Redcoats Quotes

Poor dull Concord. Nothing colorful has come through here since the Redcoats.

Slime him, sis," Dan urged, "Make him a redcoat.

Clairvoyant, Hornblower could foresee that in a year's time, the world would hardy remember the incident. In twenty years, it would be entirely forgotten. Yet those headless corpses up there in Muzillac; those shattered redcoats; those Frenchmen caught in the four-pounder's blast of canister -- they were as dead as if it had been a day in which history had been changed.

With temperatures dropping, how could men without shirts expect to fend off opponents so blatantly well equipped with outerwear that they were nicknamed the redcoats?

You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British Regulars fired and fled,--- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,--- A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

What do you mean, 'what happened to my Redcoat boy'?" Fiona asked, swirling her spoon around her dish. "I mean, where did he go?" "He went..." Fiona gazed off into the distance and shook her head slightly." He went the way of all things." "You mean he died?" Her focus snapped back to me. "No." "Well, you made it sound like he died." "I just meant that he went wherever it is that boys go when they go." She waved a hand. "Into the ether. Into the great beyond." "It's still sounding like he died. Did you at least get his number?

I have orders to bring Reyna in alive to stand trial for treason. I have no orders to bring you in alive, or the faun.” “Satyr!” the coach yelled. He kicked a skeleton in its bony crotch, which seemed to hurt Hedge more than the redcoat. “Ow! Stupid British dead guys!

That's the noise that made the Redcoats run!" Mr. Paddock said to Father. "Maybe," Father said, tugging his beard. "But it was muskets that won the Revolution. And don't forget it was axes and plows that made this country." "That's so, come to think of it," Mr. Paddock said.

It was time for the tried and tested method of entry employed by the British redcoats. He lifted his leg, aiming the heel of his boot at the space just above the lock, then took a deep breath and slammed his foot against the wood.

There was a loud shuffling above. A line of redcoats took their position at the edge of the ravine and aimed down at the rebels. "Present!" the British officer screamed to his men. "Present!" yelled the American officer. His men brought the butts of their muskets up to their shoulders and sighted down the long barrels, ready to shoot and kill. I pressed my face into the earth, unable to plan a course of escape. My mind would not be mastered and thought only of the wretched, lying, foul, silly girl who was the cause of everything. I thought of Isabel and I missed her. "FIRE!

massive edifice, with its impenetrable walls, its monumental gate, and its red-coated guards, I began to have doubts. “What

Do you ever feel like the Redcoats?

As Beaumarchais gathered blankets and grenades in France, William Howe’s redcoats came ashore and slaughtered Washington’s forces on Long Island, in Brooklyn, and then in Manhattan. A humiliated Washington could do nothing to stop his troops’ shoddy retreat from Kips Bay, swatting at them with his horsewhip and howling, “Are these the men with which I am to defend America?

His men howled with him. They were caught up in Baird’s madness. At this hour, under the fire of the sun and emboldened by the arrack and rum they had drunk in their long wait in the trenches, the redcoats and sepoys had become gods of war. They gave death with impunity as they followed a warmaddened Scotsman down an enemy wall that was sticky with blood. Baird would have his city or else he would die in its dust.

He was a man’s man, despite his vocation; after all, he studied American history. A litany of red-blooded patriots, fighting savages and redcoats alike, taming the wilderness, proving their worth with bulging sinews and roaring guns.

Do you men still know how to fight?” he (GW) roared. A primal cry erupted around him. “Then fall in and show those redcoats over there” — he pointed back to the advancing British — “how Americans can stand and fight for their freedom!

And then it came to me, as one of the redcoats, knocked flat by a fleeing Scot, rose and shook his fist theatrically after the horses. Of course. A film! I shook my head at my own slowness. They were shooting a costume drama of some sort, that was all. One of those Bonnie-Prince-in-the-heather sorts of things, no doubt. Well.

The myth of violated innocence meant that the rebel stockpiling of war supplies in recent months must remain obscure, along with details about the colony’s deft, robust call to arms. A narrative congealed, and with it a brilliant propaganda stratagem: Gage was the aggressor; redcoats fired first; helpless civilians had been slaughtered.

Abel Becket had never seen as much of his wife's breasts as Mrs. Loring saw fit to present to the world.

But the question made no sense to the bulk of the troops, who regarded instinctive obedience to orders and ready acceptance of subordination within a military hierarchy as infringements on the very liberty they were fighting for. They saw themselves as invincible, not because they were disciplined soldiers like the redcoats but because they were patriotic, liberty-loving men willing to risk their lives for their convictions.

It is no easy thing to be in your mid-twenties and realize that, holy shit, this is it, this is as good as it gets, and from here it's all downhill, the fun's over, the hijinks have jinked their last, nothing lies ahead but drudgery and toil and a sagging belly and death. It's harder yet when a stupid bitch, a numbfuck cunt, one of those horrible sweet-smelling OMG types who wouldn't talk to you in high school and sure as fuck won't talk to you now, takes position on your elbow with a cell phone jammed into her cheek, yammering away. Because who wants to listen to the stream of shit coming out of her mouth? Gossip about friends. Gossip about enemies. Gossip about celebrities. Gossip about gossip. Not a thought in her head. Not a fact. Nothing of interest. Nothing of worth. Just an avalanche of verbal rubbish. The Patriots took on the Redcoats, the Blue fought the Gray, the National Guard stormed the beaches of Normandy, so this submoronic cretin could stand here in her designer boots and talk about what happened at the club last night.

It's all right, Adam," she murmured, stroking the damp hair that still adorned all but the back of his head.  "Just relax." Adam stared fixedly at the wall, his lips just grazing the bloodstained pillow.  "Not Adam . . . Charles." It came out Chaaahles, on a deep and startlingly elegant drawl that left the "r" from the name and marked him as anything but the rebel they'd all assumed him to be. Amy's jaw dropped open and horrified, she whirled to stare at her brother.  "He's a —" "Redcoat."  Will went green and shot a terrified glance at the door through which the doctor had just passed.  "An officer, if you must know."  He hugged his arms to himself and stared at Amy, his lower lip thrust out, his eyes both fearful and defiant.  He looked like the frightened child he was.  "What would you have me do, leave him out in a field to die?" Amy, paling, grabbed Will by the sleeve.  "Do you realize what you've done?" Will looked as though he were about to cry.  "Now you know why I was half-hoping he wouldn't make it." "Why on earth did you bring him home?" "I felt guilty." "For heaven's sake, Will!" Beneath

The redcoats! The redcoats!’ the hussars in the escort were shouting joyfully, and at first Fabrice did not understand; eventually he noticed that almost all the corpses were indeed dressed in red. One thing made him shudder with horror; he saw that many of these unfortunate redcoats were still alive; they were crying out, presumably for help, and nobody was stopping to help them. Our hero, who was very humane, went to tremendous lengths to ensure that his horse did not step on any of the redcoats. The escort came to a halt; Fabrice, not concentrating properly on his duties as a soldier, galloped on, his eyes fixed on one of those poor wounded wretches.

Sometimes concentrating on one lovely thing about each memory helped her remain upright. Like the foxes... she had 'hunted' with 'foxes'! Beautiful red-coated beasts who sometimes tangled under her feet like cats and let her scratch their throats. That had really happened. Focusing on their beauty kept her walking- shakily- and kept her stomach from reeling.

And since them that fed him in his exile wouldnae be bought out — right or wrong, he would drive them out. Therefore he sent for lawyers, and papers, and red-coats to stand at his back. And the kindly folk of that country must all pack and tramp, every father’s son out of his father’s house, and out of the place where he was bred and fed, and played when he was a callant. And who are to succeed them?

Nancy thanked him, then went to her convertible. She drove carefully through the city traffic and finally reached Hilo Street. Mrs. Stewart’s apartment house was Number 76. Nancy scanned the buildings and found that this one was the largest on the street. It was ultramodern in design and about twenty stories high. After parking her car, she smoothed her hair and got out. A red-coated doorman nodded pleasantly to the young detective as she entered the building a minute later. Nancy checked the directory and saw that Mrs. Stewart was in Apartment Three on the fourth floor. She rang the elevator button. Almost instantly, aluminum doors slid open noiselessly, and Nancy stepped inside the carpeted elevator. It was self-operated, and Nancy pushed the fourth-floor control.

The defenders retreated, but in good order. A musket flamed and a ball shattered a marine’s collar bone, spinning him around. The soldiers screamed terrible battle-cries as they began their grim job of clearing the defenders off the parapet with quick professional close-quarter work. Gamble trod on a fallen ramrod and his boots crunched on burnt wadding. The French reached steps and began descending into the bastion. 'Bayonets!' Powell bellowed. 'I want bayonets!' 'Charge the bastards!' Gamble screamed, blinking another man's blood from his eyes. There was no drum to beat the order, but the marines and seamen surged forward. 'Tirez!' The French had been waiting, and their muskets jerked a handful of attackers backwards. Their officer, dressed in a patched brown coat, was horrified to see the savage looking men advance unperturbed by the musketry. His men were mostly conscripts and they had fired too high. Now they had only steel bayonets with which to defend themselves. 'Get in close, boys!' Powell ordered. 'A Shawnee Indian named Blue Jacket once told me that a naked woman stirs a man's blood, but a naked blade stirs his soul. So go in with the steel. Lunge! Recover! Stance!' 'Charge!' Gamble turned the order into a long, guttural yell of defiance. Those redcoats and seamen, with loaded weapons discharged them at the press of the defenders, and a man in the front rank went down with a dark hole in his forehead. Gamble saw the officer aim a pistol at him. A wounded Frenchman, half-crawling, tried to stab with his sabre-briquet, but Gamble kicked him in the head. He dashed forward, sword held low. The officer pulled the trigger, the weapon tugged the man's arm to his right, and the ball buzzed past Gamble's mangled ear as he jumped down into the gap made by the marines charge. A French corporal wearing a straw hat drove his bayonet at Gamble's belly, but he dodged to one side and rammed his bar-hilt into the man's dark eyes. 'Lunge! Recover! Stance!

Ready yourselves!' Mullone heard himself say, which was strange, he thought, for he knew his men were prepared. A great cry came from beyond the walls that were punctuated by musket blasts and Mullone readied himself for the guns to leap into action. Mullone felt a tremor. The ground shook and then the first rebels poured through the gates like an oncoming tide. Mullone saw the leading man; both hands gripping a green banner, face contorted with zeal. The flag had a white cross in the centre of the green field and the initials JF below it. John Fitzstephen. Then, there were more men behind him, tens, then scores. And then time seemed to slow. The guns erupted barely twenty feet from them. Later on, Mullone would remember the great streaks of flame leap from the muzzles to lick the air and all of the charging rebels were shredded and torn apart in one terrible instant. Balls ricocheted on stone and great chunks were gouged out by the bullets. Blood sprayed on the walls as far back as the arched gateway, limbs were shorn off, and Mullone watched in horror as a bloodied head tumbled down the sloped street towards the barricade. 'Jesus sweet suffering Christ!' Cahill gawped at the carnage as the echo of the big guns resonated like a giant's beating heart. Trooper O'Shea bent to one side and vomited at the sight of the twitching, bleeding and unrecognisable lumps that had once been men. A man staggered with both arms missing. Another crawled back to the gate with a shattered leg spurting blood. The stench of burnt flesh and the iron tang of blood hung ripe and nauseating in the oppressive air. One of the low wooden cabins by the wall was on fire. A blast of musketry outside the walls rattled against the stonework and a redcoat toppled backwards onto the cabin's roof as the flames fanned over the wood. 'Here they come again! Ready your firelocks! Do not waste a shot!' Johnson shouted in a steady voice as the gateway became thick with more rebels. He took a deep breath. 'God forgive us,' Corporal Brennan said. 'Liberty or death!' A rebel, armed with a blood-stained pitchfork, shouted over-and-over.

… The most important contribution you can make now is taking pride in your treasured home state. Because nobody else is. Study and cherish her history, even if you have to do it on your own time. I did. Don’t know what they’re teaching today, but when I was a kid, American history was the exact same every year: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock, Pilgrims, Thomas Paine, John Hancock, Sons of Liberty, tea party. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, we have to start somewhere— we’ll get to Florida soon enough.’…Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, Paul Revere, the North Church, ‘Redcoats are coming,’ one if by land, two if by sea, three makes a crowd, and I’m sitting in a tiny desk, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. Hello! Did we order the wrong books? Were these supposed to go to Massachusetts?…Then things showed hope, moving south now: Washington crosses the Delaware, down through original colonies, Carolinas, Georgia. Finally! Here we go! Florida’s next! Wait. What’s this? No more pages in the book. School’s out? Then I had to wait all summer, and the first day back the next grade: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock…Know who the first modern Floridians were? Seminoles! Only unconquered group in the country! These are your peeps, the rugged stock you come from. Not genetically descended, but bound by geographical experience like a subtropical Ellis Island. Because who’s really from Florida? Not the flamingos, or even the Seminoles for that matter. They arrived when the government began rounding up tribes, but the Seminoles said, ‘Naw, we prefer waterfront,’ and the white man chased them but got freaked out in the Everglades and let ’em have slot machines…I see you glancing over at the cupcakes and ice cream, so I’ll limit my remaining remarks to distilled wisdom: “Respect your parents. And respect them even more after you find out they were wrong about a bunch of stuff. Their love and hard work got you to the point where you could realize this. “Don’t make fun of people who are different. Unless they have more money and influence. Then you must. “If someone isn’t kind to animals, ignore anything they have to say. “Your best teachers are sacrificing their comfort to ensure yours; show gratitude. Your worst are jealous of your future; rub it in. “Don’t talk to strangers, don’t play with matches, don’t eat the yellow snow, don’t pull your uncle’s finger. “Skip down the street when you’re happy. It’s one of those carefree little things we lose as we get older. If you skip as an adult, people talk, but I don’t mind. “Don’t follow the leader. “Don’t try to be different—that will make you different. “Don’t try to be popular. If you’re already popular, you’ve peaked too soon. “Always walk away from a fight. Then ambush. “Read everything. Doubt everything. Appreciate everything. “When you’re feeling down, make a silly noise. “Go fly a kite—seriously. “Always say ‘thank you,’ don’t forget to floss, put the lime in the coconut. “Each new year of school, look for the kid nobody’s talking to— and talk to him. “Look forward to the wonderment of growing up, raising a family and driving by the gas station where the popular kids now work. “Cherish freedom of religion: Protect it from religion. “Remember that a smile is your umbrella. It’s also your sixteen-in-one reversible ratchet set. “ ‘I am rubber, you are glue’ carries no weight in a knife fight. “Hang on to your dreams with everything you’ve got. Because the best life is when your dreams come true. The second-best is when they don’t but you never stop chasing them. So never let the authority jade your youthful enthusiasm. Stay excited about dinosaurs, keep looking up at the stars, become an archaeologist, classical pianist, police officer or veterinarian. And, above all else, question everything I’ve just said. Now get out there, class of 2020, and take back our state!

I dreamed of chasing Selah through a field of daisies when a Redcoat started pulling on my arm. It did not take long to realize that Matthew was tugging on my arm, not a soldier. “Go away. I was out late. I want sleep.” Not to mention that I liked dreaming of chasing my love in a field of daises.

George Washington was a third-generation slaveholder, who with Martha owned more than three hundred slaves. He prized them particularly; as a signal of wealth in his world, such property exceeded gold and real estate. He had once written to a fellow planter urging that he send him strong slaves in good health who were not "addicted to running away." At the end of the Revolutionary War, he cordoned the beaches with soldiers to prevent runaway slaves who had fought with the British from leaving America with the redcoats.

Most existing European breeds reflect some degree of Chinese ancestry, though it varies. Common breeds, such as the Large White, Hampshire, and Berkshire, have lots of Chinese genes. Of the common breeds, the red-coated Duroc is believed to have the least Chinese influence, but it originated in the United States.34

Lord Charles?" "Amy."  He smiled sleepily and rose up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down one shoulder.  "Good morning." Temporary silence.  Charles was unaware that Amy had a friend with her, and he was totally oblivious to the sight he presented to the two girls, his hair tousled by sleep, his pale blue eyes clear as aquamarine as a shaft of sunlight drove through the window and caught him full in the face.  A sighted man would, of course, have squinted; Charles did not, and instead, Mira and Amy were treated to a brilliant, wide-open view of clear, intelligent eyes, romantically down turned at the outer corners and fringed by long straight lashes tinged with gold. "Hell and tarnation above, Amy, ye sure weren't jokin'!  He's bleedin' gorgeous!" "Mira!" cried Amy, horrified. Charles was hard-pressed to hide his amusement.  He knew, of course, or had at least suspected, that Amy had a girlish infatuation for him, and he'd tried his best not to embarrass her by calling attention to it.  He determined not to do so now. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked, still supporting himself on one elbow and blinking the sleep from his eyes. Mira, standing there with her mouth open, was transfixed by that slow, deliberate blink.  In a heartbeat, she saw what Amy had described:  studied thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion.  The way the man lowered those long eyelashes over those translucently clear eyes, then slowly brought them back up again, did something funny to her insides.  Cripes, no wonder Amy was smitten! "Mira Ashton, patriot," she announced.  "I'm Amy's friend.  She tells me ye're a blasted Brit who took it upon himself to be merciful to Will, so I guess I'll take it upon myself to be merciful to you.  Besides, I hear ye're being nice to Amy, and since everyone else in this house treats her like donkey dung, I figger the least I can do is be civil to ye — redcoat or not." "Mira!" Amy gasped. "Well, it's true.  Where are those two bleedin' leeches, anyhow?" Despite himself, and his irritation with both the girl's language and her rather vexing use of the word "Brit," Charles got to his feet and bowed, his spirits suddenly quite buoyed.  If Amy had friends like this, maybe he shouldn't be worrying about her, after all. "Still in bed, I daresay," he said.

A file of red-coated soldiers came at the quick-march from the other end of the quay, splitting the crowd like vinegar dropped on mayonnaise.

It was June 17, 1775, during the siege of Boston. Colonial forces, having locked the British into the city, learned that the redcoats planned to occupy several surrounding hills as a prelude to breaking the siege. Ahead of the British, a revolutionary garrison had been assembled on the Charlestown Peninsula, a strategic area that overlooked both Boston and its harbor and offered a vantage point for artillery fire on the city. Throughout the previous night the militiamen had labored to build a defensive fortification. In the morning, General William Howe led the attacking troops, which were repulsed twice by the hill’s defenders, who inflicted devastating losses on the British regulars. On their third assault, however, the seasoned British soldiers successfully broke through the colonists’ breastwork and overran the small fort and the assembled colonial volunteers. But theirs was a Pyrrhic victory, the king’s forces suffering more than 1,000 casualties of their force of 2,200.

The Hollywood version of the War of Independence is a straightforward fight between heroic Patriots and wicked, Nazi-like Redcoats. The reality was quite different. This was indeed a civil war which divided social classes and even families. And the worst of the violence did not involve regular British troops, but was perpetrated by rebel colonists against their countrymen who remained loyal to the crown.

command

Eventually, he rode to within thirty paces of the British lines, presenting a tempting target to the Redcoats. A tremendous volley rang out as enemy marksmen aimed for the general. One of Washington’s aides covered his own eyes with his hat rather than watch, but when the smoke cleared, Washington still remained on his horse, calling on his men to join him in facing the enemy.

wilderness.

nervous.

Independence Day, July 4th, or as I know it: Out with the redcoats day!

Boston lay in shambles. During the winter months, shivering redcoats had chopped down trees in the Common and ripped apart old buildings for firewood. The Flucker mansion had been looted. Other homes and shops were abandoned, crumbling, ruinous reminders of Boston's pre-Revolutionary splendor.

If America stands today as a free country, it's because of those Americans who sacrificed their lives fighting against the redcoats. But there is another side of American history which is not taught in schools. And it's the bitter side of the story, so brace for it. The only reason the country called America even exists is because the native americans who were living in the land for a long time before the pilgrims arrived here from Europe, couldn't organize a large and strong enough uprising to fight them away from their land. This is more reason for each person of this sweet land of liberty to practice assimilation not segregation - this is more reason for each of us to come to the aid of the oppressed and segregated - this is more reason for each of us to stand upright against discrimination, narcissism, prejudice and sectarianism.

At home, the militias helped enforce revolutionary values and standards. Although militiamen hardly struck fear in the hearts of redcoated soldiers, their impact upon local Tories was far more profound: they wielded tar and feathers, an awesome power indeed. They forced reluctant citizens to declare allegiance to the cause, either by signing oaths or through military service. They intimidated merchants who appeared to be profiting from the war. They functioned, in essence, like a paramilitary government.

After several months of dwindling fortunes, and deserting troops, the final defeat of the Emperor’s army took place at the Battle of Helsa, near Bodhgaya, the site of the Buddha’s Enlightenment, on 15 January 1761. Here the imperial army was finally cornered by several battalions of red-coated sepoys.

Ethan looked over at his father and uncle and asked, “Is this space large enough for one more box muskets?” “It should be,” his father replied. “It’s the same space we hollowed out in the stall Sweetbriar is using.” “You’re too softhearted, John, when it comes to horses,” Uncle William said. “I’m not sure I would have risked discovery of our smuggling operation just to care for a couple of redcoats’ horses!” He shook his head slowly at his brother, but there was an affectionate smile on his face. “Come now, Will,” Pa said, “it would have looked suspicious if I had refused to take their horses.

Serve the Queen or go to bloody Botany Bay. That’s the choice they gave me. So here I am. You’re a charlatan and I’m a thief. Proud redcoats all.

The redcoats enjoyed little in the way of comfort, earned a pittance and endured terrible hardships and ferocious discipline. Yet they faced it all with a stoicism that was scarcely credible. With their mates at their side they would go into battle with the same resolute spirit that they dealt with everything else the army threw at them.

From their lofty summits overlooking Boston Harbor and the city itself, the colonists can fire cannonballs—which is why the British have spent the last three weeks secretly plotting an invasion of the Charlestown Peninsula, to capture those heights. But just two days ago, on June 13, the rebels got word of the British plans. Working day and night, they have been preparing redoubts from which to fend off the redcoats. Six feet high, made of earth, with wooden platforms on the interior from which men can stand to fire their muskets, the square-shaped

Redcoats

Cyrus’s eyes flew open. “The enemy is getting away!” he exclaimed. “We need to stop them!” “He’s conscious!” Alexander exclaimed. “The redcoats have fled from their positions on the Delaware!” Cyrus went on. “Let’s rout them and end the British scourge once and for all!” “He’s conscious, all right,” Erica said sadly. “Unfortunately, his mind’s in the wrong century.” Cyrus glared at all of us. “Don’t just sit there!” he shouted. “Go tell General Washington I need more troops! The fate of the Continental Army hangs in the balance!” “Take it easy, Cyrus,” Catherine said. “You’ve had a nasty bonk on the noggin.” Cyrus’s eyes went wide at the sound of her accent. “She’s British!” he shouted to us. “There’s a spy in our midst! Seize her and I’ll have her tarred and feathered!” He lunged for her, but his legs went out on him and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious again. Catherine looked to Alexander, concerned. “I haven’t seen Cyrus much in the past few years, but I’m assuming that’s an atypical episode?” “Yes,” Alexander agreed. “Although once, when I was quite young, he got a bad concussion and thought he was a member of the Mongol Horde for a week.” He knelt down, hooked his hands under Cyrus’s arms, and hoisted him into the bed. Cyrus started singing “Yankee Doodle” in his sleep.

about the eternal principles of liberty.” “Never heard of ’em. We read only the Bible, the Catechism, Watts’s Psalms and Hymns, and the Almanack.” “Well, then, what was the matter? and what did you mean in going to the fight?” “Young man, what we meant in going for those red-coats was this: we always had governed ourselves, and we always meant to. They didn’t mean we should.

Long Island is a sandspit 150 miles long. It originally was the great outwash plain of a glacier, and history shows even the Indians didn’t want much to do with it. They moved out without a fight and without asking for a dime when the whites arrived. Later the redcoat General Howe engaged Washington’s Colonials in something called the Battle of Long Island, and Howe succeeded in driving Washington off Long Island and up the Hudson to someplace like Dobbs Ferry. Anybody who knows anything about Dobbs Ferry as opposed to Long Island can never accept a history book which says this was a defeat for Washington. In fact, there are many people who still wonder why we did not insist that the English, as part of the Yorktown surrender, be forced to retain Long Island.

But when the Redcoats began their withdrawal back to Boston, the officer noted that the Americans ambushed them from houses and from behind walls and hedges. Some of the rebels would ride horses to get ahead of the troops, find a hiding spot, and take a shot—then repeat the maneuver to fire again. The officer conceded, "These fellows were generally good marks-men, and many of them used long guns made for Duck-Shooting."21 This attested to the shooting skills of the colonists and indicated that private arms designed for hunting were in common use.

Some 50 Americans were killed, 39 wounded, and 5 missing, for a total of 94 casualties. According to Gage, the Redcoats suffered 65 killed, 157 wounded, and 27 missing, for a total of 272 casualties.41 The patriots exhibited excellent marksmanship for shooting flintlocks in anger, many for the first time in their lives. By comparison, U.S. forces in Vietnam expended 50,000 rounds to cause a single enemy casualty.

First the Duke of Cumberland’s Redcoats hunted down the clansmen who had escaped from Culloden. Prisoners were treated so badly that they died in their hundreds. The survivors were sent to the American plantations as slave labour.

Closing my eyes, I can see the main entrance, the paneled front windows, the wide portico and three gray-black speckled granite steps leading up to the massive front door of whisky-colored oak, often propped open by a heavy curling stone and often manned by one red-coated footman, and inside the spacious hall and its white stone floor, with gray star-shaped tiles, and the huge fireplace with its beautiful mantel of ornately carved dark wood, and to one side a kind of utility room, and to the left, by the tall windows, hooks for fishing rods and walking sticks and rubber waders and heavy waterproofs—so many waterproofs, because summer could be wet and cold all over Scotland, but it was biting in this Siberian nook—and then the light brown wooden door leading to the corridor with the crimson carpet and the walls papered in cream, a pattern of gold flock, raised like braille, and then the many rooms along the corridor, each with a specific purpose, like sitting or reading, TV or tea, and one special room for the pages, many of whom I loved like dotty uncles, and finally the castle’s main chamber, built in the nineteenth century, nearly on top of the site of another castle dating to the fourteenth century, within a few generations of another Prince Harry, who got himself exiled, then came back and annihilated everything and everyone in sight.

Last time I checked, your uniforms weren’t red, Commander,” he said, referencing a common joke among IDF officers. He didn’t even know the origin of the joke—he supposed it had something to do with British Redcoats during the American Revolution—but everyone understood it to mean you’re comically expendable.

Patrick

Much of it boiled down to the fact that Americans don’t like to be told what to do. As he then responded, “Young man, what we meant in going for those red-coats was this: we always had governed ourselves, and we always meant to. They didn’t mean we should.”4 Sovereignty.

Moreover, the Redcoats did seek to suppress militia activities in Boston, albeit not necessarily with success. In a December incident, it was reported that a parry of the militia being at exercise on Bosron common, a parry of the army surrounded them and rook away their fire arms; immediately thereupon a larger party of the militia assembled, pursued the Army, and retook their fire arms. Whereupon the Governor ordered the man of war to fire upon the Town, which was instantly obeyed; several houses were damaged, and only 6 people killed.

free the bleed We bleed with the moon near half our lives but still some guys think it's freaky disgusting, unnatural The location of the vagina between where we pee and where we poop is a design flaw, maybe, but it doesn't account for the shaming for the sense that somehow women are weaker or foul or damned because we bleed once a moon our bodies are muddy rivers overflowing the banks to fertilize the fields, hurricaning oceans with the energy of time, tide, and galaxies, silver ice caps defying the sun's feeble attempts to melt us we bleed and grow stronger some of us breed, pouring blood into love, planting his seed in our egg creating life and feeding it our red-coated strength birthing in a torrent of salt and blood we are mountains don't call it a period: call it an exclamation point

an expert. Which, as we all know, is nothing more than a liar a hundred miles from home.

The phrase “well regulated militia” was frequently used by the Founders. The Virginia Declaration of Rights of 1776 referred to “a well regulated Militia, composed of the Body of the People, trained to Arms . . . .”29 Webster wrote: “The militia of a country are the able bodied men organized into companies, regiments and brigades, with officers of all grades, and required by law to attend military exercises on certain days only, but at other times left to pursue their usual occupations.”30 “Regulated” means “adjusted by rule, method or forms; put in good order; subjected to rules or restrictions.” Examples are “to regulate our moral conduct by the laws of God and society; to regulate our manners by the customary forms.”31 Thus, a well regulated militia includes all able-bodied men whose training is regulated by customary rules and methods. Before and during the Revolution, the patriots could distinguish militiamen from troops by the clothes they wore and the nature of their occupations: Militiamen wore civilian clothes or special uniforms and were gainfully employed, while soldiers wore distinctive uniforms—the British wore Redcoats and the Continentals wore blue—and were engaged in military duties as an occupation. A well regulated militia consisted of civilians, not soldiers.

nancyisanders.com.

Sharpe had no thought of deserting now, for now he was about to fight. If there was any one good reason to join the army, it was to fight. Not to hurry up and do nothing, but to fight the King’s enemies, and this enemy had been shocked by the awful violence of the close-range volley and now they stared in horror as the redcoats screamed and ran towards them. The 33rd, released from the tight discipline of the ranks, charged eagerly. There was loot ahead. Loot and food and stunned men to slaughter and there were few men in the 33rd who did not like a good fight. Not many had joined the ranks out of patriotism; instead, like Sharpe, they had taken the King’s shilling because hunger or desperation had forced them into uniform, but they were still good soldiers. They came from the gutters of Britain where a man survived by savagery rather than by cleverness. They were brawlers and bastards, alley-fighters with nothing to lose but tuppence a day.

Did she believe she could pry some information out of a couple of slick millionaire politicians? Doubtful. These were professional liars. And they were Louisiana politicians. A particularly vile breed of dog who would lick your hand and then bite the shit out of it. Or just pee on your leg for the fun of it.

Variations on a Summer Day" I Say of the gulls that they are flying In light blue air over dark blue sea. II A music more than a breath, but less Than the wind, sub-music like sub-speech, A repetition of unconscious things, Letters of rock and water, words Of the visible elements and of ours. III The rocks of the cliffs are the heads of dogs That turn into fishes and leap Into the sea. IV Star over Monhegan, Atlantic star, Lantern without a bearer, you drift, You, too, are drifting, in spite of your course; Unless in the darkness, brightly-crowned You are the will, if there is a will, Or the portent of a will that was, One of the portents of the will that was. V The leaves of the sea are shaken and shaken. There was a tree that was a father. We sat beneath it and sang our songs. VI It is cold to be forever young, To come to tragic shores and flow, In sapphire, round the sun-bleached stones, Being, for old men, time of their time. VII One sparrow is worth a thousand gulls, When it sings. The gull sits on chimney-tops. He mocks the guineas, challenges The crow, inciting various modes. The sparrow requites one, without intent. VIII An exercise in viewing the world. On the motive! But one looks at the sea As one improvises, on the piano. IX This cloudy world, by aid of land and sea, Night and day, wind and quiet, produces More nights, more days, more clouds, more worlds. X To change nature, not merely to change ideas, To escape from the body, so to feel Those feelings that the body balks, The feelings of the natures round us here: As a boat feels when it cuts blue water. XI Now, the timothy at Pemaquid That rolled in heat is silver-tipped And cold. The moon follows the sun like a French Translation of a Russian poet. XII Everywhere the spruce trees bury soldiers: Hugh March, a sergeant, a redcoat, killed, With his men, beyond the barbican. Everywhere spruce trees bury spruce trees. XIII Cover the sea with the sand rose. Fill The sky with the radiantiana Of spray. Let all the salt be gone. XIV Words add to the senses. The words for the dazzle Of mica, the dithering of grass, The Arachne integument of dead trees, Are the eye grown larger, more intense. XV The last island and its inhabitant, The two alike, distinguish blues, Until the difference between air And sea exists by grace alone, In objects, as white this, white that. XVI Round and round goes the bell of the water And round and round goes the water itself And that which is the pitch of its motion, The bell of its dome, the patron of sound. XVII Pass through the door and through the walls, Those bearing balsam, its field fragrance, Pine-figures bringing sleep to sleep. XVIII Low tide, flat water, sultry sun. One observes profoundest shadows rolling. Damariscotta dada doo. XIX One boy swims under a tub, one sits On top. Hurroo, the man-boat comes, In a man-makenesse, neater than Naples. XX You could almost see the brass on her gleaming, Not quite. The mist was to light what red Is to fire. And her mainmast tapered to nothing, Without teetering a millimeter's measure. The beads on her rails seemed to grasp at transparence. It was not yet the hour to be dauntlessly leaping.

Naval supremacy means little in an era of free trade when the enemy owns no ships, and even air supremacy is of dubious value when the enemy refuses to line up in red-coated ranks on the battlefield to be mowed down from above.

Matt was glad that he had worn his old hooded blue sweatshirt rather than the new red one his mother had wanted him to wear. They would have thought I was a redcoat for sure, he thought, making his way through the groups of soldiers that were on the shore.

Doubtless what affected them in some degree was a foreboding of the part the Road would play in times of trouble with the Gall. They saw it used continually, so far as it was finished, by the redcoats and the Watches; standing, wrapped, themselves, in plaids, on thicket verges or the slopes of the hills in mist, like figures of some other clime or age, they watched, with gloomy brows, dragoons pass cantering, four abreast, or companies of footmen out of Ruthven Castle. Sometimes on it could be heard the roll of drums; up Blair of Athole once had come a house on wheels, glass-windowed, horses dragging it, a gentleman within it smoking, and a bigger gentleman they touched their cap to, driving. Never a day went past but someone could be seen upon the street (as Gaelic had it); here, in Badenoch, the world seemed coming to an end.

You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

She resisted telling the journalist that she had such a good, forceful ancestor as John Strange. But the proposition that guided her and made it possible for her to speak to them was that a person, if they wanted a result, had to do things themselves. John Strange had done things. He had not killed the British cabinet, but with redcoats from Sydney he had helped capture the Ribbon Gang. In a strange way, he believed in order and a town where you could have a tannery.

For Native Americans, the era of military resistance was over. Many retreated westward. Eventually the government forced nearly all of them across the Mississippi. For those few who remained, the bleak future belonged not to warriors but to leaders such as Richardville who could adjust to white ways, live under the annuity payment system, and assent to the ever-shrinking Indian “reservation” lands. Perhaps cruelest of all was the fate of the Miamis, most of whom, even after the deaths of Little Turtle and William Wells, were determined to remain neutral in the conflict between the long knives and the redcoats. There was no middle ground. Not only were many Miami villages destroyed, but in 1818, at the Treaty of St. Mary’s or New Purchase Treaty, the Miamis gave up most of their tribal lands, covering the central third of Indiana.