Waxhaws Patriot

The Waxhaws Patriot is a short story based on the Historic battle of Waxhaws during the American Revolution. It follows a Militiaman named Edwards and his take on the battle.

Dearest Sarah,    May 28th, 1780

    Officer Abraham Buford has given us the order to continue our march northward. Even now, I barely find time to write to you. Rumors have gone around that we’re being tailed, which would explain the colonials anticipation to keep us on the move; Because we’re the only combat capable men available in the southern colonies left to fight any British advances. I do fear that we’re prime targets for our now sworn enemy. My wishes on seeing you again soon; hope you're faring well in Virginia.
                                                                                                  Your love,
                                                                                        Edward Locke             

    “Edward! Get a move on; hurry up and get your gear,” bellowed a powerful voice; a voice that has been hardened by war. 
“Shut it John, can’t a man write to his wife in peace,” replied the far less serious voice of Edward, a recently recruited Militiaman. After a brief silence,coupled with stern gazes among both men, a sudden boom of laughter rung out from John.
 “Boy, what did I tell you it's Johnny, not John! Quit being lazy and say it correctly,” said Johnny, with the clear appearance of superiority. He was a towering man, all but dwarfed Edward. Who could just barely top his head after a jump.
“Yeah, whatever John, Johnny whichever. Mind grabbing a musket for me?”
    “The way you talk to your seniors makes me what to throw a one at you,” replied Johnny, now heading towards a pyramid of muskets.

    It only took a few moments and various rounds of shouting for the whole detachment to mobilize into a marching formation, Indigo uniforms on,muskets at hand. Johnny being gigantic like a man on his horse. Stood out like a sore thumb in formation compared to his comrade in arms Edward.
“Hey John, have any ideas on where were off marching to?” asked Edward, looking forward keeping with the brisk pace of the march.
 “For the last time it’s Johnny. Anyway, I’m not sure myself on our destination, only the rumors floating around of a British force right behind us,” replied Johnny with uncertainty in his answer. 
“Ah, well I suppose we're still heading towards the Waxhaws region as before,” briefly replied Edward with the same level of uncertainty.

    The rest of the march was done in silence with the only noise being the rhythmic stamping of feet and musket clanging. An order came to form a single file column, which without question was rapidly fulfilled to much of the silent confusement of the soldiers.
“Alright men, listen up! Form a single column! I regret to inform you that the lobsterbacks are on our tail. Be prepared just in case a fight is in store. In the meantime, keep marching we will rest at Waxhaws creek just up ahead,” yelled commander Abraham Buford, whilst he trotted around on his horse in front of the men.
 “Good, my feet are killing me after all this marching,” whispered Edward, to his by now best friend, Johnny the giant. However due to various men taking off their gear in a haste, there was no response.

    “Phew, finally a place to rest these old bones. They sure don’t like march's nowadays,” said Johnny, ignorant to Edward’s previous statement.
“Buts that's what I...never mind. Have any water man? I didn’t have the time to fill my canteen up,” asked Edward, motioning towards Johnny’s canteen.
 “Nah, sorry empty as well,” replied Johnny with a shake of his head.
The collective rise of men like a hive mind, startled Edward at first; Johnny took longer to realize. It was a Redcoat carrying a white flag, likely a messenger; heading straight for Buford. It only took a few moments for Buford to exclaim in exasperation out loud to the surrender offer; the whole detachment was silent as the parley took place.
 "I reject your proposals, and shall defend myself to the last extremity," Buford scuffed out loud what he wrote down. Once finished he handed the note to the messenger, whom took off briefly afterwards with a somber look on his face.

    “Men! Form a single battle column when I order a halt, the lobsterbacks caught up to us. But I assure you are numbers are far superior to the that bluffing Tarlton! I want you to show them what for! Hold your fire until they’re within ten yards, in the meantime keep marching,” profoundly shouted Buford without any hesitation.
 “Johnny, did you see all that?” Stumbled Edward, clearly shocked at this sudden development that he just witnessed.
“I would be much more happy if it never happened,” replied Johnny with a flat face; a face use to these kinds of events.

    About four hours later the halt order was given. It only took the presence of the British just behind them to send some men into shaking fits; after all most were just untrained Militiamen, not professional soldiers.
“Jo-John, you're seeing this right? Please tell me this isn't real, please.” Once again stumbled Edward whose eyes were fresh to war, the eyes of a farmer, a father, and a husband.
“Edward, I’m going to need you to calm down. Look we severely outnumber them, there is no way they're foolish enough to take on a numerically superior force,” confidently replied Johnny, whose eyes where use to this kind of sight.

    “Remember men! Hold your fire till they're within ten yards! Let's make this a swift fight and teach those lobsterbacks not to mess with us,” humbly repeated Abraham Buford, rehashing his speech just four hours earlier. As if a single mind, all the men hoisted their arms up in preparation for the fight yet to come. The British on the other hand split up into three separate columns. Which further boosting the militias confidence in their numerical superiority. Their right was solely made up of mounted men. The left was a mixture of fighting men from the middle and calvary.
“They're charging! Here they come!” shouted a random patriot in the then 420 men strong column of pure meat and muskets. Just as ordered, they held their fire and waited. Watching the British inching ever closer at a brisk pace, continued their charge. Moments later the order sounded.
“Fire!” roared the commander as the British crossed the threshold; a bit too close for comfort for most. Immediately, the uproar of  Muskets all firing at once deafened the ears of all men involved; the smoke doing the same for their vision. After a slight moment of recovery from the collective blast of Muskets. The return fire from the British once again blinded and deafened every fighting man. Making it seem as if the British had vanished.

    “Where did they go!” screamed Edward to no one in general, whilst attempting to reload his musket. The offset of ringing was only replaced by the horrifying screams of men behind him as the line broke up. Edward turning around saw a sight he would never forget. It was the sight of muskets sticking out of men, gashing wounds made by cavalrymen, and a battlefield littered with crumpled bodies. Edward  frantically began looking for Johnny,  even during all the chaos of battle.
“John! John!” Calling for him was futile, the mixture of screams and horses only made a response impossible to hear.
“Ed-Edward,” muttered a man tugging at Edward’s heel like a child would to their mother.


    “John!” screamed Edward, unable to create anymore sentences as he collapsed on his knees to see his friend, Johnny the giant, covered in blood.
 “It’s...Johnny,” Johnny mustered with a faint laughing cough as he spit up blood.
“Why are you joking around now! Your bleeding, god it's so much,” Edward again stumbled on his words, on the verge of crying.
 “Ed, it won't be much longer, I’m going home soon. Keep fighting those,” Johnny barely managed to say before spitting up a  tremendous amount of blood and falling silent, eyes still open.
“John! John! Wake up John! Please-please come back,” Edward said fighting off his own tears. His best friend was dead.

    Men continued to fall from all angles. The cavalry showed absolutely no mercy. Those whom  collapsed on their feet in surrender were only brutally hacked down. Edward’s grief was only replaced with an uncontrollable blazing rage. Edward got up and charged blindly into a crowd of blurry red. The only assurance given to him from the blind charge was the sudden halt of his bayonet plunging into a soldier's torso. He looked up at his victim, whom also managed to look up at Edward,his killer. The red of his coat only darkened as he began to collapse. Only after pulling out his bayonet did Edward notice his grave mistake; he was surrounded.

    The brutality displayed by the British throughout the battle, went fully unleashed on Edward. Shortly after watching his victim collapse. He felt multiple foreign objects entered his body, the adrenaline dulling the pain. But he too soon collapsed, vision dulling to black.
“ Ha,serves that rebel right!” scoffed one of Edwards stabbers as his hearing began to fail him. “He, got what came to him!” seconded another stabber. Edward couldn’t bother to listen anymore, he was drained. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep; so he did.

Dearest Sarah,                             

    It was a brutal defeat at Waxhaws, many brave men died that day, many more wounded or captured. I hope you're faring well in Virginia with our little boy, raise him well. I ask you to remind him not to worry of his father's absence. We will all see each other once again someday. I love you both. But It's time for me to go home now.

                                   
                           Your love,
                     Edward Locke
                        1758-1780

Author's Note

The grammar isn't the best, But I did have some help in corrections.