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“Long Island” (William)

Copyright 2009 Diana Gabaldon

On July 4th, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philadelphia.

On July 24th, Lieutenant General Sir William Howe arrived on Staten Island, where he set up field headquarters at the Rose and Crown Tavern in New Dorp.

On August 13th, Lieutenant General George Washington arrived in New York to reinforce the fortifications of the city, which the Americans held.

On August 21st, William Ransom, Lieutenant Lord Ellesmere, arrived at the Rose and Crown in New Dorp, reporting–somewhat late–for duty as the newest and most junior member of General Howe’s staff.

On August 22nd…


Lieutenant Edward Markham, Marquis of Clarewell, peered searchingly into William’s face, offering him an unappetizingly close view of a juicy pimple–just ready to burst–on the former’s forehead.

“You all right, Ellesmere?”

“Fine.”  William managed the word between clenched teeth.

“Only, you look rather…green.”  Clarewell, looking concerned, reached into his pocket.  “Want a suck of my pickle?”

William just about made it to the rail in time.  There was a certain amount of jocularity going on behind him, regarding Clarewell’s pickle, who might suck it, and how much its owner would be obliged to pay for said service.  This, interspersed with Clarewell’s protestations that his aged grandmother swore by a sour pickle for the prevention of sea-sickness, and plainly it worked, for look at him, solid as a rock…

William blinked watering eyes and fixed his vision on the approaching shore.  The water wasn’t particularly rough, though the weather was brewing, no doubt about it.  It didn’t matter, though; even the gentlest of up-and-down motions on water, the briefest of journeys, and his stomach promptly tried to turn itself inside out.  Every damned time!

It was still trying, but as there was nothing left in it, he could pretend it wasn’t.  He wiped his mouth, feeling clammy despite the heat of the day, and straightened his shoulders.

They would drop anchor any minute; time he was going below and badgering the companies under his command into some kind of order before they went into the boats.  He risked a brief glance over the rail, and saw the River and the Phoenix just astern.   The Phoenix was Admiral Howe’s flagship, and his brother the general was aboard.  Would they have to wait, bobbing like corks on the increasingly choppy waves, until General Howe and Captain Pickering, his aide-de-camp, got ashore?  God, he hoped not.

In the event, the men were allowed to disembark at once.  “With ALL POSSIBLE SPEED, gennelmun!” Sergeant Cutter informed them at the top of his voice.  “We’re going to catch the rebel whoresons on the ‘op, so we are!  And WOE BETIDE any man what I see lollygaggin’!  YOU, there..!”   He strode off, determined as a plug of black tobacco, to apply the spurs to a delinquent second lieutenant, leaving William feeling somewhat better.  Surely nothing truly terrible could happen in a world containing Sergeant Cutter.

He followed his men down the ladder and into the boats, forgetting his stomach entirely in the rush of excitement.  His first real battle was waiting to be fought, somewhere on the plains of Long Island.


Eight-eight frigates.  That’s what he’d heard Admiral Howe had brought, and he didn’t doubt it.  A forest of sails filled Gravesend Bay, and the water was choked with small boats, ferrying troops ashore.  William was half-choked himself, with anticipation.  He could feel it gathering among the men, as the corporals collected their companies from the boats and marched off in good order, making room for the next wave of arrivals.

The officers’ horses were being swum ashore, rather than rowed, the distance not being great.  William ducked aside as one big bay surged up out of the surf nearby and shook himself in a shower of salt spray that drenched everyone within ten feet.  The stable-lad clinging to his bridle looked like a drowned rat, but shook himself off likewise and grinned at William, his face blanched with cold, but vivid with excitement.

William had a horse, too–somewhere.  Captain Griswold, a senior member of Howe’s staff, was lending him a mount, there having been no time to organize anything else.  He supposed whoever was minding the horse would find him, though he didn’t see how.

Organized confusion reigned.  The shore here was a tidal flat, and coveys of red coats swarmed amongst the sea-wrack like flocks of shore-birds, the bellowing of sergeants a counterpoint to the shrieking of gulls overhead.

With some difficulty, as he’d been introduced to the corporals only that morning and did not have their faces firmly fixed in memory yet, William located his four companies and marched them up the shore into sand dunes thick with some sort of wiry grass.  It was a hot day, sweltering in heavy uniform and full equipment, and he let the men take their ease, drink water or beer from their canteens, eat a bit of cheese and biscuit. They’d be on the move soon.

Where?  That was the question preying on his mind at the moment.  A hasty staff meeting the night before–his first–had reiterated the basics of the invasion plan.  From Gravesend Bay, half the army would march inland, turning north toward the Brooklyn Heights, where the rebel forces were thought to be entrenched.  The remainder of the troops would spread outward along the eastern shore to Montauk, forming a line of defense that could move inward across Long Island, forcing the rebels back into a net, if necessary.

William wanted, with an intensity that knotted his spine, to be in the vanguard, attacking.  Realistically, he knew it wasn’t likely.  He was completely unfamiliar with his troops, and not impressed with their looks.  No sensible commander would put such companies in the front line…unless to serve as cannon fodder.  That thought gave him pause for a moment, but only a moment.

Howe wasn’t a waster of men; he was known to be cautious, sometimes to a fault.  His father had told him that.  Lord John hadn’t mentioned that that consideration was the major reason for his consent to William’s joining Howe’s staff, but William knew it anyway.  He didn’t care; he’d calculated that his chances of seeing significant action were still a great deal better with Howe than fiddling about in the North Carolina swamps with Sir Peter Packer.

And after all…he turned slowly, side to side.  The sea was a mass of British ships, the land before him crawling with soldiers.  He would never have admitted aloud to being impressed by the sight–but his stock was tight across his throat.  He realized he was holding his breath and consciously let it go.

The artillery was coming ashore, floating perilously on flat-bottomed barges, manned by swearing soldiers.  The limbers, the caissons, and the draft horses and oxen needed to drag them, were splashing up the beach in a thrashing, sand-spattered herd, neighing and lowing in protest, having come ashore further south.  It was the biggest army he had ever seen.

“Sir, sir!”  He looked down, to see a short private soldier, perhaps no older than William himself, plump-cheeked and anxious.


“Your spontoon, sir.  And your horse has come,” the private added, gesturing at the rangy light bay gelding whose reins he held.  “Captain Griswold’s compliments, sir.”

William took the spontoon, seven feet long, its burnished steel head gleaming dully, even under the clouded sky, and felt the weight of it thrill through his arm.

“Thank you.  And you are…?”

“Oh.  Perkins, sir.”  The private hastily knuckled his brow in salute.  “Third company, sir, the Hackers they call us.”

“Do they?  Well, we will hope to give you plenty of opportunity to justify your name.”

Perkins looked blank.

“Thank you, Perkins,” William said, gesturing the private off.

He took the bridle of the horse, joy rising in his heart.  It was the biggest army he’d ever seen.  And he was part of it.


He was luckier than he’d thought he might be, if not as lucky as he’d hoped.  His companies were to be in the second wave, following up the vanguard of foot, guarding the artillery.  Not a guarantee of action, but a good chance nonetheless, if the Americans were half the fighters they were reputed to be.

It was past noon before he lifted his spontoon into the air and shouted, “Forward, march!”  The brewing weather had broken in a spattering rain, a welcome relief from the heat.

Beyond the shore, a fringe of woods gave way to a broad and beautiful plain.  Waving grasses lay before them, flecked with wild flowers, the colors rich in the dim, rainy light.   Far ahead, he could see flights of birds–doves? quail?–too far to see–rising into the air despite the rain, as the marching soldiers drove them from their cover.

His own companies marched close to the center of the advancing line, snaking in orderly columns behind him, and he directed a grateful thought toward General Howe.  As a junior staff officer, he should be rights have been delegated to messenger duty, scampering to and fro among the companies on the field, relaying orders from Howe’s headquarters, carrying information to and from the two other generals, Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis.

Given his late arrival, though, he knew none of the other officers or the army’s disposition; he was completely ignorant of who was whom, let alone where they should be at any moment.   He would be useless as a messenger.   General Howe, somehow finding a moment in the bustle of the oncoming invasion, had not only welcomed him with great courtesy, but had offered him the choice:  accompany Captain Griswold, serving in such manner as the Captain might direct–or take command of a few companies orphaned of their own lieutenant, who had fallen ill of the ague.

He had jumped at the chance, and now sat proud in his saddle, his spontoon resting in its loop, leading men to war.  He shifted a little, enjoying the feel of the new red-wool coat on his shoulders, the orderly club of the queued pigtail on his neck, the stiff leather stock about his throat, and the small weight of his officer’s gorget, that tiny silver remnant of Roman armor.  He’d not worn uniform for nearly two months, and rain-damp or not, felt its resumption to be a glorious apotheosis.

A company of light horse traveled near them; he heard the shout of their officer and saw them draw ahead and turn toward a distant copse of wood.  Had they seen something?

No.  A tremendous cloud of blackbirds exploded from the copse, in a chatter so great that many of the horses shied and spooked.  The horse-soldiers foraged about, weaving through the trees with sabers drawn, slashing at branches, but just for show.  If anyone had been hiding there, they had gone, and the light horse rode back to rejoin the advance, cat-calling each other.

He relaxed back into his saddle, releasing his grip on the spontoon.

No Americans in sight–but they wouldn’t be.  He’d seen and heard enough in his intelligencing to know that only real Continentals were likely to fight in an organized fashion.  He’d seen militia drilling in village squares, shared food with men who belonged to such militias.  None of them were soldiers–seen in groups drilling, they were laughable, barely able to march in a line, let alone in step–but nearly all were skilled hunters, and he’d seen too many of them shoot wild geese and turkey on the fly to share the common contempt of most British soldiers.

No, if there were Americans near by, the first warning of it was likely to be men falling dead.  He signaled to Perkins, had him convey orders to the corporals, to keep the men alert, weapons loaded and primed.  He saw one corporal’s shoulders stiffen at receipt of this message, which he plainly considered an insult–but the man did it, nonetheless, and William’s sense of tension eased a bit.

His thoughts returned to his recent journey, and he wondered when–and where–he might meet with Captain Richardson, to turn over the results of his intelligencing?

He had committed most of his observations to memory while on the road, writing down only what he must, and that coded in a small copy of the New Testament that his grandmother had given him.  It was still in the pocket of his civilian coat, back on Staten Island.  Now that he was safely returned to the bosom of the army, perhaps he ought to write up his observations, in proper reports?  He could…

Something raised him in his stirrups, just in time to catch the flash and crack of musket-fire from the woods on the left.

“Hold!” he shouted, seeing his men start to lower their weapons.  “Wait!”

It was too far, and there was another column of infantry, closer to the wood.  These swung into firing order and loosed a volley into the woods; the first rank knelt and the second fired over their heads.  Return fire came from the wood; he saw one or two men  fall, others stagger, but the line pulled together.

Another two volleys, the sparks of returning fire, but more sporadic–from the corner of his eye, he saw movement and whirled in his saddle, to see a gang of woodsmen in hunting shirts running from the far side of the copse.

The company in front of him saw them, too.  A shout from their sergeant, and they fixed bayonets and ran, though it was plain to William that they’d never catch the fleeing woodsmen.

This sort of random skirmishing kept up all afternoon, as the army pressed on.   The fallen were picked up and carried to the rear, but they were few.  One of William’s companies was fired upon at one point, and he felt godlike, as he gave the order to attack and they poured into the wood like a stream of angry hornets, bayonets fixed, managing to kill one rebel, whose body they dragged out onto the plain.  The corporal suggested hanging it from a tree as discouragement to the rebels, but William firmly declined this suggestion as not civilized and made them lay the man at the edge of the wood, where he could be found by his friends.

Toward evening, orders came along the line of march, from General Clinton.   They would not stop to make camp.  A brief pause for cold rations, and then press on.

There were murmurs of surprise in the ranks, but no grumbling.  They’d come to fight, and the march resumed with a greater sense of urgency.

It was raining sporadically, and the harassment from skirmishers faded with the sullen light.  It was not cold, and despite the growing soddenness of his garments, William preferred the chill and damp to the sultry oppression of the day before.  At least the rain dampened the spirits of his horse, which was a good thing; it was a nervous, skittish creature, and he had cause to doubt Captain Griswold’s good will in lending it to him.   Worn down by the long day, though, the gelding ceased shying at wind-blown branches and jerking at the reins,  and plodded onward with its ears falling sideways in tired resignation.

It wasn’t bad for the first several hours of the night march.  After midnight, though, the strain of exertion and sleeplessness began to tell on the men.   Soldiers began to stumble and slow, and a sense of the vast expanse of dark and effort between themselves and dawn settled upon them.

William called private Perkins up beside him.  The soft-cheeked private showed up yawning and blinking, and paced beside him, a hand on William’s stirrup-leather as William explained what he wanted.

“Sing?” Perkins said doubtfully.  “Well, I ‘spose I can sing, yes, sir.  Nobbut hymns, though.”

“Not quite what I had in mind,” William said.  “Go and ask Sergeant…Millikin, is it?  The Irishman?  Anything he likes, so long as it’s loud and lively.”  After all, they weren’t trying to hide their presence; the Americans knew exactly where they were.

“Yes, sir,” Perkins said dubiously, and let go the stirrup, fading at once into the night.  William rode for some minutes, then heard Millikin’s very loud Irish voice lifted in a very bawdy song.  There was a ripple of laughter through the men, and by the time he reached the first chorus, a few had joined in.  Two more verses and they were all roaring lustily along, William included.

They couldn’t keep it up for hours while marching at speed with full equipment, of course, but by the time they had exhausted their favorite songs and grown breathless, everyone was awake and optimistic once more.

Just before dawn, William smelled the sea, and the rank mud scent of a marsh in the rain.  The men, already wet, began to splash through a number of tiny tidal inlets and creeks.

A few minutes later, the boom of cannon broke the night, and marsh birds rose into the lightening sky with shrieks of alarm.


Over the course of the next two days, William never had any idea where he was.   Names such as “Jamaica Pass,” “Flatbush,” and “Gowanus Creek” occurred now and then in the dispatches and hasty messages that passed through the army, but they might as well have said, “Jupiter” or “the backside of the moon” for all the meaning they had.

He did see Continentals, at last.  Hordes of them, swarming out of the marshes.  The first few clashes were fierce, but William’s companies were held to the rear, supporting; only once were they close enough to fire, in order to repulse an oncoming group of Americans.

Nonetheless, he was in a constant state of excitement, trying to hear and see everything at once, intoxicated by the smell of powder-smoke, even as his flesh quivered at the report of cannon.  When the firing ceased at sunset, he took a little biscuit and cheese, but without tasting it, and slept only briefly, from sheer exhaustion.

In late afternoon of the second day, they found themselves some little way behind a large stone farmhouse that the British and some Hessian troops had taken over as an artillery emplacement; the barrels of cannon protruded from the upper windows, shining wet with the constant rain.

Wet powder was a problem now; the cartridges were all right, but if the powder poured into priming pans was left more than a few minutes, it began to cake and go dead.  The order to load, then, had to be delayed until the last possible moment before firing; William found himself grinding his teeth in anxiety as to when the order should be given.

On the other hand, sometimes there was no doubt at all.  With hoarse shouts, a number of Americans charged out of the trees near the front of the house and made for the doors and windows.   Musket fire from the troops inside got several of them, but some made it as far as the house itself, where they began to clamber into the shattered windows.  William automatically reined up and rode to the right, far enough to get a look at the rear of the house.  Sure enough, a larger group was already at it, a number of them climbing the wall by means of the ivy that covered the back of the house.

“That way!” he bellowed, wheeling his horse around and waving his spontoon.  “Olson, Jeffries, the back!  Load and fire as soon as you’re in range!”

Two of his companies ran, ripping the ends of cartridges with their teeth, but a party of green-coated Hessians was there before him, seizing Americans by the legs and pulling them from the ivy to club them on the ground.

He reined round and dashed the other way, to see what was happening in front, and came in sight just in time to see a British artilleryman fly out of one of the open upper windows.  The man landed on the ground, one leg bent under him, and lay screaming.  One of William’s men, close enough, darted forward and grabbed the man’s shoulders, only to be shot by someone within the house.  He crumpled and fell, his hat rolling off into the bushes.

They spent the rest of that day at the stone farmhouse; four times, the Americans made forays–twice, they succeeded in overcoming the inhabitants and briefly seizing the guns, but both times were over-run by fresh waves of British troops and evicted or killed.  William never got closer than two hundred yards or so to the house itself, but once managed to interpose one of his companies between the house and a surge of desperate Americans, dressed like Indians and yelling like banshees.   One of them raised a long rifle and fired directly at him, but missed.  He drew his sword, intending to ride the man down, but a shot from somewhere struck the man and sent him rolling down the face of a small hillock.

William urged his mount closer, to see whether the man were dead or not–the man’s companions had already fled round the far corner of the house, pursued by British troops.  The gelding wasn’t having any; trained to the sound of musket-fire, it found artillery unnerving, and the cannon happening to speak at this particular moment, the gelding laid its ears flat back and bolted.

William had his sword still in hand, the reins loosely wrapped round his other hand; the sudden jolt unseated him, and the horse whipped to the left, jerking his right foot from the stirrup and pitching him off.  He had barely presence of mind to let go of the sword as he fell, and landed on one shoulder, rolling.

Simultaneously thanking God that his left foot hadn’t been trapped in its stirrup, and cursing the horse, he scrambled up onto hands and knees, smeared with grass and mud, heart in his mouth.

The guns in the house had stopped; the Americans must be in there again, engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with the gun-crews.  He spat out mud, and began to make a cautious withdrawal; he thought he was in range of the upper windows.

To his left, though, he caught sight of the American who had tried to shoot him, still lying in the wet grass.  With a wary glance at the house, he crawled to the man, who was lying on his face, unmoving.  He wanted to see the man’s face, for what reason, he couldn’t have said.  He rose on his knees and took the man by both shoulders, pulling him over.

The man was clearly dead, shot through the head.  Mouth and eyes sagged half-open and his body felt strange, heavy and flopping.  He wore a militia uniform of sorts; William saw the wooden buttons, with “PUT” burnt into them.  That meant something, but his dazed mind made no sense of it.  Gently laying the man back in the grass, he rose and went to fetch his sword.  His knees felt peculiar.

Halfway to the spot where his sword lay, he stopped, turned round and came back.  Kneeling down, cold-fingered and hollow-bellied, he closed the man’s dead eyes against the rain.

[end section]