Van Ness: The Raid
The following is a excerpt from a short story I am writing about Captain Peter Van Ness, a fictional American Revolutionary War hero. The story is still being drafted so this copy is rough.
I will post part 2 later this week.
April 4th, 1777
HMS Archer made its way up the North River followed by two smaller sloops, under
full sail, silently gliding like ghosts above the moonlit waters. It was just before midnight and colder than
it should be for an early April evening. A slight mist hung over both
riverbanks, but in the middle channel all was clear.
Aboard Archer, red
coated soldiers crowded her quarterdeck, silently standing at attention,while above them her sails flapped in the evening breeze. Behind Archer the sloops Phoebe and Covington
followed closely, also laden with hand-picked troops from the British army
in New York. Favorable winds out of the southwest propelled
them silently past the isolated and in many cases, nameless small settlements
that crowned the banks of the river.
Further north, just four miles from the rendezvous point, a leadsman climbed
onto the chains amidst the shrouds and took soundings of the channel, crying
out the fathoms to the officer of the watch as Archer inched closer to the western shore, careful not to run
aground. An hour later and under the steep, tree-covered
Hudson Highlands, as these hills along the river were called, Archer dropped anchor with a splash with
Phoebe and Covington following suit.
The decks of the three warships were bustling with activity
now, as all of the ships put boats into the water, the boats’ crews holding
themselves steady against their ship's hull with long hooks, while the red coated
soldiers, British Grenadiers in brass mitred caps aboard Archer and a light infantry company aboard each of the sloops, clumsily
descended down the netting and into the waiting boats. Within minutes, the boats were full, the soldiers
crouching silently, packed together shoulder to shoulder, their knaversacks, ammunition
pouches and muskets crammed in beside them.
As each boat received
its full complement of soldiers, its small crew of sailors shoved off using their long
flat-bladed oars expertly as they headed towards the western riverbank. Straining silently against the weight of a boat packed with men and the gear of war, the sailors labored with back-breaking effort to move against
the current towards the shore, their oars rhythmically stroking back and forth.
In the boat closest to the western shore,
a tall infantry captain scrambled to his feet waiting for the predetermined signal from the
riverbank. After some long moments, two
lanterns were uncovered by a pair of loyalists who had come to meet them. Minutes later
the British bateaus were grounding onto a rocky beach, offloading with some splashing and
muffled curses almost a full battalion of British Regulars, some loyalists and a
number of fiercely painted Indian scouts.
The soldiers knew their business, organizing quickly into
their platoons. Quickly now the loyalists led the scarlet-coated
soldiers up the steep, tree-lined path away from the river. While the Regulars struggled up the hillsides,
the sailors under the command of a Midshipman from the Archer, waited in their boats in case something went wrong.
It was still hours before dawn and the river was covered in
a thickening mist.
Near the top of the hill, the British regulars stopped and
waited catching their breath, while the Indians and loyalists crept forward,
tomahawks and axes drawn. Moments later
they returned with the only Continental sentry posted near the landing,
the unfortunate soul struggling against the gag tied around his mouth, the whites of his eyes bulging as they dragged him back toward the waiting boats to be questioned aboard Archer. Life as a prisoner of war aboard one of the rotting prison hulks in New York harbor awaited him.
In the predawn darkness a dozen of the Grenadiers, the most
experienced men in the company, dropped their bulging packs
onto the ground, adjusted the leather straps of their caps, fixed their bayonets and then passed
upwards and out of sight led by the company Captain.
The men on the trail remained frozen, listening for some
sound from above. Moments later with the
crack of a pistol shot and the rush of booted feed, the Continentals camp was
rushed...
I will post part 2 later this week.
Comments
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