A Fine Fox Chase
Jan. 14th, 2010 01:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: A Fine Fox Chase
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 14 January 2010
Summary: The Massachusetts Line fights at Princeton. January 1777. (A Strout and Leech adventure.)
Author's Note: No direct mention is made of the role played in this battle by Massachusetts regiments, so I am bending history the barest bit to give them one. The title is taken from a quote that George Washington reportedly made during the battle.
The strips of blanket wrapped around his feet were grossly inadequate substitutes for shoes, but Benjamin Strout was doing his best to ignore the pain of picking his way over the hard-frozen ground. No distinct sound could be heard, other than the rasp of heavy breathing and the occasional clink of a canteen. Orders had been given to make no noise or conversation, but the slight rattle of equipment was inevitable. In the heavy, clinging darkness, it was difficult to see more than an arm's length ahead. More than once Strout had knocked into the man in front of him or slipped on a hidden patch of ice. And yet he paid no mind to the constant harsh bite of agony in his feet and legs.
An officer rode past, his thin-flanked horse soundless with its muffled hooves, pausing to speak in inaudible tones with Captain Hill before trotting on. Were they near to Princeton, at last? They had been on the march for hours and it was getting close to dawn, judging by the faint lightening of the sky above them. Strout had no idea how great the distance was between Trenton and Princeton, and he had given up counting his paces after four miles, but it couldn't be far. Beneath his feet, the contour and feel of the ground changed. A road. Praise God, it was a road. Surely they must be close now!
Dawn slashed across the sky with pale-hued fingers of pink, bringing welcome light to the weary column of men. There was a stream tracing its way along close to the road, its frozen surface glinting with reflected the cheer of sunrise. Strout found himself longing for a swallow of water from his canteen. Unnecessary movement had been forbidden as well, however. He had to content himself with discreetly fishing a pebble from his pocket to slip into his mouth. It was not anything as refreshing as water, but sucking on it would at least keep his throat moist.
"How far?" Jack Leech whispered from beside him, risking a glance down at Strout.
Strout shrugged fractionally. "Dunno," he replied, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. "Not much longer."
This seemed to reassure Jack, who smiled happily. Strout hid a smile of his own. Jack Leech was a delightfully simple creature. Few of the cares and worries that plagued other men seemed to bother him, a state of being that Strout envied.
The column marched on, eventually altering direction to follow another road. Cannon fire echoed in the distance, enticing several men to mutter amongst themselves. Strout listened to the distant thump of fire and guessed it was their own artillery. That had to mean they would soon be formed to face the enemy. It would be nothing less than a disgrace to have marched all this way only to turn back. Or, worse, to be turned back.
There was musket fire now, the unmistakable crash of volleys. Strout caught himself feeling the edge of his flint and grinned foolishly at his own skittishness. It was a gesture born purely of habit, for his musket was in top order. Unlike the rest of his kit. Noticeable murmurs were coursing through the column now. The musketry appeared to be drawing closer. An officer thundered past on his horse, heading toward the very front of the column. Strout spat the pebble into his hand and tucked it safely away into his pocket again. It wouldn't do to accidentally swallow it.
Now, at last, there was the enemy. Three regiments, arrayed loosely opposite them. There were not so many of them, Strout thought. Their artillery notwithstanding. But of course General Cadwalader's militia would be in full flight away from them. Silly fools. Never could do a thing with militia, really. The Main Army, now... Strout remembered seeing Stirling's Marylanders successfully turn back repeated British attacks at Long Island. There was no comparisons to be made. The militia were simply never to be relied upon.
"Twenty-third!" Captain Hill cried, straining to be heard over the shouts of men and crackle of musketry. "Twenty-third will wheel into line!"
A grin lightened Strout's face as he and his comrades moved as snappily as they could to obey. Wheeling was, of course, difficult in the present terrain, but somehow the regiment got itself formed. The Twenty-first, on their left, was faster in wheeling, which simply could not be borne. Captain Hill, his sword in hand, watched a disorderly group of militiamen run across the field to the safety of the Continental line. Then he called out, "Twenty-third, first rank! Poise firelocks!"
His order was not given swiftly enough. The men had barely brought their muskets up to the Poise when the Twenty-first gave a volley. The challenge was too plain to be ignored. Captain Hill did not look at his counterpart only a few yards away as he cried, "Cock your locks! Take aim! Fire!"
The hissing snap of powder igniting in the pan and the leaping tongue of flame from his musket alongside the others made Benjamin Strout confident not only of a Continental victory, but also of his regiment's triumph in conduct over that of the Twenty-first. Two volleys to the Twenty-first's one. That was how proper soldiers handled their drill!
A cheer was rolling steadily through the line. The British were falling back toward Post Road. Strout checked his instinctive cheer. Somewhere over the din of muskets and artillery, the order was passed to fix bayonets. Many men lacked the long triangular blades, but their spirits were in full fire and, when none other than General Washington was seen riding close at the front of the pursuing Continentals. Captain Hill spurred his horse forward, crying, "After the beggars!"
His men advanced in a mostly-orderly rush, cheering at the tops of their voices. Strout, with Jack Leech following behind, stretched his legs out to keep as close in his rank as he could. The Twenty-first were too slow beginning their own advance. They would miss the chance to take part in the chase. Pack of useless laggards, them. It only proved what every man in the regiment knew. There was no regiment in the Massachusetts Line half as fine as the Twenty-third.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 14 January 2010
Summary: The Massachusetts Line fights at Princeton. January 1777. (A Strout and Leech adventure.)
Author's Note: No direct mention is made of the role played in this battle by Massachusetts regiments, so I am bending history the barest bit to give them one. The title is taken from a quote that George Washington reportedly made during the battle.
The strips of blanket wrapped around his feet were grossly inadequate substitutes for shoes, but Benjamin Strout was doing his best to ignore the pain of picking his way over the hard-frozen ground. No distinct sound could be heard, other than the rasp of heavy breathing and the occasional clink of a canteen. Orders had been given to make no noise or conversation, but the slight rattle of equipment was inevitable. In the heavy, clinging darkness, it was difficult to see more than an arm's length ahead. More than once Strout had knocked into the man in front of him or slipped on a hidden patch of ice. And yet he paid no mind to the constant harsh bite of agony in his feet and legs.
An officer rode past, his thin-flanked horse soundless with its muffled hooves, pausing to speak in inaudible tones with Captain Hill before trotting on. Were they near to Princeton, at last? They had been on the march for hours and it was getting close to dawn, judging by the faint lightening of the sky above them. Strout had no idea how great the distance was between Trenton and Princeton, and he had given up counting his paces after four miles, but it couldn't be far. Beneath his feet, the contour and feel of the ground changed. A road. Praise God, it was a road. Surely they must be close now!
Dawn slashed across the sky with pale-hued fingers of pink, bringing welcome light to the weary column of men. There was a stream tracing its way along close to the road, its frozen surface glinting with reflected the cheer of sunrise. Strout found himself longing for a swallow of water from his canteen. Unnecessary movement had been forbidden as well, however. He had to content himself with discreetly fishing a pebble from his pocket to slip into his mouth. It was not anything as refreshing as water, but sucking on it would at least keep his throat moist.
"How far?" Jack Leech whispered from beside him, risking a glance down at Strout.
Strout shrugged fractionally. "Dunno," he replied, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. "Not much longer."
This seemed to reassure Jack, who smiled happily. Strout hid a smile of his own. Jack Leech was a delightfully simple creature. Few of the cares and worries that plagued other men seemed to bother him, a state of being that Strout envied.
The column marched on, eventually altering direction to follow another road. Cannon fire echoed in the distance, enticing several men to mutter amongst themselves. Strout listened to the distant thump of fire and guessed it was their own artillery. That had to mean they would soon be formed to face the enemy. It would be nothing less than a disgrace to have marched all this way only to turn back. Or, worse, to be turned back.
There was musket fire now, the unmistakable crash of volleys. Strout caught himself feeling the edge of his flint and grinned foolishly at his own skittishness. It was a gesture born purely of habit, for his musket was in top order. Unlike the rest of his kit. Noticeable murmurs were coursing through the column now. The musketry appeared to be drawing closer. An officer thundered past on his horse, heading toward the very front of the column. Strout spat the pebble into his hand and tucked it safely away into his pocket again. It wouldn't do to accidentally swallow it.
Now, at last, there was the enemy. Three regiments, arrayed loosely opposite them. There were not so many of them, Strout thought. Their artillery notwithstanding. But of course General Cadwalader's militia would be in full flight away from them. Silly fools. Never could do a thing with militia, really. The Main Army, now... Strout remembered seeing Stirling's Marylanders successfully turn back repeated British attacks at Long Island. There was no comparisons to be made. The militia were simply never to be relied upon.
"Twenty-third!" Captain Hill cried, straining to be heard over the shouts of men and crackle of musketry. "Twenty-third will wheel into line!"
A grin lightened Strout's face as he and his comrades moved as snappily as they could to obey. Wheeling was, of course, difficult in the present terrain, but somehow the regiment got itself formed. The Twenty-first, on their left, was faster in wheeling, which simply could not be borne. Captain Hill, his sword in hand, watched a disorderly group of militiamen run across the field to the safety of the Continental line. Then he called out, "Twenty-third, first rank! Poise firelocks!"
His order was not given swiftly enough. The men had barely brought their muskets up to the Poise when the Twenty-first gave a volley. The challenge was too plain to be ignored. Captain Hill did not look at his counterpart only a few yards away as he cried, "Cock your locks! Take aim! Fire!"
The hissing snap of powder igniting in the pan and the leaping tongue of flame from his musket alongside the others made Benjamin Strout confident not only of a Continental victory, but also of his regiment's triumph in conduct over that of the Twenty-first. Two volleys to the Twenty-first's one. That was how proper soldiers handled their drill!
A cheer was rolling steadily through the line. The British were falling back toward Post Road. Strout checked his instinctive cheer. Somewhere over the din of muskets and artillery, the order was passed to fix bayonets. Many men lacked the long triangular blades, but their spirits were in full fire and, when none other than General Washington was seen riding close at the front of the pursuing Continentals. Captain Hill spurred his horse forward, crying, "After the beggars!"
His men advanced in a mostly-orderly rush, cheering at the tops of their voices. Strout, with Jack Leech following behind, stretched his legs out to keep as close in his rank as he could. The Twenty-first were too slow beginning their own advance. They would miss the chance to take part in the chase. Pack of useless laggards, them. It only proved what every man in the regiment knew. There was no regiment in the Massachusetts Line half as fine as the Twenty-third.