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Sitting there by the fire watching my son lovingly cradle his new musket warmed my heart far more than the dancing flames. We had just finished setting up our wedge tent, stowed our gear, changed into the 'old clothes' and went up to the cook fly. After friendly greetings from those already there, my best pard Ignatius brought out a long skinny box and handed it to my son, Jason. In all the 26 years of his life, seldom had I seen his eyes light up so! “My Tulleee!”, he gasped, grinning from ear to ear. Ignatius smiled back and winked at me. “Your old man had it shipped to me to bring here as a surprise.” “Hey dad,” my full-grown child beamed at me: “This is better than Christmas!” No words were needed from me. The Tulle was (and still is) a beauty! Long and lean, chocolate brown on the lock, stock & barrel! A sixty-two cal. - 20 gage smoothbore flintlock. A French ‘fusil de chasse’ with military swivels, all hand-built by another friend . Good for ball or shot, targets or game --- yet this weekend he would be using it against me! How so, you say? Simply this --- we are ‘reenactors’ or as some prefer, ‘living historians’ We do far more than just ‘study history’--- whenever & whenever we can, we ‘live’ it! This weekend it was the yearly French and Indian War event at magnificent Fort Ticonderoga near the southern end of one of the most often fought over lakes in the world, Lake of the Iroquois --- now called Champlain. But I digress ( an old man’s perogative I’m told). My son Jason is with the regular troops of the Berne Regement of Louis XIV, King of France --- while I, in this Year of Our Lord, 1758, am with the infamous Roger’s Rangers, under the command of brother James and not the better known Robert. We wear ‘the Black Coat’ as compared to the more common ‘Green’, while my son wears the White ---( ‘All the easier to see you in, my dear!’,he said with a wolfish grin.) But the battle is tomorrow and tonight we are father and son, friends and family, sitting round a campfire sharing good-natured insults and ‘true-lies’. A new man came down from Montreal with us , Raphial or ‘swanny’ as the kids used to call him in his childhood days --- grinning almost as much as my son, Swanny takes in the camp spread out before him. To the west the sky is still shot through with pinks blending to azure and violet, while up above the inky sky spreads forth its age-old field of sparkling diamonds --- mirrored below in the the flickering campfires from the thousand plus ‘historical adventurers’ that had already made the long but welcome yearly pilgrimage to this ‘mecca’ called Ticonderoga. I’ve been here quite a few times now --- in the sweltering heat of summer and in the biting cold of winter --- and each time is the first time’ all over again. (What follows is an attempt to give you the reader a ‘first person’ account of the 1758 British attack on the French held fort then called Cariliion (Ticonderoga) ) Exerts from a soldier’s journal. I didn’t want to believe it! Dead? He can’t be! But when they brought his already stiffening body out of the woods, we had no choice. Lord Howe, the darling of the British Army, had indeed ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’ --- helped in the process by a .69 caliber led ball the size of your thumb! Struck in the chest he was, when advancing ahead of the rest of Stark’s Co. of Rangers on the way to the Ticonderoga Narrows. Major Rogers took it bad --- we all did. They say old General Abercromby wept. If that be true, then he weren’t alone, for Lord Howe had a way about him that will be sorely missed! Now word has come down that we are going ahead with the attack early in the morning. We outnumber the Frogs at least three to one, but I’ll tell ya true --- I think when those bloody Frenchies struck Lord Howe in the chest, they struck a deathblow to the British Army as well! Why, hardly a man here seems ready for a fight, n’ that includes the general n’ his staff! The sergeant roused Ignatius & meself from our tent before dawn. It had rained most the night & a fine drizzle was still coming down. As I headed for the latrine, my shoes sank in the soft wet grass. It had been bone dry the day before when I drove in the tent stakes. The artillery was going to have one hellova time getting the cannon up to the French breastworks! It’s times like these that I’m glad I carry a Bess instead of hauling those bloody cannon! Now for some hot food n’ something to wash it down with --- if we can get the damn fire going in this damp! Past noon on the second day and still we wait! Old Abercromby is all afluster they say; what with his cannon stuck up to the axels in mud back there on the portage trail and the French all safely tucked away behind that bloody log wall they’ve built all around the back of the fort! Sweet Jesus, but I don’t want to be the ones to charge THAT fence! Rumor has it the Old Man will send in the Scots. Maybe those hairy Highlanders can cut through the Frogs with those great Claymores o’ theirs?! Bloody hell n’ damnation! The Scots have charged twice already n’ are getting ready for a third attempt! They’ve already lost over half their men as it is! Us Rangers are to try and outflank that bloody bareacade. Stark’s group are on our left and Gorhams our right --- good lads each one --- the trouble is we’ve got three French cannon facing us n’ now we’ve got orders to charge after this next volley! “Sergeant, look to your men,”the lieutenant ordered. The sergeant frowned at us & puffed out his chest. “Rangers, take care! Prepare for a regimental volley!” Three companies of Rangers readied their muskets. I was on the front line down on one knee. Ignatius stepped up to his place behind me as the second rank prepared to fire. We were in a dip in the battlefield. A few bushes were off to one side, partially blocking the dead and dying bodies that lay scattered about like cast off clothing. There was no blocking the French cannon though. All three of them crouched like brass monsters waiting to vomit death in our direction. “Make ready!” the sergeant bellowed. The heavy cock on my musket was thumbed back. “Present!” followed quickly. I brought the heavy gun up to my cheek and aimed at the mass of French behind the middle cannon. “FIRE!” Maud went off and I felt the familiar nudge against my shoulder. Dirty white smoke stung my eyes as over 150 muskets roared as one gigantic throat. The battlefield became a wet wool blanket that blocked my view. “Three cheers, lads, and then we charge!”the lieutenat said calmly. “Sergeant, have the men fix bayonets.” “Bayonets!” the tall sergeant roared and I groped for the long plug bayonet at my side. The dampness had made the sheath swell and the long blade clung to the scabbarad! “TODAY, Ladies!” roared the sergeant. “Now, hip hip, hazah! Hip hip, Hazah! Hip hip, HAZAH.! The lieutenant’s sword swept down and his mouth formed that terrfying word --- ‘CHARGE!’ As though in a dream, I watched not only my companions, but myself rise up like Lazerus and charge the French guns! My own scream sounded foreign to my ears as I bolted over the broken ground, Maud clutched in my hands like a lifeline to a drowning man. After 30 yards the first cannon went off and a good portion of Stark’s company was no more. Another 20 yards and the second one belched fire, cutting a swath of death through the Gorhams on my right. The third and last cannon looked like the Hole to Hell directly in my path! I remember catching a glimps of Ignatius out of the corner of my eye. The new lad Swanny was close behind him. Albert was there with his new checkered shirt. Little Gordie and Big Yve moved in on the left --- then the bloody six-pounder went off and it seemed as if the very sun itself exploded! I came to sometime later. I was under a bush in some tall grass. Men lay all about --- some moving, some not. I tried to sit up and soon regretted it! “Here you old fart, have a shot of this.” Ignatius handed me his canteen. I drank greedily, choaked, then drank more. “How did I get&ldots;.?” “How do ya think?” Ignatius grinned. “I hauled your sorry arse back here!” “But how&ldots;?” I muttered, checking myself for blood or wounds. “It was the concussion that knocked us down, not the shell itself.” Albert said from behind me. “Tore bloody-hell out of the poor buggers behind us!” Another voice broke through the distant firing; that of our sergeant. “If you lassies are through holdin’ hands, then haul yer butts back up to the line! We’re moving out flank the Frenchies!” ‘Flanking the Frenchies’ proved easier than it should have been --- we simply trotted off Indian style to the left, followed by the remnants of the other two Ranger units, and working our way through the tall grass, took the high ground behind the right flank of very cannons we had charged less than a half hour ago! Why it was so easy soon became clear --- down below a little round fellow with a big sword was screaming and yelling at a tall fellow with a fancy staff. Both were wearing the white coats and red sashes of French officers. The lieutenant came up and grinned. “Lets give them something to think about, shall we lads? Sergeant, both rows to fire at the battery below. Independent fire right after. Sergeant Steph’s long face broke into a sly grin. “Rangers, make ready!” Over three score of Brown Bess’ came up as one. “Present!” Eager eyes squinted down the long barrels. “FIRE!” Maud nudged my shoulder in that old familiar way. My hand went automatically to my belly box, took out a paper cartridge, bit off the end, poured a bit in the pan, snapped shut the frizon and the rest went down the barrel! “INDEPENDENT FIRE!!!” Music to my ears!!! Maud and I warmed to the job at hand, while down below the French officers had somehow forgotten all about their little argument! Moments later a white flag was raised and it was over. The day was ours and I had made it through one more brush with Death.
Angus
MacCaw www.jkcc.com/bloodbrothers/index/bpmsp.html
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