I remember this incredible battle I once had in Empire Total War. I named it "Wolfe's Drift".
It was in the Road to Independence campaign, in the Seven Years War section. I wanted to snap up some of the Cherokee territories, so I captured one of their towns with a small force of rangers and militia. I had besieged the town, let them come to me, and then smashed their small force of warriors and tribesmen. So I leave the militia to hold the captured town and send my force of about five hundred rangers and a general with his staff north to lay siege to the Cherokee capital.
My train of thought was "it won't be too bad right? There'll only be a few units of warriors and tribesmen right? Right?"
When I get there, one of my sergeants comes to me and says, "the sentries report Cherokees to the northwest sir, thousands of 'em".
My little strike team of five hundred rangers and their general is attacked by a force of over
three thousand Cherokee warriors and tribesmen. Against all of better judgement I decide to stand and fight. I form my men up in a single line of just two ranks in a copse of trees and bushes, a pitifully small force compared to the juggernaut crashing towards me. The Cherokee host comes into sight on the horizon, a sea of brutal looking weapons mixed with a few dozen muskets, a rippling mass of bared torsos and warpaint. My men and their general stoically stand fast as they see their doom approaching.
The ground rumbles as they approach, closer and closer, a tide of righteous anger coming to wash over my band of impudent invaders. The host comes into range, opening the battle with a flurry of shots from their musketmen. Several rangers fall, the wounded who cannot stand crawling back behind the line, grateful for a moments respite from the horde bearing down on them. The great mass of bodies gives a tremendous cheer and surges forward. The order to present goes up along the thin green line, and four hundred and eighty muskets go to four hundred and eighty shoulders. From the Cherokee point of view, it looks as if the whole line of rangers has made a quarter turn to the right. The officers draw breath and bring their swords up, while the Cherokee warriors charge on, confident that the spirits are with them in their struggle against invasion.
"
FIRE!"
The swords come down, the dogheads snap forward, the flint strikes steel, sparks fly, the gunpowder flashes in the pan and half a second later four hundred and eighty three-quarter inch balls of lead explode out of the muzzles and smash into the front ranks of the Cherokee swarm. The men firing the muskets are elite rangers, sharpshooters that have honed their deadly skills in the woods of their homeland. Few of the bullets miss. Without thinking, the green-coated men reload. The musket butts come to the floor, the cartridges are bitten open, a pinch of powder goes in the pan, the rest goes down the barrel, the cartridge paper goes on top of the powder, the bullet is spat down the muzzle, the ramrod is thrust into and out of the barrel, the dogheads come back up and four hundred and eighty musket butts come back to four hundred and eighty shoulders. The dogheads come down again, the powder flashes in the pan again and another four hundred and eighty three-quarter inch balls of lead smash into the Cherokee swarm.
The charge falters, but does not stop. The noise and the smoke disorientate the tribesmen, the dead and dying from the volleys make footing treacherous, but still the tribesmen surge forward. The green coats are within spitting distance, close enough to see the terrified faces of the younger soldiers and the calm faces of the older soldiers. Another volley crashes out, almost at point blank range, and scores more tribesmen fall. The swarm clambers over the piles of dead and dying and are finally able to reach their enemy. Axes swing and thud into flesh. The rangers abandon their firing and fight with the butts of their muskets and with their bare hands. The Cherokees fight with the anger of men fighting for their country, while the rangers fight with the savage desperation of men who know that they will die if they fail. The harsh metallic sounds echo all along the line and the ground becomes red with blood. Wounded men crawl out the fight on both sides of the line, desperate to escape the brutal melee whirling behind them. A mass of horses crash into the fight, as my general makes a desperate charge to beat the enemy back. The heavy, straight bladed swords of the men smash onto men's skulls, killing more by the weight of their blade rather than the sharpness of their blade.
The Cherokee begin to lose heart. Hundreds of their number lie dead or dying, killed by the volleys and by the brass bound musket butts. The men they face are far braver and more skilled than they thought. At the rear of the host, men begin to go back. Some use the pretense of helping the wounded, but eventually the trickle becomes a flood. The Cherokees fall back in disarray. The rangers reform their line, reload and smash more volleys into the retreating enemy. They are too exhausted to pursue, so they use the respite to care for the wounded and check their weapons. For on the horizon, the Cherokee are reforming. Their chief rides among them, exhorting them to another act of courage. Though hundreds of Cherokees are dead and dying, less than three hundred rangers remain, standing in a line that looks even more pitiful than when they started.
The Cherokee surge forward again, the volleys crash out, scores of tribesmen fall and the brutal melee begins anew. The axes and musket butts swing, hands claw at the enemy and the wounded are trampled underfoot. The generals of both armies charge again. Again the Cherokee lose heart, and fall back. The rangers now number just over two hundred. The Cherokees reform again. One last charge should see the impudent British invaders off the Cherokee's land. Another charge, more fall to the volleys that now seem horribly small and the melee begins a third time. Blood flows in rivers as the exhausted tribesmen and green coats fight desperately. But of the Cherokee army of three thousand that had marched to fight the British, almost two thousand lie dead, dying or wounded on the battlefield. Their chief falls, torn from his horse and clubbed to death my a mob of rangers. They fall back, more volleys crash out and the retreat becomes a rout.
The rangers see their enemy fall back and a cheer goes up from the force that now numbers just over a hundred. The cheer is nervous at first, as they fear another charge, but it grows in volume as they realize that the enemy is retreating for good. Men clap each other on the backs and hold their tattered, bullet scarred flags to the sky. The general, with less than ten bodyguards and staff members still on their horses, slumps in his saddle and weeps for joy at his victory, and in sorrow for the cost. The ranger's jubilation swiftly turns to weariness and sadness, as they find dead friends under the piles of corpses. They return to their camp carrying the wounded on their supply wagons. They return under a flag of truce to the battlefield to collect their dead. The Cherokees are their too, collecting their dead and wounded and harbouring a new found respect for these men in green coats who had fought so bravely.
In the British camp, the general sits in his tent before a table strewn with maps and lists. He gives an order: "One day to rest, bury the dead and care for the wounded. The day after, we strike camp and return to British territory". As the blood stained staff officers wearily leave to carry out his orders, the general takes one more look at the maps that he is about to roll up. One thought flashes through his mind.
"I. Will. Return."
