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Post by William Tucker on Jun 19, 2014 22:47:47 GMT
"Yes, sir", the Captain said after he received his orders. He didn't like them, but orders were orders. That was the first thing the British had taught him when he received his commission. He saluted the General, and left the building after which he moved to his tent. Here he gathered his musket, balls for it, and finally his saber. Then he strode out to meet his company. With all eighty men assembled in front of him, he spoke. "Gentlemen. We have received our orders. Our Company is to march south, and then to harass the enemy. What I mean to do is go around the Brits, and then to attack their baggage train, and deprive them of their much-needed supplies! Now get to it, we have quite a way to march in a short time. Dismissed"
He wasn't looking forward to the action, though. The British guarded their baggage trains well, but if they could be ambushed, the company might do it. He hoped, though, that if he did it right, he might earn a promotion. He wanted to advance. He had to advance. If only to spite his father, who was still in His Majesty's service. He didn't have much time to ponder on it, though, and he soon found himself marching through the forest. At one point, he called for an Ensign. "Send Private Munroe to the front, if you please"
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Post by Wyler Munroe on Jun 20, 2014 15:00:36 GMT
Wyler toted his heavy musket as he marched with the rest of the men. He didn't get it. He thought they were going to skirmish with the British but now they were mucking around in some forest, having left the rest of the army behind. He was no expert but to his way of thinking a woods was a really bad place to fight. Harder to form the necessary firing lines for volleying and given how inaccurate muskets were, he'd been told over and over again you had to fire en masse, the drill sergeant said, en masse. He believed that meant in a big bunch. Some frontiersmen had rifles which could fire at a longer range with a much better chance of hitting something but they were slow to load and took much more skill to use properly than the simpler musket. Though in truth Wyler had so far only fired a couple of practice shots since being drafted into the 2nd Massachusetts. If he could hit anything past thirty yards, it'd be a bloody miracle!
His glum thoughts were interrupted when an ensign approached.
"Munroe, Captain Tucker wants to see you!" the man snapped.
Wyler went wide eyed. What'd he do now? He couldn't think of anything he'd done that would warrant the commanding officer to be cross with him? But he nodded in compliance.
"Alright, coming!" the boy turned to look at the soldier to his left, an older man who smiled at him.
"Don't worry, lad, maybe they're gonna make you a general," the man chuckled.
Wyler had to grin back, "Bout time, huh!"
Wyler hustled up to the front of the company column, crunching on some branches on the ground as he did so. Course 80 men with military accoutrements did not move quietly thru a forest. Upon reaching the head of the column, there was the Captain. Wyler heard that this man had once been a British army officer. He wondered how the fellow felt about having to fight his one time comrades. Now Wyler didn't know any redcoats, didn't care to, and didn't mind fightin' em.
"Umm, I'm here...." he paused, wincing as he realized he should do this better, "Oh...,sir! Private Munroe reportin' as ordered." He wasn't sure he should salute or not so he didn't. |
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Post by Zachariah Sutton on Jun 20, 2014 20:05:37 GMT
Securing warehouses? That was it? Rye felt a knot of disappointment. He had been hoping for a battle, something fierce and bloody and exhilarating. He wanted to go bayonet to bayonet (or to no bayonet as the Rebels seemed averse to using them even if they had any). He wanted something exciting. But to secure a warehouse? That was guard duty. He was marching across New York to stand guard duty, possibly the most boring thing to do. Of course the Hessians would get to do a bit of fighting. The damn Hessians. He should have moved to Germany when he was sixteen and enlisted there instead of England. Those men fought.
The familiar hollow sound of hundreds of boots plodding across the wooden bridge echoed in his ears. At least they were nearly to Peekskill and nearly done with this. Rye was already thinking about the nap he would take just as soon as he had the chance or maybe he would find a tavern. It had been several hours since his last drink.
The bridge behind them, the hollow sound changed back into the crunching of the dirt underfoot. A thick, dense wall of trees lined one side of the road. A branch cracked loudly. Rye looked to the side and tried to penetrate the darkness. He looked back forward then quickly glanced back to the side. He could have sworn – out of the very corner of his eye – he had seen movement. There! Again! Something was moving in the trees. Several things.
”Sir!” He called out to his commanding officer, while pointing in the direction of the trees.
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General
Sept 3, 2014 18:24:55 GMT
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Post by William Howe on Jun 28, 2014 20:39:28 GMT
At the front of the line, Howe didn't even see the rebel guerillas until the ground exploded near his horse's hooves. From rooftops and behind trees, white smoke wafted skyward and the crack of musket fire drowned out the screams of wounded soldiers. Whoever fired at him wasn't delivering a warning shot. The inaccuracy of the shooter just saved the general's life. Another army might have routed in confusion, but this was a regiment of the British Army. Well disciplined and well trained. Officers up and down the line shouted orders from horseback as soldier loaded their muskets and awaited the order to fire.
Howe silently cursed the rebels for not fighting like true gentlemen. They hid behind trees and chimneys like cowards.
A lone rifleman knelt concealed by rooftops. He watched the scene far removed with the barrel of his rifle trained on his target. His first shot missed, but he swore his second would not. He bit his lip as his finger rested on the trigger. The general's dancing horse didn't make his job any easier, but the bright scarlet coat was easy to pick out in a crowd. The sniper swore under his breath at the constant movement. He felt safe as smoke obscured the regiment. His prey came back into view, saber raised and shouting orders. The trigger was pulled and set off a chain reaction the sharpshooter predicted would end in Howe's death.
As for luck, God either sided with the British or scorned the sniper. The bullet passed harmlessly between Howe and his horse. A moment sooner or later and the bullet would found its mark. The chestnut horse reared almost knocking its rider from the saddle. Another volley seemed to assault the regiment from all sides. Those who could fired their muskets in all directions. The English general had his doubts about the reliability of the German light infantry. Shouldn't the Hessians have cleared the way already? Howe gave the order to retreat to the river. His plan was to draw the rebels into the open where the trained British infantry would have the advantage. Howe wheeled his horse to lead the troops away from the trees and the waiting Patriot forces. Accuracy was not one of the Brown Bess' strong points.
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Post by Wyler Munroe on Jun 29, 2014 1:39:02 GMT
OOC: OK, now I am confused. Gen. Washington's post had him ordering the patriot army to withdraw and not give battle on this day. He did order Capt.Tucker to stay behind with one company to delay the British. And then in Capt. Tucker's post he was marching this lone company far on the British flank to try and get past the main body and strike the supply train.
So not sure what this fighting is that is now going on?
We probably need to decide if the writers of British chars can make decisions for rebels and move/fire rebels or if that should be the rebel writers to handle. Of course then the same would go for patriots writing for the Brits (and Hessians of course).
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Post by William Tucker on Jul 7, 2014 20:10:51 GMT
William kept marching, ever watchful for danger in the woods. It wasn't surprising that he was startles a little when the Ensign returned with Private Munroe. The Private lacked discipline, that was for sure. But then again, quite a few soldiers in the Continental army lacked this. Not surprising, since the majority of the men were not trained soldiers, like the battle-hardened British.
The Private didn't salute. While normally he would have punished the man, he would let it slip as they were marching. "Ah, private Munroe... The men seem to like you, and you can at least hit the broad side of a barn, unlike some of your comrades. For that reason, I am promoting you to the rank of Corporal. You will hold this rank until you die, or until I have found a someone better. Dismissed".
He didn't even look at the corporal while he said that. Instead he just kept on marching through the woods.
Several minutes later, they arrived at the place they needed to be at. William ordered the Company to turn west, and to engage the enemy as soon as they made contact. Then, after firing one or two volleys, to retreat again to reload and hopefully have the enemy chase them. And then to do it all again. By God, he hoped this would work.
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Post by Wyler Munroe on Jul 19, 2014 3:02:39 GMT
It seemed the Captain had heard about him, something which quite surprised the boy. So the men liked him? Well, that was pleasant enough news Wyler supposed but then the officer made his pronouncement. He was to a corporal as of immediately! What?
"I beg yer pardon, sir?" Wyler stammered, he did not know what all was required of a corporal. Why was this officer picking him, a seventeen year old lad with no education and a criminal record?
He was not given time to ask any questions though as the officer summarily dismissed him and kept marching forward. Wyler stood there for a moment in complete confusion as to what just happened? But then he shrugged and hastened back to his position in the ranks.
"What did he want?" the older soldier asked as Wyler fell in line on the march next to him.
"I'm a corporal now," Wyler looked mystified as he said so.
"Oh, really? Why?" the man didn't get it. There were men in the company who had served in the French and Indian War who would be more experienced in the ways of the military than this boy.
"I do not know. He said I'm to be a corporal until I die...or something like that," Wyler kept marching.
And finally they stopped. Apparently they were about to go into action now on the flank of the enemy. Wyler swallowed, his mouth dry.
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