Liberty: 1784

Chapter 19

Burgoyne gathered his senior officers in his tent. Tarleton, Grant, and Arnold were in attendance, along with several other brigadiers. Girty and Brant were there as well, and Fitzroy thought it amusing that the regular British officers didn’t want to get too close to the disreputable pair. As usual, he stood behind his cousin and commanding general and waited for events to transpire.

Burgoyne cleared his throat and began. “Gentlemen, after reviewing the situation and after watching the defeat of Tarleton’s attack, I had come to the reluctant conclusion that a frontal assault on the rebel works would require that we pay a dreadful cost.”

When Tarleton started to protest, he was waved to silence. “I felt that such a frontal assault would ultimately prevail, but that our effectiveness to aid Cornwallis in New York, or Amherst’s efforts in Europe, would be significantly diminished. It would be a battle not unlike Bunker Hill and after it our army might not exist as an effective force.

“Therefore, I had determined to march to our left and find a way around that bloody swamp and away from their fortifications; thus forcing the rebels to meet us on an open field, however long that might have taken. Sadly, that will not occur. We no longer have the luxury of time, if, indeed, we ever had that luxury in the first instance.”

Burgoyne took up a few sheets of paper. “Last evening, I received this from Cornwallis.”

“Another epistle?” Tarleton jibed. “Or would Papal Bull be the more proper term?”

Burgoyne joined in the wry laughter before continuing. “Indeed, bull is quite the appropriate term. And this is the twenty-third letter to the heathen, who are us, and I am ungodly sick of them. However, this is by far the worst of them and will greatly impact on what we do here.”

That silenced the laughter and he continued. “This first sheet is a letter from Cornwallis with fresh orders for us, and the other is a summary from Lord North as to what is transpiring in France. According to North, the situation in France has gone from mildly hopeful to catastrophically bad. Thinking that the situation had calmed down enough for them to return, their foolish majesties, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, departed for France where their welcome was lukewarm at best. However, they forgot that their new role called for them to become limited monarchs, and, with monumental stupidity, had some local leaders summarily hanged for their part in the rebellion. The result was that the mobs arose again. Louis and Marie were captured trying to flee back to the coast. He was literally torn to pieces while she was thrown down a well where she drowned or suffocated under large quantities of excrement that were dumped on top of her as she struggled.”

“The animals! Barbarians!” exclaimed Grant, and the others joined in shouts of anger. “Regicide,” Tarleton added, somehow forgetting that Englishmen had killed Charles I a century and a half before. Only Arnold was silent.

Burgoyne continued. “As a result of the brutal murders and fresh uprisings, the situation is even more dire than it was before. Hundreds of moderates like Lafayette have again fled to England leaving the mob in control of France, where it is busy butchering what remains of the aristocracy along with anyone who ever even helped the nobles. The revolutionaries have raised an army of several hundred thousand peasants and, while untrained and poorly equipped, are so great in numbers that they could overwhelm a smaller army of British regulars should they meet in the field.”

Burgoyne handed the letters to Grant who began to read them for himself as Burgoyne went on. “Simply put, Lord North and Cornwallis want their army back, and as immediately as possible. I was required to sign a receipt upon receiving the message from Cornwallis, which also informed me that I had but a week after signing said document to finish things here. If the rebels have not been subdued by that time, we are to return to New York as quickly as possible. Even though that could take some months, and would leave the damned rebels in charge of this land and their own destiny, it would have to be done.”

Voices rose in protest and Burgoyne silenced them with a wave. “And yes, gentlemen, I understand fully that the information received by Cornwallis and now by us is many months old, and any request for urgency could have been overtaken by new facts we are not privy to, but our orders stand. We will move much more quickly on the rebel works than I had wished even though it will result in higher casualties than I had desired. I can only hope that we will not destroy the army Lord North wants returned to his bosom.

“Therefore, we will not march around their flanks in search of a weak point to force them out of their works. We will indeed attack frontally, but only after we have prepared the field to limit their advantages. I have spoken of this to General Grant whose force will lead the assault, which will consist of the bulk of our army attacking as a great phalanx across a narrow front. The phalanx will consist of a number of columns, each column ten men across, approximately as we did at Bunker Hill. They will use only the bayonet since the men behind can’t fire without hitting those in front. We will rush them and overwhelm them with cold steel, the most frightening weapon we have. Then the columns will spread out and destroy the remnants of the rebel army. We will have three days to remove those thickets and fill in such ditches as we can. Then we will attack and smash our way through them, and we will prevail come what may.”

Tarleton stood up. “I beg for the honor of leading the attack.”

Burgoyne smiled inwardly. Getting the arrogant ass killed might be a good and pleasing thing, but with Tarleton’s luck, he might pull it off and be proclaimed a hero.

“Your courageous offer is duly noted,” Burgoyne said, “but that command will still fall to General Grant. It is a decision based on his seniority, his rank, and his experience. You, however, will use what will remain of your force to protect our flank and harass theirs, as well as being available to support Grant when his phalanx smashes through the rebel lines. Fear not, Banastre, there will be plenty of honor to go around.”

Tarleton appeared to sulk for a moment, but Fitzroy thought he actually looked relieved that his request for glory had been denied. “Has the messenger departed?” Tarleton inquired. “I have some correspondence to send if he hasn’t.”

“No, he has gone. He had orders to leave as soon as I had signed the receipt. He didn’t even have time to wait for a response. Curious though, that he couldn’t even wait for a little while.”

Fitzroy thought briefly about the short but powerfully young Welsh ensign who’d brought the message and departed so quickly. He’d wanted to quiz the messenger about a multitude of things, but the man had pleaded the necessity of duty, jumped back on his horse and ridden away. He’d been in such a devil of a hurry that he hadn’t even waited to be fed. Curious indeed.

* * *

Ephram and four of his cronies quickly overpowered the two men detailed to guard the would-be changelings during the night. They were bound and gagged, but, other than a few bruises, not harmed. Ephram had no urge to kill them. He considered himself a man of peace. He gathered the rest of his men along with the women and children and headed towards the rear of the American defenses.

As hoped, the American sentries were watching the British and not very much caring what was going on behind them. If they heard anything from the fifty-odd people, the soldiers probably thought that a detachment of fellow soldiers was moving around behind them.

Just before they reached the earthworks, they paused. In the night they could hear the sounds of the British pulling and hacking at the thicket that had destroyed the earlier British attack. The British soldiers were lying prone as much as much as they could and hurling grappling hooks into the thicket. Once snagged, the British pulled on them and dragged the abattis apart. He thought it was curious that the rebels weren’t firing on the British workers, but concluded that there were no good targets in the night.

Ephram was pleased. The British efforts meant that they would have that much less distance to run to safety. He had all his people bunch together. The women and boys would hold the youngest children as they dashed towards the British. As a sign of good faith, they were unarmed. Their faith was in British mercy and their god.

“Now!” he ordered and they all rushed over the parapet and out into the no man’s land between the two lines, and headed through the narrow gaps in the abattis he knew existed.

“Save us!” he hollered to the British and ran towards them with his hands in the air. The others picked up the chant and “save us” was chorused by more than two score throats.

Ephram was conscious that the British diggers had abandoned their shovels and were also running towards their lines and it confused him. Why would they do that? Gasping and stumbling, he and his followers continued on.

Then, only a few yards away, they perceived a line of soldiers. They were indeed safe, Ephram thought smugly. A few more strides and they would be behind British lines and with much to tell. Damn the rebels for not releasing them and forcing them to go through with this charade.

A ripple of fire shattered the night as a hundred muskets fired into them. Ephram died immediately, a bullet in his skull. Most of his followers fell to the ground, wounded and screaming, or, like Ephram, dead. Deprived of their leader, the survivors simply milled around in confusion and dismay, howling at the loss of their love ones.

A second volley scythed through them and most of the survivors were killed or wounded. The literal handful who still lived, turned and ran towards the American lines, screaming that the British were murderers. There was no third volley.

Behind the embankment, General Tallmadge watched with General John Stark. “Did you expect that to happen?” Stark inquired angrily.

“No,” Tallmadge said. “I had no idea they would try such a thing.” The slaughter sickened him. “But I cannot say I am disappointed. Such butchery will drive home the fact that the Redcoats are murderers, and that neither they nor their promises can be trusted.”

“What will you do with the survivors?”

“Those who made it back will be allowed to do whatever they wish. They can even leave if they so desire, although I doubt that they will want to go to the British after what has happened to their friends and families. They will stand as living proof of British perfidy. In the morning, we will attempt to see if any remain alive out there and ask for a truce to recover bodies if the British don’t do so first. I would think parading dead children throughout the camp would again be a reminder to our people that the British will show no mercy.”

“You, General Tallmadge, are a devious, conniving bastard,” Stark said with a small smile. “I admire that in a man.”

Tallmadge nodded solemnly. “Which is exactly what you need to stand a chance of winning; thus, I will accept your compliment.”

* * *

Dawn brought another flag of truce and another meeting between Will Drake and James Fitzroy. For his part, the British officer looked shaken, while Will was righteously grim, although sickened by the carnage.

“Major Drake, I want you to know that we had no idea that those people were unarmed civilians. Had we but known, we would never have fired on them. The officers and men who fired on them are stunned by what has happened.”

Will responded solemnly. “If it’s any consolation, we understand fully how it must have looked to your men. In the middle of the night, what looked like a large number of people came out of our lines, yelling and running up to the men who are trying to destroy our defenses. I cannot see how your men could have behaved otherwise. It is a tragedy, Major, and the only ones truly to blame are those foolish, foolish people who ran at you like that.”

“The officer in charge of the guard detail is very distraught,” Fitzroy added. “Several small children were killed and he blames himself for the atrocity.”

“Tell him that neither General Stark, nor, for that matter, the survivors who made it back, hold him responsible. They were under the spell of a messianic leader named Ephram and to the extent that any individual is to blame for that piece of horror, it is Ephram.”

“I will tell Captain Blaylock that, although one wonders how much solace he will get hearing it from his enemy.”

Will considered it ironic that the British were so concerned about the inadvertent killing of people they’d come to destroy in the first place.

“Do you have any survivors on your side?” Will asked.

“Three, and they are badly wounded, although,” Fitzroy added wryly, “don’t worry about them betraying your secrets. I rather doubt that they know anything that we haven’t already learned. On the other hand, I am certain you have figured out that the massacre, however unintended, can be used to your advantage. I rather think that your people consider us vile killers of women and children, and that you will do nothing to change their minds.”

Will shrugged. “I cannot help what people think, although I rather doubt that they were favorably disposed towards you in the first place, since you’ve marched all this way to either kill us or enslave us.”

“You’re right, of course, Major Drake. At any rate, thank you for accepting our sincere apologies, however useless they are.”

“As I said, we understand fully. And, by the way, Mistress Van Doorn sends her regards, and, for your information, she is a lady who is most highly regarded and respected in our camp.” He held out a piece of paper. “She asked me to deliver a small note if I thought you’d be favorably disposed to receive it.”

Fitzroy almost grabbed it and Drake laughed, “Just a little anxious, Major?”

* * *

“So how do you like consorting with the enemy?” Sarah teased. “You and that major must be good friends by now.”

Will lay back on the grass and looked up at the clouds that scudded across the sky. They were about a half mile from any houses and in a world of their own. They had made love, bathed in a small pond, and made love again. For his part, Will was sated, but he had the feeling that Sarah was not. He could only hope he would be up to the occasion. It was almost sunset and he didn’t have to be back until morning, so maybe he could manage it.

“He actually seems like a decent sort, as, frankly, so many of them do. The people I dealt with on the battlefield were professional soldiers and our enemy, but human beings nonetheless. The animals were the sort who ran the prisons and the hulks. They were looked down on contemptuously by the regular line officers.”

“Tarleton’s one of those professionals that you admire, isn’t he?” she teased.

Will chuckled. “Tarleton’s an exception to any rule. He’s a monster. And people like Girty and Braxton are animals, and not professionals. In any other time and place they would be nothing more than criminals. I still cannot fathom why Tarleton is considered a hero in England.”

“Will, has it occurred to you that they haven’t really sent their best generals to conquer us?”

He raised himself on his elbow and thought it unusual that they would be talking military matters while lying naked on the grass. “We’ve talked about it. Tarleton’s not experienced enough, and Arnold isn’t trusted by anyone. However, Grant is as solid as they come, and Burgoyne is an experienced professional who seems to have learned from many of his past mistakes. We all hope that he hasn’t learned too much.”

Will sat up, pulled up a long grass and began to chew on it. “Still, you raise a good point. The British are stretched as a result of the deteriorating situation in France, and many of their best leaders want no part of tramping through the forest to take us, any more than they did when the revolution first broke out so many years ago. No glory or honor doing that. No, they all want to be in France when Paris is liberated from the mob.”

Sarah moved beside him and put her head on his shoulder. He flicked the grass away. “So now they spend every day whittling at our defenses and filling in the traps we dug for them.”

“Surely they can’t fill in all of them?” She said.

“No,” he said. “Not all of them.”

She pushed him on his back and rolled on top of him. “Enough of that ugly world. All I want is the here and now.” She reached behind and took his manhood in her hand. To Will’s pleased surprised, he was indeed rising to the occasion. She guided him inside her and began to rock on top of him. “This is all I want today, Will Drake. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

* * *

Fitzroy was the presenter. He stood in front of the crudely drawn map of the area. “The rebel order of battle is really quite simple. Morgan commands an American division in the center, while Wayne is to our right and Clark to our left. The divisions are not equal in strength. Morgan’s is the largest at close to two thousand men, and Wayne has another thousand. Clark has five hundred at most, although a high percentage of them are woodsmen and considered deadly shots.”

“And the Hessians?” Grant asked. “The bloody deserters? How many are there, and where the devil are they?”

“We estimate their strength at perhaps another thousand, and they are under von Steuben,” Fitzroy said. “We believe they will be behind the center of the line, or wherever they feel we will launch our major attack.”

“They will be extremely dangerous,” Grant said softly. “They know that their best option is a fast death.”

Or victory, Fitzroy thought but was tactful enough not to say it out loud. “We estimate the total rebel numbers at well less than five thousand, which they will attempt to defend against our thirteen thousand.”

Grant nodded. They had started with over fourteen thousand men, but the constant skirmishing and the need to garrison depots along their route had reduced the number to actually less than thirteen thousand. The crews of Arnold’s Armada had been used to form an additional regiment, which Arnold had as part of his command.

Fitzroy continued. “As to artillery, we have the two nine-pounders recovered from Arnold’s ships, and have them on sledges. Sadly, there are no shells for them, so they will fire langrage only. They will not be effective at long range. We will also have the small guns and ammunition which we’ve removed from the two schooners, a total of ten four pounders, and they do have their shells. What they don’t have, however, is proper carriages for being moved about on land or being secured from damage caused by recoil. The carriages they are on are meant to be tied down to the hull of a ship.”

“We will make do with what we have,” Burgoyne said softly.

“And what of their peasant army?” Tarleton inquired with a sneer.

Fitzroy eyed him coldly. He was referring to the group of women, old men, and young boys that would likely include Hannah Van Doorn. “We estimate another thousand ill-armed and poorly trained people of both sexes and all ages who will be used against us. As you are aware, they will be primarily armed with pikes, axes, and anything else they can find or that the evil mind of Dr. Franklin can devise. We believe they will be led in battle by General Schuyler.”

That surprised them. Schuyler was a major general and to lead such a host would be demeaning. Or was it? Like the Hessians, those in what Tarleton contemptuously referred to as a peasant’s army would fight with incredible desperation when the time came.

Burgoyne stood. “As we’ve discussed, General Grant will command a phalanx of ten thousand men. It will be a hundred men across and a hundred men deep, with the first several ranks consisting of grenadiers. Without pretension or subtlety, the phalanx will crash into the center of the American lines and push its way through. It will succeed for the simple reason that the rebels do not have the manpower to stop it. And, if they try to reinforce their center from their flanks, we will attack their weakened flanks and overwhelm them. Casualties will initially be heavy, but the attack will quickly force the rebels to fight us on our terms and we cannot lose such a battle. At the end of a bloody but decisive day, the rebels will cease to exist as an army.”

As might we, Fitzroy thought.

Burgoyne looked away. “There will doubtless be rebel survivors, particularly among the women and children, who will run and, quite frankly, I am inclined to let them run as far away as they wish. Let them flee to the mercies of the Indians, or try to get back to their homes in the east. Let them be messengers of doom. Those people can be picked up at our leisure or simply left to rot in the backwoods.”

There was a round of cheers. Grant seemed confident, and even Tarleton looked pleased at the prospect of such a slaughter. Only Arnold seemed less than enthusiastic. Fitzroy wondered if he was having second, or even third, thoughts about his treason. He almost felt sorry for Arnold. He was a man without a home.

* * *

The shifting of thousands of men did not go unnoticed. Will and Sergeant Barley lay in the grass and watched as large numbers of Redcoats moved hither and yon. They were behind the British, having had little difficulty sneaking through the enemy pickets. Either they were incompetent or they were indifferent as to what the rebels might find out. Will depressingly thought it was the latter.

“What the devil are they up to?” Barley muttered. Will smiled. Finding the answer to that question was why they were there.

“I rather think it has something to do with the coming attack, don’t you?”

Barley grunted and spat on the ground. “Not that I don’t like you, Major, but I’d much rather they’d sent Owen instead of you. He’s a much better tracker.”

Will had wondered the why of that as well. Tallmadge had explained it simply. Will was more of a professional soldier than Owen and would be better able to interpret what the movements all meant. And, for some unexplained reason, Owen was not to be used. Tallmadge kept his intelligence efforts compartmentalized, which meant that Owen was involved in something important and the possibility of his capture could not be allowed to jeopardize it.

Unfortunately, this meant that Will’s capture could indeed be risked. He was out of what little he had that passed for a uniform and he’d be hanged if caught. Fortunately, the only Englishman who might recognize him was his counterpart, Fitzroy, and they’d only met twice. While he was fairly certain he’d recognize the Brit, he wondered if the reverse were true. Probably, he admitted sadly, even though he was unshaven, dirty, dressed in a frontiersman’s buckskins and carrying a long rifle. The rifle was a difficult weapon, but he was confident in his abilities. He also hoped it would help his disguise as a member of an irregular unit.

“Enough,” Will said and stood up. With forced casualness, he stepped boldly out onto a trail and walked to where a number of British officers were examining stakes that had been driven into the ground. They barely noticed him as he watched their deliberations. To them he was just another colonial bumpkin with a long rifle in the crook of his arm and doubtless one of the handful of loyalist militia that had been arriving in very small numbers.

However, a small, trim Hessian officer in an impeccably clean powder blue uniform with gold facing stood apart and Will nodded politely to him. The officer turned and walked toward him. Will gave the Hessian the casual salute that a colonial might give and it was returned.

“And who might you be?” the Hessian enquired.

“Captain John Smith of the newly formed Loyal Connecticut Rangers, sir,” he answered, hoping that the German didn’t recognize such an obvious alias. Foolishly, he hadn’t thought anyone would ask him his name. “And who might you be?”

The German was momentarily surprised that anyone might question him in return. “I am Colonel Erich von Bamberg of Hess.”

Will immediately recognized the name of the man who had hanged innocent people on the suspicion of their being deserters. If von Bamberg was annoyed at Will’s posing a question to him, he didn’t seem overly concerned. Obviously he’d grown somewhat used to the ways of the colonies.

“Are you with Girty’s people, then?” von Bamberg asked.

Will allowed his distaste to show. “Hardly, sir. I am a soldier. They are animals.”

Von Bamberg chuckled. “Good for you. And when did you arrive?”

“Just yesterday along with some more messages for General Burgoyne. I’ll be going back to Detroit shortly.”

“Well, that explains why I never saw you before or ever heard of your Loyal Connecticut Rangers.”

Will decided it was time for a change in the conversation. “Colonel, may I ask what all this activity means?”

Von Bamberg smiled happily. “Why, captain, we are trying to prepare for the grand assault which will take place either tomorrow or the next day. Surely you’ve heard that the good and wise General Burgoyne has ordered a massive frontal assault on the rebel works and that the attack is designed to destroy them?”

“I have, sir.”

“Indeed. Approximately ten thousand men will line up in ranks about a hundred across and a hundred deep. They will charge the rebels and be an irresistible force. The wooden stakes are here so the men will know exactly where to line up. It is quite a project and may require a rehearsal, which, since Burgoyne loves theater, he might appreciate. Of course, Burgoyne is telling the rebels exactly where the attack will fall because he certainly cannot shift this mass of soldiers around like chess pieces. There will be no surprise at all, I fear.”

Will nodded. “I sense you do not feel total approval, Colonel.”

“I’m just a guest here, Captain, but perhaps you could tell me what problems such an attack might cause?”

Will pondered. He wasn’t certain if he was being condescended to or if the Hessian genuinely wanted his opinion. “I can think of a couple. To begin with, only the very first rank or two would be able to fire on the enemy. The rest would be useless, although they could certainly use the strength of their push, plus their bayonets, when they closed on the rebels.”

The Hessian was visibly impressed. “Very good. Now what else?”

“By concentrating his forces on such a narrow front, General Burgoyne is forfeiting much of his numerical advantage. We outnumber them, so he might have launched a strong attack at several places and stretched the rebels too thin to withstand all the attacks. If only just one of several attacks succeeded, the rebels would have to retreat. Also, such a narrow front attack means the rebels can concentrate their numbers as well.”

“Excellent. What did you do before joining the Rangers?”

“I was a farmer, but I read a lot.”

“Then you might have heard of the ancient battle of Thermopylae, where a Spartan named Leonidas and three hundred men held off a large Persian host because the Spartans held a narrow front.”

“Indeed, and I also know that the Spartans were ultimately overwhelmed and destroyed. Do you fear that this attack might be another Thermopylae?”

“Not quite,” said von Bamberg. “I do fear that a great loss of life will occur, however, and, by the way, the Spartans were not overwhelmed. They were betrayed.”

Will smiled. “I’d forgotten.”

Von Bamberg nodded and smiled grimly. “Enjoy your observations, Captain, and have a safe trip back to Detroit. Or are you going to stay for the fight?”

“I plan on leaving as soon as possible.”

Von Bamberg turned and walked towards where a pair of his Hessian soldiers were resting. They were about a hundred yards away and snapped to attention as they saw von Bamberg. When he reached them, Von Bamberg turned and began to yell and point to Will.

“Spy! Spy! Grab him, he’s a spy?”

* * *

Will ran as hard and fast as he could. The cluster of trees that had hidden him and Barley was almost a quarter mile away. He looked over his shoulder. Von Bamberg and the two soldiers were pursuing, but all his yells had attracted little other attention, although a couple of unarmed Redcoats were looking at them, slack-jawed with confusion.

What the hell had gone wrong, Will wondered as he ran. Did the damned German know there was no such unit as the Loyal Connecticut Rangers? Perhaps Will had just been too inquisitive for an ignorant colonial. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t reach the trees and Barley, he’d be caught and hanged.

To his astonishment, von Bamberg seemed to be gaining. Of course the Hessian wasn’t trying to run while holding a long rifle. Will thought about turning and firing, but, if he missed, the Hessians would be almost on him. No, he would try for the woods before defending himself.

Less than a hundred yards to go and Will could hear von Bamberg’s heavy breathing.

“Stop, you rebel bastard,” von Bamberg yelled and gasped. The man was clearly out of shape and might not be able to run much farther. However, he might not have to.

A shot rang out and Bamberg screamed. Will turned to see the Hessian falling backwards. A red stain was spreading across his chest.

“Get your ass in here,” Barley shouted as he rose up from the ground.

Will ran into the trees, ducked behind a thick trunk and prepared to fire at the two remaining Hessians who had stopped and were bending over their fallen leader.

“Don’t,” said Barley. “I haven’t reloaded yet.”

Will agreed. One of them should always be ready to shoot. The two Hessians were picking up their colonel who hung limply between them. There was little doubt that he was dead. They showed no interest at all in continuing the chase. Barley had finished loading and the two men looked at each other. There was no reason for more killing.

“Thank you, Barley.”

The sergeant grinned. “If my memory serves me, this isn’t the first time I’ve saved your worthless ass.”

Will punched him on the shoulder. “Try ‘worthless ass, sir,’ and let’s figure out a way to get back to our lines before the unfortunate death of von Bamberg, the murdering Hessian swine, brings more attention than we can handle.”