The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  Von Stedingk ran him through, and the man dropped, nearly pulling the sword from his hands. Von Stedingk climbed the barricade and could feel and see others doing the same, engaging the Scotsmen with bayonets and bare hands. Von Stedingk climbed to the other side of the mound, and saw the British color bearers and musicians - most of them quite young - all of three strides in front of him. He ran at them screaming, swinging his sword in wide arcs, back and forth. He hit two or three in a swing, opening wide gashes. With panicked and wounded screams, the color guard and musicians broke. There was no one ahead of him now, only the no man’s land leading to the final set of defenses before the city of Savannah. Von Stedingk turned back to the melee and slashed at two soldiers’ backs who were engaged with his men. The area around Von Stedingk quickly belonged to the French. He looked around for the Sergeant - and found him nearly right beside him, covered in blood and black dust, but still calm and in high spirits. He cocked his head as if to ask, “What do you wish of me?”

  “In a moment, we press on,” he said in reply to the gesture, then in a louder voice, “Officers! Officers, to me!” But no one appeared. He repeated his command, and still no one came. His officers were not cowards. Most likely they were dead or wounded, picked off by the riflemen he was so far lucky to have escaped.

  Von Stedingk appraised the last set of revetments. They were the tallest of the lot, and held the highest caliber of artillery, which would now be firing grapeshot, basketfuls of metal that would tear through huge swathes of men. They were well-manned, and would, at this point, probably be reinforced by use of the enemy’s good interior lines. If they made it to the final defenses, and won the resulting fight, the entire siege would be over. If they didn’t, they would have to do all of this again, perhaps might fail again, and all the lives lost so far would be for naught.

  He turned to the Sergeant, “Wave the colors, Sergeant,” and then to the men, “Prepare for the next advance, repeat my commands rearward!” Voices shouted his command down the ranks. Von Stedingk looked in either direction. A hundred feet of the wall had been taken at great cost. It was enough. It was now or never. “Men of America, men of Ireland and the Kingdom of France - with me now!”

  Von Stedingk turned and ran. He heard no cheers, but he heard his men follow. At this point in the battle, there was no more need for inspiration. The men who had the rocks in their craw were with him. Those who did not were left by the wayside, somewhere far behind.

  There was a moment of quiet. All Von Stedingk could hear was his own ragged breaths, odd and directionless from the missing ear. Suddenly the enemy revetments were obscured by huge billowing clouds of smoke. Von Stedingk was lifted off his feet, and he fell forward.

  Dazedly, on the ground, he maneuvered to a sit. He noticed his sword was bent nearly in half. On instinct, and not feeling, he swiveled to look down at his legs. A good-sized chunk was taken out of his left calf. For some reason, it neither hurt nor bled. He tried to stand, and realized the wound was crippling him out of proportion to its lack of feeling. He managed to get to his feet, but could no longer run. He tried as best as he could to straighten his sword by pushing a knee into the center of angle. He limped toward the enemy, as fast as he could, with his bent sword raised in the air. The Sergeant ran passed him, then turned.

  “Go!” screamed Von Stedingk, with dark anger. The Sergeant simply nodded, and kept running. Other soldiers passed him. The attack had transcended his authority, the men attacked without fear and without thought. But they were cut down mercilessly, one after the other. Von Stedingk tried to walk faster, resisting the urge to use his sword as a cane rather than a beacon. He was suddenly hit, and fell again, but now there was pain. A ball had made a deep groove in the flesh between two of his ribs on the right side. One of the Dillon Irish pulled him to his feet.

  “Come on then!” the Irishman said cheerfully, right before his head disappeared, and his body fell to the ground. Von Stedingk composed himself, and kept walking. He now saw a huge melee at the last ramparts. A stream of his men, narrow at the top and wide at the bottom, fought their way up. The regimental colors waved somewhere near the top. Von Stedingk forced himself to move faster. He screamed in rage to hide his screams of pain. Musket balls whizzed passed him, but he forced himself onward. His presence, and that of the colors, was now the sum total of military authority propelling the charge. He reached the bottom of the revetments. Wounded men were everywhere. He began to climb, using the dead to help his ascent. He bled everywhere upon them, from his ear and from the chest.

  He made it to the top of the mound, and saw a brutal fight below. American Tories and Scotsmen fought for their lives against American rebels, French, Coloreds, Irish and, now, a Swede. Von Stedingk let himself slide down the mound and used the momentum to swing downward with his sword. Things moved faster than the mind could register. It would take years of bad dreams to make sense of the ensuing fight.

  It was over in minutes. There was a carpet of dead, nowhere did one stand where it wasn’t upon the slain. There were no more British – and only a handful of Von Stedingk’s men remained. The revetment mounds had been constructed so that enfilade fire, parallel sideways fire, did not rake the entire line, and would hit dirt after fifty feet. Von Stedingk had command of one of these sections of fifty feet. Enemy were on both sides of it still, trying to fire into his position. Enemy were in the upper stories of the Savannah homes and buildings, firing down, but inaccurately, into their position.

  Von Stedingk turned and looked over the embankment, back in the direction he had come. There were no more French troops advancing. There was a wide carpet of dead and wounded leading to the fifth line. Part of the fourth line of defensives was occupied by his men, but they too were fighting British on their right and left. He turned back to his remaining men, “Count of able bodies, Sergeant.”

  The Sergeant Major turned - with a smile - and spoke, “We have twenty men, twenty-one including yourself, Monsieur, and none hale or whole.”

  Von Stedingk looked them over. Every man was indeed hurt in some way or other. All of them were covered in blood, dirt and gunpowder. They looked absolutely fearful, but, in all honesty, if they were clean and pressed, this rugged crew would still freeze the blood. It was a tough bunch of lucky whoresons who stood before him now.

  He looked once more at Savannah. There was no way they could charge the buildings. They would be taking fire from the enemy positions to their left and right, plus fire from the buildings. They were stuck here, unless other men somehow made it across the flat terrain from the fourth revetment to the fifth. Looking back, he realized it wasn’t going to happen. Twenty-one men had made it to the last ditch, but no more were coming. The attack was stopped, even with the French vanguard occupying part of the last line.

  But all would know he made it this far.

  Von Stedingk turned to Sergeant Guerrier, “Plant the colors, Sergeant.”

  Guerrier grinned like a drunk prizefighter, and planted the flagstaff on the highest point of the revetment, heedless of the subsequent fire. Von Stedingk looked at the flag, gently waving above the final line of defenses. It was beautiful, the flag of France. It billowed white as the clouds, sparkling with gold fleur-de-lis. He had taken his objective at tremendous cost, but could not keep it. He resisted the urge to cry.

  He could not resist the urge to sit. He had a feeling he would not walk again for days, if he survived at all. His ribs hurt ferociously, and the pain seemed to increase exponentially with every breath. There was simply nothing worse than a rib injury.

  Perhaps the third day of a gut shot.

  Von Stedingk spoke again, “Very soon, they will counterattack and force us out of this position. When the time comes, it will be every man for himself. If you can run, I expect you to do so, leaving those who cannot move as quickly to their fate. The odds of making it back to the body of our assault will be slim, do not make them worse for yourself.”

  He saw a round of nods, they unde
rstood.

  Guerrier squinted, “I will make sure you return, Monsieur.”

  “I cannot run, Sergeant. If it comes down to it, save yourself.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Monsieur.”

  “Pardon me, Sergeant?”

  The Sergeant shrugged, “I think, Monsieur, you are not going to be left to your fate today.” The other twenty men chuckled.

  Von Stedingk shook his head, “I suppose I should have expected this sort of nonsense, from the lads mad enough to follow me to the end.”

  The Sergeant took off his hat and held it in the air, “Colonel Von Stedingk! Huzzah!” And there were three rounds of cheers.

  Von Stedingk smiled weakly, then passed out. A Dijonnais placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to keep him from falling. Sergeant Guerrier took one of Von Stedingk’s hands, slipped the other between his legs and easily moved the Colonel’s weight to his shoulders. He walked up the embankment, and yanked the colors from the loam. He turned to the rest, “Let’s go.”

  To the astonishment of the soldiers trapped in the fourth ring of defenses, the twenty-one who made it to the fifth soon came running back. They poured fire into the British lines, in an attempt to keep their heads down or throw off aim to save their retreating comrades. All twenty-one made it. Then, the twenty-one and the occupiers of the fourth line retreated to the third, then the second.

  The attack had failed, however gallantly.

  * * *

  The French and their allies sustained twenty percent casualties across their entire force in one day. On October seventeenth, d'Estaing abandoned the siege. It was one of the bloodiest episodes of the entire war - only not for the British. Point of fact, it was a tremendous British victory. In London, cannons were fired in celebration when the news was heard.

  Von Stedingk recovered from his wounds in a stateroom aboard the 80-gun Deux Frères. After he was recovered enough to write his dispatches and reports, he described the assault as best he could, and mentioned Sergeant Guerrier by name - a high honor. He felt, however, that he owed the doughty Sergeant a bit more. He soon issued a command for the Sergeant Major to be found, and brought aboard the Deux Frères by cutter.

  In the meantime, he made inquiries.

  Sergeant Major Guerrier happened to be legendary amongst the fleet. He was black enough to redden the hide of an African, but white enough to straighten out a European private without issue. He was known to keep a rowdy discipline amongst the volunteers, and encouraged a rough and tumble culture. It was said he never lost a fight, his pugilistic skills were impregnable, and honed by a thousand brawls. Oddly, Guerrier also had the reputation of having absolutely unassailable integrity. He never broke the rules, or allowed them to be broken. He was law-abiding, authority-respecting and honorable in all respects. One man said you could give him a thousand livre, and retrieve it a year later not a coin short.

  Guerrier soon reported to him. Von Stedingk gave him his heartfelt thanks, explained the honor of being mentioned in dispatches, and asked him how he could express his gratitude in a more tangible way. Guerrier’s answer was completely in character.

  “Well, Monsieur Colonel,” said Guerrier, blinking, squinting and chewing his lip, “I’m an octoroon, and a free man.”

  “And what is an octoroon?”

  “I am seven-eighths white. Back in Le Cap, they call octoroons Métis, but most outside of Saint-Domingue call all colored Métis.”

  “They have special names for such things?”

  “I have the papers to prove it as well, locked up tight in a merchant house back in Cap Français. We started out free, my family. Buccaneers, we were. When Saint-Domingue became civilized, we became civilized right with the times.”

  “A buccaneer? A pirate?”

  “Well, not exactly. It was just a bunch of Africans, French criminals and Arakawa natives running around, mostly hunting wild boar and such, at least before the sugar and coffee plantations came about. My first ancestor to get on the priest’s books was a little of all three, I’d imagine. He was a good man, an ambitious man. He was an overseer for one of the first sugar plantations.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “We’ve always been forward-thinking. Always looking to better ourselves, if only by a rung or two. I am an ambitious man, just like my ancestors. Always have been. I married a white woman, completely white, mind you, and my children are fifteen-sixteenths. We call them Mamelouk in Le Cap - and they are legally white. My children are white, Monsieur.”

  Von Stedingk smiled and nodded. Inwardly, he was struck that Guerrier’s ambition was to produce something he was not, and could never be. But many men shared a pitiable drive, if they were not spiritually minded, even if they were kings. King Louis himself was, in fact, miserable. He wanted nothing more than to be a clockmaker, with perhaps a field he could hunt in. Queen Marie-Antoinette, deeply unhappy as well, would have liked nothing more than to be that man’s wife, and a mother to her children. A soul’s peace never comes from dreams stemming from the disquietude of one’s own heart.

  Guerrier continued, “I started out bouncing drunks from public houses and taverns, to being a policeman, then chasing runaways, to being a soldier. Now, I think it is time to make another change.”

  Guerrier had also failed at being a coffee farmer, but he had erased the memory. He did not like to fail.

  “What kind of change, Sergeant?” asked Von Stedingk.

  “It’s time to leave the colonies, and give my family some proper opportunity, Monsieur. The kind of opportunity we have earned. The kind of opportunity my children can now have, being who they are.”

  “Where do you wish to take your family, Sergeant?”

  “To France, Monsieur. I’d also like to become a policeman, having experience and skill doing such a thing already.”

  Von Stedingk nodded. A voyage to France for an entire family would be frightfully expensive for someone like Féroce Guerrier, and a minor expense to a man like Von Stedingk. “It is of nothing, Sergeant. After the war, you and your family will have your voyage to France, and I will personally write a letter of recommendation for you as a candidate for police.” Von Stedingk held out his hand. Guerrier grasped it. “You are a brave and honorable man, Sergeant. It was an honor to lead you, and I hope to do so again.”

  Guerrier smiled, but did not speak. He saluted the Comte, an unprofessional gesture indoors. Regardless, Von Stedingk smiled back, and returned it. Féroce left the cabin, but did not go back to his cutter. Instead, he went to the dark bowels of the ship, where he was alone and out of sight, and he wept.

  ***

  Von Stedingk would die an old man, a Field Marshall, a Lord of the Realm, recipient of the Royal Order of the Seraphim, the Order of the Sword, the Order of Saint Alexander Nevsky, the Pour le Mérite Militaires, the Order of St. Andrew, and the Society of the Cincinnati, though he could not wear the latter by order of the King of Sweden. The vagaries of history found him fighting for and against France, for and against Britain, for and against Russia, and for and against Prussia. He was respected by friends, allies, enemies, commoners, and nobles, alike. He was a hero, in every sense of the word, loyal to his creed and class to the end.

  After the war, Sergeant Major Guerrier would go back to Saint-Domingue, to find his family in tatters.

  Cap Français, 1783

  Chapter Eight

  The Time of the Heirlooms

  Seonaidh Guerrier was beautiful, even as she lay dying. Her hair was jet black, her skin pale with a tinge of olive. Her eyes were green, deep-set under large, perfect eyebrows. They were tilted sharply at the corners, giving her an almost Asian exoticism, especially paired with her high cheekbones and fine features. She was slender, but feminine and youthful-looking, even after five children - two living and three dead.

  She was nauseous and in agony, her every joint ached, and she was shivering cold in the oppressive, humid heat. She had been sick before, nearly every Summer since she was taken to the Americas
as a girl. Every time she was struck down, no one expected her to survive. Somehow, she always did.

  This time was different.

  At the point in which she should have been getting better, she was getting worse. Most whites had a short life expectancy in the tropics. She had cheated fate for years. She had prayed for her own death so many times in the past, she thought she almost deserved it now, when it was inconvenient and unwanted. She laid in her bed, in her little five-room house made of wood, daub, and plaster, on three high acres just above and outside the walls of the hilly port of Cap Français, Saint-Domingue.

  Two sets of eyes watched her carefully, for she had asked for them to come. They were her surviving children, twins, a brother and a sister, edging on fifteen. The Ó Brollachain clan, from whence came Seonaidh, were known for twins, though none of them ever looked alike. Seonaidh’s brothers were twins. She last saw them as infants, long ago, and far, far away. It still hurt to think about them, and about that time.

  Seonaidh looked to her son, Guillaume, for she could almost feel his eyes burning into her. She could see nothing of his father in him, at least physically. He was Seonaidh in male form - green-eyed, black-haired and handsome. He was usually sullen around her and Seonaidh had to admit she did not know him well. Since his long jaunts to Cap Français, he had calmed, but one look at her and his hate for the world returned, smoldering off his body like inky, black smoke. His anger scared her, and amused his father. She smiled at him, and he did not return it.

  She felt she deserved his contempt. She was not a good mother, and Féroce was not a good father.

  She looked at her daughter, Estelle, who smiled brightly at her. Estelle looked nothing like Seonaidh, and nothing like her father, either. She had curly, thick, chestnut hair, and alabaster skin covered with big, brown freckles. She was already buxom, and thick everywhere else, although certainly not chubby or fat. Her eyes were brown, and quite large - in fact, all of her features were a bit oversized. Her teeth were even big, and had noticeable spaces between them. She wasn’t ugly by any means, in fact, she would make an attractive woman. But she would only just make the border of it, and would never be described as beautiful. But there was something indescribable about Estelle, there always had been. Although she was neither loud, nor in need of being the center of attention, she was known wherever she went. Estelle was perceptive; as smart, but differently gifted, as her brother; kind, and strong - but she struggled with things. Sometimes a darkness enveloped her, in spite of herself.