Liberty: 1784

Chapter 12

Benjamin Franklin took his seat at the head of the long table. He adjusted his glasses and peered at the men gathered in the small room. They were the cream of the crop of the small army’s leaders. God help us, he thought, as he gazed at Schuyler, Wayne, Morgan, Glover, and Tallmadge. Only von Steuben wasn’t present. He was away with his Hessians and had said that he would support any decision that was made, just as long as he wasn’t given the command.

“The time for dreaming and hoping is over, gentlemen,” Franklin began. “Nathanael Greene is well and truly dead. And now the army needs a leader, a man who can inspire confidence in our soldiers and a sense of dread in the enemy. All of you are candidates for the position, yet all of you have serious flaws. Like it or not, I shall enumerate them.”

There was a small amount of shuffling that Franklin ignored. “You, General Schuyler, are a major general and, thus, the highest ranking officer at Fort Washington. By rights, you should have the command. Yet, the rank and file and many of the officers have no confidence in you because of what happened in the past.”

“Unfair,” said Schuyler, shaking his head sadly.

“Life is not fair,” Franklin retorted. “I too believe you were shabbily treated when you were removed from command by Congress, but it was done and cannot be undone any more than Ticonderoga can be returned to you. I believe that, if you were named to command now, many of our soldiers would simply melt away into the wilderness. Still, your obvious skills at organizing this settlement and creating the army we have cannot be denied. Indeed, they must be continued, which is a good reason for keeping you where you are. Without you, I am afraid that we would have starved to death a long time ago.”

Schuyler accepted the compliment with a small smile. “My work has been made easier these past few weeks thanks to the Jew, Goldman, and the Dutch woman, Van Doorn.”

Franklin understood the implication. Thanks to Goldman and Van Doorn, Schuyler would be free to lead the army in battle if named to command. He wanted it. He wanted to be vindicated. It wouldn’t happen.

“Tallmadge,” Franklin continued. “You have never led an army. Do you wish to start now?”

“Good God, no,” Tallmadge said with enough emphasis to make the others laugh.

“Nor do I,” said Brigadier General John Glover.

Franklin smiled. He appreciated their candor. “I didn’t think so. So that leaves General Wayne and General Morgan, unless you wish me to promote von Steuben.”

“That would be a disaster,” said Schuyler. “He is a fraud, has no command experience, and barely speaks English.”

“But he is such a genial fraud,” Franklin said. Franklin had given the rank of general to that genial fraud because he’d been convinced that Steuben could be of great use to the army, and that confidence had been proven correct many times over.

Franklin turned to Anthony Wayne. “But you are right. Von Steuben the German could never command an army of Americans.” He turned to Wayne. “Do you think you are ready for the honor, General Wayne?”

Wayne paled. He was ambitious and skilled, but inexperienced. He knew that his relative youth-he was under forty-was also against him. That and many considered his tendency to impetuousness to count against him.

“If offered, I would accept,” he said softly. “And I would do my best.”

“Thank you, and no man could ask for more than that,” Franklin said. “And you, General Morgan?”

Morgan, the gruff Old Wagoneer and veteran of numerous battles and campaigns, snorted, “I’d take it in a heartbeat if I were younger and in better health. And then I’d kick Burgoyne’s ass all the way back to London.”

He could have done it, too, thought Franklin. But Morgan’s health was against him. Although only a decade older than Wayne, the harsh and rugged life he’d led now conspired to keep him largely immobile. He’d had to be carried in a litter on many occasions because of the crippling aches in his bones.

Morgan shook his head sadly. “I could fight a battle, Benjamin, but I could not fight a campaign.”

Again Franklin smiled. Morgan understood exactly. There would likely be a campaign against the British, not just a climactic battle. He wondered if Schuyler and Wayne understood that.

Morgan leaned back in his chair and winced from the pain in his lower back. “It looks like all of us are soiled virgins, Benjamin. What will you do?”

Franklin smiled impishly. “John Hancock once offered to lead the army. Perhaps he can be talked into it again.”

There were brays of laughter. “Johnny Hancock doesn’t even know which end of a musket to use,” Morgan said and then turned serious. “Benjamin, you didn’t bring us here to ridicule us or to choose any one of us. You’re too damned smart for that. You already have a man, don’t you?”

“General Glover,” Franklin smiled impishly and said, “Would you be so kind as to bring in your good friend and traveling companion?”

Glover stepped away and into another room. He returned in a moment with a thin man with long white hair and a full white beard. He wore a suit of dark blue cloth, which was vaguely military. Tallmadge recognized him as the man who had arrived at the tail of Glover’s column. Then the light dawned.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

The white-bearded man smiled. “Don’t blaspheme. I am not Jesus, Tallmadge. The beard has fooled better men than you.”

“Enough,” said Glover, grinning. “Since not everyone recognizes you, introduce yourself to the others, sir. Give them your name.”

“John Stark.”

* * *

Further discussions regarding leadership of the army were anticlimactic. Franklin asked Stark if he would command the Continental forces at Fort Washington and he agreed that he would. Franklin then asked the other assembled generals whether they supported Stark’s ascension to command. They did. For a moment if appeared that Schuyler would protest, but he did not. Some later thought he hesitated, but they may have been wrong. But who could have begrudged Schuyler a moment’s pause at what might have been?

John Stark was in his mid-fifties and, thanks to the beard and the hard life he’d recently led, looked older. Still, he was in far better health than Morgan.

Stark explained that he had escaped the British sweep by the simple accident of being out fishing when the British had descended on his home.

“When I returned home I found my house burned to the ground and my wife beaten to death. Why did they have to kill Molly?” he said, the anger surging. “I can only surmise that they thought she knew where I’d gone, but she didn’t. All she knew was that I’d gone fishing, but had no idea exactly where and there were a score of places to choose from. So in their blind anger, they killed her.”

Stark blinked away the sudden moistness in his eyes. “I figured they’d be back looking for me and, a few days later, they were, but this time I was waiting. There were just a three of them so I killed two of them right off. I shot one with my musket and killed the second with my knife. The third one ran. I know who he is and maybe someday I’ll catch up to him as well. Then I took some supplies and, after saying goodbye at my wife’s grave, headed into the woods.”

“Which is where I found him,” Glover said quietly. “Eating berries and nuts and looking like shit. I thought, is this what the man who saved our left flank at Bunker’s Hill and destroyed the British advance on Bennington deserved to become? I convinced him to come with us.”

“It was not my choice. He dragged me along,” said Stark with a trace of a smile.

Glover’s meeting him was not quite accidental. Glover had known of Stark’s escape and had gone to find him en route to Fort Washington with his regiment of Marblehead men.

“So what are your plans now that you command us?” asked Franklin.

Stark glowered and there was a sudden fire in his eyes. “To destroy the British. When they move on us I want to make every step a living hell for them. I want them to pay in blood for Molly and everyone else they’ve killed or abused.”

“That’s not quite a civilized approach to war,” said Franklin.

“War is always barbaric,” Stark retorted. “And anyone who attempts to put rules to it is a fool, and anyone who thinks that any war can be civilized is worse than a fool. War is the killing of people by other people. It is mean, miserable, and destructive. It blows human flesh to pieces and leaves the survivors screaming for mercy, and their widows and children to starve.”

“Is it safe to say you will fight such an uncivilized war?” asked a mildly surprised Schuyler.

“I will use any and all means at my disposal to kill them,” Stark said. “We will poison their wells and their food, and knife them in their sleep.” He turned to Franklin. “And for you, most revered doctor, I wish you to use your most inventive mind to conjure up diabolic devices to assist me.”

Franklin looked shocked. He had never before been asked to do any such thing. Even his invention of the weapon that bore his name was more of a lark than a serious endeavor. And the production of muskets and pikes was nothing at all unique. He wanted to prove his concept of using interchangeable parts, not necessarily destroy people. “I will do it,” he finally said.

“I have one question,” said Glover in an attempt to lighten the mood. “John Stark, how the hell much longer are you going to keep that ugly damned beard?”

“Until the last Redcoat is gone.”

* * *

Erich von Blumberg was a colonel in the army of Hess. He arrived at Detroit accompanied by a hundred or so Hessian soldiers. They’d come by boat, jammed in one of the barges, which made their journey somewhat more comfortable than marching along the coast.

Von Blumberg was in his early forties, stout, and wore his gaudily colored uniform and numerous medals as if he’d been born to them, which he had. Military service to the rulers of Hess ran deep in his family. His command of the English language was excellent and he was angry.

“What you are telling me, my dear General Burgoyne, is that you have managed to round up only four deserters?”

“If indeed they are deserters,” Fitzroy answered for his general. “We began with twenty and, after careful investigation concluded that only these four could possibly have been in your army.”

The Hessian stood and stared directly into Fitzroy’s face. “Why? Who gave you such wisdom?”

Fitzroy decided he would like to slap the pompous twit. “Common sense, Colonel. Several of the twenty were very young boys and others were very old men. A few were crippled and at least one was a babbling idiot. How many such ancients, infants, cripples, and idiots do you have in the armies of Hess and the other German states?”

“None,” von Blumberg said grudgingly as he ignored the jibe.

“You’ve interviewed the four,” Burgoyne said to von Blumberg. “What do you make of them?”

“I want them hanged.”

“But what proof do you have that they were ever in the army of Hess or any other principality?” asked Fitzroy.

“They are Germans and they are the right age.”

“But Colonel,” Fitzroy continued, “Germans have lived here for decades, generations. I interviewed them too, and they all claimed to be born here. How can you be certain they are your deserters? And wouldn’t they be beyond stupid to live near a British army encampment if they were deserters?”

Von Blumberg glared at him. “And perhaps they are stupid, Major. I talked with them and I am convinced there is a strong likelihood that they are deserters.”

“But likelihood is not proof,” Fitzroy insisted. “Would you hang men who might just be innocent?”

Von Blumberg merely sniffed. “Innocence and guilt are totally irrelevant. They must hang as an example to others that the armies of the German states are not to be trifled with. We had a contract with Lord North to provide soldiers and there have been so many desertions that they have cost us money as well as credibility.”

“But you’re not positive of their guilt, are you?” Fitzroy repeated, thinking that the Hessians had been sent to the colonies as cannon fodder, little more than brutally drilled puppets. Who wouldn’t desert under the circumstances? North America was a huge continent in which a man could disappear.

Von Blumberg pulled a piece of paper from his jacket. “This is from your king, who is, you will recall, of the Germanic House of Hanover, which he still rules along with reigning in England. He says that I and I alone will determine who is a deserter. You don’t have to be convinced of their guilt, only I do.”

He turned to Burgoyne. “According to my orders you are required to turn those men over to me and I demand it be done immediately. If any of the others your major so foolishly let loose are still around, I wish them taken and hanged as well.”

“They have departed,” Burgoyne said stiffly and glancing at Fitzroy who nodded. If the others hadn’t yet departed, they would soon be far, far away. “As to these four, they are yours. I cannot prevent you from taking them, however much I too doubt their guilt.”

Less than an hour later, the four men were dragged from their prison by von Blumberg’s men. Chains shackled their hands and feet, which made them shuffle rather than walk. They were confused and stared around at the growing crowd. A rough scaffold had been hastily thrown up and they were dragged to it. Nooses were placed around their necks. One man began to scream while another prayed loudly in German when they realized what was going to happen to them. The men were hauled up on barrels and, without ceremony and only a moment later, the barrels were kicked away.

“You didn’t even give them a moment to pray or to see a minister of their faith?” Fitzroy said.

“It wouldn’t matter,” von Blumberg huffed. “They are going to hell regardless.”

The dying men twisted, kicked, and turned while hundreds of soldiers and civilians watched in silence. Their faces were contorted and their bowels and bladders began to release, the stench adding to the abomination.

“At least kill them quickly,” Fitzroy pleaded. It was possible to hasten their end by pulling on their legs and breaking their necks.

“Let them suffer,” von Blumberg said.

“This unnecessarily cruelty will only harden the resolve of those actual Hessian deserters at Fort Washington,” Fitzroy pleaded.

“Do I care what a few dozen wretched deserters think? Let them fear the future.”

“A few dozen?” Fitzroy said incredulously. “Is that all you think there are?”

Von Blumberg looked at him growing surprise. “How many are there? A few score, then?”

Fitzroy laughed harshly. “Hundreds, you fool, perhaps a thousand.”

Von Blumberg paled. “Dear God.”

“And although they said they were already willing to fight to the death to stay free, some must have harbored doubts about committing suicide. Thanks to you, those doubts are all swept away. They will fight like savages to keep from falling into your hands.”

The “deserters” had finally stopped twitching and the spectators melted away. A number of the civilians ostentatiously spat in the general direction of von Blumberg, who ignored the insult.

* * *

If John Hancock was disappointed that no one had asked him to command the American army, he didn’t show it. Instead, he seemed positively relieved that John Stark had taken the burden. Similarly, General Philip Schuyler had decided to swallow whatever thoughts he might have had regarding leading their small army to glory.

If Hancock was annoyed at anything, it was that Stark was being particularly closed-mouthed about his plans. “Will you at least tell me, General Stark, whether or not you intend to take the battle to Burgoyne or do you intend to wait here for the blow to fall on us here?”

“We will strike at him as soon as he leaves his devil’s lair at Detroit,” Stark finally responded. He noted Anthony Wayne leaning forward expectantly and shook his head. “But not with the entire army or even a large portion of it. Colonel Clark’s men will nibble at the British and hurt them.”

“You are certain that they will come from only one direction?” Hancock asked.

“I am. They will come directly from Detroit and take the shortest distance. They will not deviate significantly from the already established trails.”

“Are you concerned that the British might come down the Ohio, march north, and strike at our rear?” Hancock asked.

“To do that,” Stark answered, “they would have to march a couple of hundred miles from Detroit south to the Ohio River, set sail on boats that don’t exist, and then, after the water portion of their travels was over, march several hundred miles north to where we await them. I rather wish they would do that. They would be exhausted and starving by the time they reached us.

“The force they had gathering on the Ohio River at Pitt has made its way almost to Detroit. Thanks to General Tallmadge’s spies, we are now aware that almost all of the scattered British units are at Detroit.”

Will, sitting behind Tallmadge, sensed his pleasure at the compliment. “And when they leave for Fort Washington, we will know quite promptly,” Tallmadge added.

“How?” asked Hancock, “Fires? Smoke signals? Witchcraft?”

Franklin smiled, “Witchcraft most certainly.”

“Speaking of which,” Stark said, ignoring the comment, “how are you coming with your infernal devices?”

Franklin sighed. “I had hoped to use electricity as a weapon that would at least terrify our enemies if not kill them, but I fear our knowledge of it is not advanced enough. Therefore, I am looking to the past to save the future.”

It was Franklin’s turn to be secretive. He had told no one of his plan to turn out breechloading rifles modeled on the Ferguson rifle used by the British at Brandywine and by Ferguson’s Loyalists at Kings Mountain. While it had many flaws, the rate of fire could be an incredible ten shots a minute and by a soldier lying prone, which meant he was a far more difficult target. He’d gotten one of the weapons from a man who’d fought Ferguson, and he was even now tinkering with it. He was going to strengthen the stock and simplify the complicated and fragile mechanism. The squat gun named after him would be but a limited success at best, but a weapon that could fire so many more times a minute would be a feather in his cap.

Franklin didn’t think he could manufacture a thousand of them-a couple of hundred would be more like it, but he thought they would be a most unpleasant surprise for Burgoyne.

“Will you elaborate?” Hancock asked.

Franklin beamed. “No.”

* * *

John Stark, newly appointed Major General Commanding the American Armies walked the low, sloping hill. A chill breeze from the lake a few miles away swept through his cloak and into his thin frame. He willed himself not to shiver. It would show weakness. Generals should never show weakness to their men.

His title, he sniffed, was more imposing than the reality of his command. There were no “armies.” In fact it was difficult to say that the force he commanded was an army at all-just a handful of regiments that might be combined into a few brigades perhaps, but not an army.

By the latest count, he had three thousand men at Fort Washington, or Liberty, as some called it, and another thousand or so under von Steuben a few miles away. Tallmadge insisted that scattered communities like Liberty would also send men when the time arose, but Stark was not a fool. He would not count on people who weren’t there.

For that matter, he wasn’t so confident that those currently present would all stick around when the British arrived. He would not count on dramatically increasing his numbers.

Nor did he have much confidence in Benjamin Franklin’s sometimes crackpot schemes to develop weapons that would turn the tide against an overwhelmingly larger enemy army. John Stark would fight the old-fashioned way. He would plan a killing ground like he had at Bennington and hope he could inflict enough casualties to defeat the British before they overwhelmed his small force. If Franklin and his cohorts actually did create a weapon that worked, then that would be wonderful. Until then, he would trust in the musket, the rifle, the sword, and the bayonet.

And courage.

He liked the hill on which he stood. Long and low and not even a hundred feet high, the British might not recognize it as an impediment until it was too late, and were committed to a slow and tiresome uphill climb. The hill was relatively barren and windswept, which meant the enemy couldn’t hide as they approached. Grasses would grow before the end of summer, but there would be no trees and no heavy brush. If only it wasn’t so damned long, he thought. There was, he admitted, more hill than he had army to defend it.

Stark turned to his entourage. The other generals looked serious, while some of the lower-ranking officers looked on curiously, wondering what their betters were thinking, and knowing that such thoughts could determine whether they lived or died.

“Here,” Stark said, pointing to the ground. “We will make our defenses here. Our left flank will be on the marsh in that direction and our right flank will be anchored on that bloody bog. They cannot turn us.”

“You’re sure they’ll come this way?” asked Wayne.

“They don’t really have a choice,” Stark answered firmly. “They will come directly from Detroit and will be funneled by the rivers and the location of Fort Washington. If they go to our south, they will have to cross the river under fire, and I cannot imagine that Johnny Burgoyne would ever want to do that. He had enough of river crossings at Saratoga. No, by coming this way, he can keep his feet dry and only have fairly innocent streams to cross as he gets closer.”

Will was busy taking notes. The location chosen was near the portage where Indians and French hunters had been crossing from Lake Michigan. It led to the spot where they could put their canoes back in the water and commence a long journey that would ultimately take them to St. Louis and New Orleans. Stark was right, he thought. The geography and the wetlands would force the British to come this way. Still, he saw a problem.

“General,” said Will. “It is several miles between the two bogs. How will we defend such a distance with the small force at our command?”

“We will fortify the entire length and defend where they choose to attack. I don’t think they will spread their forces and force us to spread ours. With Grant as second in command, I see him attempting a single attack in overwhelming strength at what they perceive of as a vital point. We will watch them and be prepared to move along our line and confront them at a moment’s notice.”

“Fortifying that much hill will be a major effort,” said Schuyler.

Stark nodded. “It will.”

“And it will be virtually impossible to keep secret,” Tallmadge added.

“Do the British still have spies here?” Stark asked.

“Doubtless, sir,” Tallmadge answered. “We’ve caught some of them and hanged them, of course, but I do not think that we’ve found all. Besides, there is enough casual traffic between here and the surrounding communities that it will be virtually impossible to keep our efforts a secret.”

Stark shrugged. “Then we shall presume no secrets. We shall presume that the British will know exactly where and what we are doing. You’re right, of course, Tallmadge. Any man who counts on this being a secret is a fool. We will have to outfight them, not out-secret them.”

Tallmadge smiled, “Your orders, then sir?”

Stark returned the smile. “Dig.”

* * *

“Well, Admiral Danforth, are you ready to set sail?” Fitzroy said with a cheeky grin.

“Careful you ignorant landlubber, or I’ll sail one of these ugly boats right up your ugly ass,” Danforth answered with a mock snarl.

“Well, look at the bright side. You’ll be away from here and on a North American version of the Grand Tour. Just think what wonders you’ll see. There’ll be unwashed savages galore, and many of the ugliest and filthiest females in the world will want to bed you while the deer and black bears watch. There’ll be scenic marvels like unending forests and clouds of bugs just drooling at the thought of sucking your rich English blood right out of your veins. Just think, some poor fools have to make do with trips to Rome and Venice, or even Paris, while you get the forests of Michigan as your Grand Tour. Of all the lucky bastards in the world, you truly are the luckiest.”

“I am too thrilled for words,” Danforth said. “And don’t forget that I also get to go with Benedict Arnold, a man who was a traitor once and might just do it again.” Danforth’s low opinion of Arnold was shared by most officers in the British force.

“I doubt it,” said Fitzroy. “Good lord, where would he go? Think, how many turns can a turncoat turn?”

“Regardless, it isn’t fair,” Danforth said with almost a sigh.

“Fair has nothing to do with it, my brave young soldier turned sailor, and say, doesn’t that make you a turncoat as well? Life is not fair and you should know that. I certainly do.”

“True enough,” Danforth grumbled.

“True, indeed. Consider the position of our leaders. The brave General Burgoyne, my mentor and distant relative, loses an entire army at Saratoga in ’77, but is given another one to play with, while Cornwallis, a man who very nearly lost another one at Yorktown in ’81, controls Burgoyne and very nearly the whole North American continent.”

Danforth shuddered. The tale of Cornwallis’ rescue at Yorktown by the last-minute arrival of the British fleet and the subsequent defeat of the French fleet was the stuff of legend. Cornwallis the lucky was more important than Cornwallis the very good general. In truth, he was both lucky and a very good general, and both he and Fitzroy would have been far more confident of success had Cornwallis been in charge of the expedition instead of Burgoyne.

And after Yorktown, the incompetent and stubborn Admiral Graves was given credit for the overwhelming victory over the French when it actually was the result of Admiral Hood’s initiative in not waiting for the French to come out and politely line up to do battle. Instead, Hood had taken his division and thrown them onto the disorganized French ships as they emerged from the bay and slaughtered them. With the French shattered, British reinforcements landed and the rebel force disintegrated. For all intents, the revolution ended that day.

As a result, Graves was made a duke, while Hood, the fighter with the initiative, now languished on the shore, commanding not ships but a number of warehouses in Portsmouth as reward for his brilliance. Fair? Fitzroy didn’t think so. But Graves was a favorite of the corrupt Earl of Sandwich, who ruled the Admiralty.

“We should be in England, training the new regiments that are being developed for the real war against France, perhaps even commanding one,” Fitzroy muttered. “I still can’t believe that England has fallen so low that she now has to conscript men into her army as she has done for her navy.”

The news of conscription had struck the army like a thunderbolt. The navy traditionally conscripted, or pressed, men into the service, while the army prided itself on taking only volunteers. Well, admittedly some of the volunteers were the dregs of society and others given the choice of join or hang, but technically they were volunteers, weren’t they? But the manpower situation had grown so dire and the wars so unpopular that England was now forcing Englishmen into her army. Some other officers wondered quietly if it would result in a revolution like what France was enduring. It was all the more reason that the British army prevail both overwhelmingly and quickly.

“It’s indeed a sad state of affairs,” said Danforth as he looked around with a touch of pride. “At least this part of affairs afloat is going well.”

Fifty barges laden with cannon, carriages, shot, shells, ammunition, food, and other supplies too bulky to take overland were just about ready to set sail. The two small warships that were to accompany the flotilla were in place and looked brave, albeit tiny. The Fox and the Snake were schooners carrying but a dozen small cannon in total. Still, they were considered to be more powerful than anything the rebels had. While the rebels might be able to build a good-sized warship, they did not have the ropes and cordage and sails; thus, any ships would have to be galleys which the armed schooners could outmaneuver with ease. Also, intelligence said that they did not have the ability to forge cannon.

For this voyage, the Fox would also carry Arnold and Danforth as the swift but diminutive warships could sail rings around the barges.

Each sailing barge would have a crew of a dozen, which meant they could row if becalmed by the wind and defend the crafts if necessary. It was planned that they would take about two months to reach their destination, where, it was hoped, Burgoyne’s army would await them. Since it was equally possible that the barges would arrive first, the plans also required them to stay offshore until the army appeared. It was hoped that neither the army nor the fleet would have a long wait.

“We sail tomorrow,” Danforth said. “Shall we celebrate tonight?”

“Do you want to be on a small boat with a hangover?”

“Either way, I’ll be sick as a dog, so I might as well enjoy myself this evening.”

Later, they were well into their second bottle of brandy and preparing for their third, when Danforth turned and looked grimly at Fitzroy. “James, have we been sent on a fool’s errand? Are we being set up to fail? Are these damned barges the equivalent of the Spanish Armada?”

Fitzroy sighed. He had been thinking the very same thing. “You ask too damned many questions.”

* * *

Lieutenant Owen Wells looked at the strange contraption in his hand. Had he been more educated and traveled, he might have recognized it. Still, he saw it as a weapon from the past and wondered about it. They were outdoors and in the same place where Will Drake had used an earlier invention to fire at a target. A straw-filled dummy of a man was at the end of the range. A half-rotten pumpkin was the skull.

“Doctor Franklin,” he said, “I know you’re a man of great wisdom, but surely this is a joke.”

Franklin nodded tolerantly. “Lieutenant Wells, I assure you it is not. The crossbow was an effective weapon against knights in armor several hundred years ago. Indeed, it was so effective, that it almost destroyed the armored and mounted knight as a military class.”

“But we fight Redcoats, not knights in armor.”

“True,” said Franklin.

“And the last I checked, Doctor, none of the red-coated turds were wearing armor, even though they weren’t knights.”

Franklin nodded. “But the bolt from a crossbow will just as easily penetrate cloth and flesh. It is accurate to well over a hundred yards, which is at least as good as a musket and can be reloaded at least as fast thanks to my clever innovations to an otherwise awkward device.”

Owen grinned inwardly. The good doctor was getting exasperated with his questions. “But if you wanted a better weapon, why not give us longbows like my ancestors used to use against the English? From what I’ve heard, they raised holy hell with King Edward’s men.”

“Because, my incessantly questioning young friend, longbows take forever to make and take an eternity to learn how to use, or didn’t you know that?”

“Oh, I did. I just wanted to see if you did.”

“Lieutenant Wells, you are a devil.”

“I’ve been called worse, good doctor. But since you compare me with Satan, let me tell you how I plan to use these crossbows that you are forcing me and my men to use.”

Owen cocked the weapon. The motion was blessedly silent, barely a whisper, thanks to some padding and oiling the doctor had added. He placed it snugly into his shoulder and fired. The only sound was a soft thwack as the bolt released and a slight thud as it impacted into a dummy made of straw.

“Excellent shot,” Franklin said.

Wells was also impressed. “I can do better and so can my men. What I want to do is fire these quietly at night and into their camps so they don’t know what’s hitting them and from where. If I have to lose sleep firing these things, then everyone does.

“Then I plan to have my men lie in wait along the trail and watch for stragglers or someone out of line having to piss or shit. There’s nothing worse than getting an arrow up your ass while taking a shit.”

“Indeed,” said Franklin happily. Tallmadge had suggested Lieutenant Wells as someone who would respond favorably to the idea of using a medieval crossbow in this, the late eighteenth century. Wells was Welsh and the Welsh were romantics when it came to killing. It was ironic. In the very early days of the war, Franklin had actually proposed arming the American army besieging the British at Boston with bows and arrows, but had been laughed at. Now he would have a degree of vindication. He hoped.

Owen smiled and fondled the crossbow. “Then we shall simply wait for other targets of opportunity. I dare say we will have plenty of them. We won’t win the war with these ancient weapons, Doctor Franklin, but we will make the damned Redcoats miserable and cost them plenty.”

Wells armed his crossbow with another bolt, cocked, aimed, and fired. Benjamin Franklin couldn’t hide a gasp as the bolt penetrated and shattered the pumpkin, the skull of the dummy.

* * *

Lord Charles Cornwallis climbed the observation tower at the base of Manhattan Island and looked across the harbor at the assembled ships of the Royal Navy. Three giant ships of the line, seven frigates and a gaggle of sloops and merchantmen lay at anchor and rocked gently. On the tower, Cornwallis was almost as high in the air as a lookout in the rigging and crow’s nests of the fleet. As an army man he firmly believed that no sane man would ever go up to such a fragile place on a ship, especially when the world beneath you rolled and pitched. At least his newly constructed tower on the battlements of Fort George had the decency to stand still; except, of course, when it was windy and stormy.

He thought it was an almost peaceful and tranquil perch in the sky. The dark of night hid so many of the world’s scars and this was no exception. He could have turned and looked landward at the ruined city of New York but chose not to. Jammed with more people then it could safely handle-some estimated more than fifty thousand-the city had become a diseased and running sore.

Cornwallis heard footsteps and nodded warmly as his brother. Commodore Billy Cornwallis climbed up and joined him. He was gratified that his young brother was huffing slightly; thereby proving that he hadn’t been climbing any of his ship’s rigging for quite some time.

“Excellent view,” William Cornwallis said, also looking over the harbor and ignoring the city.

Governor General Charles Cornwallis agreed. “Your ships look like predators that are poised to pounce on an unseen and unsuspecting enemy.”

“If only that were true,” his brother said ruefully. His ships were shorthanded and low on supplies. Their warlike visage was a facade. “How go things in the fair city of New York?”

Both men turned to take in the view of Manhattan Island. Neither was surprised to see a couple of fires burning as more dwellings fell to accidents caused by overcrowding. Of course, the loss of the buildings would make the overcrowding more acute with still more accidents occurring, and so on. Life in the city of New York was a spiral descending into hell. Bells began to clang as people gathered to put out the fires.

The wind shifted and the stench of the city swept over them. Each man looked at the other. Was it possible to catch the pox from the air as some scientists seemed to think?

“Does the situation improve?” the younger Cornwallis asked.

“As we speak, hundreds in the city are dying of smallpox,” his brother answered. “So far I’ve kept the disease from the garrison but only by sealing off the military in the fort. I can’t keep them there forever. I must begin to send out patrols and try to regain the countryside so these damned people will leave New York and go back to their homes. I would also like for Burgoyne to get off his arse and win his battles, and return my army to me.”

William saw no need to comment. The dilemma was well known. With so much of the army with Burgoyne, the British had virtually conceded the lands outside the major cities to whoever could hold them. Tories and rebels were again fighting for control of the countryside and the rebels seemed to be winning. Many Tories were disheartened by what appeared to be a two-part abandonment of them by the British. The first was the disappearance of the army, their protection, and the second was the publication of Britain’s shocking intentions for the colonies after the war was won. Offended, angered, with their livelihoods threatened, many Loyalists had gone over to the rebels, while many of the others waited in sullen silence, but without supporting the British.

At least, William thought, the smallpox that was devouring New York had so far spared his ships. When the plague erupted, he’d coldly ordered those ashore to remain ashore so they could not infect his crews. Of course, that also meant he couldn’t take on supplies or press crewmen. The additional crew he could exist without, but his men had to eat, damn it. Something had to break and quickly.

“What can I do to assist?” William asked.

“Take me home,” Charles Cornwallis said with a wry laugh. He wanted nothing more than to be away from this place and to be back in England with memories of his beloved but deceased Jemima. He was one of a small number in his social class who had married for love and her death had devastated him.

“Is there a second choice?” William asked sympathetically.

“Could you take me and my soldiers to Boston or Charleston should the crises worsen here?”

William stiffened. That would mean disobeying the orders of Lord North, who had commanded that the major cities, specifically including New York, be held while Burgoyne marched inland. Still, Lord North was thousands of miles away, while his brother was the commander on the ground.

“Do you think that will be necessary?”

“I don’t know. If the disease threatens we may have to leave, at least temporarily. Perhaps we can construct a fort on Long Island or Staten Island and be far away from the sickness that is New York while still claiming we’re here.” He laughed harshly. “It would only be half a lie, a fact which our conniving Lord North would fully understand and appreciate.”

William relaxed. That would enable Governor Cornwallis to claim he still controlled New York by dominating the harbor. Perhaps he could even offer the use of the several hundred marines on his ships as additions to the governor’s depleted garrison. “My dear brother, we will do everything we can to assist should that prove necessary.”

Off in the distance, a woman wailed in unspeakable anguish. Someone had just died, and perhaps violently, although it was more likely from the disease that ravaged the city. It was a sound heard very frequently now, and both men wondered what if anything would be left of the American Colonies when Burgoyne returned victorious.