Dominion (41 page)

Among them all none ranked higher in the esteem of his compatriots than Caleum Merian himself, whose exploits were known through New England and the southern sphere alike. Even among those tempered and hardened soldiers, he was most skilled in killing.

As they ate their meal, a sentry came into camp and had words with the general in charge. When he left, the officers could all be seen gathering hastily in the center of camp for a war college. After a brief conference they sent out instructions among the men, who all knew by then that a fight was in the offing. They were ordered to ready
themselves and form battle lines, as the British and Hessians were advancing toward their left flank in ambush even as they ate.

A panic spread through the newest recruits, who were fresh plucked from the farms of the country and still knew only what they had heard about the might and invincibility of England's army.

Caleum and his fellows finished their own meal as if nothing unusual were afoot, took up packs and muskets, and assumed their positions in the column that was forming out in the open meadow. They were the center of the formation and its pillar, as they were the most seasoned and would be hardest to break.

When the bugle sounded they marched out toward the enemy line obdurate as Spartans, prepared either to die or seize victory from those fields of death.

At three o'clock that afternoon, they finally met the enemy across a distance of some fifty yards.

As the mountains rose and stretched in the distance like a great stone spine, the British and the Hessians raised their muskets at the patriots, taking slow and careful aim. A volley of thunder rang out then, deafening all around, as the report from fifteen hundred guns sounded a testimony of certain slaughter.

The unseasoned Americans scattered in every which direction when the volley sounded, as mounted officers tried to whip them back into formation. When the gun smoke cleared, only Caleum and his men were still standing in their original formation, with none yet wounded—and no one yet dead.

They raised the muskets on their side then, for the first countercharge of the morning, keeping their nerve and aim steady amidst the chaos. Each fired in unison, releasing their own noise to answer the enemy's—a report of Continental will. The sulfur rose like steam as the British and Hessians fell from the lead that rained upon them.

What happened next, no one was prepared for, as it had happened so seldom before in history. The British line broke.

As the patriots rushed forth, it scattered here and yon without the collective discipline or thought that struck awe and terror in all who had gone against it, and the Continental Army began cutting them down in a frenzy as they fled. The farm boys, who had not seen battle before, grew over bold in this melee and rushed forth ahead of the rest of the
line, looking for glory. They almost knew it, too, but were soon turned back on their heels, as the Englishmen regained the advantage and formed their line again.

The redcoats next gave chase with their bayonets drawn, having not time to reload their muskets as the Americans flew before them. The newer troops melted away again, like so much wax before a match, so the British met Caleum and his men instead, at the center of the American column. They too were without ready muskets, except Carl Schyuler, who could reload faster than any other man in their army. He fired on the advancing line, and one of the Hessian mercenaries fell onto a spot that was still green with grass.

The remainder of the center kept charging until the two lines crossed, point for point, and steel for steel. Instead of his bayonet, Caleum met them with his sword drawn, and he cut many men down that afternoon. One after another they fell under the steel's swift working. As they died each felt a great heat when their spirits departed their bodies—even those whose destination was the cool rooms of Heaven. They felt the heat alike who had lived in right correctness and who had lived in profitable sin, for the sword was indiscriminate in this and knew only fore from aft, foe from author and master.

Not that the fight was all one-sided that day. The British and Germans eventually rallied again, pushing the Americans back and taking from their ranks such souls as they managed to reach with their own war metals. They claimed lives that day from Massachusetts to Georgia, reaping seasoned soldiers along with the farmers, who fought with more spirit than skill. They made widows of the wives of officers and infantrymen alike, tangling with all the ferocity they were renowned for.

The tide of battle reversed itself again only when General Arnold, who had been stalking his prey all morning, gave his marksman the order to fire and General Simon, his British adversary, fell from his mount in a heap of flesh. With their leader lost, Arnold led a charge into the British center, which gave way before him and began to withdraw.

Caleum gave chase with the others all the way to Berryman's Redoubt, where Arnold was finally checked, nearly losing his life. The fighting continued, though, even without generals but with a will of its own. The soldiers kept falling on both sides all morning, but native love of native land was favored over Albion greatness by the end
of that afternoon, and Fortune exchanged one for the other in her bosom.

Caleum pushed forth in the midst of this possessed of the spirit as the rest of them, but he stood a full head above the next tallest man on the battlefield and was almost as high as their standard, so when he let out a great bellow it seemed to proclaim the strength and intent of the entire army as it fought to stave off defeat.

He was magnificent that day, as he fought against the best Great Britain could muster. And when the redcoats heard his cry and saw the glint of his blade, even they were stirred with respect for their enemy. As darkness fell the fighting began to end at last, but for Caleum there was still one more contest in the day.

The Hessians had fallen back to their earthworks and were well dug in, firing cannon from inside that hailed down on the other army as a detachment defended the walls from without. Behind the line their commander of artillery, who had replaced his uniform of common wool with blue velvet and was dressed in it from head to foot, walked back and forth, making adjustments here and there to the cannon. After each walk down the line, he always returned to the center, where another figure, dressed all in red velvet, sat on a field stool, whispering advice to the commander from time to time, though they looked like two figures from Gin Lane. The man was their munitions expert, but Caleum recognized him immediately as Bastian Johnson, once of Berkeley.

He could not tell what the two men were discussing, but it was gravely serious, as it was only these guns that kept Caleum and the others from annihilating their side completely, and the cannon fire did not cease and was unerring in its accuracy.

As they drew up for one final assay before darkness drew its final veil, a figure lumbered out of the gray quarter light toward Caleum Merian. He alone of the men on the field that day was as tall as Caleum, and everyone in his path knew immediately who offered the fight. He was called Jupiter and came down originally from Mashpee. He had won his first fame on Bunker Hill, though it was a losing day for his side. He fought first for his freedom, as many men did during that campaign, and then he fought on for the love of it.

When Jupiter saw Caleum, each knew whom he was meant to face that day. And as they moved closer to striking, each was worthy. Both
their hearts were enflamed with want to vanquish his rival, because each knew the other to be the strongest from his side, and each had it in him to test his mettle, steel against steel, not flint and ball from afar.

When they stood inside three yards, each drew his sword for killing. When they were nearly close enough to touch, their blades clashed in the air with a ringing that seemed as if it could be heard for miles around, as if the entire war had come down to only this battle between the two of them.

Unlike many who had faced him, Jupiter's sword did not give way immediately but took the shock of Caleum's blow when it struck his own. Nor was the man himself overwhelmed. He simply drew back and attacked again.

As they fought, Caleum felt for the first time he was fighting his only natural equal. In another time they might have been friends, and one side against all others, having some shared understanding. Here they were enemies. Each wielded his strength and skill for his cause and each fought superbly—as they came at each other again like Titans in the bitter mouth of chaos—and neither yielded from fear nor lack of stamina or tactic.

In contests of giants, though, there is never a deadlock but always the annihilation of the weaker ego, as fate lashes out with cruelty. In the course of seeking out advantage, one side must give so victory can progress, one over the other, no matter how tremendous a fight has been waged or the goodness in each warrior's heart. So it was for the two of them.

Here it was Jupiter who first felt the heat of steel pierce his flesh, making his blood run purple then red into the dirt of Saratoga.

He grew enraged after that, as he started to drink from death's cup just handed him. In a flight of madness he let go all caution and training to rush in toward Caleum's blade, either to kill his opponent then and there or else speed the course of his own blood's flowing.

Caleum moved to dodge this blow, and was almost safely beyond reach, when Jupiter's blade found his leg and dug in very deeply, teaching him well the agony of metal conquering flesh.

Wounded, they fought on from strength of will, long past when other men would have expired. Each was inspired by the other's resolve, and each was determined to leave the field of battle with another victory, another day of life.

Jupiter's wound was to his vital section, though, and he soon sucked and gasped for breath.

Caleum was also hobbled and fought with his weight pressing down on what was no longer a sound limb. And, as they drew up for one last thrust and parry, their eyes met. They lunged again; Jupiter fell upon Caleum's sword. When Caleum withdrew it, the other man lay dead before him.

The rest of the British had already abandoned the field to nightfall, leaving their dead and wounded all around. When Caleum killed mighty Jupiter, he knew the man deserved to be delivered back to his home at Mashpee, or at least deep into the silent earth there, but such was not possible. He barely left that field himself, as a pair of friends led him off to the medical tent so his leg might be attended to—if there was still hope left to save it.

Although the pain was unbearable, he insisted on leaving the field under his own power, limping slowly with a wince round his eyes each time the afflicted limb touched the ground. It took toward an hour, but they finally gained the doctor's attention. The scene all around that place was ghoulish and filled with moans as night thickened. Men of all ranks lay willy-nilly, nursing their injuries from the fight. Some were only modestly hurt, while others were too far on death's journey ever to be brought back and died in the afterglow of victory instead of on the field of battle. They themselves could scarce tell the difference, except that on the battlefield someone might have given them a friendly blow of mercy, while here they died slowly.

Several camp followers came round, bringing water to the men or administering rum to those who were about to have surgery. Between those who had only suffered shallow wounds and those whose death was certain, Caleum waited his turn for treatment.

His comrades who had brought him bandaged his wound themselves with rags they found in the infirmary. They then left to report back to duty—as there was more fighting to be done the next day—leaving Caleum among those other war claimed. He felt fatigue creep through his entire being then, although the pain in his leg kept him from sleeping, as it did almost that whole night through.

As he listened to his fellow soldiers' moans the only thing that gave him solace was to remove his coat, which was cold with sweat, and stare
at the scene of Stonehouses his wife had embroidered into its lining long ago. It comforted him as he saw his uncle and aunt, then wife and child, although all were older in life than in the picture. It was a magical thing Libbie had made, even if her craft could not hold up against the movement of time. Young Rose was five already, and conversing about all she saw around her, and they already had another who was no longer so small. Why their father was gone was hardest for them, but they understood he did something very important and was any day going to return. Staring then at all of them from Stonehouses, even from so long ago, he was filled with all the universe of love. It was this alone that gave him comfort in his pain and allowed him to suffer through that night without succumbing to the well of grief that claimed those who were injured and did not hold on so strongly as he. Through all the hell of that night, it was the only tether that kept him fastened to the world.

He suffered there in the medical hall for four days, as the surgeon let Nature work upon his wound. Each one was a greater agony for Caleum than the one before, and he dreamed feverishly during this time of all manner of things. By the fourth day of the ordeal he could bear it no longer, as his wound had begun to fester and the pain tossed his mind like some small play toy. He saw himself in a dark cavern that last night, descending endlessly.

When he finally reached the end of his descent, Jasper Merian was waiting for his grandson before a massive gate. He took from Caleum his old sword, which the living was at first hesitant to relinquish, and handed him a carved stick to help him walk. He bid Caleum to follow, and led the way through the entrance. They emerged in one of the gigantic rooms of that place, and soon after reached an open field. When they came into the field, there was a great swarm of people, some in the most tortured positions and others very content. Jasper Merian pointed out each group and explained all the men and beasts there to his grandson as the two of them walked along the bank of a river that flowed through the field, dividing it in half. One of the demi-spheres was hung with dark clouds, while sunshine and abundance ruled over the other. It looked to Caleum like one of the scenes from his sword, and he strained to see all he could, and to understand it.