InfamousPanda
December 11th, 2012, 07:32 PM
Below are the words found in the scavenged remains of Stephen Nobles war journal. Nearly destroyed by time and ware, the only remaining memory found in this book is his firsthand account of The Battle of Bunker Hill.
June 17, 1775
8:00 a.m.
We were huddled together, my fellow Patriots and I, mystified by the words being shouted out by General Putnam. He walked back and forth with a slow and confident stride, across grass that was still wet with morning dew. The General looked into the eyes of each man that stood before him, including myself, before continuing his speech.
“I have no fear of the British and neither shall you,” his voice echoed over Breed Hill and into the ears of every colonial soldier, “for what they gain in weapons and numbers, they lack in spirit and virtue. Us patriots, we possess a quality unfamiliar to the British Regulars, and that quality is passion. Our passion for freedom is stronger than any cannon or musket the redcoats drag onto the battlefield. So stay strong men, conserve your ammunition, and above all else,” Putnam paused briefly, and I felt my anticipation for the words to come grow unbearable, “don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” Our cheers rang louder than the cannons that had been bombarding our makeshift fortifications since dusk.
I’ll never forget those words, whether my last breath is drawn today at the wrong end of a musket, or years from now. General Putnam’s speech inspired hope, a hope that one day we shall truly be free from the tyranny of the crown. I feel for the first time that I have a chance to survive this war.
1:15 p.m.
We’ve finally seen action. The first wave of British troops marched towards our position, hell-bent on conquering Breed and Bunker Hill. I remember every gruesome detail with an acute perfection, the memory of this battle never to be erased from the depths of my mind. When the order came I jumped up from behind the stone redoubt, aiming my rifle at the first unlucky blur of red that came into my field of vision. My finger squeezed the trigger, painting the grass with the dark color of a man’s fresh blood. My eyes never left him; I watched as he fell to the ground, clutching the gaping hole in his chest. His lifeless body was followed by those of his peers, redcoat after redcoat dropped as the guns beside me roared to life, spitting death at anything that lay before them. In the end, as smoke slowly drifted from the battlefield, we saw that we had won this fight. I suspect more to come before the day is out, but for now I am content.
2:45 p.m.
My suspicions were correct; more Recoats marched towards our position, clinging to their muskets as if doing so would grant them a life that saw long past the battles of this day. Did they gain another hour, a day, a fortnight? No, for this fray saw similar results to the first and ended with British defeat.
Although another victory has been awarded to the Sons of Liberty, I find myself unsure on whether or not we can stand another assault. I ponder the question as I sit here, leaning against the redoubt and watching for enemy troops. Can we keep going? I am positive that every soldier will fight their best, but surviving two attacks has left us little ammunition; many men go without a bullet in their musket. The few bayonets we have spread out amongst our tired soldiers aren’t enough to save us if the British push through and infiltrate our meager defenses. Furthermore, where are our reinforcements? Men and ammunition from Bunker Hill should have arrived to provide aid, but we are left by ourselves. The fate of this battle is unclear to me.
These concerns weigh heavily on my mind; our future is one that seems dark, like the cloudy horizon of a day plagued with rain. Every rainy day is followed by sunshine, so I hold out hoping that my rainy day is followed by all of the happiness sunshine entails. I will fight with a passion unseen by the world so far.
June 18, 1775
3:00 a.m.
Defeat; the word rings through my head like the sound of musket fire on the battlefield. We were unable to defend ourselves when the Redcoats came, and because of this, Breed and Bunker Hill is now in their possession. Seeing as our ammunition was nearly depleted, the British were able to parade directly into our camp and slaughter our men. Tonight, many men have met their demise with a bayonet heaved into their gut, and the last image seen is the evil grin of a Redcoat. Our loss is a tragic one, indeed.
I am ashamed, so much so that I fear traveling home to my beloved Ruth. How can I face her with the guilt of this defeat fresh in my mind? I will - *after this point the journal’s script is worn out, left ineligible*
June 17, 1775
8:00 a.m.
We were huddled together, my fellow Patriots and I, mystified by the words being shouted out by General Putnam. He walked back and forth with a slow and confident stride, across grass that was still wet with morning dew. The General looked into the eyes of each man that stood before him, including myself, before continuing his speech.
“I have no fear of the British and neither shall you,” his voice echoed over Breed Hill and into the ears of every colonial soldier, “for what they gain in weapons and numbers, they lack in spirit and virtue. Us patriots, we possess a quality unfamiliar to the British Regulars, and that quality is passion. Our passion for freedom is stronger than any cannon or musket the redcoats drag onto the battlefield. So stay strong men, conserve your ammunition, and above all else,” Putnam paused briefly, and I felt my anticipation for the words to come grow unbearable, “don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” Our cheers rang louder than the cannons that had been bombarding our makeshift fortifications since dusk.
I’ll never forget those words, whether my last breath is drawn today at the wrong end of a musket, or years from now. General Putnam’s speech inspired hope, a hope that one day we shall truly be free from the tyranny of the crown. I feel for the first time that I have a chance to survive this war.
1:15 p.m.
We’ve finally seen action. The first wave of British troops marched towards our position, hell-bent on conquering Breed and Bunker Hill. I remember every gruesome detail with an acute perfection, the memory of this battle never to be erased from the depths of my mind. When the order came I jumped up from behind the stone redoubt, aiming my rifle at the first unlucky blur of red that came into my field of vision. My finger squeezed the trigger, painting the grass with the dark color of a man’s fresh blood. My eyes never left him; I watched as he fell to the ground, clutching the gaping hole in his chest. His lifeless body was followed by those of his peers, redcoat after redcoat dropped as the guns beside me roared to life, spitting death at anything that lay before them. In the end, as smoke slowly drifted from the battlefield, we saw that we had won this fight. I suspect more to come before the day is out, but for now I am content.
2:45 p.m.
My suspicions were correct; more Recoats marched towards our position, clinging to their muskets as if doing so would grant them a life that saw long past the battles of this day. Did they gain another hour, a day, a fortnight? No, for this fray saw similar results to the first and ended with British defeat.
Although another victory has been awarded to the Sons of Liberty, I find myself unsure on whether or not we can stand another assault. I ponder the question as I sit here, leaning against the redoubt and watching for enemy troops. Can we keep going? I am positive that every soldier will fight their best, but surviving two attacks has left us little ammunition; many men go without a bullet in their musket. The few bayonets we have spread out amongst our tired soldiers aren’t enough to save us if the British push through and infiltrate our meager defenses. Furthermore, where are our reinforcements? Men and ammunition from Bunker Hill should have arrived to provide aid, but we are left by ourselves. The fate of this battle is unclear to me.
These concerns weigh heavily on my mind; our future is one that seems dark, like the cloudy horizon of a day plagued with rain. Every rainy day is followed by sunshine, so I hold out hoping that my rainy day is followed by all of the happiness sunshine entails. I will fight with a passion unseen by the world so far.
June 18, 1775
3:00 a.m.
Defeat; the word rings through my head like the sound of musket fire on the battlefield. We were unable to defend ourselves when the Redcoats came, and because of this, Breed and Bunker Hill is now in their possession. Seeing as our ammunition was nearly depleted, the British were able to parade directly into our camp and slaughter our men. Tonight, many men have met their demise with a bayonet heaved into their gut, and the last image seen is the evil grin of a Redcoat. Our loss is a tragic one, indeed.
I am ashamed, so much so that I fear traveling home to my beloved Ruth. How can I face her with the guilt of this defeat fresh in my mind? I will - *after this point the journal’s script is worn out, left ineligible*