1812: The Rivers of War tog-1 Page 14

  Reload!

  Step forward! Ten paces!

  "Good God."

  Major General Phineas Riall stared at the battlefield. Four volleys had been exchanged, each at ever-closer range, and the American forces hadn't so much as wavered. If anything, their volleys were even surer than those of the British.

  An aide next to him made a slight shake of the head. Riall had served in the British army for twenty years, and was as well trained as any British officer. But his service had been entirely in the West Indies.

  The aide, he recalled, had fought Napoleon's army on the continent.

  Towson's three guns along the Niagara were starting to silence the British battery. Scott peered at the other side of the field. Jesup and his Twenty-fifth had succeeded in anchoring the American left flank, but the movement had opened a gap in his lines. So Scott ordered McNair and his Ninth Regiment to move to the left. The fact remained that the British army was larger than his own, and there was no way Scott could match the lines without creating a gap somewhere. That was dangerous.

  On the other hand, Riall's force had moved forward far enough that the British right was no longer anchored on the woods.

  There was a maneuver…

  Risky, of course, and not usually tried in a real battle. But if it was done well enough…

  "Yes," Scott murmured. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

  "Excuse me, sir?" asked one of his aides.

  Scott grinned. "I was just remarking that the whole point of fighting a battle is to win the thing. Let us do so, Lieutenant.

  "Take orders to Major McNair. Tell him I want the Ninth Regiment to keep moving left. When his forces meet up with Jesup's, I want them to wheel inward, facing northeast. Riall's right is hanging in the open, so McNair and Jesup should be able to bring enfilade fire on them, and roll up their flank. They'll break."

  The lieutenant hesitated a moment, before racing off with the orders. Even he could see that Scott's maneuver was going to open a great, gaping hole in the center of the American force. If the British moved quickly enough, they'd smash through before the flanking attack could be brought to bear.

  In effect, Scott was gambling that his American army could outmaneuver a British army in the middle of a battle, while standing its ground against superior forces in what was now practically a point-blank contest of musket volleys.

  The lieutenant probably thought he was insane.

  "He's insane!" snarled Riall. "What lunatic is in command over there?"

  "I suspect that's Winfield Scott's brigade, sir," replied the aide. "He's said to be bold. Even, ah, rash."

  "He's insane," Riall repeated. "Send forward the Royal Scots and the One Hundredth Foot. We'll smash this thing before it gets started."

  One of the couriers raced off to give the command. The aide kept his own counsel. It was possible, of course, that Riall was right. But the aide couldn't help remembering that the word "insane" had been applied quite often to Napoleon, as well.

  To be sure, in the end, they'd beaten Napoleon. But not before the madman had won a lot of battles.

  For a moment, the clouds of gun smoke cleared enough for Driscol to see what Scott was doing with the other regiments. He understood the maneuver immediately-and it was all he could do not to whoop with glee.

  Driscol's own Twenty-second Regiment had pinned the British, and now-finally, at last!-an American army had a general worthy of its soldiers. Scott would match their confidence with his own, using the kind of bold and daring stroke that Napoleon would have favored.

  Suddenly, the sergeant was spun completely around. The blow didn't even register as such until he stumbled to one knee. Then, looking down at his left arm, he saw that a musket ball had struck it.

  Destroyed it, rather. Driscol had seen more battle wounds than he could remember. If he survived the battle, he knew that he was looking at an amputation.

  At the very least. The elbow was a shattered mass of flesh and blood. That meant an amputation somewhere in the upper arm, not the lower. Most men did not survive such, not in the conditions of a battlefield surgery. Not for long. If blood loss and shock didn't kill them, infection would.

  So be it. It was a given that wounded men died after battles. Winners and losers alike. All that mattered was victory.

  Then the pain arrived, in a searing wave that all but blinded him for a moment. He gritted his teeth, and pulled away from it by sheer force of will. Still on one knee, Driscol called out the commands.

  Reload!

  Ten paces forward!

  It seemed to McParland as if the troll's voice was a bit off. But he didn't give it much thought. Truth to tell, the young soldier was hardly thinking at all any longer. Reality had shrunk down to an endless cycle of repeated actions. There was nothing much beyond that, other than noticing-briefly, and without dwelling on the matter-the bodies of his mates as they were flung aside or crumpled to the ground, often showing hideous wounds.

  So it came as a complete surprise when he stumbled across the troll's body as he stepped forward into the gun smoke.

  Stumbled against it, rather. The troll was down on one knee, but he wasn't dead. His left arm looked to be a complete ruin from the elbow down, and he was awkwardly trying to bind it up with his one good hand. McParland realized that he had shouted the last orders even after he had been wounded.

  Very badly wounded, from the look of it.

  The troll glanced up at him. "Bind this for me, would you? Then help me up."

  Confused, McParland looked down at his musket. How was he supposed to…

  "Just put the bloody thing down!" the troll rasped. "Consider yourself on detached duty for the rest of the battle, young McParland. I promise I won't stand you before a firing squad."

  McParland had been trained to dress wounds, so once his mind cleared, he set down the musket and went about the business, quickly and efficiently. That done, he helped the troll to get back on his feet.

  "Where are the boys, lad? I'm feeling a bit light-headed."

  McParland did a quick estimate, in the battle murk.

  "They've made the paces, Sergeant."

  The young private didn't think, with a wound like that, he'd have been able to do more than croak. Or scream. But the troll's bellowing, piercing voice had not a quaver in it this time.

  "Fire!"

  The volley hammered every other thought or sensation aside. It really was like standing right next to a lightning bolt. Or so McParland imagined. He'd never actually stood right next to a lightning bolt, since he wasn't insane.

  Or hadn't been, at least, until some mad impulse he could no longer remember clearly had led him to volunteer for the army.

  Amazingly, the troll was now grinning.

  "It's going well, lad. I can tell. The volleys have that sure and certain victorious air about them."

  McParland had no idea how the troll had come to that conclusion. As far as he could tell, the universe was a place of sheer confusion. The volleys weren't so much sounds as periodic, paralyzing bursts of chaos.

  Still, the words cheered him up.

  Why not? If anyone could make sense out of this madness, it would be a troll.

  "Help me forward now, lad. I will not fall until I see the Sassenach broken. In front of me, goddamn them. Lying at my feet, whipped like curs."

  Again, that voice. Like a lightning bolt itself.

  Reload!

  Ten paces forward!

  The aide saw the truth before Riall could bring himself to accept it.

  "If we pull back now, sir, we can still salvage the army. Wait another few minutes, and…"

  Riall glared at him. Then, went back to glaring at the battlefield.

  The aide waited.

  A minute went by. Then another.

  The British army was caught in a vise from which they barely had time to extricate themselves. Scott's flanking attack, however reckless it might have been, had been carried out so well and so swiftly that Riall's for
ces hadn't been able to move quickly enough to counter it.

  In truth, they hadn't moved at all. The American lines in front of them had never flinched. Indeed, had kept coming forward every time they fired.

  "Never seen the like," Riall muttered. "What has Cousin Jonathan been eating lately?"

  French food, the aide was tempted to reply. But, wisely, he refrained from uttering the quip. Riall didn't have a good sense of humor even on his best days.

  Which this one most certainly was not.

  "Order retreat. We'll fall back across the Chippewa, while we still hold the bridge."

  The British soldiers didn't start breaking until the order came. Even then, stiffened by professional training and experience, they were never routed. But the last few minutes were ghastly. Captain Townsend brought his guns forward and added canister to the havoc being wreaked by the American musketeers, who were now firing from oblique angles into a mass of soldiers caught in the closing trap.

  They got out, but not before they left more than five hundred men on the field, dead or wounded.

  American casualties were only three hundred or so.

  "I'm still alive," McParland said wonderingly. "Not a scratch on me."

  The troll said nothing. Just watched, with a look of satisfaction on his face fiercer than anything McParland had ever seen, as the last British soldiers stumbled across the distant bridge. The ground that lay between them and that bridge looked like a red carpet, from the uniforms on the broken bodies covering it. And the blood, of course.

  The most amazing thing happened then. McParland never told anyone, afterward, because he knew he'd be called a liar. But the troll's eyes filled with tears.

  "Those bastards broke two of my nations," he heard him whisper. "They won't break this one."

  After a few seconds, McParland cleared his throat. "Sergeant, we'd really better get you to the surgeon. That's a nasty wound. Really nasty."

  The sergeant glanced down at his left arm.

  "Oh, aye. I'll lose most of it. I doubt me if even a top surgeon in Philadelphia could fix this ruin-and there'll be no top surgeons in an army camp, you can be sure of that."

  McParland turned him around and they began hobbling away.

  "On the bright side," Driscol continued, "I'll just grow myself another arm."

  By the time McParland got him to the surgeon's tent, he decided the sergeant was joking. He wasn't certain, though.

  TheRiversofWar

  CHAPTER 14

  For a wonder, the surgeon was sober.

  Better still, from Driscol's viewpoint, he was a young man. The sergeant's experience had been that the practice of medicine affected men like alcohol affected those with the curse of drunkenness. The more they studied, the worse they got. Middle-aged doctors were as dangerous as vipers; elderly ones, deadly as the Grim Reaper himself.

  "The arm'll have to come off, Sergeant," the young surgeon said firmly, leaning over Driscol where he lay on a pallet in the surgeon's tent. "You'll almost certainly get gangrene, with that bad a wound. Your elbow's pretty well gone, anyway. Even if we left your arm and you didn't get gangrene, you'd never be able to use it again."

  He moved off, heading toward one of the tables onto which his assistants were hoisting a wounded soldier. After he was gone, Driscol rolled his head and gave young McParland a cheerful grin. He hoped it was cheerful, anyway.

  "D'you ever hear such nonsense, lad? Even with a ruined elbow, I could still use my fingers to count money."

  McParland even managed to return the grin with one of his own. Well, a sickly smile-but Driscol suspected his own grin was on the sickly side itself.

  "What they pay us, Sergeant, I think you'll only need the fingers of one hand for that. And you're right-handed anyway."

  Driscol pursed his lips, as if giving the matter careful consideration. "True enough. I'll take your advice, then." He raised his uninjured right arm, extending a warning finger. "Mind you, youngster, if we ever take Montreal and I don't get my fair share of the loot on account of my missing arm, I'm taking it out of your pickings."

  McParland nodded nervously. The sergeant was sure the nervousness was due entirely to the horrid surroundings of the surgeon's tent, not his jocular threat. For all the boasts of American politicians and generals, the chances that the U.S. Army would ever take Montreal were about as good as Driscol's chances to survive gangrene if he tried to keep his arm.

  Driscol didn't fault the youngster for being twitchy. Hardened veteran that he was, the sergeant found the surgeon's tent unsettling-and would have, even if he hadn't been one of the wounded men waiting his turn.

  The sawdust in the boxes under the two cutting tables was soaked through with blood from the operations, and the blood was seeping onto the dirt floor. That was probably just as well, since it provided the flies swarming in the tent with a ready feasting ground, and distracted them from feeding directly off the wounds. Still, between the festering blood and the gore from intestinal injuries, the stench in the tent was incredible.

  No such side benefit could be found from the noises that also saturated the tent, unfortunately. The screams and groans and moans and muffled prayers blended into each like a cacophony straight from hell. The surgeon almost had to shout, in order to be heard at all.

  Driscol watched as the doctor and his assistants amputated a soldier's mangled foot on the table nearest him. For all the grisliness of the work, it was done swiftly and expertly. Two of the assistants kept the man's shoulders pinned and two others restrained the legs. Once the patient was securely immobilized and a tourniquet tightened around his leg, the surgeon cut the flesh all around the ankle, right down to the bone; then, peeled the flesh back so as to expose the bone farther up from the incision itself. He'd sever the bone as far up the leg as he could. That way, the resulting stump would have some padding over the bone's end, once it healed.

  That was assuming, of course, that the patient didn't die before then, from one of several common diseases brought on by amputation. Which, he very well might. Almost a fourth of all men who had amputations done after a battle died later from infection.

  No, Driscol reminded himself, never being one to shy away from the cold facts. That "one-fourth" applied to men who had their lower limbs amputated. The death rate was much higher for men who, like Driscol, had the cut made above the knee or elbow.

  So be it. Driscol distracted himself, as best he could, by continuing to watch the surgeon at his work.

  The blade the man used to slice flesh was no delicate instrument. It reminded Driscol, more than anything else, of a smaller version of the flensing blades used by whalers. It'd make a decent weapon in a tavern brawl, in fact, even if it wasn't quite long enough to be suitable on a battlefield.

  Fortunately for everyone concerned, the soldier being operated on had fainted from the agony at that point. So he missed entirely the heart of the operation, which came when the surgeon took up a saw and hacked through the bone. Driscol was impressed by the surgeon's speed. No master carpenter could have done better, he thought.

  The sergeant could only hope the man would cut off his arm as smoothly and efficiently.

  That done, the severed foot was tossed onto a nearby pile of such horrid objects. The flies over there were a seething little mountain of insects. The surgeon sewed up the severed arteries; then, still working as quickly as ever, folded the flaps of flesh and skin over the end of the bone and sewed everything up.

  A bandage was then placed on the bleeding stump, and it was done. The assistants heaved the unconscious soldier off the table and carried him out of the tent. He'd recuperate-and, hopefully, survive-in a different tent set aside for the purpose.

  While the surgeon waited for his helpers to return, he washed his hands in a bowl of water. Then cleaned the blade and the saw using a sponge soaked in the same bowl.

  Driscol couldn't really see the point of that. By now, the water in the bowl wasn't much thinner than blood itself, as often as it
had been reused for the purpose.

  The surgeon's eyes ranged around the tent, quickly examining the dozen or so wounded soldiers who lay in it. Experienced eyes, obviously, despite the surgeon's youth. Driscol could see him quickly dismissing about half the cases as either hopeless or so chancy that he wouldn't spend time on them while men who might survive were kept waiting.

  That meant he dismissed almost any kind of major abdominal, chest, or head wound as beyond his treatment. About the only exception to that rule was that battlefield surgeons would usually attempt to extract a bullet that hadn't penetrated any deeper than a finger's length. If it had…

  Well, they'd just leave it alone. If the man survived, the bullet would sometimes work its way closer to the surface, where they could eventually get to it. Driscol had known a soldier in the French army who'd survived such a bullet wound-and then, eight years later, finally had the thing extracted. By then, it lay just under the skin.

  For all practical purposes, the job of an army surgeon was to cut off hands, feet, arms, and legs. Nothing else, really.

  Fair enough, Driscol thought. Two-thirds to three-fourths of all battlefield wounds were suffered in the extremities, to begin with-and those same wounds accounted for almost all the survivors. Men shot or stabbed in the torso or the head almost invariably died, unless the wound was a superficial one.

  The surgeon's gaze fell on Driscol. On his mangled arm, rather. The sergeant didn't think the surgeon had even looked at his face-and he was quite sure he wouldn't remember Driscol if they ever met again.

  "You're next," he said.

  Driscol saw the assistants coming back into the tent.

  There was no point in dallying. "Do it, then."

  "I've got some antifogmatic I can give you," said the surgeon.

  "Whiskey or rum?"

  "Rum."

  Driscol sneered. "And it'll be raw, too. Not that I'd touch any kind of rum. It'll be whiskey, or no drink at all."