DEATH IS ETERNAL #427

3,000 words

I don’t have much to say, only that it’s a new week, which means a new DEATH IS ETERNAL. So, let’s see what I’ll concoct this time.

Contents

1. TIDES OF THE ST. LAWRENCE

2. Bye!

3. Life (from November 11 to 24, 2024)

4. Reviews #351, #352, #353, and #354: JACKIE BROWN, HONEYMOON IN VEGAS, COURTOIS: THE RETURN OF THE NUMBER 1, and ZATANNA: BRING DOWN THE HOUSE by Mariko Tamaki, Javier Rodríguez, Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou, and others

5. The end

1. TIDES OF THE ST. LAWRENCE

Photo by Julie Boulanger on Unsplash

The sun was low on the horizon, fading shadows across the muddy fields of Crysler’s Farm. A cold November wind swept through the wheat, carrying with it the smell of wet earth and the faint rumble of the St. Lawrence River. Lieutenant Samuel Mathers of the 89^th Regiment huddled into his greatcoat, gripping his musket tightly as he waited in formation, his mind racing with nerves and anticipation.

Mathers glanced at the lines of British and Canadian soldiers around him. They were woefully outnumbered, a mere nine hundred against the American forces that were easily double, possibly triple, their size. Still, his comrades wore expressions of steely resolve. Their officers had assured them that they had the advantage, that the uneven, marshy terrain would play in their favour. But as far as Mathers was concerned, all he could see was the rain-soaked mud that would soon become a battlefield.

The first sounds of skirmishes started as early as dawn, stray shots echoing across the fields. A lone Mohawk scout had fired at a small American party scouting their position, and that single crack had sent both sides into a flurry of activity. Shouts rang out as soldiers scrambled to form ranks, abandoning half-cooked breakfasts and quickly gathering their weapons.

By midday, the Americans were advancing in earnest. From his position, Mathers watched the steady approach of blue-coated soldiers on the far side of the field, moving with cautious determination. The first brigade under General Boyd was coming directly at them through the woods along the river.

“Hold your fire, men!” barked Lieutenant Colonel Morrison, the British commander. Morrison’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. Mathers could see the Colonel standing firm; his gaze locked onto the advancing Americans as if daring them to break their line.

Beside him, Sergeant Crysler, a local militia leader and namesake of the farm, steadied his small detachment. Crysler’s knowledge of the land was invaluable, and he had been pivotal in selecting this field for the confrontation. The American soldiers, advancing with their bayonets fixed, were sinking ankle-deep into the mud, the wheat clinging to their botts as they struggled forward.

The first volley rang out, the sharp crack of muskets reverberating across the open field. Mathers fired his own shot, feeling the recoil jar through his arms. Smoke and gunpowder filled the air, choking and acrid. In the distance, he could see the Americans falter, some men going down while others pressed forward, urged on by their officers.

The Americans launched a fierce assault. Lieutenant General Leonard Covington led his men in a bold charge, misjudging the British and Canadian line in their grey greatcoats for local militia. “Come on, men! Let’s see how you deal with these militiamen!” he shouted. His voice was defiant, but only moments later, a shot struck him down, and his men recoiled in shock and confusion.

Mathers watched as Convington fell, his horse rearing back in panic. The Americans wavered, and a tiny ripple of hope coursed through the British and Canadian lines. Yet, the enemy regrouped quickly, throwing themselves forward once more. Musket balls whizzed past Mathers’s head, striking down soldiers around him. He could feel the thrum of adrenaline in his veins, fear and excitement colliding as he reloaded and fired again, the rhythm of battle overtaking him,

Behind the British and Canadian lines, Captain Mulcaster’s gunboats, stationed along the St. Lawrence, provided cover fire, harassing American reinforcements and disrupting their lines. The cannonades were deafening, each boom echoing over the fields, adding to the chaos. Mathers barely registered it as his focus narrowed on the enemy in front of him; each musket shot was a matter of survival.

Suddenly, he heard a cry of alarm from the left. The American Dragoons, their cavalry unit, had found an opening and were charging directly to the British and Canadian flank. Mathers’s heart leaped into his throat as he saw the gleaming sabres of the American riders, their horses’s hooves churning up mud as they bore down on the British line.

But the 49^th Regiment held steady. Ordered by Lieutenant Colonel John Harvey, they reformed quickly, presenting a solid line of bayonets as the Dragoons approached. The Dragoons pulled up short, realizing the futility of charging headlong into the sharp points. They retreated, regrouping for another attempt, but the British and Canadians had bought themselves precious seconds.

As the afternoon dragged on, exhaustion began to set in. The mud was relentless, sucking at their boos and weighing them down. Bodies littered the field, red and blue coats mingling in the thickening sludge. Despite the overwhelming American numbers, the British and Canadian soldiers held their ground, firing and falling back, then surging forward once more.

Mathers could feel the weight of the fight pressing down on him. His musket was heavy, and each reload felt slower, his hands numb from cold and strain. But every glance around showed him his comrades still standing, still fighting, and he took strength from their shared resolve. This was their land, their home, and they would defend it at any cost.

Finally, as the day waned and the sun dipped below the horizon, the American lines began to break. The British and Canadians had to endure, and the Americans, battered and dispirited, began to retreat. Mathers watched in disbelief as the blue coats pulled back, fading into the shadows of the woods. He let out a shaky breath, realizing that he was still alive, that they had somehow, against all odds, driven the Americans back.

A weary cheer rose from the British ranks, though it was subdued, tempered by the sight of their fallen comrades around them. The victory was theirs, but it had come at great cost.

As night settled over the battlefield, Mathers sat on the cold, hard ground, cradling his musket. Around him, soldiers murmured in low voices, speaking of friends lost, of the brutal fight they had survived. He felt a strange mixture of pride and sorrow, knowing that this battle would be remembered, that they had protected their land from invasion.

In the distance, the St. Lawrence River flowed steadily, its waters dark and deep, an eternal witness to the struggle on its banks. The battle was over, but the war continued, and as Mathers looked out over the field, he wondered what other trials lay ahead.

The end

2. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.