Liberty: 1784

Chapter 8

Tallmadge held his nose. “My God, the stench is appalling. Are you waiting for the spring thaw to bathe?”

Will smiled. “You said you wanted to see me the moment I came in, didn’t you? Well, here I am.”

Even though few people bathed very frequently, and most even less so in the winter when it was common knowledge you could sicken and die from excess washing, Will knew he was a special case. Two weeks of trekking through thick mud and undergrowth had left him covered with filth. That he was also exhausted didn’t seem to affect or impress Tallmadge.

“Well, you can clean up later, I suppose. In the meantime, stand downwind and give me all the details on the Detroit fire.”

“You already know about the fire? Someone preceded me?”

“You might say that,” Tallmadge said with a lazy smile.

“Damnation. I nearly killed myself getting you the information and here I’m second-best again.”

“Will, all I got was a scant outline. Details, man, I need details.”

Will complied and filled Tallmadge in on everything he knew, from Leduc’s heroic death, to the curiously thrilling feeling of watching the British high command standing before him while he was in the barn just before the brawl and Leduc’s setting the fire.

“The British looked so bloody normal. I found it hard to believe that they were the same people who imprisoned me in that hulk.”

“If they catch you again, Will, you’ll believe it. They’ll flog you to shreds and hang what’s left of you for the crows to eat.”

They continued with an assessment of the damage done to the British effort and what impact it would have on an assault in the spring.

Will sipped on a cup of what was alleged to be coffee, but was more likely something made of crushed chestnuts. “The storm of fire swept away a number of buildings, but they can be rebuilt. I’d say that hundreds of tents were destroyed, but not the inhabitants. Casualties were likely relatively few and fatalities obviously less so.”

“Too bloody bad,” Tallmadge muttered. “When I heard of the fire, I’d hoped for the complete immolation of the British Army.”

Drake continued. “I am most intrigued by the damage done to the barges they had under construction. In my opinion it was heavy. I don’t know how important the barges were, or what specific plans the British had for them, except that they obviously planned on sailing them around Michigan. I don’t know how long it will take to replace them; however, I am sure they are working hard as we speak. The fire hurt them, but the wounds are far from fatal.”

“You don’t know much at all, do you?” Tallmadge said grumpily.

“I know I need a bath. And then I need a meal and some sleep. I’m still disappointed that I’m not the first with the news of the fire. Tell me, was it someone at the tavern near where I quartered my men?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Will’s curiosity was piqued. “And just what do you mean by that, my dear General?”

Tallmadge winked. “Well, let’s just say a little bird told me.”

* * *

Braxton unsealed the message and read it carefully. The very young British officer who’d brought it looked distinctly uncomfortable and kept trying not to stare at Braxton’s ruined face and hands. Braxton felt like killing him. Fucking officers always thought they were better than everyone else, especially the young British ones. If they weren’t the only means to his ends, he’d have nothing to do with them.

“You’ll stay the night. I’ll give you a reply in the morning.”

“Yes, Captain.” The ensign’s smooth little face sagged. He’d sooner be in hell than spend a night with Burned Man Braxton and his terrible men. The little bastard was probably afraid that someone would try to bugger him in the night. Braxton grinned. Maybe the little boy officer was afraid someone wouldn’t.

At least the little turd had the decency to acknowledge his militia rank. Of course the young twit probably realized that he, Braxton, could have him killed and blame the murder on Indians, or rebels, or bears. He glared at the Brit and watched him shift nervously. Power was such a good feeling. He felt like growling to see if the British ensign would shit his pants.

Braxton took the message outside the log cabin he called home and gestured for his two lieutenants, Fenton and Harris, to come to him.

“You boys bored?”

“Hell yes,” Fenton answered. While they were warm and comfortable in other cabins they’d taken over, they’d not been allowed to associate with others in Detroit or elsewhere. Burgoyne had decided that the stench from their raids was too much. Well, the hell with Burgoyne. Of course, now there wasn’t a Detroit for them to visit even if they’d wanted to.

“The British want us to raid another village,” Braxton said.

Fenton’s eyes gleamed and Harris smiled, “Finally.”

“Finally is right,” said Braxton. “Just like the others, it’s a compound of several buildings with maybe a dozen people and that includes some women. Word is they’ve been harboring rebel messengers and maybe even the traitors who burned Detroit. If we do this right, we’ll show the British just how useful we can be.”

Harris and Fenton nodded like puppets. The mention of women in the rebel compound had gotten their undivided attention. There’d been no sex from captured women in a couple of months, which made their inability to visit the whores in Detroit a particular hardship. They were only a couple of days away from the settlement that Braxton had described.

“How did we miss it?” asked Fenton.

“Probably because it’s such a little bitty place out there in a great big forest,” Braxton answered.

He was tolerant with Fenton because they went back a long ways, even though he thought his old deputy was more than a little bit stupid. Fenton wasn’t totally useless, however. It had been Fenton’s idea way back in Pendleton to extort sex from female prisoners, or the wives, daughters, and even the mothers of male prisoners. Hell, some of the older women had been great at what Braxton asked them to do in order to save their families from further harm.

Still, Braxton thought Fenton would fuck a goat if that was all that was available. “It’s at a place where two streams meet. I know one of them. We follow it downstream and it’ll lead us to the rebels. Maybe the fun we’ll have will make some of the boys who left us regret it.”

Braxton’s band was now down to under twenty. Lack of action had caused some to leave while others were affected by the fact that they were pariahs and no one wanted anything to do with them. Bring back a few scalps and brag about new meat they’d screwed and the right kind of men would come running real fast.

Then Harris had a thought. “Hey, didn’t Burgoyne say he didn’t want us around? Did the fire change all that?”

Braxton spread his ruined mouth in a parody of a smile. “Maybe our new orders didn’t come from Burgoyne.”

“Who then?” asked Harris.

Braxton laughed. “Bloody fucking Tarleton.”

* * *

Neither Sarah nor Faith had worked up enough courage to greet Will and Owen with open arms and passion as they’d discussed. Faith was still apprehensive about pushing Owen, and Sarah wasn’t certain she wanted to go too far with Will, at least not just yet.

That and the almost total lack of privacy in Fort Washington conspired against them. Sarah was not going to copulate against a barrack wall or on a pile of hay in a cold barn. Others were always doing exactly that, but she would not.

Still, Sarah made sure Will knew she was delighted to see him even though he was as filthy as a pig dressed as he was in a mixture of dirty woolen cloth and ripe buckskin. She laughed and told him any pig would be insulted by the comparison. Will thought he was immaculate in comparison with what he’d been like when existing in the hold of the prison hulk. He shuddered at the memory and, with a twinge of guilt, wondered what happened to the Negro, Homer, the man who’d rescued him and given him a second chance at life and freedom. If a miracle occurred and the Americans won their war, maybe he would find out.

While Will went to his quarters and scrubbed his body with ash soap and lukewarm water from a bowl, Sarah took his clothing to her barracks and cleaned them as best she could. They agreed to meet later in the evening. She strongly felt that people should be as clean as possible and bathed as frequently as it was safe, and was pleased that Will seemed to feel the same way.

Will still did not have a proper uniform and put on other civilian clothing. A badge showed his rank in the army. So accoutered, he went to Tallmadge for further information.

First, the news of the draconian laws to be enacted against the colonists, whether loyal or rebel, was beginning to get out and circulate throughout the colonies. Rebel households were horrified, while loyalists were either disbelieving or shocked, with disbelief being the prominent emotion. They wanted proof and they would doubt the news until they either saw the official documents, or when Governor General Cornwallis admitted it.

“I wonder if people will finally believe it when they are enslaved and have had all their property taken from them,” Tallmadge said bitterly. “Of course, even if they do, we might not be here to laugh at them.”

They wondered if confirmation of the report would result in mass emigration of Loyalists from the colonies to Canada and elsewhere. “South Africa would be my choice,” Will said.

In other areas the news was mixed at best. On the negative side, Nathanael Greene’s young wife had informed them that the already very ill general had taken a turn for the worse. He was now partially paralyzed and drifting in and out of a coma. Even the most optimistic admitted that he would never again command in the field. This was a particularly upsetting condition because Greene had been Washington’s right-hand man and, in the opinion of many, a better tactician and fighter than Washington himself. It had been Greene who had taken command of the southern theater and maneuvered Cornwallis into a corner of Virginia called Yorktown that should have been the coffin of British hopes.

None of the remaining American generals had ever commanded an army or held a significant independent command. And, with few exceptions, the rank and file had little confidence in their abilities.

The closest to a war leader at Fort Washington was Daniel Morgan, the Old Wagoneer. He had led a wing at Saratoga and defeated the British under Tarleton at the Cowpens where he had utterly destroyed the British force. He had arrived along with Willy Washington, the dead General George Washington’s nephew and a decent cavalry commander in his own right. Morgan, however, was often bedridden himself as a result of bouts of rheumatism and arthritis brought on by too much campaigning in the field. He was nearing fifty and old beyond his years. Willy Washington had been captured before the debacle at Yorktown and subsequently paroled. He’d been one of the lucky ones to have missed the later British sweep of rebel officers.

“It could be worse,” Will had said, “we could still have Gates and Lee.”

Neither Horatio Gates nor Charles Lee had distinguished themselves in command of an American army. Although Gates was widely considered to be the victor at Saratoga, the battle had been largely won by his subordinates-Morgan, John Stark and the subsequently traitorous Benedict Arnold. In a later battle and after being given command in the south, Gates had fled in disgrace from his defeat at Camden. He’d been captured by the British and now languished in a Jamaican prison. Lee had been sacked by Washington after his confused performance at Monmouth. He too had been captured by the British and, for reasons unknown, had been hanged. Few mourned him.

On the positive side, John Glover and his small regiment from Marblehead, Massachusetts, was rumored to be en route. Not only were they fine soldiers and well led, but they were boatmen whose skills had already proven useful. Their work during the retreat from Long Island and the crossing of the Delaware came to mind.

Still, Glover’s presence would not solve the problem of an overall field commander. He was a fine regimental commander, but not a man to lead an army. Will had heard that at one skirmish on Manhattan, Glover had fought bravely but had openly longed for someone else to lead the effort.

Tallmadge fumed. “We have colonels and brigadiers, but no one with experience in independent command except for a sickly Morgan. And there’s precious little time for anyone to learn. The only other experienced ranking officer we have is Schuyler and the men won’t follow him.”

“Don’t you think he got unfair blame for losing Ticonderoga?” Will asked. The defeat at Ticonderoga had resulted in Schuyler’s removal and replacement by Gates.

“Will, it doesn’t matter what I think. The army has no confidence in him. If Schuyler commands, they will fight with one eye on the Redcoats and one on an escape route out to the west because they think he can do nothing but lose for them.”

“That reminds me,” Will said, “Have you heard from Clark and his explorers?”

“Not a peep. Well, perhaps a little,” Tallmadge said in the same smug way he’d said that Will wasn’t the first with the news of the Detroit fire. What the devil was going on, Will wondered.

“Clark and his men made it well west to a fascinating discovery, a huge salt lake. But now they are hibernating for the winter. What they did find is that there is precious little likelihood of a large number of people finding sustenance in such a barren landscape.”

“So we fight or die?” Will said.

“Wasn’t it always that way, Will?”

* * *

“Benjamin Franklin is a brilliant man,” Sarah declared. “Perhaps the most brilliant man who ever existed. He lets the others, like that pompous Hancock, think they are in charge, but then he comes up with ideas that they have to follow. He’s like a very old and very skillful puppeteer and they are his puppets”

“Do tell,” Will said with a lazy smile. They were seated on chairs across from each other in Franklin’s study. The great man was puttering around someplace, so any sense of privacy was an illusion.

Sarah was unfazed by his apparent lack of interest in what she was saying. What did faze her was the way he kept staring at her. She continued, “Dr. Franklin has made a series of proposals. First, he thinks that we should come up with a constitution, a set of rules that our nation should abide by. He says it would be a counter to the dictatorial hand of the British.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.”

“Yes. It would show people that they have a choice. They can live freely as Americans, or as slaves under the British. He says there should be no restraints on religion, assembly, or the press, and that just about any man should be able to vote if he wishes.”

“So what is stopping Congress from doing just that?”

She grimaced, “The curse of slavery. The representatives from the southern states want slavery reinstated so that when we win they can get their human property back. Dr. Franklin thinks the genie is out of the bottle and can never be returned. Another version of Pandora’s Box, he said. He thinks that the British did the colonies a favor by freeing the slaves, since, in his words, they can never be re-enslaved without an uproar and even an incredible amount of violence. After all, it’s been several years since they were freed. He is certain they are getting used to freedom and would fight to keep it. He feels the results would be a civil war with white against black, and with those whites who oppose slavery helping the blacks. He said the southerners would wind up killing many of the blacks so they can enslave the rest. He also thinks that many blacks would migrate west like we did. It sounds so logical when he says it.”

“He’s right. I can’t imagine a slave going willingly any more than I can imagine myself going back into a prison hulk. I know this sounds overly dramatic, but I’d rather be killed fighting than surrender and be sent to that hell again.”

“Will, I’d like to say I understand, but I doubt that I’ll ever comprehend what you went through.”

He reached out and took her hand. “Sometimes I don’t think I comprehend it either. It’s like a bad dream that happened to someone who looked like me.”

“Do you still think about it?”

“Not as often as before. At first, a strange sound or a smell would remind me, and it would be like I had been sent back to that hell. Of course, I sometimes still dream about it at night and wake up shaking and sweating with my heart pounding like a drum.”

She covered his hand with hers, anxious now to change the subject. “Franklin’s second great idea was that we should admit new colonies. After all, the area in which we are living isn’t a part of any of the thirteen even though we have thousands of people living here. He thought we could name the colonies after Indian tribes, like the Miami or the Saulk. Of course, there are problems with that as well.”

Will smiled. “Let me guess. Virginia and other colonies are laying claim to the land based on ambiguous and irrelevant colonial boundaries drawn many years ago in England.”

“Exactly. However, he thinks he can wear down the opposition with a combination of charm and logic.”

“As he has done with you?”

“I am very fond of him,” she admitted. “I can see how French women threw themselves at him. If he was younger, a lot younger, I can see where I might do it myself.”

“And where would that leave me?”

She smiled impishly. “Well, in a liberated society, couldn’t a woman have more than one lover?”

Will stood and pulled her to him. He tipped up her face and kissed her longingly. “I don’t want to share you,” he said huskily.

“And I don’t want to be shared,” she said. “Dr. Franklin will just have to find someone else.”

“Do you always call him Dr. Franklin. Is it ever Benjamin??”

“Yes, when we’re alone and he’s tired.”

They kissed again, and this time with deepening passion. “Does he ever leave you alone here?”

She felt his erection through her dress. “Why, so you can take me to bed?”

“Yes.”

His hands strayed from her shoulders and cupped her breasts. She felt mild surprise and pleasure. Benjamin Franklin was talking to someone in the next room and could come in at any time. Did she care? It would take but an instant to unfasten Will’s pants and straddle him while he was seated on a chair. It wouldn’t be dignified or romantic, but it would solve, at least temporarily, the problem of her wanting him so badly.

She took a deep breath and pushed him away. “I want you, Will Drake, but not with the chance that Benjamin or anyone else will surprise us. Perhaps the next time he goes out for a sufficient amount of time, I will send for you and give you more pleasure than you could ever imagine or deserve.”

“Just perhaps?” Will said with a strained smile.

She put her head on his shoulder. “Perhaps more than perhaps.”

Will smiled wanly. “It cannot come soon enough.”

* * *

Fitzroy did not always get invited to the generals’ luncheon meetings. These were often times for Burgoyne, Tarleton, Grant, and Arnold to discuss matters freely and without anyone taking notes. This time, he was present because of his efforts to root out rebel spies.

“If I understand you correctly, you’ve found nothing,” Tarleton said with his usual hint of a sneer.

“I have not done quite that poorly, General. I have found that Detroit is a sieve and that information flows out of here like the river outside. My problem is finding out just who is telling tales to impress tavern wenches in order to get under their skirts, and who is really traitorous, and sending information to Fort Washington and General Tallmadge, their spymaster.”

Fitzroy winced inwardly when he mentioned about telling tales to impress women. He was as guilty as anyone since he talked more than freely to Hannah Van Doorn. But why not? She was a loyalist and a very dear friend along with being a lover. In fact, Fitzroy was spending a lot of time wondering about their relationship and any future they might possibly have together.

“I can see Fitzroy’s point,” Grant said. “There is a sense of invincibility here, or at least there was until the fire, and nobody seemed to care what was said and to whom. Talking and bragging, however, does not necessarily make anyone a traitor.”

“So what do we do about it?” Tarleton asked.

“I’ve ordered the obvious,” Fitzroy answered. “Invoking General Burgoyne’s name, I’ve required people to be more aware of what they are doing and saying. It’ll hardly solve everything, but it is a step. I’ve also set a handful of what I think of as mousetraps to catch people. I think, however, that I will catch harmless and talkative mice, and not traitors.”

General Arnold nodded solemnly. “And then you will make examples of them.”

“Yes sir.”

Burgoyne stood and walked around the table. “I’ve gotten more information from General Cornwallis. He says that New York is in ferment and that other cities are almost in open rebellion. There are riots in Boston, which is nothing new. It seems that the report of the American Colonies’ future has gotten out and even our tame Loyalists are outraged, and I don’t blame them.”

“Is Cornwallis denying it?” Tarleton asked. “God knows, I would.”

“Apparently so,” Burgoyne answered, “but the trouble is spreading. And there is interesting news from London. It appears that the French king and his idiot queen have reconciled with the Marquis de Lafayette. The marquis’ moderate forces have won a few battles against the radicals who seem to have disaffected a lot of people by killing so many of them. It would seem that the boy general is becoming a force to be reckoned with.”

“Dear God,” exclaimed Grant.

“Dear God, indeed,” Burgoyne continued. “Apparently their French majesties concluded that, if they did not cooperate with the marquis, the moderates in France would proclaim Lafayette as a new king and leave them to live out the remainder of their lives as exiles in England. As it is, there may well be a constitutional monarchy with Louis and Marie as little more than figureheads.”

Tarleton laughed harshly, “Serves them right. They are utter dunces and probably incompetent to serve as anything but figureheads.”

Burgoyne smiled. “That may be true, but it does not thrill our own beloved King George. He sees a constitutional monarachy as a potential threat to the House of Hanover and its control over England. King George would like the monarchy to have more power, not less.”

“Is Cornwallis asking for his army back?” Tarleton asked.

“Not quite. He acknowledges that we need the time to do the job properly, but he does not wish us to dawdle. I have sent him a report on our condition and our intentions. However, he is well aware that so much of what we will be able to do is dependent on the weather. First, the ice must melt and the land must thaw and then it must dry up before we can move.”

Tarleton nearly snorted. “Still, I want this ordeal to be over. Migawd, I first thought that New York was the most diseased crotch of the world, but this manure pile called Detroit is far worse. Now I actually find myself looking forward to New York or Charleston.”

“Not Boston?” Grant asked in an attempt at humor.

“Never Boston,” Tarleton responded angrily. “Puritans, rebels, merchants, and witch burners, along with pale, ugly women who think it’s a sin to enjoy a good fuck. I think I’d rather be here than in Boston, thank you.”

Grant turned to Fitzroy. “In the meantime we prepare and look for spies. Curiously, but I almost don’t care if the rebels know everything we are doing. After all, what can they do about it? We outnumber them hugely, outgun them enormously, and have better trained soldiers.”

“And superior generals,” Tarleton said and drew laughter from the others, even from Burgoyne who normally didn’t think Butcher Tarleton was funny at all. Or even that good a general.

* * *

“I still don’t see how we missed this,” Harris muttered. Beside him in the brush, Braxton was deep in thought.

“Only thing I can think of is that it’s a new settlement,” Braxton said. “I mean, look at the place. Just a couple of log cabins poorly thrown together. No crops yet and not much of a place for animals. These people just arrived, and that’s why we missed it. It wasn’t here for us to miss.”

He didn’t bother to add again that the forest was huge and the settlement small, and they might have continued to miss it if it hadn’t been for the specific directions they’d been given. For all Braxton knew there were a score of similarly undetected settlements like this just waiting to be discovered and then wiped out by his men. He hoped so.

Following the directions received from Tarleton in Detroit, Braxton and nearly twenty men had labored through the winter snow and mud to find the settlement that was claimed to harbor rebels.

Braxton didn’t much care if the claim was true or not. He and his men needed some action. The bad weather made their approach easier. There was no one out in the fields preparing the soil for crops and they’d detected no sign of any hunters. Of course there might be one or two, but it would appear that they’d successfully bypassed them. If they were discovered, it would be too late. It was already too late for the occupants of the settlement and he didn’t give a damn if they were rebels or not.

The settlement consisted of a larger building that was likely a barn, and a slightly smaller one, which he assumed was the main house. The shutters were closed against the weather, which meant that the occupants couldn’t see them very well if at all.

“Look,” Harris hissed. Two women, their heads covered with shawls, came out of the main house and went into what Braxton had assumed was the barn. A moment later, they emerged with two men and returned to the main house. No one was carrying a weapon.

Braxton signaled the others with a soft whistle and they began to move forward at a crouch. At a hundred yards away, he ordered a pause. There was still nothing to indicate that they’d been discovered. He waved the men forward. One group of a half dozen headed toward the barn, while the rest raced toward the house.

At about twenty yards distance, the shutters opened and a dozen gun barrels poked out. Braxton screamed at his men to stop, but it was too late. Sheets of fire cut down his men. To his left, he heard a similar fate befalling the men attacking the barn. Harris, directly in front of him, took a bullet in the head. Blood and brain matter spewed onto Braxton.

“Ambush!” Braxton howled. “Run.”

Armed men poured from the buildings, screaming and waving knives and tomahawks. A couple of his surviving men managed to fire their weapons, but didn’t appear to hit much. Braxton felt a pain in his arm and realized he’d been shot. A wild looking rebel came up to him. Braxton screamed out his fury and shot the man in the chest with his pistol.

He turned and ran for the woods. He felt agony from his arm

and nearly passed out. Almost all of his men were down and being hacked at by the rebels who had poured from the buildings. Maybe one or two had survived the slaughter and maybe not.

Somehow, he made it to the shelter of the forest. He was almost incredulous at his own good fortune. He managed to reload his pistol with his one good hand. If the rebels came close he would use it on himself. He had no urge to be imprisoned or hanged, which he knew would happen.

He had to make it back to Detroit. Someone had betrayed him to the rebels, and Tarleton would want to know that.

* * *

Nathanael Greene was dead. The brave and skillful general, a trusted subordinate and confidante of George Washington, went to sleep and never woke up. Many hoped that such a peaceful death would be theirs as well, but doubted they’d ever be that lucky. Large numbers would die fighting the British in the spring, and they might be the lucky ones. Hanging or slavery waited for the survivors. Perhaps a few could wander west and be assimilated into the Indian tribes. Either way, many thought that a miserable life awaited them.

Greene’s passing hadn’t been all that gentle. The illnesses that had racked his body would have felled a lesser man much sooner. He’d fought and fought, but the brave warrior was slowly overwhelmed.

The ground was frozen and a score of deeply saddened men hacked at it for the better part of a day before they’d dug a hole of appropriate depth and width. Greene’s body lay in a plain wooden box. Everyone felt that such a hero deserved better but that was all they had. Reinterment at a better place and with an appropriate monument would wait for the future, if there was a future.

They buried him with all the honors they could summon up. A squad of soldiers fired their muskets over the grave while a pair of drummer boys manfully plied their trade, after which a preacher spoke. He was mercifully short. Tallmadge whispered to Will that the poor man was probably freezing. So too were the several hundred who had gathered for the ceremony. Greene’s widow Catherine and Abigail Adams stood together. A handful of other women, including Sarah, Faith, and Winifred Haskill, stood behind them.

Officers and men felt the loss deeply. Greene was the man in whom they had confidence, but the now ranking officer was General Schuyler. Will noted that no one stood next to Schuyler. Was it out of deference to his rank or because they had no confidence in his ability to lead? He feared the latter. Even Schuyler looked unusually glum and depressed. The weight of the revolution was now on his shoulders

“Poor man,” Tallmadge again whispered. “Schuyler’s an excellent organizer and probably the reason we’re all alive right now instead of having starved to death, but no one wants him leading an army into battle.”

“What about yourself? You’re a general.”

“Good God no! I’m a desk general, not a fighter.” Tallmadge looked at the officers assembled across the grave site. “Look at who’s here and then think of who isn’t.”

Will glanced over the solemn faces. There were a number of good men, but not enough. The British roundup had decapitated much of the American Army. George Washington was dead, and now so too was Greene, a man many felt was Washington’s superior in battle. Von Steuben and Wayne were present, but where were Knox, Lincoln, St. Clair, Sullivan, and Stirling? In a Jamaican prison, that’s where, along with scores of others.

Morgan was present in spirit, but it was too cold for his aching body to venture outdoors for the ceremony. He might have another battle in him, but not the stress of a campaign. The man who’d had such an impact on the battle of Saratoga was now a shell.

Anthony Wayne was a fighter but too impetuous. The men did not call him Mad Anthony for nothing.

Von Steuben, the genial imposter who had convinced Franklin he was a Prussian general, would be best at training an army, which was what he was doing now.

Willy Washington was on hand, but the other American cavalry leader, Harry Lee, apparently now shared a cell with Alexander Hamilton. Of course, what good was cavalry without horses, and there were precious few of those at Fort Washington.

Glover would arrive in a few days, and that would give them another excellent regimental commander, but still no one experienced enough for overall command. Regiments needed to be formed into brigades and brigades into divisions and only Wayne and Morgan were even marginally capable of that task. Thus, to promote one of them to overall command meant a lesser man would command a division. They needed another good general to assume overall command.

“Someone will have to be appointed and then learn on the job,” Will said.

George Washington had endured years of disaster and defeat before learning how to command, and so too had Greene. There would be no time for such a bloody apprenticeship. There would be only one chance in the spring. One defeat and the revolution was over. They could not again retreat to the west. They’d done that already.

The services were over and the crowd had begun to drift away. Nathanael Greene lay under a mound of cold raw dirt. He deserved better, Will thought.

Tallmadge snorted. “We’re fucked, Will. Properly bloody fucking fucked.”