Liberty: 1784

Chapter 14

The six bedraggled men huddled together, wet and miserable and too exhausted to even strain at their bonds. Not that it would have helped. Their captors only waited for an excuse to kill them. All of them were wounded to some degree, which, in the eyes of their angry captors, entitled them to neither mercy nor pity.

Fitzroy glared at them. “What unit?”

“King’s Royal Butt-fuckers,” a man with a bandage on his forehead answered, drawing smiles from the others.

One of the British soldiers guarding them snarled and swung his musket butt, smashing it into the man’s face. Blood and teeth flew and he flopped to the ground, his jaw broken. The lack of discipline dismayed Fitzroy, but he understood it. These rebels had been murdering British soldiers, ambushing them, shooting them in the back. Americans who’d been killing soldiers in the night were objects of a deep hatred.

“How many of them are branded?” Tarleton asked. Fitzroy was taken aback. He hadn’t been aware that the young general was even present.

Guards checked and reported that five of them wore brands, identifying them as rebels who’d fought before against the king and his army. Tarleton grinned wickedly. “Well now, they doubtless know their future, don’t they?”

Fitzroy reached into a pile of their belongings and pulled out a crossbow. He examined it for a moment and handed it to Tarleton who found it amusing at first, but quickly turned angry.

“A coward’s weapon,” he said and tossed it back. He grinned wolfishly at the number of British soldiers who’d gathered around them. “I’ve changed my mind. Hanging’s too pleasant for them. Do whatever you wish,” he said. He whirled and walked away.

As Fitzroy gaped in astonishment, the surrounding soldiers roared and set about the helpless prisoners, hitting them with musket butts and stomping them with their feet. Then they began to stick them with bayonets. The Americans screamed in fear and agony while Tarleton laughed uproariously. It was over in a minute. The six prisoners had been reduced to a bloody, broken pile of almost unrecognizable flesh.

Tarleton glared at Fitzroy. “And don’t you dare tell me how this is going to affect any rebels surrendering. I don’t want them to surrender, Fitzroy. I want them to die. Every Goddamned one of them.”

Fitzroy returned his glare. “I wouldn’t treat a hog like you treated those men.”

“And I wouldn’t either,” Tarleton replied evenly. “Hogs are valuable.”

* * *

The stream was wide, but not particularly deep. Will estimated it at waist level at its deepest point. Nor was it running very quickly. Men would not be swept off their feet. It would not stop the British, not even slow them very much. What was stopping them, however, was its openness. It was about fifty yards from bank to bank and each side was heavily wooded and bordered by thick, green bushes. The handful of Iroquois paused, doubtful of whether to continue. It smelled so much of an ambush. They said they could detect the scent of white men.

A British officer came up to them and yelled something that Will couldn’t quite hear, but the intent was obvious. The Indians were to get their lazy asses across the creek and scout out possible American positions.

Will felt a twinge of sorrow for the Indians-their group now reinforced to about twenty-but his feelings passed. They were the enemy. Will had arrived the day before to observe the progress of the British army. He lay in the brush, his face smeared with grease and dirt to make him less visible. Owen Wells lay a few feet away. He commanded the small American detachment while Will was strictly there to observe, a fact that made Will just a little uncomfortable.

Owen made a slight gesture with his hand. Two Americans jumped up, shrieked, and fired their rifles at the astonished Indians. They hit one in the leg and he fell into the water, thrashing wildly. The remaining Indians recovered quickly and poured heavy but inaccurate musket fire into the woods around Will and Owen.

Another signal and two more men rose and fired at the Indians, hitting nothing. The Indians screamed their anger and surged forward through the smoke of battle. When they were in mid-stream, Owen hollered for the rest of his men to fire and a score of crossbow bolts struck the Indians, who for a moment were puzzled to see the deadly things sticking out of legs and chests.

The bowmen laid down their crossbows and picked up rifles which they fired into the now thoroughly rattled Iroquois. The Indians were courageous, but this type of fighting was something terrible and new, even for warriors who made the woods their home. They fell back to the British side of the stream, dragging their dead and wounded with them. At least a dozen Iroquois had fallen and the once clear stream was running red, while clouds of musket smoke obscured both sides.

Owen looked at Will and grinned. “That was well done, wasn’t it?”

Will admitted that it was. “Now what do we do?”

Owen looked across the stream where he could see Redcoats forming for an assault. The Indians had disappeared. “Major, I believe it’s time to run like hell.”

* * *

General Tallmadge looked at the mess that was Will Drake and sneered in mock contempt. “Drake, every time I send you out east you come back even more disreputable and filthy than before. Is this a project of yours?”

Will managed a wan grin. He had been on horseback for several days and nights. He was exhausted, hungry, and, as Tallmadge pointed out, filthy.

“I wanted to get here before the British showed up,” Will said.

“Who aren’t hurrying at all,” said General Stark.

“No sir,” said Drake. “Not only are they not hurrying, but they’ve stopped and are setting up a fortified supply depot. They are building a palisade, and buildings inside sufficient to contain a great amount of stores.”

“Which is what we suspected would happen,” said Stark with a nod to Tallmadge who smiled at the compliment to his intelligence gathering techniques.

“And they’ll do it at least once more,” Tallmadge injected. “Burgoyne has no intention of repeating what he feels are his mistakes from his Saratoga campaign. He will ensure that he has enough ammunition and food before investing Fort Washington and Liberty.”

Stark glared at Will. “Tell me, Major, are we hurting them? Killing them?”

Will took a deep breath. “To an extent, yes sir. But we are not stopping them. We have killed and wounded a number of British and Indians, but there are so many of them and so few men in Clark’s brigade who are fighting them. Is there any thought of reinforcing Clark?”

Stark seemed surprised by the question and Will wondered if he’d been impertinent. Then he decided the hell with it. He’d been there on the trail and he’d seen the fighting and the damage that a small number of men could do. “I think more men could really hurt them.”

Stark slowly shook his head. “No. We will not reinforce Clark. However tempting that might be, it would mean running the risk of fighting the major battle in the woods where we might be overwhelmed and not in the fortifications we are building. No, Major, we will stick with our original plan and fight them here, where we’ve been preparing the field for battle.”

Will was dismayed. “Sir, Clark’s men have been killing the enemy, but we’ve lost men as well.”

Stark nodded grimly. “I understand, Major. And I know from your report that the British have taken to killing the prisoners they’ve taken. Our whole army now knows what befalls them if they should be so foolish as to surrender. Any doubts our people may have had should now be totally destroyed. They, we, will all fight to the death.”

“The Indians,” Tallmadge asked, “how are they reacting to our attacks?”

Will grinned. He was on surer ground. “Brant’s Iroquois are a long ways from their homes and don’t at all like fighting our men. They don’t like the crossbows and they don’t like being ambushed every time they reach a clearing or stream. If you want my opinion, the Indians will be through as a fighting force before long and will simply fade away and be replaced by Girty’s people.”

Tallmadge grimaced, “Which means we trade one band of bloodthirsty savages for another.”

Stark rose and turned to leave. Will started to rise, but Stark waved him down. “You’ve done good work, Drake. Get yourself cleaned up and write down anything you can think of that might be important.”

When Stark was gone, Tallmadge smiled like a cat. “Will, we do have some good news.”

“Finally? Wonderful.”

“First, additional men have been coming in and in numbers sufficient to offset those ‘sunshine soldiers and summer patriots’ who decamped because they suddenly realized that the British are indeed coming. The change in numbers is not all that great, but it is an improvement. Unfortunately, many of the new men are either poorly trained or not trained at all. However, we feel they will be adequate fighters when put behind barricades and earthworks.”

Will yawned. He would kill for a cup of real coffee. Or maybe a long nap. “Good.”

“Additionally, Daniel Boone and some other fighters will be coming from the south. Stark has called for their help.”

“They’re coming?” Daniel Boone was a legend for his fighting in Kentucky, while some of the other southern fighters like Sevier, Campbell, and Shelby had helped destroy a British force at King’s Mountain.

“We are confident they will obey Stark’s summons,” Tallmadge said smugly. “Boone has about a hundred riflemen, and, while it’s impossible to estimate what the others will bring to the table, any number will be helpful.”

“Wonderful. When will they arrive?”

“And there’s the rub, Will. Boone will be here in a week or so, but we have no idea when or where the others will come. There’s the nagging feeling that they might not arrive until after the battle. Stark sent messengers to find them, but God only knows when or whether they will. I also don’t know specifically what Stark is ordering them to do and whether they will obey his orders. ’Tis a sad state of affairs.”

Will groaned. “I almost wish you hadn’t built up my hopes and told me.”

“It seemed like the decent thing to do, sharing my confusion and my misery, that is. Now, why don’t you take a bath and go find your woman. And in that order, for God’s sake.”

* * *

Captain Peter Danforth cheered with the others as the last of the sailing barges made it to the relative safety of Mackinac Island and under the guns of the recently completed limestone fort that crowned the hill overlooking them. The crew of the tail end barge waved happily back. The journey had been an unqualified success and Danforth, who still heartily disliked Benedict Arnold, had been impressed by the turncoat’s ability to coordinate the efforts of the little fleet. Arnold was unquestionably qualified as a leader. Too bad Danforth couldn’t bring himself to like or trust the man.

Impressive, too, had been the sailing qualities of the barges. They had performed well as their untrained crews learned to sail them without sinking them. As a result, forty-eight of the fifty boats that comprised the hodge-podge fleet had arrived at the fort that controlled the Straits of Mackinac far more quickly than anyone had thought possible. One had sunk, the result of bad construction, and one had simply disappeared during a sudden squall. Still, forty-eight out of fifty was an impressive performance.

“Halfway there, eh Danforth?”

Danforth nodded. Captain Thomas Rudyard was the second in command of the garrison of Fort Mackinac. Like Danforth, he bemoaned the fact that they were both stuck in this military backwater while real glory was to be had in Europe. Rudyard reminded Danforth of his friend Fitzroy in that the man had no money to speak of and would need glory on the battlefield in order to rise above his current rank. Rudyard, however, was likely already too old for promotion. He was almost forty and took out his frustrations by getting drunk each evening after his duties were completed.

Still, Rudyard was a likeable sort of sot. “Halfway there, Thomas, although far less than halfway home.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Rudyard. “I hate this place.”

Danforth was sympathetic. Only at Mackinac for a couple of days, he found it beyond boring. Other than staring at the trees, which never moved, or the vast lakes, which sometimes did, there was absolutely nothing to do. Even the Indians seemed relatively docile and unthreatening and unwilling to repeat their warfare against the British only a few decades past. That last Indian war, under the loose leadership of Pontiac, had resulted in the massacre of the British garrison of Fort Michilimackinac, whose ruins were barely visible across the straits. The old fort had been abandoned as indefensible and the new one built on the island.

The French had maintained a presence in the lakes for almost two centuries before surrendering control to the British. Danforth wondered how their soldiers had coped with being out of contact with civilization and Europe for years on end. He wondered if some of the French soldiers in the garrison had gone mad, and then wondered the same about the British garrison. He couldn’t imagine anyone actually liking it in the wilderness.

But then, some people did live there. A village of sorts had grown up along the shore and beneath the fort. It included the usual shabby taverns and these featured local women working as prostitutes. Some of those of partial French ancestry looked attractive enough and Danforth commented on it.

“Stay here long enough and they’ll look even better. If you do choose one of them, keep an eye on your purse and wear a condom.”

“I wouldn’t think of not wearing one,” Danforth sniffed. “I brought a half dozen lambskin ones in case I run into an opportunity in this miserable place.”

Rudyard laughed ruefully. “If you think it’s miserable out here now, just wait until winter.”

“I have no plans to be here this winter,” he said and shuddered at the thought.

“Well, I hope your plans never change. The weather’s not bad now, but just wait. There’ll be snow three times taller than your arse and the wind will blow you right down. Then it’ll get so cold that the lake will entirely freeze over and you can walk right across to that disgusting village of Mackinac on the mainland, or you could go north to that equally desolate city of St. Ignace. Of course, bears and wolves can walk across as well and pay us a visit, and sometimes they do which makes life interesting. Imagine opening your cabin door so you can go out and take a piss, and seeing a bear staring you in the face and trying to decide whether or not to eat you. Once the freeze happened, we’d get fresh meat by killing the deer that would come close because they were starving to death and willing to take chances for food.”

“Good lord, Rudyard, how on earth did you survive your time here?”

Rudyard grunted. “I’m not too sure I did. Actually, we drank even more than we do in the summer. Officers, of course, can take one of those part French doxies in for company. Thank God I’m leaving here when you people depart.”

Benedict Arnold had decided to take two companies of the garrison’s British infantry with him. The fort’s commandant had protested furiously but Arnold had prevailed. Actually it made sense. It was obvious that the flotilla had made such good time that it was going to arrive well ahead of the main army and would need soldiers to protect it from possible rebel attacks. Arnold had decided it would be imprudent to stay at anchor in the lake and had planned to seek shelter up the St. Joseph River; thus, the infantry was needed to provide security from the landward side.

Of course, Arnold could have decided that they wait a couple of weeks to ensure a more coordinated arrival, but the former rebel general was anxious to the point of being impetuous. He wanted to get moving. He wanted to be first to the rebel stronghold. Perhaps he could win a skirmish or even a small battle and gather some glory to himself.

“They know we’re coming, don’t they?” Rudyard asked.

Danforth answered by telling him of the spies in residence at Detroit. “They watched us build these craft and then they watched them depart. I rather think there are people across the straits looking at us and just waiting for us to set sail. Then they will sneak past us and be at the rebel lair well before we arrive.”

Rudyard grunted, “I hate when there are no secrets.”

* * *

After washing himself, Will succumbed to exhaustion and slept the sleep of the dead on a cot in Benjamin Franklin’s office. When he finally awoke, it was the middle of the next day and he only vaguely recalled climbing into the cot before collapsing.

The office door opened and Sarah entered, smiling. “Awake at last, I see. You slept so long it reminded me of an old German or Dutch folk tale about a man who sleeps for twenty years and finally awakens to find the world a changed place.”

“In which case, please tell me that we’ve won the war and I can go home with you and live in peace.”

She shook her head sadly. “If only we could be so lucky. No, the British are still coming, although slowly, and we are still working devilishly hard to prepare for them.” She held out her hands. They were calloused and hard. There was dirt ingrained in them. She was barefoot like so many women and a number of men. Shoes, moccasins, boots, were in short supply and would be hoarded for bad weather or the coming battle when mobility would be essential.

“Once I was a delicate young maiden whose hands were soft as cream,” she smiled and sighed mockingly. “Look at me now.”

Will swung out of bed and wrapped the blanket around him while he looked for his clothes. He was wearing his shirt, which went almost to his knees, but felt awkward without his pants.

He tried not to laugh at Sarah’s comments even though he knew she was teasing him. A delicate young maiden? Her? While slender and lithe, there was nothing delicate about her. She was not a fragile flower like the women of the eastern cities who seemed to imitate what they thought were how British and French ladies behaved. No, she was a new woman, an American.

As he was thinking, Faith burst into the room. “Where’s Owen and how is he?” Then she realized that Will wasn’t quite dressed. “Lord, you’ve got skinny legs. Not at all strong and powerful like my Owen’s, and much too hairy.”

Sarah professed mock shock. “And how would you know about Owen’s legs and, I’ll have you know, Will’s legs are perfectly fine. I think they are slender and elegant, thank you.”

Faith grinned. “I’ll bet I know more about Owen than you know about Will.”

“Let me break this up before it becomes bloody,” Will said as he slipped on his pants while somehow still holding the blanket around him. “Owen is fine and sends his love. He will be back here when the British complete their march. Thus, in a perverse way, we are safer because he is not around. And why aren’t you both working with Dr. Franklin?”

Sarah answered. “We are no longer needed. Whatever devilish devices he’s making no longer require as many of our nimble fingers as before. We younger ones have been sent back to work on the fortifications. All we do now is dig moats and earthworks and weave tree limbs to impede the British when they do arrive.”

Will made a mental note to see how the defenses have progressed. Once again he wondered if British women would work like Sarah and Faith and hundreds of others were. He doubted it.

“Have you heard anything about Braxton?” Faith asked. “May I hope he’s dead and rotting in the ground?”

“Sadly, he is still alive and quite well. Our scouts say he commands a company under Simon Girty.”

Faith nodded. “Just as well. I’ll have Owen kill Braxton when he arrives. I know Winifred would approve as well.”

“Do you recall a woman named Hannah Van Doorn?” Sarah inquired. “She wishes to know if a Major Fitzroy is still with the British. He’s an aide to Burgoyne.”

Will shrugged. “Insofar as I have not gotten close to General Burgoyne or his staff and insofar I have no idea who or what this Fitzroy is or looks like, tell Hannah I’m sorry but I don’t know.”

Will stuffed his shirt into his pants. “Do you have to go back to work, Sarah?”

“Not immediately.”

“Then walk with me, Mistress Sarah. I need you beside me.”

If Sarah were a cat, she would have purred. “I’m honored, dear Will.”

* * *

Hundreds of miles south and away from either Cornwallis or Burgoyne, Jack Sevier spat into the log in the fireplace and grunted satisfactorily when it sizzled. They were sheltering in what had once been a tavern about twenty miles outside of Charleston, South Carolina. Now the tavern was a ruin. Its roof had collapsed and the walls were charred. It was as close to the British-held city as any of the rebels wished to go. From here their patrols could watch the British patrols and the British could watch them. A kind of truce had developed with neither side wishing to upset things. At least, not yet.

“So who the hell is John Stark and why should we do anything to help him and those people up north?” Sevier asked.

“To the point as usual,” said Francis Marion, the rebel also known as the Swamp Fox. Marion coughed and covered his mouth with a rag that he quickly checked for traces of blood. Sevier and the third man, Isaac Shelby, turned away and pretended not to see. The legendary Swamp Fox was a very sick man.

Shelby answered. “According to the messenger, he is now the general commanding our forces up north. With Greene dead, they had to choose someone, and I guess Stark was the best they had.”

“And he will never be half the man Greene was,” Marion said glumly. “And he isn’t any Morgan either. Dan Morgan is even sicker than I am so that leaves him out as Greene’s replacement.”

Sevier chuckled. “So this Stark is the best of what they had left? Jesus wept. At least they didn’t pick Schuyler. So what does this General Stark want?”

“He requests our presence at the coming battle up north,” Marion said. “In case you’ve forgotten, Burgoyne is advancing on him with at least ten thousand men, maybe more.”

“And what concern is that of ours?” Sevier said. “We took care of the British at King’s Mountain when we destroyed that column under Patrick Ferguson. They come this way again and we’ll do it again.”

Marion hadn’t been at that battle. Sevier and Shelby had. The British under Ferguson had chased Sevier, Shelby, and other rebels from their homes and then over the Blue Ridge Mountains where they were forced to stand and fight. The result had been a catastrophic British defeat at King’s Mountain. Ironically, current British weaknesses meant that the rebels were now back on the eastern side of the mountains. All the fighting had accomplished exactly nothing for the British.

“Then you recall that Ferguson basically threatened us all with death and destruction unless we kneeled down to him and worshiped his king,” Marion said. “And you also recall how that enraged all of us who lived out there. Well, it looks like Burgoyne is going to do the same thing up north. And, if he’s successful, don’t you think he’ll be down here looking for us in a very short while?”

Marion paused and took a deep breath. “Or had you forgotten the report that the British planned to turn all of the colonies into little kingdoms ruled by nobles brought in from England and where we would be little more than slaves?”

It was a very long speech for the sickly Marion, who commenced coughing violently.

“We remember,” Isaac Shelby admitted. “So, you want us to go north and help Stark, don’t you?”

“Yes. Daniel Boone’s already gone with his men.”

“But won’t that give the British in Charleston a chance to come out and take over down here?” asked Sevier.

Shelby shook his head. “Not if we leave a small force to keep an eye on them. The British stripped the garrison to reinforce Burgoyne, remember. And I don’t think the Loyalists in the area are all that enthused about any more fighting. They’re as confused as anyone about British intentions and, from what I hear, don’t trust them at all anymore.”

Shelby turned to Marion. “We had maybe a thousand men at King’s Mountain, although I don’t recall anyone actually counting. What say we send out a call for as many men as possible, with their guns and horses, and meet in two weeks? Say we raise even half of that, who will command?”

Sevier and Shelby looked at each other. The command structure at King’s Mountain had been by committee and both men knew it wouldn’t work this time around. They turned to Marion.

The Swamp Fox waved his hand in dismissal. “It won’t be me. I’d be coughing blood all the way north. No, I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Charleston for you.”

Sevier took a deep breath. Both he and Shelby were men of property and education. They were also ambitious. Someone would have to give.

Finally, Sevier took a deep breath. “I’ll serve under you, Isaac,” Sevier finally said. He held out his hand and Shelby took it.

* * *

Lord Charles Cornwallis took the paper on which the latest message had been written, wadded it up, and threw it across the room. The aide who’d delivered it scampered out of the office and closed the door behind him. William Cornwallis could not contain his laughter and positively cackled with glee.

“Another urgent and unrealistic message from their lordships in London, I see,” William chortled. “And here I thought I was the only one who got those ridiculous epistles.”

Charles Cornwallis calmed himself and sat down. “Yes. Lord North and his minions wish me to tell Burgoyne to please hurry. Just how am I supposed to do that when I haven’t heard from Johnny Burgoyne in weeks and have no idea where the devil he is? To the west of Detroit is likely, but precisely where and how would I reach him even if I did know? And how long would it take for a message from me to reach him? A couple of months, I dare say, and then, of course, another couple of months for the response to get here assuming that he writes me immediately in the first place. Lord North and the king have no idea of the size of this continent or the distances involved.”

William yawned and concurred. “North America is like a vast ocean with trees.”

“I also rather feel that Burgoyne is moving as fast as he can, or at least as fast as I can make him. Don’t they realize that Burgoyne is not in the room across the hall? Damn it, he’s halfway across a continent!”

Commodore Cornwallis smiled and sipped his brandy. “You will, of course, ignore their message.”

“Actually, I will tell the king and Lord North by my own messenger, who will leave himself in a few weeks that I am attempting to do exactly as they wish.”

William shook his head. “They really have no idea of the conditions in these colonies, do they?”

“Not for one second. Are you aware that I’ve just been informed that there is no longer any significant rebel activity outside Charleston in the Carolinas?”

“I was not and what does it mean?”

“I don’t know. We are sending out patrols to locate the southern rebels, but it will be additional weeks before we find out anything certain. In the meantime, they could have flown elsewhere.”

William Cornwallis looked grim, “Or they are planning to lure us into an ambush.” He paused. “Do you mean elsewhere as in farther north? Are you afraid that they could be heading north to help confront Burgoyne?”

“Of course,” Charles Cornwallis said. He began to pace nervously. “And which southern partisan leaders might be going? However, Burgoyne is well aware of that possibility. We discussed it at length and rather assumed it was likely, even desirable that the rebel forces all converge. If we can kill all the vipers at one sitting, so much the better.”

“Have you sent messages to Burgoyne?”

“Just the same as I will tell Lord North, although with a few changes. In my message to London, I will state my opinion that Burgoyne is in grave danger from the southern rebels heading towards him. He isn’t, of course, and I won’t say a word of that to Burgoyne, but that will be my little revenge on London. Might as well let North have some sleepless nights wondering whether or not Burgoyne has once again been swallowed up by the forests of North America.”

William laughed appreciatively. If they could tweak their unloved masters in London, it was a good day.