Liberty: 1784

Chapter 10

“Fitzroy, you are a bloody goddamned fool and you were totally diddled by that yellow-haired Dutch cunt!”

A drunken and outraged Banastre Tarleton was in rare form and scathingly holding forth on the hapless Fitzroy. It had taken a week before the tow line between Detroit and the Canadian side of the river could be fixed and he could return with the news that Hannah Van Doorn and Abraham Goldman were rebel spies. By that time, Hannah, Goldman, and Goldman’s three associates were well away-along with much of their wealth and inventory. Obviously, they’d realized what Fitzroy would find at the tavern and had someone cut the rope. Still, either she or Goldman had managed to warn the tavern’s owners and coconspirators in time for them to vanish.

“By this time,” Tarleton went on, “the whole bunch of them is either in Fort Washington or back in Albany and gathering up more of their money. I’ve sent riders to arrest and hang them if they show up.”

Fitzroy stood stiffly at attention. “If you wish my resignation, you shall have it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Burgoyne said softly. “What’s done is done, and I still need a good aide, although I’d prefer one that isn’t so gullible. And look at the bright side, Major. You actually did uncover that nest of vipers and send them running. Your personal embarrassment will wear off. After all, I’ve had to endure the slings and arrows of my enemies for years after surrendering at Saratoga and I’ve still survived.”

Tarleton smiled tightly. “Actually, it could have been much worse. What if the silly slut had become my mistress instead of yours as I’d planned? Imagine my embarrassment if that had happened.”

Fitzroy suddenly realized what Tarleton was saying and why he’d been so critical of him. Tarleton had attempted to seduce Hannah and she’d rebuffed him. But why? Bedding a general was a much better source of information than a mere major, even though Fitzroy was Burgoyne’s aide and confidante. If her sole motivation was spying, why then had she stayed with him?

Dismissed, he walked slowly and sadly to the tent he now shared with Danforth. Fitzroy had been evicted from the quarters he’d shared with Hannah almost immediately after he’d reported her treason. Tarleton’s provost had only grudgingly permitted him to take his clothing and other personal effects, including the damned journal that she’d copied.

Inside, he pulled up a stool and opened the journal. A folded up piece of paper fell out. He picked it up and opened it. It was from Hannah.

“My dearest little lordship,” she’d written. “By now you have found that I have been reporting everything of import to my fellow Americans at Fort Washington. It was not an easy thing to do as I am deeply fond of you and fervently wish that our lives together could have been otherwise.”

Fitzroy took a deep breath. She hadn’t gone to Tarleton’s bed because she was fond of him and not Tarleton. Or Burgoyne. Was that supposed to make him feel better? Strangely, it did-a little.

She continued. “I am sure you are angry and outraged by what you consider my treason. However, I am not a traitor. If I were a traitor, then I would have betrayed the United States because that is my country, not England. I am an American. So too is Abraham Goldman. I know that English law will find my argument specious and call for my hanging, but I don’t care. I can only do what is right and just, and that is to do everything in my power to drive the English, you English, from my land, my country.

“Please understand, my love, that I bear the English people, such as you, no ill. Indeed, it pains me deeply to write this and leave you. I only hate and despise your king and his vile and grasping ministers.

“I find it highly unlikely that we will ever meet again. Should it happen, it will most certainly be because you are a prisoner, as I have no intention of ever being taken alive. Nor does anyone else who call themselves Americans, so tell your beloved generals that they are in for a battle of no quarter, no retreat. It may well be that the winners will be as bloodied and devastated as the losers. It may well be that neither army will exist when the battle is over. If that is God’s will, so be it.

“Good bye, my dear little major and I fervently hope you are protected from whatever terrible things may come. And finally, I had no intention of falling in love with you, but I did. I can only wish that the world had been different.

Your dearest Hannah.”

Fitzroy folded the paper and put it back in his journal. He felt the tears rolling down his cheeks.

* * *

Will stood with Tallmadge and Schuyler as Glover’s Marblehead Regiment marched slowly in. They were ragged and exhausted and made no attempt at a proper formation. Many were limping, and some men helped others with their muskets and packs, while still others were nearly carried by their comrades. Despite their exhaustion, however, they managed grins and waves which were returned. They had made it and were justifiably proud of themselves.

There were approximately two hundred of the Marblehead men, and they were trailed by about fifty other older men, and a handful of women and children. One of the older civilians was a man who was gaunt and even dirtier and more ragged than the others. He stared at Tallmadge and Will. He had a full nose, a thick white beard, bushy eyebrows, and his hair was long and disheveled.

That man knows us, Will thought, and I think I know him. But how? Had he too served in the army? The man looked out of place with the group of civilians. Despite his physical problems, he carried himself like a soldier. Will thought the old man should be leading the column, such was his presence. Will glanced at Schuyler and Tallmadge. They too stared at the man. Tallmadge seemed to nod slightly. The man turned abruptly and walked away.

It had been an epic journey for the Marblehead Regiment, all the way from the coast of Maine to this place near the shores of Lake Michigan. They had trekked through almost a thousand miles of British-held territory and lived to tell about it. To some of the more historical minded, it was like the journey of Xenophon’s ten thousand Hellenes marching through Asia Minor to their homes. Even though North America wasn’t Asia Minor, Glover’s men had traveled from the seacoast of Maine, overland to the St. Lawrence River, crossed, and then hiked to a point just west of the great falls at Niagara. There they had built boats and sailed or paddled their way to a point south of Detroit, eluded Tarleton’s patrols, and marched the rest of the way to Fort Washington.

To many, their success was no surprise. Though small in number, the Marbleheaders were a superb regiment and had a reputation for doing the impossible. It was they who had saved Washington’s army from being trapped on Long Island. They had commandeered boats and ferried the troops across to Manhattan under the very noses of the British, and, months later they’d help ferry Washington’s men across the Delaware to attack the Hessians at Trenton.

The Marbleheaders were led by their original commander, Brigadier General John Glover. He saluted Schuyler and led his men off to where they could be quartered, rested, warmed, and fed.

“We need more of them,” Tallmadge mused.

“At least they have weapons,” Will said.

Tallmadge laughed. “You’ve been away too long. Franklin’s factories are now making muskets for us. We have far more muskets than we do soldiers to shoot them. Nor are we suffering for lack of powder. Our factories are also turning out pikes, cutlasses, and tomahawks in large numbers. No,” he sighed, “what we need are soldiers.”

“Just curious, General, but do the factories continue to make that weapon I tested, the Franklin?”

“Lord no. That abomination was discarded rather quickly after we couldn’t figure out what to do with it. It was inaccurate at long range, and awkward at short. Thus, we decided to focus on more traditional guns and we are doing quite well. The ‘Franklin,’ however, was not totally consigned to the trash heap. Willy Washington has taken the inventory of a little more than a hundred of the things and further shortened their barrels. He plans to use them as close-up weapons by his cavalry, which will also be armed with sabers and pistols.”

A soldier ran up to Tallmadge, saluted, and handed him a message. Tallmadge unfolded it, crumpled it, and swore.

“More bad news, damn it. The British have found one of my spy centers. Do you recall the King’s Tavern across the river from Detroit? Did you know the name was a joke? The owners were two brothers named King and totally loyal to the American cause.”

“Of course,” Will answered. “I kept some of my men near there while I was at Leduc’s place. I recall you said that the owners were sympathetic.”

“Much more than that. The brothers King and their grubby tavern were the clearing house for many of the messages from Detroit and now they’ve been discovered. The brothers got away, but they’ve been closed down. I can only hope that the people supplying the King brothers with information got themselves away as well.”

“Does that mean nothing more from Detroit?” Will asked.

“Of course not,” he sniffed. “It simply means that the information will come in more slowly and in a less timely manner until I can affect repairs to the system.”

“Which reminds me, General, just how the devil do you get timely information from so far away?”

Tallmadge grinned impishly and punched Will on the shoulder. “When you’re old enough to understand such adult matters, I’ll tell you.”

* * *

Abigail Adams invited a number of women to have tea with her, although the tea was more hot colored water than a proper tea. It was an opportunity to talk about things that were of utmost importance to them. Like the slim possibility that they would even be alive the coming fall.

A good hostess, she waited until the score of women had finished at least a little idle chatter. When there was a lull, she tapped on a cup.

“Ladies, it is time to discuss some serious matters.”

Silence fell. Abigail Adams was the most respected and admired woman at Fort Washington. If she said she had something important to say, then she would be listened to.

“We all know that the summer will bring a bloody end to our stay here. Either we will prevail and return to our homes, or we will be captured and enslaved, if not killed outright.”

There was a mutter that she ignored. “I know that some of you have vowed never to be taken prisoner, never to be enslaved. Some have vowed to fight to the death, while others have decided to flee elsewhere, if there only was an elsewhere. Sadly, there is no elsewhere. We win or lose here. Even if we try to flee, it will be in small numbers and into areas filled with red savages who would like nothing more than to rape us and kill us, if they don’t enslave us themselves. If we lose to the British this summer, our prospects are beneath dismal.”

“Then what do you propose?” asked Sarah. Even though she’d been prepped by Mistress Adams and told when to ask questions, Abigail’s spoken words had chilled her.

John Adams’ wife smiled tightly. “With the blessings of the conniving Doctor Franklin, he has come up with some ideas to help the men in combat and extend their numbers beyond what we have.”

“Would we have to fight?” someone exclaimed in shock.

“Are you afraid to?” Sarah snapped back, causing a momentary uproar.

Abigail Adams called for calm and, after a moment, got it. “I am not proposing that we women actually fight; however, I am suggesting that those of us who feel we can should be prepared to fight. After all, didn’t a few of you say that you’d rather die than be captured, raped, and enslaved? Well, wouldn’t you rather take a few Redcoats with you before death, or were you contemplating heroic suicide?”

The heavyset mistress of General von Steuben rose. “I want to kill the bastards. Any British soldier who thinks he can lie on top of me without my permission will be a dead one.”

Abigail nodded and suppressed a smile. “Good. No matter what happens, we will be terribly close to the fighting, so I am proposing that we involve ourselves in it as much as possible without actually trying to join the ranks of soldiers.”

“But aren’t there women already masquerading as soldiers?” the wife of a colonel asked.

“Likely a few,” Abigail admitted, “although their presence is not officially admitted and their numbers not actually known. However, there have been incidents of women joining the ranks and actually fighting and even becoming casualties, which is how their gender was discovered. And that brings us back to the point. In order to help our men, and help ourselves, we must not just sit idly by while the battle that shapes our futures takes place a few hundred yards away from us.”

Catherine Greene, the general’s widow, spoke up. Grief was still etched in her still lovely face. “What do you want us to do? While there are women here in camp, the men far outnumber us, which means our impact would be small.”

Again Abigail Adams nodded and smiled, this time knowingly. “Of course you are correct. Our actual numbers are fairly small, but, if we are clever, our impact could be enormous. As to what I want from you, perhaps it is what you want from yourselves. I wish you to discuss this with the others of our fairer and so-called weaker sex and find out how many will help. When I have a good number, I will present it to Doctor Franklin and he will confront the generals.”

Daniel Morgan’s wife, also named Abigail, rose and glared at Abigail Adams. “Just one thing, Mistress Adams.”

“Yes?”

“Fairer and weaker sex my ass.”

* * *

Lieutenant Owen Wells rested his rifle against a log and looked out across the stark and snow-covered meadow before him. He and his men were hidden just inside the tree line and had been so for almost a week.

It wasn’t warm yet, but the sun was shining brightly and there was the hint of spring in the air. There might still be snow and rain and ice, but it would not last very long. Springtime was good, a time of renewal with colors that were bright and clean. Spring was also bad, since it meant that the day of reckoning with the British war machine was coming closer.

That was why Owen, Sergeant Barley, and the twenty-odd men in his command waited along the trail a few miles outside of Fort Washington. Someday the nicer weather would bring unwelcome visitors, thousands of them, but not this day. They had another reason for waiting.

“What’re you thinking of, Lieutenant?” Barley asked.

Owen was jolted back to reality. “My duty, of course.”

Barley laughed and looked around. None of the other soldiers was close enough to overhear them. “Bullshit. You were thinking of your girlfriend, weren’t you?”

Actually, Owen had been thinking of Faith’s bare breast and the taste of her nipple on his lips and the feel of her hand on his swollen manhood. But he’d be damned if he’d admit all that to Barley, even if the two of them were close friends, Owen decided it was time to change the subject.

“Do you see the irony in our being here? Wasn’t this the place where you found Major Drake and me fumbling our way through the woods?”

“Yes, and clumsier than hell you were, by God. We heard you coming for miles.”

“That’s because we were hungry and tired, otherwise we’d have been as silent as a snake, damn you.”

Owen shifted and scratched where a twig was digging into his leg, “Do you ever think that it’s wrong for me to be in charge of you when it was the other way around for a while?”

Barley spat on the ground. “Naw. I figure it’s God’s will or something like that. Besides, you can read and write orders while I’d have a hell of a time with them.”

Owen knew better but didn’t argue. Barley could read and write quite as well as the next man. What he didn’t want was responsibility. Almost everyone in the colonies could read and write, even though many rarely read books except for the Bible. Newspapers and pamphlets were other sources of information. This made it much better than England, where so many were illiterate. Owen wondered why the British considered the colonists their inferiors when the average colonist-at least the ones he’d seen-were much better educated, along with being bigger, stronger, and healthier.

“I still don’t understand why we’re out here,” muttered Barley. “If we’re supposed to protect these people, why don’t we meet them farther out?”

Owen rolled his eyes. They’d been over this before. “Because this is where the trails converge. If we went out to meet them we could miss them by a few feet and never know it.”

“I suppose,” Barley grumbled. “But what if they get caught out there while we’re waiting here?”

“Then they’re totally and tragically out of luck. Don’t forget, though, we’re not the only patrol out looking for them.”

“And one’s a Jew? I’ve never seen a Jew.”

Owen couldn’t resist. “They’re easy to spot. They’re big and fat and have large horns on the side of their heads and their bodies are covered with long greasy fur. And those are the female Jews and all they want to do is screw your brains out, which, in your case, won’t take all that long.”

“Fuck you, Lieutenant. But seriously, didn’t they kill Jesus?”

“Not lately, Sergeant, and I do mean that seriously.”

“Seriously, I never met any Jews. Have you?”

“Some. Mainly traveling peddlers back in Wales. They were like everyone else, just people trying to make a living, although I admit they were a little strange. I did very briefly see a few wealthy ones in New York, but they dealt with officers and not men like me.”

He didn’t need to add that it was the only time the Royal Navy had let him off the ship.

“Hasn’t been many people coming in lately, and don’t tell me it’s because of the winter,” Barley said.

The phenomenon had been noted by others. What had been a steady trickle of people seeking sanctuary in Fort Washington had just about dried up. The reason was obvious. Who wanted to go to a place that might be destroyed in a few months with everybody in and around it either killed or enslaved? In effect, everyone who really wanted to go to Fort Washington was already there. The people they were looking for were the exception.

“Movement in the woods,” one of the sharper-eyed soldiers announced and they all strained their eyes to see. Owen had a small telescope and finally caught a patch of moving color.

“I see them.” He paused as the picture became clearer. “I count five.”

“So do I,” said Barley. “The small one might be a woman.”

And that would make the numbers just about right, Owen thought. Tallmadge had said there wouldn’t be more than a handful and one of them might be a woman. Behind them, Owen could see a line of small horse-drawn carts laden with store goods.

The people stepped carefully into the meadow and looked around nervously. They were fully exposed and it made them uncomfortable. Owen saw a couple of muskets, but the little group was decidedly lacking in firepower. One man was older and overweight. Two of the younger men were helping him. The smaller one removed a cap and revealed blond hair that had been chopped short. Obviously, she was the woman Tallmadge had mentioned.

Barley again spat on the ground. “Does not look like an invading army.”

Owen stood up and waited until they saw him. He walked slowly toward them, his rifle in the crook of his arm. Barley walked a few paces behind him and to his side. When they were a few paces away, Owen stopped.

“Name yourselves,” he ordered.

The older man stood as tall as he could. “My name is Abraham Goldman. These two young men who think I am so weak I will fall over are my beloved but idiot sons. The other two men used to own a tavern across the river from Detroit. The little one is named Hannah and she has been a great help to me.”

“Are you really a Jew?” asked Barley, stepping up alongside Owen. “The lieutenant tried to tell me that Jews were bigger and all covered with fur.”

As Owen rolled his eyes, Goldman smiled tolerantly. “As monsters go, I’m a small one. And it’s springtime, so my fur has molted.”

Owen eased his grip on his weapon. “And what else are you to tell me, Mr. Goldman?”

“Tell General Tallmadge that his ‘doves’ have arrived.”

Owen nodded and smiled. “I will, but first let’s get you some food and water.”

* * *

“Another epistle from Cornwallis,” said Fitzroy. “And again full of lamentations and complaints about us taking so long fiddling in the forests while Rome, or perhaps New York or London, is burning.”

Danforth sat on the edge of his cot and sucked on his pipe. If the stinking mess he was smoking was actually tobacco, then dogs had just become cats. “Well, why don’t you write the details in your journal so they can be stolen again?”

“Unfair,” Fitzroy said and hid a wince. It reminded him again of Hannah and the wound was still fresh. He marveled that he still held strong feelings for her despite her betrayal. And, he had indeed been keeping his journal and the hell with what either Burgoyne or Tarleton thought.

“So what does the great Lord Corn of Wallis worry about this time?” Danforth asked. He had been spending less and less time in headquarters. He was now tasked with working alongside Benedict Arnold and overseeing the completion of the sailing barges, despite the fact that he knew nothing about boats other than that they floated on water. Or were supposed to, he’d joked.

Fitzroy chuckled mirthlessly. “Despite denials and such from Cornwallis and their lordships in London, the American public is aghast at the information that they would become vassals or serfs at the end of the taking of Fort Washington.”

“Can’t imagine why?” Danforth said. “Who wouldn’t jump with joy at the chance to become a serf on his own land? I would be absolutely enchanted at the thought of working endless days for starvation wages and having my wife and female children sent out as whores to supplement my income.”

“Cornwallis reports that insurrections have broken out in many areas and that Boston may now be under rebel control. He further said that partisan activity in the southern colonies has increased to the point where Charleston is under virtual siege. As to New York, Cornwallis has strengthened the landward defenses of Manhattan and thinks that there would be an insurrection if not for the presence of a half a dozen Royal Navy warships and their assorted cannon.”

Danforth scoffed. “And a British victory at Fort Washington would change all that? Methinks he pins his hopes on a slender reed.”

“He hopes it would be so. At least it and the return of his army would only give him enough force to put down what he is confronting now.”

Danforth put down his pipe. “Dear Lord, are you saying that this war could go on even longer? I thought this campaign was to end the war in the colonies once and for all.”

Fitzroy sat on his cot and pulled out his journal. “It was, but that was before the king and his cronies fucked it up so royally.”

* * *

Will and Tallmadge walked through yet another warehouse. As with the others, it was filled with weapons of all categories, although many were of the very simplest types. Along with muskets, these included pikes, bayonets, and tomahawks.

Still, there were enough muskets to supply far more than the army at Fort Washington. It was testimony to the organizational skills of Schuyler and the improvisational techniques of Franklin. Who would have thought that the iron ore to make them existed in quantity just a few hundred miles north of them? And who would have thought that it could be mined with relative ease, melted into ingots, and then brought down in the large canoes used by the Indians when making long trips with sizeable crews and cargoes? While there would never be enough quality iron or implements to cast cannon, there was enough to manufacture the smaller weapons that filled the warehouses.

“Who will use all these?” Will asked. “Are you expecting company or is this wishful thinking?”

“Perhaps a little of both. Surely, we’ll have more soldiers coming in when the British begin to move on us, but I’m just as certain that a number of our heroic stalwarts will flee anywhere they can, rather than actually fight. Human nature, I’m afraid.”

“Summer soldiers and sunshine patriots,” Will mused. “Tom Paine was correct. And what of Mistress Adams’ ideas?”

Abigail Adams and a deputation of women had proposed to General Schuyler that they function as messengers and couriers within the army. There was a hint that women should also be allowed to load weapons for the men during the fighting that was sure to come. All the suggestions had been met with shock and skepticism. However, they had not been rejected.

“Much will depend on the requirements of whoever actually leads the army,” Tallmadge said, adding that it had been Schuyler’s response.

“And who will that be, and who is that man I’ve seen you talking with? You know, the one who arrived with Glover. Or is he just another of your spies?”

“He’s an old friend.” Tallmadge said with a knowing smile. “Just like you are, which permits you to take such liberties as you do with a high-ranking general such as I am.”

Tallmadge took Will by the arm and steered him out of the warehouse. “Don’t pressure me about him and I’ll share a secret with you.”

“Which one?”

Tallmadge grinned wickedly, “As how I get my information so quickly.”

Will allowed himself to be led back to Tallmadge’s headquarters. As always, the wood-shingled roof was covered with scores of pigeons and stained white with their droppings. A dozen or so flew off and whirled around as the men approached, while others stayed and observed. Instead of going through the front of the building, Tallmadge led him through the back. Inside, Will’s jaw dropped as he saw cage after cage filled with pigeons.

“What is this, dinner?” he asked.

Tallmadge laughed. “Hardly. Cook them forever and they’d still be too bloody tough to chew. Will, this is the secret. The pigeons in these cages are homing pigeons and have been trained to return here once released. A small, short message is tied to their legs and they can make it from a place like Detroit to here in an astonishingly short period of time. It is a trick that’s been in use for perhaps thousands of years. Of course, I must wait for a more detailed explanation to arrive in the traditional manner, such as when you finally show up covered with filth after plodding through the woods.”

“And this is what you lost when the British raided that tavern, isn’t it?”

“In part. Of course it wasn’t the only location sending messages by pigeon. It was, however, the best. I’ve been reconstituting other sites. When the British finally move, their location will be sent to us by a variety of means and we will be able to react rather quickly.”

“Doesn’t that presume we’ll have an army to react with?”

“It does indeed,” Tallmadge said sadly, “and that is the flaw in the plan. We have to have a bloody army and someone competent to lead it. And still that might not be enough.”