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Jan 16, 2015 23:50:21 GMT
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Post by Voltaire on Jul 7, 2014 15:05:50 GMT
Battle of Chelsea Creek
Geography:
salt marshes, mudflats, and small islands of Boston Harbor, northeast of the Boston peninsula.
Weather:
Incredibly hot, muggy day with a high humidity and without a breath of wind
Map:
Background:
While the British forces in Boston were under siege and Colonial militia blocked on land access to the peninsula, the harbor to Boston remained under British control. They were still able to sail in supplies from Nova Scotia. Farmers to the east of the city, soon found themselves in a bad situation. If they supplied to the British then they would be viewed as Loyalists. If they did not, then the British would declare them Rebels and simply take what they wanted.
The Massachusetts Committee of Safety issued the following order:
Continental forces were ordered to proceed to Hog's Island to remove the livestock, kill the animals they could not remove, and set fire to haystacks and barns. British forces (including ships sailing up the Creek), spotted the smoke, signaled to land on the Island where they engaged Continental Forces.
Rules: - This thread will be open for two, real-life weeks.
- Things in battle happen rather quickly … as such, there will be no posting order. We only ask that you be courteous and give others a chance to post.
- Please pay attention to what is happening around you and react appropriately.
- Follow orders or do the otherwise to your own peril (ie. Be willing to accept consequences for disobeying).
- Feel free to have your character wounded or captured. Either discuss via PM with a character from another side or RP it with NPCs.
- This is open to ALL military characters (including sailors – there were ships present and they did fire upon the island) and anyone who may be present. If your unit is primarily in the South, you may still have your character present for the sake of the Event.
Any questions, feel free to send me a PM. |
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Post by Christopher Caswell on Jul 7, 2014 15:56:50 GMT
Kit struck his flint and watched the thirsty haystack go up in flames. A tower of dark smoke curled tall into the sky. The wall of heat hit him at the same moment, sending him staggering back a few steps. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing soot and dirt. It was unbelievably hot. The heavy hair lay upon him, drenching his shirt in sweat. His jacket had been taken off long before. None of the officers would complain about such a thing. A few had already removed their jackets as well. It was just too hot.
"How long until they know what we're on about?" His companion asked him with a glance over towards the harbor.
He shrugged but followed his companion's gaze. Boston looked sleepy and still. A few tall ships in the harbor remained motionless. "Can't be too long. Probably be fighting before long." He moved to the next haystack and set it up in flames. "In this heat it'd be suicide though." He cast another look. One of the ships had started moving up Chelsea Creek. He cursed and looked to an officer for orders. They had been seen. There would be fighting soon.
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Post by Zachariah Sutton on Jul 7, 2014 20:26:35 GMT
The orders came before he had seen the smoke with his own eyes. Rye wasn't surprised. The Rebels, while incompetent and entirely over their heads - were not idiots. A siege was entirely useless if the besieged were still able to get food and supplies. Sooner or later someone was bound to try to gain access to the harbor.
He shielded his eyes as he looked at the columns of smoke. Maybe not the harbor. It looked as though the Rebels were burning things. He laughed. Of course, they could not compete with the might of the Royal Navy so they did the next best thing ... destroyed all foodstuff and supplies. He couldn't help but wonder if they intended to set fire to the entire country.
Rye joined his fellow soldiers as they disembarked from the transport ship that had been carrying them. He checked over his musket for signs of ware and made certain his ammunition was readily placed and in good order. He had sharpened his bayonet the night before and now he affixed it to the end of his musket. Just as soon as they landed, Rye was prepared to fight.
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General
Sept 3, 2014 18:24:55 GMT
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Post by William Howe on Jul 9, 2014 12:32:11 GMT
General Howe counted himself among the first to land on Hogg Island. His objective was clear: kill the rebels. In a smooth motion, he swung himself onto his bay gelding and began issuing orders to his subordinate officers. The trill of the drum sprang to life as Howe marched his troops towards the rising smoke. A row of trees obscured the colonial forces, but most of the island was farmland. If the rebels were burning fields and barns, then there was no place to hide. British ships were sailing up the Essex River and Chelsea Creek under orders to cut off the rebels and engage if necessary.
It was mostly an upward climb, but Howe had no reservations about pushing his troops just a little harder. They were in no danger as the rebels would hopefully be stranded on the island by the Royal Navy, but Howe wanted to end the battle quickly. Muskets were primed and loaded and bayonets gleamed in the sunlight.
Near one of the farms, Howe could see a small band of rebels carrying torches and preparing to set fire to the barn. He waited until the first of his troops were within a hundred yards of the barn and gave the order to fire at will. The snare of the drum changed, and Howe galloped his horse to stay out of the line of fire. Parts of the barn were already ablaze, but Howe meant for this to be the last barn that rebel band burned.
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Post by Ronald Norris on Jul 10, 2014 1:15:10 GMT
The rebels had already begun burning the fields and barns, Ron watched the carnage being created as the Continentals marched through like a plague of locusts through the lens of his brass spyglass, something his father had given him for his tenth birthday, "They're killing everything off," he muttered lowering the spyglass, a mild look of distress fading his usually beaming face, "How will they be able to harvest anything? They're starving themselves. They're killing themselves off faster than we can-- bloody awful shame, that is!" He adjusted his grip on the colours and marched into the smoky field. He stood in line next to the musicians, all young fellows his age, the colours blew in the slight breeze the weather had allotted the now sweaty and wool clad soldiers on the field , but the relief was short lived when the command was given to march up the hill. The blazing sun made the mitre caps on the grenadiers gleam and the bayonets on everyone's muskets shine a blinding light upon the rabble; hopefully they would be terrified and run away from the British army and its magnificence so no one would have to waste gunpowder.
The troops finally marched up within one hundred yards, Ron couldn't help but jump when he heard the sergeant bark the orders to make ready. He lifted the flag, as per order, heard the command to present, then lowered the colours when given the command to fire. The volley the fourth gave off was perfectly in synch-- not one misfire! Ron's heart swelled with pride for his regiment and his cause as the soldiers went back to priming and loading.
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Post by Wyler Munroe on Jul 10, 2014 16:49:01 GMT
Wyler was one of the men of the light company, told off to be skirmishers in the event of action. Wyler knew it would be coming too. The British were not simply going to let the patriots burn everything without trying to stop it and that would mean a fight. He stood there with some of the other men watching another detachment of patriots swarming thru the farmland and setting anything that would burn alight. The boy couldn't help but feel sorry for those poor farmers who had worked so ong and hard to build up their places and raise their crops and now - to lose it all like this. He didn't know much about the stuff generals worried about like strategy and such but far as he could figure this wasn't going to make the patriot cause very popular with these farmers. All the locals really.
A man came running toward them even as he did they all heard the rattatat of approaching drums. The man screamed it over and over again but he didn't need to. The British had landed and coming after them. One of the other light company men reached into his knapsack, pulled out a thick squat black book and kissed it before replacing it once more.
"The good book, lad," he nodded solemnly to Wyler then hefted up his musket. The company sergeant was directing them to spread out and prepare to skirmish. Wyler unslung his own musket and obeyed with alacrity. Up ahead they could see the British now, solid rows of red uniformed soldiers, a frightening sight indeed. As he stopped in his tracks, he watched the British line level muskets right toward them.
"Sonofa...." Wyler dove to the ground just as the initial massive volley exploded, musket balls zinging like angry bees over him as he lay prone.
Getting back up to his feet, he cocked his musket, aimed at the redcoat mass, and fired. His weapon belched smoke as it fired. Whether he hit anyone or anything Wyler had no idea. Nearby another skirmisher knelt to aim, fired, then got up to fall back. Wyler did the same, retreating some distance until there was a tree. He ducked behind the heavy trunk and began the reloading process. His mouth was dry, his heart pounded in his chest. Sweat poured down his face, it was hotter than Hades. |
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Post by George Washington on Jul 10, 2014 18:08:35 GMT
He had watched from a little ways off while his men set to work. It was not a pleasant business and if it could have been avoided, he would have done so. But there was no avoiding it. If the Massachusetts Committee of Safety had not sent the order when they did, Washington was already thinking of ways to remedy the situation. It was terrible for those farmers but a surprisingly few voiced any concerns about it. It was fairly clear to most involved that they were going to lose their crops and livestock regardless. The choice was to let it end in the hands of the British (thereby enabling the siege ineffective) or for the Continentals to take what they could and destroy the rest.
Washington leaned down and stroked his horse's neck. Nelson was a fine sorrel charger, the best he had, and certainly the calmest under the sounds of battle. The horse nickered in return.
One of his aides came running up, out of breath and red-faced. Sir, he began, struggling to compose himself after his exertions. They've landed.
That was all he needed to hear. He had been expecting the Redcoats to land any moment. It would have been too much to hope that the smoke and news would remain hidden to their eyes. He spurred his horse and rode down into the midst of his men. There was already a line of skirmishers standing by to slow down the enemy. He could hear the pop, pop, pop of musket fire. Howe was not wasting time.
He would not waste time either. Most of their task being already done, Washington gave the order to the rest of his men to form ranks and prepare to fire.
He looked around at the men he had. They were outnumbered but should Brigadier General Howard's men arrived from the south in time, they may still win the day.
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Post by William Tucker on Jul 10, 2014 18:35:57 GMT
Captain Tucker had marched again. Never a moment in the same place. 't was the soldier's life, though, and William had gotten used to it after several years. With his musket in his hand, his pistol on his hip, and a sabre on the other hip. His eighty men were following him closely, like he was following the rest of the Second Massachusetts Line.
They were back in his homestate, and because of that, the regiment had elected to take point. They arrived at their designated spot, and formed a skirmish line to hold off the landing British troops. William aimed his musket, and on his command, the company fired a volley at the redcoats.
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General
Sept 3, 2014 18:24:55 GMT
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Post by William Howe on Jul 10, 2014 23:50:14 GMT
A few soldiers fell to the ground as the first volleys from the Continental troops reached their target. Like the true disciplined soldiers they were, the British heavy infantry continued their slow advance up the hill stepping over the bodies of their fallen companions. As was often the case in musket warfare, deaths were neither clean nor pretty. The sight of dying men could make anyone's stomach churn in sympathetic agony. The troops approached another thicket of trees. The first line fired their muskets and fell to their knees to reload and giving the second line a clear shot.
Smoke obscured the redcoats as volley after volley ricocheted into the trees. Howe raised his saber, and light glinted off the metallic surface. Far off, the general could hear the sound of cannons booming across the water. It was too hard to see what was going on around the island, but he prayed to God that the Royal Navy would be be able to hold them off.
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Post by Timothy Howard on Jul 11, 2014 3:45:26 GMT
General Howard had known that marching anywhere near the coast was a good way to get his brigade quickly routed. The veteran of Louisbourg knew just how effective the Royal Navy's guns could be, so in planning the route up to Massachusetts (after missing he festivities in New York) the Southern Brigade had to march inland before they could march east towards Noddles Island. From where he was standing, roughly a mile north west of the island, he could see the plumes of smoke rising up from the island, along with the sound of cannon and musket fire filling the air. Worse, the white masts of gunboats of the Royal Navy were patrolling up and down the river, preventing what should have been an easy river crossing.
Looking behind him, he took a quick summary of his forces. With the Royal Navy controlling the water, the roughly 3000 infantry and 350 cavalry were stranded on the mainland, away from the battle. Or were they? General Howard had something the redcoats likely doubted the rebels like hi even had. Artillery. And a good amount of it too. Twelve six-pound guns (which, against larger ships, were useless, but could at least harass gunboats), seven twelve-pound guns, and four twenty-four-pound guns that COULD punch holes in some hulls. Realizing this, he then proceeded to get his artillery positions onto a small ridgeline near the river. The Royal Navy, clearly seeing what he was doing, was beginning to fire upon the Southern Brigade. Keeping the bulk of his forces behind the hill General Howard dismounted his horse and personally lead the setting up of the cannons as hot lead continued to whizz overhead. The ships had to be at least driven away from the river crossing, and kept away for the remainder of the battle.
With most the guns set and sighted in, General Howard drew his blade and shouted. "Artillery! By my command! From the left to the right! Two second intervals!" His three battery commanders echoed the order. At the dropping of the General's sword, the first 24 pounder opened up, followed by the cannon, and the next, on and on down the line until 17 plumes of smoke rolled down the ridgeline towards the water. "Commanders! Take charge of your batteries and maintain fire!" Turning and riding down to his men, he quickly arranged his troops. The Georgia Line would remain with the artillery, acting as reserve, while the rest marched down to the two bridges, hoping they could reach the continentals in time.
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Post by Gideon Warnes on Jul 14, 2014 18:38:11 GMT
Army life had been a hundred times worse than anything he could have ever imagined. The marches were long and uncomfortable. The food was awful and in short supply. Gideon hadn't even had a full night's sleep since before he enlisted. And then there was the fighting. As yet, there had only been a few small skirmishes. But as they were terrible in themselves, he was dreading a full out battle.
It was his hope that the war would end long before that happened. The Patriots couldn't hold out much longer. Every morning he prayed that Washington would surrender so he could return home. But Washington would not surrender. He continued to fight. And Gideon continued to be a soldier.
His first large battle came all too soon. It was at the end of a long, hard march north. The site of smoke rising in the distance started his heart beating fast. The crashing booms of cannons and the rattatat of musket fire echoed in the distance. He would never be used to that sound. The artillery were set to firing on the ships in the harbor. But before he could spend a single glance watching their skilled movements, he and the rest of the infantry were ordered to march down to the bridges.
Gideon hardly dared breathe as the sounds of battle grew louder and closer. As they reached the bridge, the young man beside him let out a shriek. He threw down his musket and turned and ran. Gideon looked back at him jealously. The young man had just enlisted and clearly didn't know what he was getting himself into. But, jealous though he might be, Gideon wouldn't join him. He knew the consequences of cowardice and desertion and they were far worse than any enemy musket.
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Redcoat
Mar 28, 2015 13:41:31 GMT
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Post by Danny McPherson on Jul 15, 2014 17:28:27 GMT
Despite the lack of experience in her new position as Ensign, Danny had been sent along with the troop ship to Noddle Island, perhaps it was another attempt by her Captain to get rid of her. The man had been after her blood ever since she had first won her commission. She disembarked the ship with a swarm of guard marines, clutching tight to her musket and the map that had been given her by Gage before departure. She liked the man as a Governor, he had the skill for controlling a city, but as a General, he was surpassed by Howe in every way. Gage had ordered Danny to stick to Howe like sap, but a messenger and scout could do none of his duties if he was ordered to stay in one place. Danny planned on making herself a bit more useful than that.
Removing her hat to wipe the already forming sweat from her brow, she approached the General on his horse and slung her musket over and across her back. "Sir!" She cried up to him over the din of musket fire "Permission to scout out where the rebels are heading? I have a map from Governor Gage!"
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Post by Ronald Norris on Jul 15, 2014 20:09:25 GMT
Was this it? Was this what he wanted? Was this carnage and death all that he had dreamed of from the moment he could walk or speak? He heard the rebel volley as musket balls screamed past his head or landed in the chests of men before him creating little scarlet blooms on their filthy, black powder stained waistcoats; their cries of agony echoed in his head creating visions he would never forget any time soon. He let out a screech when one of the fallen men turned around and landed at his feet, the blood from a shot between the eyes landed on his spotless uniform. He backed up, his heartbeat was ringing in his ears like cannon fire; was this what he had been searching for all his life? He saw in an instant the life leaving a man he had never met, and yet his heart broke. This man could have had a family, a wife, children, a mother and father just like his. What would his family feel once they found out their father wouldn't come home? Ron choked back tears, he could feel his limbs shaking like branches in a storm, his stomach churned like a ship in a hurricane and when he finally couldn't handle it, he turned and vomited careful to make sure General Howe didn't see. He was so embarrassed and ashamed of himself; in the face of battle, he vomited like a coward. He wanted to find a corner to hide himself, but there was no time to think as the army marched forth as though nothing happened so he put his best brave face on and carried on.
He took a moment to look beside him to see another young ensign with the same pale expression. The boy couldn't have been much older than he was and yet the boy was brave enough to go up to the general to ask for scouting. He wanted to ask the boy if he was all right, so he wiped the sick from his mouth before draining the rest of his canteen but before he could say anything, the regiments were marching forward. His attention returned to the battle when the sergeant barked his orders to the oddly silent soldiers; he hoisted the colours and marched forward trying to emulate the stoic officers around him, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. He had to carry on, he absolutely had to, he didn't want to make this situation even worse than he already had; he could feel his face burning red with shame as he made sure not to make eye contact with anyone.
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Post by Zachariah Sutton on Jul 16, 2014 4:20:50 GMT
Aside from the unmoving air and the stifling heat, he was almost enjoying himself. Rye was in his element. The smell of powder, the weight of his musket in his hands, the screams and shouts ... it was his life. He grinned as he raised his musket and took aim at a blue coat. He fired. "Damn it," he mumbled. He had missed. Rye stepped to the side to reload. As he rammed the last bit of cartridge down the barrel, he spotted a young Ensign getting sick. It brought back all too many memories of when he had first enlisted ten years earlier. He made a mental note to let that Ensign in on his little trick to getting through a war - the secret little flask hiding in his cartridge box.
The men in the front line darted forward suddenly. They had, at last, reached the Continentals. Rye laughed. This was more his style. He darted forward and raised his musket. A man - fired at from point blank range - went down in a crumpled heap. Another was brought to his knees from a blow to the head with the butt of his musket. A third found himself impaled on his bayonet. But as Rye jerked it out of the man's rib cage, his foot caught on a body and sent him tumbling to the ground.
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Post by Wyler Munroe on Jul 16, 2014 15:37:30 GMT
Wyler and the other skirmishers fell back on their Massachusetts regiment as the British relentlessly closed in. The rebels had more firepower this way but the drawback was they were a more compact target too. Of course the solid British lines made for a fine target but then those folks were used to it, it was said they were the best professional army in the world. Wyler saw them proudly coming on and believed it.
Leveling his musket, he fired again. There was so much smoke hanging in the air, it was difficult to see if he even hit anyone. Then right next to him one man yipped. Wyler turned to see the fellow had dropped his musket, grabbed for his leg then turned to run....well, more like limp away...away from that fearsome red sea getting closer and closer thru the blackpowder haze. Wyler hurried to load once more, he was so nervous his hand was shaking enough it was hard to jam the ramrod down the musket barrel.
Just then it happened, the one thing the colonials feared more than even musket or cannonball, the British line charged, bayonets leveled. It was hard enough to stand one's place and worry about a lead ball smacking into you but the mere thought of those long gleaming bayonets and what they were meant to do to a man. Regardless of what the officers or sergeants wanted, the rebel soldiery broke and ran. Most colonials did not even own a bayonet even if they were battle crazed enough to want to cross steel with all those redcoats.
Wyler was no hero, he saw the lobsterbacks coming and he spun about and ran for it too. Behind he heard a blood curdling scream as some poor bastard on the ground no doubt got bayonetted. Live and fight another day, that was his plan, such as it was. Not that there was a lot of thought to this plan, he was just running as fast as he could. |
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