A eyewitness account of the ‘Battle of the Mystic River’ part of the ‘Defense of Somerset’ Campaign

The field before me is filled with smoke, rolling clouds of pale gray smoke float around the gentle glen. The sound of men in all manner and stages of death fill the morning air. Its hard to tell who is winning the battle, for are boys are broken and scattered, there once proud lines reduced to nothing more than lumps of men firing volley after volley.

There large gaps in the line now, the dark blue tunics of the police are mixed in the olive gray tunics of the Militia. Young boys, dressed in there street clothing, wade into the hellish storm of lead, armed with nothing but there wits and courage they rush into the eye of this storm under the banner of the red cross. Some are killed out right, others succeed in there mission and drag back a poor chap who has lost a leg or a arm or a eye.

Its heart breaking to see these poor lads, no more than twelve to thirteen dragging like fellows no more than a few years older than themselves like sacks of coal across the glen to a near by aid station. These aid stations are nothing more than open air operating rooms. The surgeries wear meat coats and dawn leather aprons,  normally they have a dresser with them and four or five strong men to hold the fellow being worked upon down.

I passed one such aid station on my way to this vantage point, a old tavern called  ’The Powder Horn’ had been cleared out. The wounded where resting under the meager shade a tried up pine could offer. Some appeared to young, boys really. The oldest one was gray headed fellow. This fellow, I think knew he was going to die, a bullet to the leg had brought him down and his pants leg was soaked in blood. A look of pain graced his face and his jaw was set tightly down upon the hollowed out bone of a whale. I saw he knew he was going to die, because the doctors where more concerned with the others being brought in from the field.  Those where the main focus of there time and energy

I crossed myself as I passed him and quickly fell behind a group of newly raised youths.

The boys where armed with a mix of weapons, some even shouldered long pikes, while others where armed with scythes. Old hunting pieces and private weapon, everything under the sun that could be used to kill had been handed to the boys, who with the pride of youth boosted that they too would turn the tide.

Indeed at that time, I thought they could turn the tide, that was two hours ago. Now from this high hill, I see the banner they marched under trampled under toe, and a dozen or so bodies laying around it. They never stood a chance. These fellows had been thrown into one of the holes of the line. A flying wedge if you will.

They where doomed from the start. How in the hell could these boys stand up to reds. They fought like hell, no they fought like lions.  Back and forth the action went.  A group of boys would charge some riflemen reloading there rifles. The unlucky fellow would get a steel blade to the throat or the side. Then the pike would be abounded and the rifle of the fallen man taken as a prize.

The rifle might have only fifteen or so rounds, those would be fired and the youth would abounded it in favor or something else. Those poor lions, those poor boys. They where no more than scouts and cadets. I can see what remains of them limping away from the field. Through my spy glass I see many have lost there shoes, there boots. Some are crying, others are dragging the wounded in hand carts.

There abounding there dead, throwing them down like a piece of trash, even this brief taste of battle has left a sour impression upon there young minds. They discard there fallen brothers with the same care one would tossed a used can of soup.

Turning my attention back toward the field, I see the haggard remains of  Column A, holding the center of the field. There command stands firm, side arm lowered, with a sword in the other. Around him gather dozen upon dozens of men. With madness they quickly discharge there  rifles into the oncoming tide.
This has a stunning effect upon those still upon the field. Like a moth to a open flame they are drawn to this line. This little line, this small section of men who refuse to give away are holding the whole balance of the battle in the palm of there hands. And they know it, it seems those who still can fight can sense this and are flocking to ragged banner that has been planted in the soil.

Those brave fellows, those band of brothers are finding themselves in a maelstrom of hot lead, the oncoming attackers are pouring lead into the thin ranks, dropping men left right and center and yet they fight on, holding there ground. Holding there own. Foreman, now stands side by side with workman. Three hundred thousand pound a year business men, now fall right along side those who struggle for a living. And above all, Catholics and Anglicans fight side by side. All united for one common cause, All dying for one common cause.

But this band is now breaking, they do not break in good order, one group fires, covering for the ones who flee, while some just drop there weapons and flee like the deer being chased by the hunters hounds. No, that is to grand of a image, they are more rabbits, fleeing savage hunters. Those boys who fought so well for a hour or so, now flee broken. They are broken in both spirit and health, some are struck in the back as they flee, they fall face first into the slick grass, made damp by the blood of the slain.

As the enemy advances, they are sweeping all before them. My position on this hill is quickly becoming in danger of becoming my grave. I shall withdraw now along with the staff of the forces who where using this hill as an observation post.

 There a sense of disappointment in the air in the tonight. The defending forces have been defeated. The surprise attack by the armed trade unions carried the day.  We are now some fifteen to sixteen from the flowing Mystic River. That is how far we’ve been driven back. The camp if you can call that is nothing more than a collection of tents, field hospitals and men scattered about. There is no order of things, arms lay stacked about like bales of hay.

Many of the men are withdrawing. The officers have lost control of there men. Its horrible, there no clear cut chain of command, the policemen refuse to take orders from militiamen and vise verse. The bulk of the ‘Special Constables’ have left the camp without permission. Many are now returning home.  There  uniforms, dark blue police tunics and sandy brown woolen trousers are being discharged in bundles. There being thrown away in such great number, that the ditch’s that run along side the road are being clogged.

I tried to question these fellows, but none would answer, they are not soldiers. These are not the men who can stand the heat of battle during the day, return to there bedrolls and upon the breaking of the dawn pick up there rifles and return to the field once again to endure it all over again. No these are clerks, meat cutters, loaders, conductors, brokers and lawyers. The taste of today’s blood letting has left a sour taste in there mouth.  They are returning home in hopes of defending there own little homesteads.