Liberty: 1784

Chapter 18

“To arms!” the lookouts hollered and the cry was echoed down the line. Men scrambled to take their positions behind the earthworks as drums added to the din.

A stunned Benjamin Franklin stared at an equally confused John Hancock. Both turned to General Stark. “General,” Franklin said, “what the devil is going on?”

Stark had pulled out a telescope and was watching down the line to his left. “British skirmishers,” he said. “Likely nothing more than a probe.”

“That’s Tarleton’s wing,” Tallmadge added. “He probably wants to see if we’re awake.”

Franklin took a proffered telescope and squinted. A scattered line of Redcoats had emerged from behind the British works and was advancing on the portion of the American lines commanded by General Anthony Wayne.

“Why aren’t we firing?” Franklin asked, his voice quavering. He had never been this close to an actual battle.

Stark’s face twitched in what was almost a smile. “They’re just a little too far away, my dear Doctor.” The distance was about a mile and well beyond rifle or musket range.

Moments later, the main body of the British right wing emerged behind the skirmishers and began to advance purposefully towards their American counterparts.

“Dear God,” said Franklin, “they’re going to attack, aren’t they?”

Now Stark was truly smiling. Perhaps the short but maddening waiting was over. “One can only hope so.”

The silence was broken by the sound of the drums and spoken commands coming from the American lines. In a short while, British officers could be heard ordering their men to keep order. The British force moved forward with a precision that was enviable, admirable, and chilling. The British were the consummate professionals, while the Americans, although good, simply were not up to those standards when it came to marching and maneuvering.

“Are you going to reinforce Wayne?” Tallmadge asked.

Von Steuben’s Hessians were the reserve force and were behind the hill and hidden from British sight. Stark nodded and turned to Will Drake. “Tell my good Prussian friend to move his men over behind Wayne’s but not to deploy or show themselves unless I deem it necessary. Impress on von Steuben that he is to move closer on my orders only, not Wayne’s.”

American marksmen started firing and the British skirmishers began to fall. The rest melted back into the main body which continued to advance at a deliberate but steadily ground-eating pace.

“Tarleton’s mad,” said Tallmadge.

“That is not a surprise,” Stark said. “This is either a feint to pull us away from the center in order to leave us weakened for an attack by their main force, or Tarleton is trying to grab the glory of victory for himself.” He turned to Franklin. “Nor is it quite time for any of your strange devices, Doctor Franklin. Insofar as the remainder of the British force hasn’t begun to move, I rather think that this is Tarleton acting on his own initiative.”

The British were now within range of the Americans and an American volley ripped through their ranks. Men fell, some jerking and some still. Suddenly, the British stopped and the whole mass appeared to stumble. They were enmeshed in the webbing of tree branches and shrubs that came to their knees and was very difficult to walk through. The British advanced slowed to almost nothing. Another American volley and more British fell.

Commands were screamed and Redcoats began to pull at the entanglement while others returned fire at the Americans who were fairly safe behind their earthen walls. Smoke billowed over both sides and a bitter cloud wafted its way over Franklin and Stark, causing the older man to cough violently. A third American volley and then a fourth and the British began to pull back. A ragged cheer came from the American lines. In a moment, the firing ended, as suddenly as it began.

“We’ve stopped them,” Franklin said, incredulous.

“We stopped nothing,” Stark replied. “That was not their main force. God only knows what Tarleton planned, although I’m rather certain it was as much a surprise to Burgoyne as it was to us.”

Franklin checked his pocket watch. The fighting had lasted less than fifteen minutes. Scores of Redcoats lay on the ground. He felt his stomach churning. The sights and sounds of battle had sickened him. He could hear the wounded moaning and screaming. Standing beside him, John Hancock was pale but in control of himself.

“Your first battle, Doctor?” Stark asked, not unkindly.

“It is.” Franklin answered. “And I would prefer it be my last.”

Stark glared at Franklin and Hancock. “Then think upon this, Doctor Franklin and Mr. Hancock. The men who are lying still are dead. A few moments ago, they were laughing, cursing, and sweating, and doubtless thought themselves immortal. Now they are dead. And the ones who are moving and who you hear calling for help are the wounded. Some will lose limbs, eyes, faces, and many will die before the night is over. This is the price of the folly of war and we have not even begun to pay the full amount.”

“Damn the British,” snarled Hancock. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?”

A white flag of truce showed from the British lines. A handful of unarmed men moved out to pick up the dead and the wounded. They were unmolested. Franklin could hear the cries of the American wounded, which told him that the fight had not been totally one-sided.

Franklin walked alone back down the hill. Hancock had already departed to go and give such solace as he could to the wounded. Franklin’s stomach was still churning. He wanted to vomit. He was too old for this. He was too old for anything. And what had he gotten himself into?

He gazed into the face of Will Drake. “I confess that I had no idea,” he said.

“And it will be worse, far worse, when the main battle begins,” Will said softly.

Franklin nodded and allowed himself to be aided to a cart that would take him back to his quarters. Perhaps Sarah would be there. She was a good listener and he needed someone to hear his rantings at this moment.

* * *

Tarleton stood at attention. He barely concealed a smirk. Burgoyne was again livid with anger, which seemed to amuse the younger general.

“Your folly has cost us more than a hundred casualties, and all for nothing. What in God’s name were you thinking? Or were you thinking about anything at all?”

Tarleton was unconcerned. “Actually, my dear General, I was thinking and quite profoundly. I decided that it was time that we actually did something instead of sitting around on our asses. And so what if I lost a few men? They were soldiers and they died for a purpose.”

“And what purpose might that be?” asked Burgoyne, his anger barely under control. He had a paternal attitude towards his men and hated to lose them. More pragmatically, he especially hated to lose highly trained professional soldiers for no apparent reason. It took a long time to turn raw material into a British soldier and wasting their lives was to be avoided.

“Simple,” Tarleton answered, his tone implying that Burgoyne was the one who was simple. “If we had succeeded and penetrated their lines, then they would have been forced to use their reserves, which would have permitted General Grant to advance with his main body and crush them. Either way, the battle would have been over, and we could shortly find ourselves on our way to home and glory.”

Burgoyne shook his head in disbelief. “Did it occur to you that General Grant was uninformed of your intention and was totally unready to assist you?”

Tarleton shrugged. “Then he should have been ready. And I rather think he was ready a few moments after my men began to advance. Victory, General, belongs to the bold.”

“But you accomplished nothing, did you?”

Tarleton laughed, “Hardly. The almost invisible presence of that low and man-made thicket that stopped my men was an unpleasant surprise of the highest order. Think how catastrophic it would have been if the main attack had become entangled in it. The rebels would have had a wonderful time shooting and slaughtering our men while we could do nothing about it, except ultimately withdraw. It would have been a massacre most awful. Now we can take steps to eliminate that obstacle.”

Burgoyne had to admit that the insolent and arrogant Tarleton had a point, albeit a small one. Twenty-eight British regulars were dead and seventy-four wounded and, as in any battle, many of the wounded were lost for this campaign if not forever. It had been far too high a price to pay to find out about the obstacle. A simple nighttime patrol would have been more than sufficient. Of course, no such patrol had occurred nor had one been planned. Damn Tarleton, he thought.

A thicket of twigs and branches? And it had stopped Tarleton in his tracks? Who would have thought it possible? And what other devilish tricks did the Americans have up their sleeves? Or, he grinned wryly, were they up Benjamin Franklin’s sleeves?

Someone hailed him. A horseman was approaching. Burgoyne began to seethe. It would doubtless be another epistle from Cornwallis filled with unwanted advice and asking for the return of the army. He felt like throwing a clump of mud or horse dung at the rider.

* * *

Will Drake watched sternly as the delegation of four men came forth and stood before him. Their spokesman was a large, dour, and bearded man about forty. His name was Ephram. “Have you considered our request?” he asked without preamble, although he did glance nervously at the detachment of fully armed soldiers behind Will.

“We have, and we don’t quite understand it.” Will said. “Why in God’s name do you want to go back to the British now?”

“It’s simple, Major Drake, we all have families and we wish them to live out their lives rather than have them snuffed out in the next few days. We made a mistake in coming here. We honestly thought that the British wouldn’t come this far to chase us and that we would be allowed to live out our lives in peace. We sincerely felt that the great distance between us and what the British call civilization would be our salvation. That and our faith in the Lord.”

“And there are about fifty of you?” Will asked, although he already knew their numbers. “And you no longer wish to fight for your freedom?”

Ephram shrugged. “Yes to the numbers of us who wish to leave, and yes we would be willing to fight for our freedom if the fight would be a fair one, and where we would have a chance of winning. But you can see the vast array before us. We would have no chance at all and it would result in a massacre followed by the enslavement of the survivors.”

Will shook his head in disbelief. “Yet you think you stand a better chance by just walking up to the Redcoats and announcing that you’re so very sorry you rebelled, and that you would be good and loyal subjects of King George if you would only forgive us for our trespasses.”

Ephram flushed angrily. “Please do not blaspheme by misusing the Lord’s Prayer, Major. We are protecting our families.”

“You are what Tom Paine wrote about, aren’t you. You are the ‘summer soldiers and sunshine patriots,’ aren’t you? You stay with us when the times are easy, but run like rabbits when difficulties arise.”

“I would not refer to being slaughtered as simple difficulties, Major, nor do I think of us as rabbits. We are honest godly people who have made what is to us a highly moral decision. Yet, if that’s what you think of us, then yes. Now, may we leave?”

Will pretended to ponder. In truth, the matter had already been decided by General Stark and communicated through General Tallmadge.

“No.”

Ephram looked flustered and the other three men showed obvious dismay. “Will you please tell us why not?”

“How many reasons do you want? First, you know details of our defenses and would doubtless tell everything to curry favor with your new masters.”

To Will’s surprise, Ephram actually smiled before he replied. “Of course, and, second, we might also unleash a trickle that would soon become a flood of people like us if the British did indeed welcome us back to their bosom, now wouldn’t we? It might eliminate the necessity of a war or a battle in the first place.”

Will matched his smile. “There is that. I won’t lie to you. But the answer remains the same. And, in order to ensure your cooperation, you and your people will be kept under guard until the fighting starts. At that time you can make a final decision as the guards will probably then be needed elsewhere. When you are no longer under guard, you can run straight to hell for all I’ll care.”

“You will be damned for the innocent lives your rejection of mercy will cost,” Ephram said with a sigh of resignation.

“Just as you will be damned for being a fool, a turncoat, and a traitor. You will be compared to Benedict Arnold.”

Will signaled for the detachment of soldiers to take up positions around the men and take control of them and the others. He turned and walked away. A few paces on, Sarah stepped from behind the corner of a building. She took his arm and they walked away.

“Will, are you afraid that there are others like them?”

He squeezed her hand. “No one knows, and that’s the problem. Deep down, many must be wondering if there is an alternative to fighting the battle that is coming. Tell me, dear Sarah, would you have us flee if there was a place we could go?”

She rested her head on his arm. “I have indeed thought of it and, you’re right, doubtless every person here has pondered it. But no, sweet Will, I would not flee, at least not without you.”

* * *

John Hancock poured a cup of what passed for coffee and handed it to General Stark. “I confess that I was at first dismayed when you sent a low-ranking officer to deal with the British envoy, but I somewhat understand it.”

Stark nodded. “It was a formality and a preliminary one, at that. They sent a junior officer, so we respond in kind.”

“But you say it was a preliminary meeting?”

“Indeed. I do not think that Burgoyne actually wishes to fight this battle. He is under orders to return his army for other purposes after crushing us, and now he is realizing that we may be more difficult to destroy then he and London envisioned. Indeed, he now must confront the possibility of a Pyrrhic victory in which his victorious army would wind up being in no shape to help Cornwallis or Lord North or anyone.”

“So there will be other meetings. But for what purpose?”

Stark yawned. He hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep in the last several days. He really didn’t want to waste time talking to Hancock, but the man was the president of the Congress and had to be humored.

“He wants his army rested and ready, and he wants us intimidated. Those people who wished to leave us and others like them are his goal. If he can convince people to flee, then his task becomes all that much easier. In effect, he inflicts casualties without blood and fighting.”

“Especially if they reveal our secrets,” Hancock said.

Stark laughed. “With all the spying and counterspying that’s going on, I rather doubt that either side has many secrets.” Except, he thought to himself, the devices that Doctor Franklin was conjuring up. Even Hancock was not privy to all of these.

“No, Mr. Hancock, I rather think Burgoyne will realize that he has two choices. Attack us here where we are the strongest, or try to turn our flank by marching around that bloody swamp that your people are keeping so well filled with water. And based on what we have learned, I do not think that he will be granted the time to do that.”

“How do you know this, General? More spying and counterspying?”

Stark finished his tea. “Something like that, Mr. Hancock, something like that.”

* * *

Colonel Arent De Peyster was disgusted, tired, and drunk as a lord. The backwater fort at Detroit that he’d commanded for so long was even worse and more decrepit then it had ever been. The arrival of Burgoyne’s army and its subsequent and unlamented departure, along with the fire, had utterly ruined what had been an uninspiring posting in the first place. The wooden stockade that surrounded most of the town had been destroyed by the fire, as had a majority of the buildings, and very little in the way of rebuilding had begun.

Thus, the Swiss-born and middle-aged major was forced to drink either in a miserable and filthy tent that passed as a tavern, or alone in another tent that was his quarters. This night, he’d chosen to be alone in his quarters.

De Peyster had helped defend Fort Pitt during the uprising led by Pontiac nearly two decades earlier. He was now an over-the-hill major and would never be promoted again. He also felt abandoned by Burgoyne and the rest of England. Once, during the American Revolution, the garrison numbered nearly four hundred men. Now it was fewer than a hundred and De Peyster was of the opinion that maybe only half could find their boots without help.

The fort itself, the citadel, had been built a few years earlier by a Captain Lernoult, who promptly named it after himself. De Peyster chuckled drunkenly and thought he would rename it Fort De Peyster just to see what, if anything, London would do. Nothing, he concluded, and had another drink.

Lernoult’s fort would have been a strong one, with thick, high walls, but for the fact that it had been neglected and now was so seriously undermanned. While the great fire had destroyed much of the town, another fire a few weeks ago had destroyed or damaged the barracks and commandant’s quarters inside the fort, which was why De Peyster was sleeping in a tent. This time there was no question as to who started the fire. It had been a drunken soldier and not a spy. The soldier was rotting in jail and would doubtless be either hanged or flogged so severely that he would die of his injuries.

Bored, De Peyster got up, left his tent, and walked towards the riverfront. A handful of good-sized bateaux had arrived with a large number of men who said they were Loyalists and on their way to reinforce Burgoyne. De Peyster thought it more likely that they were thieves and bandits who would prey on innocent people, so he ordered them kept on their boats and had a guard posted.

The bateaux were lined up on the riverbank, much like Burgoyne’s sailing barges had been. De Peyster blinked. The bateaux appeared empty. Where were the crews? “Damn it,” he muttered angrily. Obviously, they’d gotten away and were off in the town drinking. He turned and strode towards the fort. He would roust the handful of men on guard duty and send them and anyone else he could find to locate the missing Loyalists, if indeed that’s what they were.

“Major?”

He turned towards the sound. A group of men quickly surrounded him and took his small sword and pistol before he could even blink.

“What the devil is this?” De Peyster snarled as he regained his poise.

He gasped as he felt the cold metal touch of a knife against his throat.

“Now please be a good little British officer and nothing will happen to you or your men. If you understand, please nod.” De Peyster nodded emphatically and the pressure was lessened. He also thought that the man spoke with a southern drawl.

He became aware of scores of men moving quickly and silently past him and into Fort Lernault. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Major, my name is Colonel Isaac Shelby and I’ve come a hell of a long ways to help out the people in Liberty and bring ruin to your General Burgoyne. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve just seized Detroit in the name of the independent colonies, and another force from the south has likely done just the same thing to Fort Pitt.”

De Peyster sighed. He was a realist. The fort, the city, and what remained of his career were all gone. The fort and the city might be regained, but his career? Never.

“Colonel Shelby, I hereby give you my word that my men and I will not attempt to escape. Will you treat my men kindly and allow my officers their parole?”

Shelby smiled in relief. He’d been terrified that he and his men would have to storm the fort. Even undermanned, the defenders would have exacted a terrible price. “Agreed,” he said.

De Peyster smiled wanly. It was time to make the best of an atrocious situation. “Excellent. Now kindly let me buy you a drink.”