A Fight to the End
My musket with bayonet on top was ready, ball and shot loaded, awaiting the arrival of the filthy Yanks. I am a loyalist, subject to King George, ready to destroy the traitors who plundered this land with their lies. The war noises sounded as we observed the approaching Patriot force, thousands of them, marching straight at us. Musket clenched tight, hand on trigger; I waited for the order to fire from Lord Balcarres.
“Fire!” he shouted, and a wave of muskets went off, including mine as we dropped the Yanks, left and right. They were a bed straggled group, with blankets and their own hunting muskets. As I reloaded, they fired, an indication of a gentlemen’s war, though they did indeed target our officers. A plume of blood sprayed over me, one of our more capable officers had dropped, leading me to decide when I should shoot.
Taking careful aim, I fired straight into the ranks of the Yanks. With satisfaction, I saw the man I was aiming at, drop and lie still. I reloaded again, moving quicker this time due to the sudden advancements of their infantry. By the time I finished, they were halfway here, and a quarter of our officers were dead. Aiming toward their center mass, I fired again, hitting another mark.
Suddenly, I noticed a change of course from the Yanks. They had pulled away from our position and instead heading toward the other redoubt, Breymann’s, which was manned by Hessians, German mercenaries. As I swung my musket again to fire, a plume of dust from the battlefield alarmed me. A squadron of cavalry had broken away and charged toward the gap between our two redoubts.
Taking action, I aimed my musket instead toward the cavalry, taking them down deliberately, shooting with precision. However, my shoots made barely any difference as soon Breymann was surrounded and his redoubt, captured. After his position was captured, our fortifications were stressed a lot more. There was now an attack on all fronts, Yanks scaling our walls and scrambling in. Taking in my situation, I braced my bayonet and charged.
As I approached the breach, I shot a Yank in the stomach, reloaded, and stabbed another in the stomach, the blood spraying over my uniform. Moving forward, my boots stepped through piles of bodies, bloody pieces of flesh everywhere. By the time I neared the breach, I was charged by another squadron of men, armed with muskets and bayonets. Ducking the first man’s swing, I stabbed him in the back, turned, shot the other, and using my bayonet; I sank it into the next man’s heart.
As I stood up from my previous kill, a sudden flash of silver descended on me. The cold, sharp pierce of the sword sank into my flesh, the pain overwhelming. My killer, an officer in a bright uniform regarded me with a grim face and the pulled the sword clean out of my body with a snick. Flashes of white burst into my vision, the whole spun, and I saw no more.
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