War Path Read Online Free PDF Page B

frown.
    â€œThank you for your concern, Sergeant Strode, but I am quite capable of assessing the situation.”
    â€œMeaning no disrespect, sir,” Strode replied, eyeing the fallen. “We’ve lost all but one of the drummers, Corporal Felker. If you want to sound retreat, uh … or to carry the battle to the savages, you might need to hurry or some damn Frog rifleman will have him as well. I can’t beat no tattoo, I warrant none other can neither.”
    Ransom glared at the sergeant. Strode had crossed the line by abandoning his post. But the man made a good point. A decision had to be reached, the column must advance or withdraw. To remain in the center of this meadow, assailed on both flanks, was a suicidal course.
    The major’s belly rumbled and began to cramp from the tension. He paced through the acrid black residue that streaked the air and burned his throat with every breath. Forcing himself to ignore the rifle balls that sounded as if they were personally searching him out, the major clenched one fist to conceal his trembling hand, and tightened his grip on his officer’s sword. Every few yards he shouted encouragement, hoping to inspire his troops to hold fast.
    Hold for love of king and country.
    And yet, through the haze of battle he was able to clearly see for the first time the hopelessness of their cause. Farley had not died alone this day. He had already been joined by a third of the relief column. It was up to Michael Ransom to save what he could. The very notion of retreating was distasteful at best. He glanced over his shoulder at the way they had come. The line of trees behind him beckoned, promised in the least a marginal chance of safety. The bloody Provincials had already disappeared into the woods, no doubt the cowards were racing pell-mell through the forest.
    â€œI swear if I survive this day and return to Fort Edward, Captain John Stark and his volunteers will answer for their cowardice at the flogging post.” Ransom’s voice was thick with emotion as he issued his next orders. “Sergeant Strode, we must withdraw,” he said in a clipped, painful tone of voice. “Fort William Henry will not see our colors this week, I warrant. Have Corporal Felker sound retreat.”
    For the 1st Regiment of Foot, it was the beginning of the end.

3
    â€œ W here’s Stark?” shouted Robert Rogers, his appeal muted by the dense stand of timber separating him from the pandemonium of killers who had come to claim the meadow. In all his thirty years the frontiersman had never seen the likes of the trap Colonel Farley had marched them into. Rogers wiped his forearm across his sweat-streaked brow. His five-foot-five-inch frame still seemed too big for this deadfall at the edge of the meadow and he cringed further, imagining the musket balls were searching him out, thirsting for his vitals. But he and most of his men were still alive, for now.
    His sides heaved with every breath as he gulped the warm air. The stench of powder smoke had yet to follow the militia into the woods. There was no shame in taking flight. And besides, Rogers had not fled the clearing on his lonesome. The entire contingent of colonists had turned tail and run like hell at the first volley from the French and Indians. It had been the only sensible thing to do. He craned his neck and peered through a break in the rotting bark. The English troops were maintaining their columns, but at a terrible cost. Their tactics seemed sheer folly, arranged as they were in the center of the meadow, both flanks receiving fire from a concealed enemy.
    Rogers edged upward, still somewhat hunched, to catch a glimpse of his homespun-clad militia as they emerged from the surrounding forest to his right and left. By heaven, where is ol’ Big Timber? he thought as he searched the survivors, hoping to catch a glimpse of Johnny Stark. His friend would stand out in any company, being a good half-foot taller than