by J. F. Holmes
As I drew forward, I caught one of the sentries saying to Sergeant Armistead, “…on the left, Sergeant. The other road will take you to Germantown Pike.” The young, pimpled sentry shifted nervously. “The other sentry post is about a mile down there.” He paused and added, “Was down there at any rate.” He looked up at the grizzled noncommissioned officer and asked, “What’s out there, Sergeant? Are we safe here?”
Armistead cracked a rare smile and spoke almost gently, “You’re fine, lad. It’s wolves drawn by the slaughter, like as not. You and the lads wait here. We’ll be back in a shake.”
The big sergeant turned his horse and motioned the next men in line to begin down the road, which rapidly narrowed as it vanished into the snowy undergrowth. The treetops, while barren of leaves, remained thick and entangled overhead, making it feel like a tunnel into the forest. The gloom of the now steady overcast made the day dark, and the road even darker.
As the soldiers rode cautiously down the road, the sergeant spoke to Lieutenant Turley and me, “Sir. These woods aren’t right.” He gestured around him at the gloom of the dense forest. “I don’t know what might be out there, but I’ve told the men to stay aware, and we’ll dismount and proceed on foot once we locate the old sentry post.”
Nodding my head in agreement, I replied, “Very good, Sergeant.” The burly man nodded and hurried his horse forward. With a last glance at the now solid grey sky, I nudged my horse forward into the seeming perpetual gloom of the forest. As we passed into the thick undergrowth, the forest seemed to contract, becoming denser and darker. The thick coating of snow absorbed sound, so the only noise we could hear was the crunching of hooves, the clinking of the harnesses, and the occasional neigh and snort from the horses. The men, previously talking amongst themselves cheerily, had grown silent, and I saw more than one of the veteran campaigners subtly clearing the handle of his saber for instant usage.
I must confess that even I, the veteran of many skirmishes and battles in the woods, found the silence disquieting. I found myself touching my saber handle occasionally as if rubbing a talisman to ward off evil.
Lieutenant Turley whispered to me, “Captain. It is unnaturally still, is it not?”
Putting on a brave front, I replied, “Perhaps; perhaps not. I read in the almanac that scientists think the pressure of a storm on the creatures of the air sends them into a stupor and quiets the animals of the ground.” I gestured at the silent woods around us. “That is why we are not hearing any birds nor seeing any manner of small animals. ‘Tis nothing but the approach of a storm.”
The young officer nodded, but his eyes kept scanning out, seeking anything that might be lurking in the gloom of the trees or amongst the snowbanks. We continued our ride in silence for nearly half an hour, the going made difficult by the narrowing trail and low hanging brushes.
Presently there came a harsh whisper from the front of the column. Knowing that this meant we had arrived, I swung down from my horse, tossed the reins to the Marine in front of me, and walked quickly to the front of the column. Sergeant Armistead was standing, his hands on his hips, staring into the forest. Haskins was kneeling, studying the trampled snow intently.
Looking up at my approach, the soldier spoke, “The area’s a mess, sir. I can see the blood, but the boots of the officers who came to investigate has obscured anything else of value.”
Staring at the very large, dark brown stain in the snow, I replied, “Can you make out what direction they went?”
The man silently indicated the direction the big sergeant was staring in, down a narrow path the width of a single man. In the snow were partially obscured boot prints, and what looked like someone dragging their heels. I stepped up next to the sergeant and spoke quietly, “Thoughts, Thomas?”
The big man shook his head, then took off his tricorn and rubbed his close-cropped hair. He then firmly placed the hat back on and motioned to Haskins and Lewis. “Us riflemen first, sir, to the sides of the trail, quiet. The Marines will follow a ways back and come Johnny-on-the-spot if there’s trouble.”
He turned to Lieutenant Turley. “Tisn’t meant to give offense to your Marines, sir. We’re just more practiced in moving in these woods.”
The young man replied calmly, “None taken. We’ll move up the trail slowly, and if we hear trouble, we will make haste to assist. Blow the whistle if you need us, and we’ll come in like the devil himself was pursuing.” He turned to organize the Marines into a movement order, and I could hear him detailing two of them to stand fast and guard the horses.
While the Marines prepared, Armistead turned to me and spoke in a low voice, “I’d not ordinarily ask you, sir, to be in the line, but we are desperately short of men of woodcraft. If you’ll take Haskins and the right side, I’ll go with Lewis on the left.”
I nodded and without a word returned to my horse, and retrieved my rifle. Stripping off the canvas cover from the flint, I ensured it was primed and ready to fire. Seeing my other Pennsylvania men doing the same, I nodded to Sergeant Armistead. At his return nod, I stepped off into the woods, noting that a light snow was falling.
As I moved amongst the snow-covered trees, a deep silence fell over the entire area. I knew I was but a dozen feet from the Marines and the horses, but I could not hear a thing. I glanced at Haskins. He held up a finger to his lips, then tapped his ear, then pointed at me and motioned forward. I nodded silently and continued moving into the woods.
Moving as silently as possible, I made my way through the brush. The terrain began to get rough, and more than once I stepped into deep snow that concealed an irregularity in the ground and had to carefully catch myself. Momentarily, I found myself climbing a small ridge. Crouching, trying to stay hidden from I knew not what, I crested the ridge and regarded the small valley below.
To my great surprise, I could see the distinctive scarlet of a British soldier’s coat moving below us. I dropped to my belly in the snow and worked my way forward. I could hear the minute sounds of Haskins close behind. We inched our way forward, taking great care not to wet the locks of our rifles, and made it to a large boulder that happened to have a clear view of the small gulch below. Bringing my rifle up, I took aim at the scarlet shape and watched intently.
After a moment I could see that the man was stumbling, and his face was pale. He wore no hat, and his brown hair, once neatly pulled back, was in disarray. He did not appear to have a musket, but had a sword belted to his waist. He occasionally turned his head from left to right as if seeking his way in the snow, and moved with a stagger.
Behind me, Haskins whispered, “Think he’s lost, sir? He looks deathly ill.”
I replied in the same low tone, “Looks like he may be. Separated from his party in these damnable woods, no doubt. We should get him and find out where the main body is. We’ve been expecting an attack for weeks now.” I thought for a moment, then cupped my hands and made a soft bird call, similar to the mourning doves near my boyhood home. Three short coos, and a longer one; a signal to my longtime sergeant, concealed in the woods nearby.
After a moment, a return call came. Two short coos. Sergeant Armistead would remain hidden and watch.
Without taking my eyes off of the stumbling officer below, I spoke, “You stay here, Haskins. I need your rifle trained on him as well, just in case this is some trickery.”
Haskins nodded silently and raised his rifle, blinked once, and became deathly still. In a company known for excellent riflemen, Haskins was once of the best, and deadly accurate to over two hundred yards. More than one British officer had been sent to an early grave by the big farmer from Lancaster.
I stood up and with my rifle held low, but ready, I made my way down the slope. Stopping at the bottom perhaps thirty feet from the Englishman, I held up a hand and spoke.
“Hail, sir.”
The man stopped, turned, and stared at me, but did not seem surprised, nor try to get away from my sudden appearance. His eyes seemed strange; all black, with no white v
isible. For a moment he stood stock still, slightly tilting his head at me.
I spoke again, gently, not liking the look of the man, “Sir, you look ill. We shall take you to the Continental Camp, where you will be fed and cared for and paroled back to your Army in due course.”
The man took a staggering step toward me, then stopped again. He opened his mouth, but remained silent.
Unnerved and attempting to cover it with boldness, I called out again, “Sir! Do you not speak English? Are you wounded or…”
With a terrifying shriek, the man suddenly lurched into a sprint and rapidly charged at me. I began to raise my rifle, but realizing I would not make it in time, dropped it and reached for my saber. The man raced at me, the horrible shrieking echoing through the silence of the forest, his hands outstretched. As I drew my saber, I knew this, too, would be too late.
Suddenly there was a tremendous crash from behind me, and the man staggered and fell to one knee. A small hole appeared in the coat over his breast. He looked down at it for a moment, and then to my abject horror, rose again. Two more crashes came in rapid succession, and the thing that resembled a man stumbled again and fell. I wrenched my saber out of its scabbard, now hearing my men rushing down the hill behind me. The man, the thing in front of me, rose again and began the shambling sprint at me once more. My saber bare, I stepped back and spun away as he lunged at me, striking one of the man’s arms as he went by, and then kicking him hard in the back. It sprawled onto its face in the snow, and then rolled over and tried to rise, but was slow to do so due to the terrible wound I had inflicted on the wretched thing’s arm.
Taking advantage of this moment, I thrust forward with my saber and pierced it in the side, feeling the blade bite deep into the chest, a surely mortal wound in any man. The thing screamed and hissed, and tried to climb again to its feet. I drew back my saber for a second strike and thrust it directly through the beast’s heart. It’s black eyes fixed on me, the thing grabbed the blade and pulled it further into its chest, drawing me closer to its grip and open jaws. I tugged on the handle of my saber, feeling how tightly it was held, but I refused to let go. A split second later there was a flash of steel, and the head of the monster that looked like a man fell backwards from its body into the snow. The grip on my sword loosened, and I was able to jerk it back and out of the body. The headless corpse stood for a moment, then collapsed into the snow, falling onto its chest. Sergeant Armistead stood behind it, blade bare. He stared down at the severed head, which still stared and worked its jaw rhythmically.
Seeing that it no longer posed a threat, I shakily lowered my sword and spoke, attempting humor, “Well timed, Sergeant. Next time a bit faster would be lovely.”
Armistead, Haskins, Lewis, and I stood over the body and stared. After a moment Haskins spoke, “What manner of unholy thing is this? I shot him right in the heart. The captain stabbed him thrice. Is this sorcery?”
Lewis, usually quiet, suddenly spoke, “I know this man.” All of us turned to look at Lewis in astonishment. He indicated the head, still silently working its mouth, “Aye. I know him. This is General Andrew, a brigadier with the Fourth Regiment of Foot. Fact of the matter is, I killed him at Germantown.” He stared down at the man’s face and fell silent.
I looked up at the snow-covered gully and the trees looming above us. As I looked, I saw an astonishing sight. A man stood on a boulder about fifty yards down the gulch, clad in stylish clothing, all colored the deepest of black. He stood silently, watching us. He was of indeterminate age, and didn’t move. I spoke to my compatriots.
“I think, lads, that the gentleman over yonder is likely knowledgeable about the fate of our brigadier here.” Suddenly furious, I pointed at him with my saber and spoke, “We need him alive.”
I had scarce taken a step when the man moved. He merely raised a hand, his palm facing up. Near my feet a snowbank suddenly started to move, then sat up. The pale flesh and black eyes of another man became visible, this one wearing the tattered remains of a dark blue uniform coat. He struggled to his feet, showing the worn uniform of a Continental soldier. Beyond him, several other piles of snow were moving as well.
Over my left shoulder, I could hear Sergeant Armistead hiss, “Behind us, sir.”
Setting my feet in a firm stance, I spoke loudly, “Make ready your blades, gentlemen. There will be no quarter here.”
The thing in front of me screamed and charged. I sidestepped again and struck with my sword, then blocked a hand clawing at my face from my left. From then on it was a confusing melee, slashing and shouting. I ducked, blocked, and struck with whatever was readily available. My gloved free fist, the pommel of my saber, the flat edge of my blade. Time seemed to stand still as we fought for our lives. Indistinctly I could hear the short, sharp blasts of a whistle, blowing over and over.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I thanked God above that my sergeant was as cool and reliable as ever and was blasting on his signal whistle for help. Dispatching the creature in front of me with a short, sharp stab to the eye, I whirled in time to see Armistead burying his hunting knife into a creature’s chest. It screamed furiously in his face and lunged at him. Slashing at the back of the beast’s knees, I managed to wound it, allowing the big sergeant enough time to jerk his knife out and plunge it into the side of the beast’s head. As it fell on the ground, I spun again, only to see three more of the figures in tattered uniforms. I could hear the men behind me breathing heavily as they dispatched the last of the creatures with their knives and tomahawks.
In the distance the man in black stood, watching us calmly. More of the snowbanks began to stir, and more dead men stood. I raised my blade cautiously and spoke without removing my eyes from the figures now approaching us, “Armistead, check to the rear. We cannot win this fight.”
“Behind again, sir. More this time.” The man’s gruff voice was calm.
I took a breath and commanded, “Cut through them. I will hold these in front.” The snow was falling heavier now, and a slight wind made the flakes whip and dance. I raised my sword to the ready position just as the ghouls began to shriek and charge. I could hear faint shouting from behind me, then the familiar roar of musketry. Two of the figures dropped immediately, one with a hole in its head. It did not rise, but the other, struck in the chest, did.
A loud voice, which I recognized as Lieutenant Turley, bellowed, “Second rank: FIRE!” There came another roar, and more impacts on the creatures, slowing their charge. I ducked the outstretched arms of the first and slashed at the second when I heard another command bellowed from above us.
“Marines! CHARGE!” There then came a fearful yelling, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the fearsome and beautiful sight of the Marines—led by Lieutenant Turley, brandishing a bare saber—tilting down the hill, their bayonets fixed, coattails flying. In moments they were amongst us, plunging their bayonets into the creatures, which screamed with rage. A flash from my right caught my attention, and I threw myself back as a creature lunged at me, teeth bared. Stumbling and falling onto my back in the snow, I threw up my free arm to protect my face from the outstretched fingers. Suddenly the creature screamed and clutched at its chest, which sprouted a length of shining steel driven by the burly arms of a Marine sergeant.
Rolling out from under the beast, I scrambled to my feet and turned. The Marine was cursing horribly, trying to free his rifle from creature. With another burst of profanity, he dropped the rifle, reached into his coat, and drew a pistol, cocked it, and fired into the creature’s face from a distance of mere inches. The ball tore through the creature’s disfigured face, and the powder set what remained of its ruined visage alight. The remains slumped to the ground, twitching in a horrifying manner, and its head smouldering.
The Marine dropped the pistol and jerked the bayonet out of the body. Reaching out to me, he hauled me to my feet. Seeing no more beasts nearby, I turned just in time to see a creature leap onto a Marine who was struggling with another. It knocked him do
wn and was tearing into his neck with its teeth as he screamed. Two other Marines rushed up to defend their compatriot. One grabbed the beast’s hair and coat and pulled it bodily off, while the other used what appeared to be a small, spiked cudgel to strike it repeatedly in the head. The thing fell quickly under the blows.
Looking up, I could see the man in the distance, staring. The falling snow had picked up, but I could still make his features out. His face had a dark, twisted expression on it, an expression of demonic fury. I could see him starting to raise his hand again. Spying my long rifle in the snow nearby, where I had dropped it before the first thing had attacked, I snatched it up, cocked it, and took careful aim. With a brief prayer to the Almighty above that the powder was not wet from the snow, I squeezed the trigger. With a spray of sparks and a flash, I could see the man jerk as my bullet struck him. He looked down, touched his side, then looked up with a shocked face. The expression of shock suddenly turned to pure fury. He pointed at me and screamed something deep and guttural in no language I knew. The words made my blood freeze and chilled me unlike anything I’d ever encountered. There was a gust of windy snow temporarily obscuring the man, and when it passed, he was gone. I stared for a moment over the barrel of my rifle and was startled to feel a hand on me. Jerking away, I turned, rising my rifle to strike, then staying my hand as I saw the familiar face of my comrade, Lieutenant Turley.
He gently guided my hand down and said in a shaky voice, “I think that’s the last of them, sir.” He looked in the direction the man had vanished, and added, “I don’t know who that was, but I believe we should leave this place.”
Nodding, I lowered my rifle and turned. The Marines were prodding the bodies nearby, ensuring that the dead men were truly dead.
Spying Armistead kneeling over a body, I called to him, “Sergeant, tend to the men.”
The big soldier stood and gestured down, and replied softly, “Lewis, sir.”
I moved over to the body on the ground. The man’s eyes stared sightlessly into the snow-filled sky, his throat a bloody ruin. His blonde hair had already begun to collect tiny flakes of snow. I removed my handkerchief and gently draped it over the wound. I knelt, removed my tricorn and rested a hand on his chest, bowed my head, and prayed silently for his wife. Armistead and Haskins stood silently nearby. The Marines gathered respectfully a few steps back.