Huzzah for Betsy (Part 2/2)

June, 1778

	"Betsy!" she heard a friendly voice bark very close to her face, "Come on, wake up, girl!"
	She felt her upper half being held up by someone and heard the sound of almost rhythmic footsteps continuously marching beside her. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw Davis' clean-shaven face about a foot away from her own. In her daze, she found herself happily staring into his concerned green eyes. There was something hypnotic about his masculine demeanor; she found herself extremely attracted to it, despite never having felt lust of any kind before first meeting him. In the months that followed the false alarm at Valley Forge, she grew more confident and somewhat obsessive about him. Wherever they camped, they would exchange stories for hours on end about their lives before the war. For instance, she told him about the Turners and a previous owner that she heard became a loyalist and joined the British army, and in return he revealed his boyhood apprenticeship as a carpenter. Needless to say, as time passed, she started having quite vulgar thoughts about witnessing Davis' "woodworking" skills firsthand.
	She would never admit it to him, but she occasionally fantasized about slow dancing with him in a crowded manor, the walls adorned with the flags of their victorious new nation. Clad in a beautiful green ballgown and him in the spotless uniform of at least a captain's rank, she could see every detail of their clothes. As the orchestra's music swelled, they would share a tender kiss, them and the rest of the party forgetting that she's not even human. Her commitment to Mrs. Turner would be abandoned and she would spend the rest of her existence by Davis' side.
	It was a silly dream, but she felt it was specific enough that it might come true one day, like a vision of the future.
	Certain she was awake, he quickly lifted her to her feet and slapped her dropped musket back into her hands.
	"Come on, we have to fall back in line. You just collapsed on the march!" he said with slight frustration in his voice.
	She was dragged back to reality, and the familiar sense of shame followed as he held her by the arm, hurriedly guiding her back to their position in the travelling army. Most of the men were becoming tired, carrying their muskets in any manner they found comfortable, thankful that their officers weren't bothering to reprimand them. Some informal chatter was even allowed by the higher-ups, just as long as it didn't reach an improper volume. They were technically still on a stealth march, after all.
	"I'm sorry, I... I don't know what happened," she said, "Harris wound me up good and tight before we left, and that was only two hours ago! I shouldn't have wound down this early!"
	"I'm no engineer, but I'm certain there is something wrong with your inner workings, Betsy." Attempting to wipe the dry dirt off her uniform, she frowned after hearing him say that. He wasn't wrong, but she was reminded of her deteriorating mechanical form; small pieces unpredictably broke or faltered that affected much larger functions. A single chipped cog might render her arm completely limp, and on the coldest days of winter, she would have trouble winding up at all.
	Often she wondered what it felt like to be human. She would be vulnerable to all forms of disease and injury, but she would garner much more respect when interacting with strangers. Even if an organic body would be just as unpredictable as her wooden form, a human woman can at least give birth, while a clockwork robot just works with no ultimate goal in its life of unknown length.
	Just as they finally reached their places in the infantry column, the narrow wooded lane opened up to a much wider clearing. Not far ahead, a long line of cavalry emerged from another path and trotted across the field perpendicular to them.
	"BATTALION, HALT!" the unknown general at the front commanded in order to let the horsemen pass. In the lull in the march, Betsy straightened her hat and turned towards Davis. She had been dancing around confessing her feelings to him for months, and though they weren't exactly in private, the urge to send some kind of message was extremely tempting. To do it properly, Betsy would have to be subtle.
	"...You're absolutely right. Perhaps one of my internal wires became loose, and that's why my gears are rotating much faster than usual. The next time we set up camp, would you mind inspecting my back panel?"
	He gave her a confused look. Had he not just stated that he knew nothing about clockwork mechanisms? Going for broke, she gave him an uncharacteristic smile and wink. She figured it would finally get across her strong attraction to him, and it did, though possibly too well.
	"Betsy..." he sighed with annoyance, "Do you keep forgetting the fact that I'm married? You spoke to my wife several times at Valley Forge, yet I've repeatedly noticed you making suggestive comments towards me as if I were single. I'm sorry, and I don't hate you at all, but I won't leave my darling wife for a wooden machine, even if she WASN'T with child."
	His WIFE?
	All at once, the truth that she repressed in order to entertain her fantasy uncovered itself. Davis was happily married since before she met him, he held no romantic feelings for her, and she was just a mechanical servant. She was crushed, but she kept her eyes forward to avoid worsening the situation with a counterargument.
	"Yes, corporal. I apologize, sir," she sheepishly stated, accepting defeat.

	Following the British army's recent evacuation of Philadelphia, the redcoats began the long march through New Jersey towards New York City, where the high loyalist population meant a lesser amount of harassment from its citizens. However, Washington was not far behind with his own men. His plan was to quickly march around General Clinton's army and ambush him from the front, all on ground of Washington's choosing. First, the infantry would meet theirs head-on while the artillery would bombard them from an elevated position. Then, the Continental cavalry would flank their infantry, forcing them to retreat or fall back at the very least. If they still held some of the ground, the process would repeat until the British either ran out of men or scurried away.
	It sounded so simple, like a textbook example of a tactical victory. Of course, as Betsy herself once learned, war is anything but predictable.
	It was later in the morning, and the scorching sun intensely beat down on the American army like nothing many had seen before. Disobeying their officer's orders, many had chosen to unbutton the tops of their vests in a desperate attempt to cool themselves down. The march had thankfully stopped, and the infantry had formed in three long battle lines just over a short wide hill, a section of woods to their back in the event of a hasty retreat. Just as soon as the redcoats would peek over the hill, they would be within firing distance, cut to pieces by a barrage of lead and buckshot. On paper, it was all too perfect.
	The 6th Massachusetts was placed at the front of the three rows, kneeling on the ground to fire in succession of the lines behind them. In the distance, the battle-ready Continentals could hear the halfhearted fife and drums of the unsuspecting British army slowly approaching. On the march, the heat made both sides equally sluggish, so Betsy preemptively imagined the shock the redcoats would face in mere minutes.
	Harris pulled out a rusted watch from his vest pocket and flipped it open. 11:36 AM, it read. "If we win this battle," he said to Betsy with a cocky grin, "I'll buy everyone in the regiment a bottle of whiskey!"
	Several nearby men chuckled at his comment, but Betsy was in no mood for humor after Davis' unrestrained rejection, so she chose not to respond.
	Turning her attention back to the hill, she suddenly saw a handful of spread apart British skirmishers advance over the crest and freeze in fear. In front of them stood an army hundreds of times larger than their small group.
	The Continental officers gave no orders to their men while the few skirmishers continued their nervous advance. Moments later, several flags rose up from the hilltop, the centermost one being the dreaded Union flag of Great Britain. Not far behind the colors were multiple lines of advancing redcoats stretching further than the Continental deployment. They were formed in their own lines of battle, fully prepared to face an American ambush.
	All the confidence promptly drained from Harris' face. "...I don't think you'll have to worry about buying whiskey tonight, John," Davis said with his eyes trained on the British.
	"REAR RANKS, MAKE READY!" an American officer yelled, and all his troops fully cocked their muskets in preparation to fire. All but the front two British lines halted on the hilltop, the rest of the redcoats still approaching.
	"...TAKE AIM!" the same officer shouted, and the Continentals lowered their guns at the first wave of the sea of red. It was moments after this that the two closest British lines finally came to a stop at their own commander's order.
	"FIRE!" and an explosive volley blasted over the 6th Massachusetts' heads. Dozens of redcoats dropped immediately while the many remaining soldiers cocked their firelocks.
	"RELOAD! FRONT RANK, RISE UP! READY... TAKE AIM..."
	Before Betsy's line could fire, the British discharged their guns, her regiment absorbing the lead that would have hit the men behind them. Of the many Continentals that fell, Betsy wasn't one of them, but Harris scrunched up and fell to the ground screaming.
	"FIRE!"
	Her line launched a volley at the redcoats, though Betsy's eyes were fixed on Harris in agony the ground beside her. She didn't even know if her shot hit anyone, nor did she care; one of her closest friends was dying in front of her and there was nothing she could do. In seconds, Harris stopped his shrieking, rolled over on his side, shakily mumbled something she couldn't hear, and then stared straight ahead with unblinking eyes.
	"CHAAARGE, BAYONETS!"
	Her attention was quickly pulled back to the battle itself. Nobody knew if the order was for all of them or only the front rank. Regardless, all the Continental lines, a disorganized mass of ragged blue uniforms wielding razor-sharp bayonets, rushed towards the redcoats as they were reloading. A battle cry as loud as a volley rang out from the Americans as they stormed up the hill. Though they were not outnumbered by any stretch, it was too much for a British officer to handle. "FRONT RANKS, FALL BACK!" an accented voice faintly yelled.
	It was the wrong order for the officer to give. The front two red lines spun around and almost collided with those waiting behind them. Only the rear ranks had loaded muskets with bayonets fixed, but they could not fire or stab through their own men, so when the Continentals reached them, the British front lines fell apart.
	In the chaos, Betsy plunged her bayonet into the gut of an older redcoat and watched him stumble backwards. She felt no pity for him; it was revenge on Harris' behalf. To her left, somehow Davis managed to reload and fired a point blank shot into the British soldier aiming at Betsy. Dodging another bayonet thrust and seeing a ball graze the hair dangling on the side of her head, she suddenly heard the loud sound of frantically galloping horses. Only catching a single terrifying glance at its source, she saw a thick column of black-hatted British dragoons charging at their right flank. Their sharp swords were raised and some had drawn their pistols. Mashing against the redcoats in an orderless fashion, the cavalry could easily sweep the confused colonists off the landscape and back into the woods in little time.
	Almost as fast as Betsy could mutter a call for help from above, several horses at the front suddenly burst into gore and fell over, picking apart the now halted charge. Without even looking to her left, she knew the Continental artillery had arrived, and not a moment too soon. Realizing their futility, the remaining dragoons about-faced and retreated up the hill to rejoin their army's main body, dodging more cannonballs on the way.
	They had almost done to the Americans what the latter planned to do against them, but now neither were in the position to be easily dislodged by a few horses.

	It was now hours later in the late afternoon. The sun wasn't yet touching the horizon, but the sky was nevertheless starting to burn a pinkish-orange color in the west. The field had changed hands three times throughout the day of intense combat, but neither side appeared any weaker than the other. The Continental cavalry failed to arrive before 3 PM, yet the infantry and artillery managed to hold their own without their assistance.
	 With his army reinforced and currently holding most of the ground, Washington lengthened his infantry lines with all his reserves, determined to end the battle shortly. As both sides' cannons blindly bombarded each other from hundreds of yards away, Betsy waited alongside her scarred regiment behind the crest of another hill, hidden from British sight. She had suffered minor damage throughout the battle and was nearly out of ammunition, but that was not what was bothering her.
	She hadn't seen Davis in at least two hours and was beginning to assume the worst. Her rational side tried to calm her down by reasoning that he may be somewhere else in the line, but none of those around her were wearing the lone epaulette of a corporal. The face-down American corpse laying about 20 feet away, however, was.
	Betsy tried not to panic as she stared at the body. She again convinced herself that it might not be Davis, as the crooked hat covered up the back of his head and she couldn't tell if he had Davis' recognizable dirty blonde hair. As more regiments formed up on her sides and awaited orders, a small detail of men ran across her front and began prematurely pulling bodies away before the battle's end. As they lifted one up, the dead corporal was rolled over so his face was in clear view of Betsy's.
	It was Davis. Half of his head was gone, but she could reluctantly identify the remaining half. Her body started trembling when his glazed green eye met hers, and she couldn't physically stare at him a second longer than she needed to.
	"William, no..." she whimpered. Once the detail dragged his repulsive remains out of her sight, she understood what being disgusted felt like, and she fruitlessly hoped she would never see anyone mangled that badly again. A British cannonball whizzed over her head, missing it by only six feet, yet she was too distraught to flinch.
	"CHARGE, BAYONETS!"
	Washington's own voice at the rear let the troops know the order was for all of them. As they pointed their muskets forward, Betsy felt a white hot flame growing inside her. It was not fair to lose both her best friends on the very first battle after Valley Forge. The whole bloody afternoon had built up to this moment, and it was time to force Clinton's army off the field once and for all.
	"PUSH FORWARD!"
	Betsy stormed over the hill with imaginary tears in her eyes, hollering as loud as the thousands of men joining her. As they descended, they saw the redcoats already in retreat; most of the infantry and cavalry were gone, but all the fully-manned artillery batteries were still in place. A constant barrage of cannon fire struck down only a handful of the colonists, as they moved too quickly to be easy targets. The few thin lines of regulars presented their arms, waiting for the Continentals to come within range. However, the charging American lines stayed relatively intact and outnumbered those of the British. The redcoats shot a few meager volleys at them once they were within a hundred yards, but they could not even slow down the assault of blue ragged men. Near the very front of the charge was Betsy herself, unscathed by the volley and believing her lost comrades were protecting her from beyond the grave.
	"HUZZAH!" she shouted, "HUZZAH FOR WASHINGTON! DEATH TO KING GEORGE!"
	Upon firing their last shots, the redcoats turned tail and sprinted as fast as their heavy gear could let them. It was a glorious sight, but unfortunately Betsy did not savor it for long.
	Just as she watched the Union flag disappear into the brush on the far end of the field, a six pound British cannonball came bounding towards her from the corner of her eye. It struck her right through the center of her torso, shattering her midsection into thousands of wooden shards and tiny metal cogs that soon littered the ground. She collapsed dead instantly.

	Upon his victory that evening, General Washington was requested by the colonel of the 6th Massachusetts Infantry to examine the body of a very unique soldier recovered from the hills. When he presented her to the general, the latter had no clue that a wooden contraption had ever been serving in his army, nor did he know of her impressive record. He did however make a brief statement regarding her appropriate name, declaring it very fitting of her to be placed at the front of the final advance that day, under the watchful eye of Betsy Ross' immortal flag.
	Regrettably, Betsy's legacy is mostly lost to time. The impact of mass-produced clockwork nandroids in the following century's major war greatly overshadowed the efforts of a single handmade robot in the Revolution. Her remains were exhumed from the plot of land in Massachusetts that was once the Turner cottage in 1913 and transferred to a small park in northern Virginia. The bronze plaque that marks her burial site is not often photographed by its visitors, but she is still honored by the 13-star flag that flies on a tall pole not far away.