Killing England: The Brutal Struggle for American Independence

774 Pages·2017·29.89 MB·English

by  Bill O’Reilly

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Table of Contents
About the Authors
Copyright Page

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Acknowledgments
Stephen Rubin, the best publisher on the planet, and his muse Gillian Blake—an
editor with a great eye.
Eric Simonoff, who puts the deals together and guides the process.
Marty Dugard, the best writing partner a person could have.
Finally, my fourteen-year-old son, Spencer, who loves history and keeps me
on my toes!
B OR
— ILL ’ EILLY
Thanks to Bill O’Reilly, for his vision and genius. Thanks also to the team that
makes the Killing books possible: Steve Rubin, Gillian Blake, Chris O’Connell,
and the intrepid Eric Simonoff. And to Calene and the Bongo Boys, with much
love.
M D
— ARTIN UGARD

Prologue
OHIO COUNTRY, NORTH AMERICA
JULY 9, 1755
1:30 P.M.
The long knives are out.
The face of Capt. Daniel-Hyacinthe-Marie Liénard de Beaujeu is striped in
war paint. Primeval forest conceals his French Marines, Canadian militia, and
Indian allies as they maneuver into position. Hidden behind boulders and ancient
oak trees, they await the massive combined force of the British and colonial
armies now marching toward them. Beaujeu’s French and Indians are heavily
outnumbered. Unlike the British, they don’t have cannon that can kill and maim
dozens with a single blast of canister shot. Instead, their weapons are those of a
nimble guerrilla fighting force: muskets, tomahawks, war clubs to bash skulls,
and sharp knives for slicing the flesh and hair from a dying man’s head.
Captain Beaujeu clearly sees the dirty crimson uniforms and miter caps of
the Forty-Fourth and Forty-Eighth Regiments’ Grenadier companies. These foot
soldiers at the front of the British ranks are an elite fighting force. As best the
French commander can tell, they number about three hundred men. He has
scouted the enemy well, and knows that hundreds more British and Americans
follow behind them in a thin mile-long column, hemmed in on both sides by the
woods.
Beaujeu is stripped to the waist in the manner of his Indian allies. Bear
grease smeared on his torso will make him slippery and more difficult to fight
when the combat becomes hand to hand. The forty-three-year-old father of nine
never tires of defeating the British. Killing them, he has written in his journal,
fills him with “joye.” His weapon of choice is a musket made at the Tulle
Arsenal in Saint-Étienne, France. The Indians under his command, warriors from
many tribes, are so enamored of this lightweight weapon that they ask for the
“Tulle fusil” by name.1
But right now, those guns are silent.
The French and Indians hold their fire as they await the moment when
Beaujeu will stand tall in the forest to wave his hat. This is the signal to attack.
Oblivious to the coming ambush, twenty-three-year-old George Washington
sits gingerly in the saddle at the very rear of the British column, guiding his
horse along the narrow path leading straight into the hidden enemy. Dressed in
the blue uniform of the Virginia militia, Washington is in agony. A tall and
charismatic young man with large hands and a face marked by smallpox scars,
Washington rides atop a pillow to protect his ailing backside from the pain of
hemorrhoids. A rumble in his belly signals yet another attack of dysentery,
forcing him to abruptly guide his charger into the forest in search of discreet
relief.
The young Virginian contents himself with the knowledge that the march is
almost over: after six weeks and 290 backbreaking miles through the wilderness,
the British Army is just one day away from reaching the French garrison known
as Fort Duquesne, which it plans to destroy.
Washington’s intestinal illness forced him to travel flat on his back in a
covered wagon until yesterday. But it is vital that he ride into battle on
horseback. Just one year ago he was the officer who fired the first shot in the war
between the British and the French. “The volley fired by a young Virginian in
the backwoods of America set the world on fire,” is how one British historian
will describe the incident. Indeed, Washington’s decision to attack a small
French scouting party, killing all its soldiers, will launch what will become
known as history’s first world war. In time, the fighting will spread far beyond
North America—into Europe, Africa, and even India.2
But that moment of impulse eventually led to public disgrace. Soon after the
skirmish, Washington suffered the humiliation of surrendering his Virginia
militia to the French at a battlefield not far from here known as Fort Necessity.
In order to avoid a wider war, the French allowed Washington and his men to
return home, but the stigma of failure still hangs over the ambitious former
surveyor. He has returned to this forest as a volunteer, seeking redemption by
using his knowledge of the lush woodland trails to assist the British commander,
Gen. Edward Braddock.
Unbeknownst to George Washington, however, the battle he seeks will not
take place tomorrow.
LEGEND HERE
It is happening right now.