Liberty: 1784

Chapter 15

The screams and howls of rage and fury from behind him were Owen’s first and terrible indication that something was horribly wrong. He wheeled and found himself face to face with a horde of Iroquois who’d exploded from the woods to his rear.

He and the others fired the muskets and crossbows they’d just been aiming at a patrol of Redcoats. Indians fell but the press of numbers carried them into the small group of rebels before they could reload. For a moment that seemed an eternity, it was a brawl with musket butts, tomahawks, knives and, ultimately, fists and teeth. Men screamed and fell while others fought desperately.

An Indian grabbed Owen from behind and began to strangle him. With his strong arms, he pried the man’s hands from his throat and smashed his fist into the Indian’s face, blood gushed from the Iroquois’ mouth. Something hard hit him in the back and knocked him to his knees. He couldn’t breathe and the world spun. I’m going to die, he thought, but then his assailant fell beside him, a tomahawk in his skull.

Hands grabbed Owen and pulled him upright. “We’d better run, Lieutenant.”

Owen nodded. The pain from his back was so intense that he could barely inhale. Talking was out of the question. The Indians had also pulled back, leaving several dead and dying on the ground. From the receding screams and pleas it looked like they’d taken prisoners from Owen’s small force.

Despite wanting to rescue his men, Owen had to retreat. The British patrol they’d been stalking was approaching rapidly. His remaining men helped him into the darkening woods as yet another summer rain began to fall. In a matter of moments they were relatively safe, unless they ran into some more of Brant’s Iroquois or Girty’s white savages.

Owen was half carried, half dragged to the rendezvous point where Sergeant Barley waited with the other half of the platoon. He was laid on the ground and covered with a blanket. He was offered water and he gulped it greedily.

“Got yourself into a mess, didn’t you, Owen?”

“Go screw yourself,” Owen managed to rasp. The effort cost him dearly.

Barley laughed and checked Owen’s wound. “Somebody hit you with a tomahawk, but with not enough force to go all the way through your thick skin. In fact, it just glanced off. We’ll sew it and wrap you up since I think some ribs may be broken. Then you’ve got to go back to Fort Washington. You’re useless as tits on a boar with that wound.”

Owen groaned in dismay, but had to agree. In his wounded state he would be a handicap to a force that had to move quickly and lightly through the woods.

Then he saw the bright side. Even the slowest mule would move faster than the British column and he’d be back to spend at least some time with lovely little Faith while he healed.

* * *

To Fitzroy’s disgust and dismay, Burgoyne agreed with Brant and Tarleton-the prisoners belonged to the Indians who had captured them. It was a gesture to keep the Indians more or less happy. They’d suffered heavy casualties and, along with those who had returned home in disgust, now numbered fewer than two hundred. It was apparent by their sullen looks that they were dispirited as well, and Fitzroy thought they were going to leave as soon as they could, no matter what Burgoyne did to placate them.

But first, the prisoners had to be disposed of, and in the traditional Iroquois manner. The two men were only slightly wounded and seemed fully aware of the horrible fate they were about to endure. Seeing the white faces in the crowd, they called out and pleaded for help, proclaiming that they were Christians and white men and didn’t deserve to be slowly destroyed by red savages. Some of the spectators might have agreed, but was to no avail. The prisoners were stripped naked and each was tied to a pair of long poles that had been driven into the ground. With their arms and legs outstretched, every inch of their bodies was now vulnerable.

Girty sidled up beside Fitzroy. “This part they’d normally leave to the squaws, and they are really nasty bitches. The fucking female animals would eat the prisoners alive if the warriors let them. However, since there are no squaws around, the warriors will fill in for them. I hope you enjoy it, Fitzroy.” Girty laughed.

The torture took time. While the Iroquois yelled and taunted their victims, wooden splinters were shoved under fingernails and toenails and then set afire. The prisoners screamed all the while, which further excited and encouraged the Iroquois. When they were done with this, they took burning twigs and poked them into the prisoner’s genitals and under their arms and onto the soles of their feet while the screaming reached new and purely animal crescendos.

“The Indians despise them for howling like that,” Girty said. “They think that only women and cowards scream, so they’re going to make it worse for them. They admire someone who endures in silence and might even finish him off quickly.”

“Could you endure in silence, Girty?” Fitzroy asked.

“Probably not, but if it meant dying sooner, I’d give it a hell of a try.”

Fitzroy found it difficult to speak, and wanted to scream himself. There was vomit rising in his throat. He was disgusted and appalled that Burgoyne had permitted this atrocity. He turned and saw Burgoyne standing a few feet away, his face pale and drawn. Tarleton was behind him and he was grinning broadly. Of course he would enjoy this spectacle. General Grant was nowhere to be seen. Smart man.

Burgoyne stepped forward and whispered to Fitzroy. “I see your dismay, but understand this-if this is what I have to do to keep my army intact and defeat the rebels, then so be it. I will beg God for forgiveness later.”

Fitzroy understood but did not agree. War was brutal and hellish, but this was pure savagery, not war. This might have been done by some barbarian Hun or Mongol, but should never be permitted or condoned by British generals in this, the eighteenth century. As a soldier, he had been trained to kill, not to murder and certainly not to torture for pleasure or to prove a point. He turned away from Burgoyne, not trusting himself to answer.

Girty laughed. “It’ll be over soon, Major, and then you can go and puke all over your boots if you want.” Girty laughed even harder when Fitzroy found himself unable to respond.

The Indians piled bushes underneath the feet of the victims and set them alight. The carefully controlled fires first seared their lower limbs and then their torsos. The prisoners writhed and twisted in vain attempts to escape the slowly rising flames. A few moments later, one of them slumped over. His heart had given out.

“Well that lucky bastard’s dead already,” Girty said as an Indian reached in and scalped the unmoving man with one quick motion.

The second man didn’t stop screaming and writhing until the flames were almost up to his chin. An Iroquois warrior leaned in and ripped off his scalp, but got his arm badly burned for his efforts. This pleased Fitzroy and the other Indians thought it was hilarious.

As the bodies charred and the stinking fire died down, the Indians drifted off. “Now what?” asked Fitzroy. The stench of burned flesh was adding to his problem. He wondered what Hannah Van Doorn would have thought of this. Even though she was a child of the frontier, had she ever seen anything like this? He wanted to talk to her. She would know what to say to comfort him. He missed her. Damn it to hell.

“The brutes are satisfied,” Girty said and spat on the ground, “At least for the moment.”

Behind him a dull popping sound followed by laughter drew their attention. One of the prisoner’s skulls had exploded from the heat. “Yeah, they’re satisfied for now,’ Girty said. “Next they’re gonna get good and drunk.”

That, Fitzroy thought, was a magnificent idea.

* * *

Tallmadge looked at the small piece of paper in his hand. The pigeon who’d brought it stood proudly and heroically on the table and puffed out its chest. It promptly spoiled the scene by dropping a load on said table.

Tallmadge and the others chuckled. “How appropriate,” Tallmadge said. “Would that we had a million pigeons that could do the same for Burgoyne and his army.”

Will joined in the brief laughter. “But what’s the message? Burgoyne’s through building a depot and is on the move once again, isn’t he?”

“And perhaps only two weeks away,” Tallmadge said. “Time to prepare our wills, Will.”

Drake winced at the bad pun. “I would if I had anything to leave. I am as poor as the day I escaped from that hulk in New York.”

“Aren’t we all,” Tallmadge added. “But, think of all the wealth that was abandoned by so many of the people who are here. Yes, people like Franklin, Schuyler, and Hancock are considered traitors by the British and subject to be hanged. But don’t you think that a goodly portion of their wealth could have been used to buy forgiveness, much in the way that the papist priests require a payment as penance from their parishioners before they’re forgiven?”

Schuyler grinned. “The papists have the right idea. Say you’re sorry and you’re permitted to buy your way into heaven.”

Tallmadge shook his head. “I think your understanding of Catholic theology is highly suspect at best, my dear General, but the principal is the same-forgiveness can be bought and sold. It is a commodity. It might be something that could be traded by those Dutch investors who congregate on Wall Street in New York if someone could figure out how to market forgiveness in the form of shares.”

“In times like these, wealth doesn’t much matter,” Schuyler said quietly. “Whatever I have lost in the way of money and lands, I can make back if given the chance. However, I cannot earn back my life if I lose it.”

Will thought back to his months-years? — as a prisoner of the British and how he’d been starved. His position then had been far more hopeless than the one he was in now. At least now he could fight back.

So too could people like Owen Wells. Owen had ridden back from the skirmish where he’d been wounded as quickly as any wounded man could. He’d ignored the pain from his body so he could heal and get back to the fighting.

Sarah was another example of the wealth that was now his although, he considered ruefully, he’d yet to possess her.

Tallmadge poured brandies into small cups. There wasn’t much good liquor left, although, like the tea, they’d tried to distill some of their own. It had been only marginally successful at best, although a number of men and women had managed to get falling down drunk from testing the results.

Schuyler raised his cup. “Gentlemen, let me propose a toast to the one thing of value that we now possess that, if we are successful, we can bequeath to our heirs.”

“Hear, hear,” they chorused, “To Liberty.”

* * *

Silent and menacing, they moved like Viking longships descending upon the hapless British coast where they would fight the soldiers of Alfred the Great or Ethelred the Unready. The cold mist and rain hid them from their unsuspecting prey. In moments they would be ashore, wielding swords and axes to chop down the inept guardians of the land. When that pleasant task was completed, they would begin pillaging the rude homes and ravaging the local women. Many women wouldn’t resist much. Instead they would feel honored to be the concubine of mighty Viking warriors. Fires and destruction would show where they had been.

Danforth chuckled softly. At least it sounded good, he thought as Benedict Arnold’s small armada moved slowly and soundlessly through the cold, wet Lake Michigan morning. The air was calm, so the crews used the sweeps to row through the flat lake.

As with the trip north to Fort Mackinac, they had begun by making better time than expected and, according to plan, Arnold’s orders called for them to anchor in the St. Joseph River, which was about a day’s sail from where Burgoyne was supposed to reach the lake and meet up them.

Their schedule was somewhat disrupted by a couple of violent squalls that arose shortly after they had left Mackinac Island and cost them one barge sunk and two badly damaged after they collided with each other. Danforth had worked hard to help pull the injured from the water, along with a couple of the dead, and received the silent gratitude from the crews for his efforts. Even Arnold complimented him tersely. Arrogant shit, Danforth thought.

After that, they made it a point to sail closer to the Michigan shoreline, which would enable them to beach the barges should another storm arise. None did, but the route did give Danforth and Rudyard an opportunity to view the coastline. They were both astonished by a number of large sand dunes towering several hundred feet into the sky.

It truly was a land of wonders, Danforth thought. Not only did North America seem to go on forever, but he had seen the marvel of the falls near Niagara and now dunes like those from the Sahara emerging from the lake.

There was significant evidence of Indian presence along the coast as well, and Rudyard informed Danforth that the lake was teaming with edible fish.

“Which is part of the reason the rebels haven’t starved,” Rudyard said. “You can even chop holes in the ice in the wintertime and fish. The silly creatures are just dying to take your bait and become your dinner.”

As they continued to sail south, one new problem had arisen. The British fort on the St. Joseph River had been abandoned several years before, and there was no one with the flotilla who was certain where either it or the river was. Since it was incumbent that they not sail too far south and alert the rebels of their presence, they’d slowed to a crawl and sent the smaller warship, the Snake, to search the coast and find the bloody thing. So far the search had not been successful.

“You’d think we were searching for the Northwest Passage,” Danforth muttered. The Northwest Passage was the legendary and likely mythical waterway that supposedly connected the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans via Canada. Its lure had drawn many explorers in earlier years, but few now thought it existed.

“Instead, we are looking for a piddling little river,” Danforth muttered to his new friend. The Snake was in sight and approaching Arnold’s Armada.

“Can’t be too careful, now can we,” Rudyard said. “Can’t risk the rebels finding us.”

Danforth thought that Rudyard had been drinking again. He was slurring his words, and one whiff of his breath confirmed it. Lord, and it was still early morning. How did the man do it and still function? Danforth liked to drink as much as the next man and then some, but Rudyard was something else, and he was afraid Rudyard’s hobby would result in tragedy. At least his two companies of infantry weren’t onboard to see their commander in his cups. They had been distributed among the barges.

A signal flag from the Snake indicated that they had found the mouth of the river and a chorus of sarcastic cheers came from the ships. Even the usually dour Arnold managed a laugh. How the devil does one lose a river?

A few hours later, the convoy entered the wide mouth of the St. Joseph River and anchored a little ways upstream and, hopefully, out of sight of the prying eyes of Americans who would be on canoes or small sailing boats. Rudyard’s two companies of infantry disembarked and began patrolling the coast, while the Snake again sailed upstream with Rudyard on board. Danforth envied him. The urge to explore a strange land was strong. He was concerned that Rudyard was so drunk he might miss a herd of elephants, but was confident that his subordinate officers would be up to the task.

After several hours, the Snake returned and signaled that all was safe. As arranged, the sailing barges were anchored in the middle of the river, lined up three abreast and lashed to each other for security. In effect, they became a floating fort.

Rudyard’s report to Arnold was simple-while there was obvious evidence that people, both red and white, had camped along the banks of the river, there was nothing to indicate any recent or current enemy activity.

“In my opinion, General, what little signs there were came from stray Indians or trappers, and not the rebels.”

“And you saw this from the ship or by patrolling the land?” Arnold asked.

“Both, sir,” Rudyard said confidently. “Where the forest permitted, we swept about a mile inland on both sides and found nothing to worry about.”

Arnold accepted this and set about preparing defenses. The eight-gun Viper was sent to patrol along the coast, while the four-gun Snake waited in the mouth of the river. Rudyard’s infantry dug earthworks facing the lake that both he and Danforth thought would be useless if someone attacked in force, but they had to do something. He made sure the works were covered with brush and tree limbs to disguise their presence.

Danforth was concerned that they were now vulnerable sitting in the river. He also had his doubts as to how far Rudyard had taken the schooner, and how far inland his men had actually patrolled. But then, how far was realistic? An old map showed that the river wound inland for a hundred miles or more. Certainly, they could not patrol all of it, and, besides, any rebel activity would be near the coast and not inland. The forest along the river seemed impenetrable and someone who went ten feet into the woods would be invisible.

Certainly, he repeated to himself, people had been there before and would be there again, but not until the rebellion was over.

In fact, all they had to do was exist in the river for a few days and Burgoyne would be joining them with the main army. So why was he at all concerned about the results of Rudyard’s alcohol-soaked patrol?

* * *

Faith hurled herself on Owen’s prone body, both waking him and sending a wave of pain through his body that caused him to cry out. He had left his hard and uncomfortable wooden slatted bed in the hospital and had gone into the woods where he found the sunlight and soft grasses far more comfortable and conducive to healing.

“Jesus, woman,” he gasped. “You almost killed me. You want to finish what the bloody savages started?”

Faith was immediately contrite. “I was so afraid when I heard you’d been hurt,” she cried. “I thought I was going to lose you and I couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

Owen grinned. “Does this mean you truly care for me?”

She smiled impishly. “It does.”

“Love me?”

“Yes,” she said softly, “but only if you love me too.”

“I love you, Faith, and I will love you for the rest of my life.” He laughed harshly and winced at the pain from his chest. “Of course, the way I’m feeling that might not be all that long.”

She touched his mouth to silence him and then lay down beside him with her head on his shoulder. “For us, forever might only be a few weeks, dear Owen, I think we should make the most of it.”

As she said this, her hands went to his waist and loosened the drawstrings of his pants. She reached in and found an old friend rising to meet her. She knelt and pulled his pants down. Then she straddled him. “It’s time to finish what we’ve always started, dear Owen.”

For his part, Owen loosened her bodice and pulled it down, exposing her exquisite breasts. “Are you certain, dear little Faith?”

“As certain as I am of anything,” she said as his hands and lips caressed her nipples until she thought she’d go mad.

As always and like many women, she wore nothing underneath her skirts and he entered her easily. They both gasped. Faith was mildly surprised that there was none of the pain she’d heard about, but then realized that their several mutual explorations had doubtless resolved that little problem.

“I love you,” Owen said as she rocked him gently, taking care not to touch his ribs. His hands grasped her bare buttocks and pressed her more tightly to him. He wanted to say something far more eloquent but couldn’t. They both groaned and climaxed within seconds of each other.

“I thought you were afraid of the consequences of doing this,” Owen finally managed to say as they again lay beside each other.

Faith kissed him on the cheek. “I was. Then I realized that, come the worst, I wanted to have this memory of you, of us.”

“What now?” Owen asked.

Faith giggled. “Well, dear Owen, for the short while, let’s just rest a wee bit and do it all over again.”

* * *

Benedict Arnold’s sailing barges remained anchored in the river and lashed together for safety. They resembled nothing more than a giant raft. The majority of their crews had joined Rudyard’s infantry in preparing defenses facing outward from the mouth of the river and towards the lake. They’d been told that the rebels had nothing larger than canoes, but Arnold disagreed and Danforth concurred. If the British could make ships like the Vixen or even the sailing barges, then so could the rebels. They were also reminded that canoes came in a variety of sizes and some could hold more than a score of men.

Even though Danforth agreed, he wasn’t totally comfortable with this decision to fortify the lake front. But General Arnold had been adamant-the danger would be from the lake if it came at all. Danforth didn’t like putting all their defensive eggs in one basket and had gotten Arnold’s grudging permission to send a handful of men up the river to warn against any surprise attacks. Rudyard had laughed at Danforth’s cautious nature. However, he had agreed to keep half a dozen men on guard duty on the rafts at all time.

Still, Danforth was worried. Rudyard was drinking ever more heavily and his men had taken their cue from him and had become slovenly and lazy in their duties. Worse, Rudyard had confided that most of the men who appeared to be British regulars were nothing more than the scrapings from the various communities in the area, such as St. Ignace, Sault St. Marie, Detroit and Pitt, and had gotten little training as British soldiers. They were Redcoats in name only.

He’d thought about discussing Rudyard’s drinking problems with Arnold, but decided against it. For all his flaws, Rudyard was the closest thing to a friend Danforth had. Arnold was also drinking heavily, apparently depressed by the fact that his attempts to find glory and wealth had so far eluded him.

The hell with Arnold, the hell with Rudyard, and the hell with the rebels, Danforth finally decided. He rolled into a blanket and quickly went to sleep.

* * *

Only a couple of miles upriver, Brigadier John Glover and the remnants of his Marblehead Regiment waited. At first they’d been shocked when the British began to sail up the river they’d chosen as a point from which to attack the rear of Arnold’s Armada as it passed. They had arrived in canoes, which were not their craft of preference, but they were justifiably confident that they could handle anything that floated.

Still, they’d had to paddle furiously to stay ahead and out of sight of a very slow moving British patrol probing up the river that was clearly wary of an ambush. When they’d gotten far enough ahead, Glover had sent scouts downstream who had reported that the British had stopped and pulled back to a point closer to the mouth of the river.

When scouts confirmed that the British defenses faced west towards the lake and not up the river, Glover realized that he’d been handed a golden opportunity. He’d stroked his broad jaw and finally smiled. He had fewer than two hundred men and was outnumbered and outgunned, but then, the damned British didn’t know he was here.

Glover waited until night was almost dawn, the time when everyone would be either asleep or groggy. Then silent as a mild breeze, his canoes moved down the dark river, hugging the north shore. A mist hovered over the water and provided more protection. A campfire’s dim glow told him that the handful of British sentries on the shore were as stupid as he’d been told.

Glover signaled and several canoes peeled off and landed softly. Their men slipped into the water and moved through the woods while Glover waited and watched. The anchored sailing barges were dim shapes only about a hundred yards away. He could rush past the guards, but didn’t want them in his rear.

A scream was followed by the sound of a musket. Glover cursed. His men were magicians on the water but lumbered like elephants on land. Surprise was lost. “Go!” he yelled and his men paddled their canoes with desperation and fury.

* * *

At first Danforth was uncertain whether he’d actually heard the sound of gunfire or he’d dreamed it. He stood up and looked around. Like everyone else, his gaze was towards the lake which was empty.

“What the devil is that?” Rudyard screamed and pointed upriver where shapes could be discerned behind the barges.

Boats, Danforth realized with a sinking feeling. He grabbed his sword and pistol and raced to the shore. Not boats, he corrected himself, canoes. And they were alongside the barges and men were pouring onto the precious craft. Rudyard lurched to the water and drunkenly fired his pistol at nothing in particular. This was a signal for his alleged British infantry to start firing at their own barges.

“Fire at the canoes,” Danforth screamed as Rudyard fell face first into the river. I hope the bastard drowns, Danforth thought. Rudyard had failed to patrol and protect their rear.

“No!” Danforth heard General Arnold sob as he saw the glow of flames on the barges that quickly became raging fires. A moment later, the powder on one exploded, raining burning embers on its neighbors.

The barges were made of poorly seasoned wood that caught fire quickly despite their being immersed in water. Worse, the wind was from the east, blowing flames from the rear of the column of barges towards its head. Now, however, many of the rebels were silhouetted against the growing flames and British fire increased in accuracy. The Americans returned fire and several men near Danforth fell to the ground. Rudyard had managed to pick himself out of the mud and was just about to say something when a musket ball struck his skull and blew his brains out, splattering Danforth with gore. This demoralized his men who stopped firing and backed away.

It didn’t matter, Danforth realized sadly. The anchored barges had become an inferno and the remaining rebels were climbing back in their canoes. They were paddling furiously for their lives as yet another cache of ammunition cooked off, taking two canoes with it.

* * *

John Glover was one of the first men out of the canoes and onto the barges. He heard the sounds of men screaming and realized that his voice was one of them. An astonished-looking British sentry was suddenly in front of him. Before Glover could respond, one of his men shot the man in the face.

“Gotta be quicker, General,” the soldier said.

“Indeed,” Glover murmured as more men sped past him and jumped lightly onto the other barges. By this time, the British were awake and alarmed and bullets from wildly fired muskets splattered around the barges. One of his men howled in pain as a shot found home.

“Grenades,” Glover hollered and pulled a pair of them from his coat. They were not the grenades used by the British soldiers which contained explosives. These were clay and glass containers filled with flammable liquid and with a cloth wick that had just been immersed in that same liquid. They were fire bombs.

Glover lighted the fuse from the flint on his pistol, held it until it was burning brightly and dropped it down the hatch of the barge. A few second later, the fire grenade exploded and the barge shuddered. The barge’s hull was cracked and water began to pour in. He grinned with satisfaction and threw the second one down the same hatch. Others were also hurling their grenades and explosions began to rip the air.

Several barges in front of him, a store of gunpowder exploded, sending flaming debris over the ships around it and killing several of Glover’s men. Glover had to duck as pieces of burning wood fell around him.

British musket fire had become more accurate and organized. Another of his Marbleheaders fell, and then another. Glover looked around. Every barge was burning and flames were racing through their heavily tarred rigging. It was time to go and he signaled the retreat. Whooping happily, his men ran back to their canoes and began to push off. Glover was happy. He had won a great victory.

It was his last thought as the second grenade he’d thrown down the hatch a moment before exploded next to several barrels of gunpowder, utterly destroying the barge and Brigadier John Glover.