelve students of Louis-le-Grand captured as rebels were somewhat of an embarrassment. These young men were the best and brightest of France - indeed, of the world. The students were shocked and traumatized over their brush with mortal violence, and those in authority sensed that whatever revolutionary fervor they possessed had been mostly extinguished. All of them, save one, were remanded to the school without further ado of any kind. Their participation was erased from memory.
Only one particular student was chosen to be put on trial for sedition and rebellion. It was strange because he was not even French. He could have simply been deported, and saved everyone time and trouble, and averted a potential diplomatic incident with his native land - a friendly sovereign state. But, again, for some unknown reason, against all advice - and seemingly the will of the powers that be - Jacob Esau Loring, Jake to his friends, would go on trial with eighty-two other rebels chosen for their keystone positions within the revolutionary ranks and their contribution to events.
For those eighty-two men destined for trial, the best they could hope for was life in prison. Some would surely be executed.
America, 1779
Chapter Seven
The Time of the Heirlooms
Colonel Comte Curt von Stedingk hailed from Swedish Pomerania. He was close friends with King Louis and Queen Marie-Antoinette of France. He came from a celebrated military family. He was sharp, competent, experienced and cool-headed.
Today, he led the second wave of the main attack against the defenses of British-held Savannah. His command was an international force of thousands. There were parts of General Ben Lincoln’s First American Division from Charleston, French regulars from the storied Irishmen of the 87th Dillon Infantry Regiment, elements of the 16th Agénois Regiment, the 106th and 109th French Colonials, and also a unique band of five hundred soldiers of the Chasseurs-Volontaires de Saint-Domingue, who were mostly freemen of mixed black and white heritage, called gens de couleur libre.
The first wave had already attacked. Its energy was spent, but a wide swathe of trenches, earthworks and revetments - taking up the first and second rings of British defenses encircling the western part of the city - were now French. But the enemy fortifications were extensive – three more inner rings of trenches, revetments and forts were still held by the enemy. The weather was fair, and Savannah was full of slaves who had nothing else to do than build British defenses in the preceding days and weeks.
It was now up to Von Stedingk and his second wave to penetrate the last three rings of British defenses and liberate the city.
Von Stedingk and his command reached the first trench. Wounded men from the prior assault were struggling back. The dead seemed to be scattered everywhere. Of the enemy fallen, of whom he was assured only American loyalist militia held the sector, he recognized the uniforms of Fraser's Highlanders, the crack British 71st Regiment of Foot.
The plan had depended on surprise. They had none. The French and American forces of the first wave marched through swamp and marsh and had arrived predictably late. The site for the primary thrust through the British defenses had been chosen for the lack of good units manning the defenses - and that gamble had now proved a failure as well. The overall commander of the French forces, Comte d'Estaing, was a mediocre officer. Ironically, the British commander was a Frenchman as well - Major General Augustine Prévost. He came from a Huguenot family, French Protestants, who had emigrated to avoid religious persecution. The Prévosts were originally from Poitou, a region well-known to produce excellent soldiers. Augustine was proving to be no exception.
French forces began landing on the twelfth of September. It was now the ninth of October – and only now was Comte d’Estaing growing impatient. Had he been impatient in mid-September, the city would have been liberated within hours. Now, with the city fortified, impatience was suicidal. At the course-of-action meeting, every officer had been opposed to a frontal assault. All were in favor of oblique operations improving their overall position, with an eye toward gradually making Savannah untenable. When d’Estaing issued his orders for the attack, it became abundantly clear to Von Stedingk why d’Estaing had never won a battle of any consequence. He had wavered when he should have been strong. Now, when he should be more strategic, he was unwavering. Apart from some supply issues, and sickness brought by the fetid, tropical swamp, everything was in their favor. Hurricane season was ending, the fleet was safe, and time was on their side. There was no need for the butchery of a direct assault.
Yet here they were.
A Polish aide-de-camp rode up and saluted. Von Stedingk returned it. “Colonel, the first wave has taken the primary and secondary lines of defenses. I’m afraid Comte d'Estaing was been hurt.”
Von Stedingk nodded sagely. No great loss.
The Pole continued, “Comte Pułaski has also been wounded, but I’m afraid his wounds are mortal.”
That was a blow. He was an outstanding officer. From Poland as well, renowned for superior horse soldiers, he was training and leading the American cavalry. He had even personally saved George Washington’s life. Von Stedingk shook his head, “Is someone with him?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Comte de Benyovszky.”
The Hungarian. Good man.
“Very well. Give him my most sincere regards. Tell him, in the interests of our cause, that I will immediately initiate the attack of the second wave.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” The aide-de-camp saluted, and rode off.
Von Stedingk had no illusions about the rest of his day. He could attack cautiously and judiciously - and make defeat an absolute certainty - or he could attack savagely and ferociously, sacrificing his men, but having a slim chance of penetrating the enemy defenses and rendering their entire forward positions untenable. He really had no choice. He had to attack with everything he had, and as quickly as possible. In order to justify such a sanguine plan to himself and to God, he had to lead the assault himself. His men then could do no less than to follow. He turned to his signals officer, “Sound double time attack, if you please, Lieutenant.” The man nodded, and turned to issue commands.
Von Stedingk had issued orders to his officers last night, instructing them how they should proceed according to certain signals. Within seconds, the musicians would sound the attack. Within a minute, the entirety of his command would be ready to assault.
He dismounted and handed his reins to the flag-bearer, who in turn gave him the colors. Von Stedingk turned to the rest of his staff, “You are now the rearguard. If I fall, and the attack fails, command the retreat - but only if both conditions are met.”
His Executive Officer, Major Marquis de Flaine, saluted. “God b
e with you, hero of France.” He turned his horse, and led the rest of the staff down the column.
Von Stedingk turned to face his forward soldiers. He spoke in a brazen voice, “I am personally leading the assault. I need a man to carry my colors, so everyone can perceive the direction of the attack. I need a man of iron will, one who will not fall back or become frightened. And, if I succumb to wounds, to carry the impetus forward still without me. And I need other men to pick up the flag and lead, if this brave man falls.”
A man stepped forward. He was tall, perhaps six feet or more. He had the twisted muscles of a fit, thin man - but more muscles than a thin man would ever have. He was deeply tanned, but the shade of his skin was strange, browner than it should have been. His hair was golden brown at the roots, and gold at the tips, and his eyes were the same color - gold. His features were small and sharp, like a Dane or a Frisian. He was a Sergeant Major, and wore the uniform of the Chasseurs-Volontaires de Saint-Domingue. That explained it: he was part black, enough to make his complexion unique. Standing behind him were other men of color, ranging from pitch black to caramel. The Sergeant didn’t look scared, or even focused or stern - the opposite, in fact. He was grinning, “I will carry your flag, Monsieur Colonel. To Purgatory or Port-Au-Prince - whichever is hotter and further.” The soldiers behind him laughed.
Braggadocio in a tavern around wide-eyed whores was one thing. But they were about to engage in a frontal assault against hardened troops and prepared positions. Most of the men were probably praying for courage and trying not to soil their breeks. It was inconceivable that a sane man could have a tavern attitude on a real battlefield – yet, voilà. His attitude had even rubbed off on his men.
Von Stedingk spoke, “What is your name, Sergeant?”
“My name is Sergeant Major Féroce Guerrier, Monsieur.”
Ferocious Warlike? What a name!
Von Stedingk kept his face neutral. “Have you ever faced your own death, Sergeant?”
“Oui, Monsieur. Many a time. But the devil won’t have me, and God keeps a clean heaven.”
Mon dieu, more wit!
“Step forward,” said Von Stedingk, and the man came before him. Von Stedingk held up the regimental colors, and they performed the drill of a formal exchange. Von Stedingk kept his voice low to travel only between them, “To hell and back, Sergeant. Our life means nothing this day, yes?”
The Sergeant winked at him, as if he was having the time of his life. Von Stedingk smiled back at him, as if he was as well.
He wasn’t.
Von Stedingk drew his sword and pointed it at the heavens, and shouted with a booming voice, “For King Louis, and for France! For American freedom! VIVE LE ROI!” and with that he turned, and charged.
He heard a thousand throats scream behind him – “VIVE LE ROI!” The battle cry was six-hundred years old – and belonged to the victors, many more times than not.
Von Stedingk ran the last steps to the first set of defenses. Huge clouds of smoke billowed from distant enemy positions. A moment later, he heard the deep, impossibly loud sound of cannons – the long-range guns, rifled twenty-eight pounders taken from warships. At this range, they fired solid balls. As they bounced across the ground, anyone in their way would be crushed like matchsticks, their lives and limbs torn from them like doll parts.
Von Stedingk reached the first trench. The first assault had taken it already, and there had not yet been a counterattack - at least Von Stedingk’s second assault then was somewhat timely. He slid into the trench and began climbing up the other side. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a few dead and wounded from both sides. Some fusiliers from the first assault had fallen back here and had taken position.
But then he was up and on the flat ground on the other side. Loud insects seemingly buzzed past his head at incredible speed, near misses - musket balls. At this distance, they could only be fired from sharpshooters using long rifles. They could easily pick off officers and flag-bearers at this range. Anyone in a white uniform with gold trim would probably not survive the day.
More steps - double time. Faster, faster.
Then cotton balls appeared across the enemy line, followed by a demonic roar seconds later - they were now in range of the smaller sixteen and twelve pounders, and the more-forward placed four pounders.
Suddenly, a musket ball hit his hat, and twisted it down over his nose - hard and painfully. He fell, tugged his hat back up - and saw the Sergeant sprint past him. Strong hands helped him back up.
“Are you quite all right, Monsieur?” A Corporal from the Agénois inquired.
“Quite well!” shouted Von Stedingk, “To the attack, Corporal!” And he took off running as fast as he could. He wanted to pass the Sergeant. This was his assault, his responsibility. He needed to be first. The insects buzzed his head again. He heard other soldiers behind him fall with grunts and screams. The Sergeant reached the second trench - the last taken by the first wave. Von Stedingk ran as fast as he could, and nearly jumped into the trench. It was considerably more occupied with soldiers from the first assault, for this was as far as they could go. They traded shots at the enemy in the third trench. Von Stedingk yelled, “Make way! Make way!” as he climbed up the other side. A cheer went up from the soldiers in the trench. But Von Stedingk paid it no heed, he had found something to occupy his mind, something to keep it from dwelling on his eventual fate - he was going to beat this förbaskad Sergeant to Savannah.
Von Stedingk was ahead and first. The Sergeant was not as mobile in the climb, since he was carrying the colors. Suddenly the air was alive with musket balls whizzing past him, and his clothes tugged everywhere from hits, even between his legs. Von Stedingk was absolutely terrified. Being first, he had drawn fire from the entire enemy position - it was a miracle he was not dead. He turned to see where his men were.
His assault was not nearly as strung out as it could have been. There were at least a hundred soldiers cresting the second trench, the remnants of the first assault were supporting them with volleys as best they could. The Sergeant was right behind him. Von Stedingk held out his hand, “Wait.”
The Sergeant stopped mid-stride and stood next to him, looking back as he did, only waving the flag back and forth. The man was completely without fear - fifty muskets must have trained on him in that moment alone.
Von Stedingk raised his sword and shouted, “Do not stop until we reach Savannah! With me!” and then he turned, and ran toward the third trench, held by American loyalists and tough Scottish regulars. He saw long bayonets were on the end of every enemy musket, making them into spears, longer than his arm and sword together. He had no idea how he would enter the enemy trench without being run through. But, suddenly, after firing a last volley, the enemy began to scatter left and right, leaving the trench directly in front of him nearly empty. Von Stedingk jumped into the trench. He heard and saw men to his left and right do the same. He quickly began climbing up the other end. He hoped that commanders to the rear had enough sense to order the defense of this trench section they had just taken.
He continued his mad sprint across another deadly section of level ground. The Irishman running to his right suddenly disappeared in a puff of red mist. A moment later the enemy works erupted in smoke and belated noise - another cannon volley. Von Stedingk had no idea how many others had been wounded or struck down, but there was nothing for it. He gritted his teeth, lifted his sword and screamed. The insects whizzed passed him again. He hoped his death would not stop the charge, that the mad sergeant could keep them going, and someone as equally mad would pick up the colors when the sergeant fell.
The fourth line of fortifications approached. It was not a trench, rather a wall, a high mound of earth. A wide and shallow trench was on Von Stedingk’s side of the mound - a coverless obstruction, and a hindrance to climbing the revetment. The British on the other side of the trench were firing good, organized volleys, loading and shooting from a standing position. A few holes in the mound offer
ed nothing but the mouths of four-pound cannons, probably loaded with anti-personnel grapeshot. Enemy drums and pipes erupted into song, the colors of the British Crown and the 71st Regiment were raised, and a throaty roar went up from the defenders – “CAISTEAL DHUNI!”
This time there was going to be a fight.
Von Stedingk could see the uniforms of the Dillon Irish, and the blacks of Saint Domingue to his left and right. Scattered amongst them were Agénois and a few Americans. The opposing Fraser’s Highlanders had proven themselves at the battle of Stono Ferry, they were tough and battle-hardened. Von Stedingk had no idea how his motley force of blacks, Irish, French and Americans would fare against them. It was his duty to strengthen and sturdy them. He turned, and screamed with everything he could muster, “VIVE LE ROI!”
The sound of his voice was animal, terrifying - even to his own ears. The Sergeant, who was perhaps ten feet away, grinned at him, and gave a bloodthirsty howl of his own. A roar, like a charge of wolverines, buffeted his ears as it escaped the mouths of his soldiers. Von Stedingk’s heart burst with pride. He would throw himself on these Scotsmen, in admiration of his men’s bravery, come what may.
He turned back and ran forward, increasing his speed. His chest hurt even through the adrenaline, his breaths were ragged. Cannon and musket fire buffeted him. He was so far unhurt, but he knew there were others who were not so lucky.
He was fifty feet away from the wall.
Through the smoke, he saw a young redcoat right in front of him on the other side of the mound. He was reloading, and staring right at him. Von Stedingk focused on him.
I am going to kill that man and climb the barricade, or he will kill me.
Thirty feet.
The Scotsman leveled his rifle, and aimed right at him, cool and calm.
Fifteen feet.
He fired. Von Stedingk suddenly heard sound differently from one ear - then realized why: it was completely shot off from his head. The redcoat began to reload, on instinct but not wisely.
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 13