Historical Fiction: A Collection of Short Stories

Molly Pitcher: Part 2

After the sudden death of Charles Smith, the men and women were understandably shaken. An oppressive fear had settled on the artillery line. With each crack of cannon and musket, I felt myself flinch, waiting for the fatal shot.

William lay under the remnants of a trampled bush, still unconscious. We had stripped him down to his trousers, and tried to shield him from the sun as much as possible, which wasn't as much as I had hoped. Although I didn't know much about military strategy, it didn't take a general to see that we were in serious trouble. The artillery line was grossly undermanned. With the women tending to the wounded and unconscious, many of the remaining guns were overheated or unattended.

"Molly! Pitcher!" I turned at the sound of my name to see Richard Meyers gesturing frantically at his smoking cannon. With my skirt in one hand and a bucket in the other, I rushed to his side. Great waves of steam rolled off of the hot metal as I poured the spring water over it.

There must be more I can do, I thought, glancing over my shoulder at William's abandoned cannon. Without pausing to think, lest I change my mind, I starting loading the cannon in the manner I had seen William do a hundred times.

Luckily, his cannon only required two-pound solid shot, which made it possible for me to handle it without help. The black metal was warm under my hands as I swabbed the inside of the barrel. With the charge in place, I rammed the ball down to the base of the barrel, and primed the touchhole with a powder bag.

My tongue darted over my dry, dusty lips. It was time to fire. Swallowing the lump that had risen in my throat, I lit the linstock and flung up a prayer. Oh God, please let this work.

After a few tense moments, a terrific bang sounded from the cannon. Richard jerked at the sound and turned to face me. His gaze shifted from the smoking cannon to my powder-blackened hands, and his mouth dropped open. Not knowing what to say, I simply nodded at him and began cooling the cannon with what was left in my pitcher.

As I worked the cannon, my actions became mechanical and my body slaved away without conscious thought. Swab. Charge. Ball. Prime. Fire. Over and over again, until my eyes burned and my hands blistered.

"Incoming!"

So focused on my work, I barely had time to register the panicked warning shout. Suddenly there was a loud whooshing noise, and my skirts were being ripped apart. Startled, I looked down to discover that my dress was in tatters between my legs.

"Molly," Sarah choked. I whirled around to face her, and noticed the cannonball resting a distance behind us, half buried by the force with which it had driven into the ground. "The cannonball... your legs..." she blurted, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

I pulled my skirts aside to reveal my whole, if not rather dirty, legs. At the sight, Sarah's knees buckled and she dropped to the ground. "I thought you were hit for sure. It went right between your legs!" Under the red of her sunburn, I could see that the blood had drained from her face.

The ball had indeed passed between my legs, tearing my clothes but leaving me miraculously unscathed. With a shaky smile, I met Sarah's eyes and shrugged.

"Well, that could have been worse."

The End