Liberty: 1784

Chapter 20

Fitzroy stood over the lifeless body of Colonel Erich von Bamberg. The dead German had been laid out on the ground beside an open grave and he tried to generate some sympathy for the man. That he couldn’t was not a surprise. After all was said and done and despite his belated efforts at civility, the Hessian had been a coldblooded and callous murderer of both his own men and those who were innocent. He wondered which part of hell was reserved for men like von Bamberg and monsters like Tarleton and Girty. Perhaps they’d share a cell for all eternity.

That there were rebel spies watching the army maneuver into position came as no surprise, although the audacity of this particular spy was worthy of note. It took courage to simply wander around as if he belonged there and ask questions. In a way, such openness was better than skulking behind trees and peering through telescopes.

The two Hessian soldiers who had been chasing the spy were dumber than oxen and had not seen the face of the spy. All they knew is that he was very tall, very fast, heavily armed, and was accompanied by a large number of rebels, which is why they had given up the chase when Bamberg had been shot. They’d added that it had also been necessary to try to give aid to their beloved colonel whose death the entire Hessian detachment would deeply mourn.

“Bull,” Fitzroy muttered and then concluded that the two Hessians weren’t as dumb as he’d first thought. They’d avoided a possible ambush by pretending to help a hated officer who was dead before he hit the ground. And mourn my ass, he thought. The Hessians who remained out of von Bamberg’s original detachment would celebrate their loathsome commander’s death, and Fitzroy wouldn’t blame them for one minute. Von Bamberg’s second in command was a very young lieutenant who looked overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him.

Fitzroy caught Burgoyne’s eye. The general winked. Von Bamberg would not be missed.

Fitzroy wondered just who the spy had been. Perhaps the next time, if there was a next time, that he saw the rebel Major Drake, he would ask him. Then he chuckled. Did he really expect Drake to give him the name of a spy?

“I must be getting old,” he mentioned to Danforth who had just joined the group.

“I dare say we all are,” said Danforth, “just remember that growing old is far better than dying young. You will join me in a drink or several in honor of the dead German to speed him on his way to Valhalla, will you not?”

Fitzroy smiled. Why not indeed?

* * *

Tallmadge looked over the crude map that Will had drawn. The position of the gathering place for the British attack showed that they would attack at very near the center of the American lines. Stark, Schuyler, and Von Steuben watched.

Von Steuben’s English had improved over the years from impossible to understand to fairly good. He turned to Will. “Why did your man find it necessary to shoot von Bamberg? I was so looking forward to hanging him by his testicles. Don’t let it happen again.”

“Sorry, sir,” Will said with a smile.

“Their attack will not be very subtle at all,” Tallmadge continued. Stark and the others silently agreed. “You’ve done a good job, Will. This proves that the British are locked into a specific plan of action with little flexibility at all.”

Von Steuben growled. “That is the good news. Additional good news is that they will be so massed that virtually anything we fire at them will hit someone and most of them will not be able to fire back at us. The bad is that we will be hard pressed to repel such an overwhelmingly strong attack. We will fight hard, especially my Hessians who have no choice and no hope of a life if we do not win, but I do not think we can stop them.”

There was silence as this sunk in. “But we can slow them,” Stark said.

“Of course,” said Schuyler, “but slow them for what purpose? Or do you propose that we pray for miracles?”

“That would not be a bad idea,” Stark added. “However, think of the battle as a vast and bloody test of wills. Yes, they outnumber us badly, but they are not fighting for their lives as we will be. Even if they are defeated, the worst that could happen to the survivors is that they would be captured and someday be exchanged and returned home. As for us, any who survived would be hanged or enslaved and, frankly, I’d rather be hanged than live the life that Hamilton, Jefferson, Adams, and so many others are living in Jamaica and elsewhere.”

Stark glared at Will. “What about returning to a prison hulk, Major, and starving to death after being flogged and branded anew? If you were lucky and not hanged outright, that is. What do you think about that?”

Will stiffened. “I’ll be dead before that happens, sir. I will not be taken prisoner.”

Von Steuben chuckled. “Live free or die again, General Stark?”

Stark smiled. “If the statement worked at Bennington, it cannot hurt to use it again.”

* * *

“Mark this date,” Benjamin Franklin said. “It is September 15, 1784, and it is the day on which the fate of our nation will be decided. If it wasn’t so frightening, it would be glorious.”

Sarah smiled fondly. The old man was dressed and ready even though it wasn’t yet dawn. He’d put on old clothes and let it known that he would be present at the battle whether anybody wanted him there or not. Incongruously, he had a pair of dueling pistols in his waistband along with a thick knife taken from someone’s kitchen. He noticed Sarah staring at them.

“Like so many people, dear Sarah, I too will not be taken alive. I don’t fear hanging. Or death, for that matter. After all, I’ve avoided it for quite a long time and I fear it’s ready to catch up to me. No, what I dread is being taken prisoner and carried back to London and put on exhibit like some caged but senile animal. I am far too proud to handle living in my own filth and hearing the ridicule of the British nobility.”

Sarah started to speak, but found she couldn’t. She began to sob and reached out for him and embraced him. “Except for Will, there is no man on earth that I love more than you, Doctor Franklin.”

Franklin returned the embrace and she felt his tears. “Would that you were forty years older, Sarah, or that I were forty years younger.”

* * *

Owen was awakened from dreams of Faith well before dawn. He grumbled for a moment, then became fully alert. One of General George Rogers Clark’s aides was going around and shaking the officers who dutifully followed to where Clark waited.

“Today’s the day,” Clark said grimly. “Word has it that the British are through rehearsing and will attack before noon. We have orders. We will be dividing into two groups. The first will stay here and shoot as many Redcoats as they can from the flanks of their major attack. You will also try to disrupt the flankers they will have out to protect their so-called phalanx. If you can get any of them to flee, then more the better.

“The second group, the smaller one, will have the pleasure of mucking through the swamp and making sure that the British don’t attempt an attack through that miserable body of water that extends to our rear.”

Clark glanced at Owen. “Since you’ve been through the swamp a number of times, Wells, you will lead that group. If they start to come through in force you are to retreat and make sure that we are informed, although I have to admit I have no idea where we’ll find reinforcements for you. You are not to stand and fight and be overwhelmed without us knowing that the devils are coming.”

Owen was aware of the number of eyes staring at him. He would not make a mistake if he could possibly avoid it. But something bothered him and Clark picked up on it.

“You have a problem, Wells?”

“Not really, General. I understand fully that we are to withdraw and not fight a superior force, but what about an inferior force? What if we see that we can defeat a small force and get into their rear and raise holy hell with them?”

There were chuckles and Clark smiled. “If you think you can destroy the British army by attacking like that, then go ahead. However, I don’t think the Redcoats will be so cooperative, even if it is Benedict Arnold commanding that flank. However, don’t hesitate if the British offer up themselves as a sacrifice.”

The meeting broke up and Owen returned to where Barley and the rest of his men awaited. Along with the twenty men in his command, another sixty would be attached to him and he’d be given the temporary rank of captain. Not bad for an enlisted deserter from the Royal Navy.

“So what do we do?” Barley asked.

“Very simple,” Owen said. “We get wet and dirty while watching and waiting, and, if the gods and the British cooperate, we get to raise holy hell with them.”

Barley nodded. “Sounds good to me. Just one thing, Acting Captain Wells, there’s only one God so don’t say gods. Don’t tempt the Lord by blaspheming. Like a lot of us, Owen, I’ve been thinking about death and God and we’re in enough trouble without getting Him mad at us too.”

* * *

Drums rattled and thundered, with fifes piercing the din, as thousands of men marched to their places and their destiny.

Fitzroy thought it was an impressive, even awesome, sight even though the numbers were far less than some of the great and epic battles the British Army had fought. When victory came, and the histories written, this battle would be its own epic.

The men had been fed and almost all looked rested. Some looked confident, while others showed fear and concern on their faces. At least they felt that all their efforts, for good and ill, would come to fruition this day. And, as they looked around, they openly wondered just what if anything could stand before the mighty host of which they were a part.

Frequently, a unit would break into spontaneous cheers if they saw a particular general, like Grant or Burgoyne, or sometimes just for the sheer devil of it.

Burgoyne grinned. “With men like this, just how can we lose?”

Fitzroy agreed.

* * *

Banastre Tarleton watched the display of bravado with contempt. In his opinion, Grant was an obese pig and should not be in command of the main attack force, although Tarleton had to admit that Grant had once been a very good and brave general. He also had to admit that Grant had lost a considerable amount of weight on the march, although he still had a ways to go before anyone would consider him trim.

Tarleton’s anger, however, was directed more at Burgoyne than Grant, who was simply following orders. That Burgoyne had more confidence in the sixty-four-year-old Grant than in the younger Tarleton was simply beyond his comprehension. An attack like this would require bravery and strength and, while Tarleton acknowledged Grant’s fundamental bravery, he doubted that the old man had the strength to follow through. No, he fumed; command of the main assault should have been his.

Nor was Tarleton pleased that Arnold held the left flank which abutted the stinking swamp. At least there was the remote possibility that some of the rebels would come sneaking through, but nothing like that was even remotely possible where he commanded the two regiments that were all that Burgoyne had left him.

Skirmish with the rebels, he’d been told, but don’t hazard an attack of your own. Burgoyne had left Tarleton with no doubts as to what would happen if he disobeyed and again went off on his own.

Still, one could hope. In his fantasy, he had terrible things befalling Grant and the attack, and Burgoyne calling on him in desperation to save the day. Were that to occur, he wondered if he would even honor Burgoyne’s request. Let Grant and Burgoyne be defeated. Then, the next day, he would assume command and a new attack would succeed.

Or perhaps he should wait until the last bloody damn minute before sending his troops to help pull Grant’s chestnuts out of the fire?

Tarleton sighed. He knew his fate. Grant’s attack would succeed for the simple reason that he was too strong to fail. Tarleton’s men would be permitted to follow and help clean up the debris of what had been an American army.

Still, his first version of the future was the one he liked best.

* * *

On the other British flank, Benedict Arnold was equally glum as he contemplated his lost reputation and fortune. His beautiful wife Peggy would be so disappointed in him. She had such expensive tastes.

There would be no glory in holding a flanking position that would protect Grant’s enormous and illustrious phalanx and, at the same time, keep an eye on anything that might happen in the swamp.

Like Tarleton, he too had only a pair of regiments and only one consisted of British regulars. The other was made up of the remnants of Joseph Brant’s command mingled with Simon Girty’s animals. What a comedown for a man who had commanded armies to victory! Not that he envied Grant in his position. Arnold was convinced that the attack was going to be bloodier and far more difficult than anyone envisaged. Still, it would succeed and all the glory would be Grant’s. Damn it to hell, he thought.

He paced angrily. He was a man of nervous action and standing by doing nothing was not something he did well He turned to where the swamp would be if he could see it. A low mound obscured his view and he knew that Burgoyne could not see it either. He didn’t like that, although earlier patrols had proven that a large detachment could not get through the swamp to his rear. However, what about a small one? A handful of rebel irregulars could play holy hell with the British rear.

Arnold smiled. He could actually do something while getting rid of Girty’s swine who would be of no use at all in the coming fight. He called over an aide.

“Ensign Spencer, go to Mr. Girty and direct him to send Braxton’s men into the swamp where they are to watch out for any rebels attempting to get into our rear. You will command them as you did previously. This time, however, please let them know that you are truly in charge and please act like it.”

Spencer paled. Going back into the swamp was the last thing he wanted to do, especially with Braxton the monster. Arnold smiled inwardly. Spencer was the type of person he both hated and admired. Spencer was skinny, spoiled, whiny, and totally unworthy of being an officer in any army. However, he was also rich, titled and descended from Normans who had landed in England seven hundred or so years earlier. This made him privileged, while Arnold was not. So damn him. Arnold also thought that Spencer’s Norman ancestors had likely been made up of stronger and sterner stuff.

Arnold did smile. “And again, don’t forget that, as a British officer, you will be in command. Don’t let those filthy wretches tell you what do to; no, you tell them what for. Do you understand me, Spencer?”

Arnold saw a flicker of hatred replace the fear in the boy’s eyes. “I understand, sir.”

* * *

Should the women wear dresses to the battle or not? Sarah thought the question ridiculous at a time like this. Who cared what one wore? The British drums were growing louder and it looked like they were ready to march.

Still, the debate had been interesting. One group said that the women would be better off wearing men’s clothing because pants were so much more functional. They also said that the British might momentarily think that the Americans had more men than they supposed and react accordingly.

The other side had agreed, but thought that the impact of seeing they were opposed by women in skirts would bring home the fact that putting down the rebellion was so much more than fighting an army of men. The British had to know they were fighting a people.

Abigail Adams had settled the issue. Each woman could do whatever the devil she wished.

Sarah decided to wear a skirt, but she hedged her bet by having pants underneath them. If the skirt proved cumbersome, she would yank it off.

“Or a Redcoat will rip it off for you,” Hannah Van Doorn said with an impish grin. “And won’t he be shocked to see pants instead of something more intimate.”

Beside her, Faith tried to laugh, but she was too nervous, too pale, too scared. So too was Hannah and everyone else. She couldn’t imagine how soldiers steeled themselves to go into battle time after time. Sarah looked around and saw her aunt and uncle and then, to her utter astonishment, there was Benjamin Franklin and he was holding a pike. Behind him was John Hancock cradling a light fowling piece, and with them stood virtually all of the members of Congress.

She caught Franklin’s eye and he walked over. “I believe I may have said something about hanging separately or hanging together, and this is another one of those moments. If we prevail it will be because of all of us. If we fail, the results will be too dismal to be contemplated.”

She was about to say something when a host of men rushed by. They were part of Morgan’s contingent and they were heading to their posts behind the earthworks. It was beginning. God help us, she prayed.

* * *

In his quarters in New York, Lord Charles Cornwallis had awakened that morning in a cold sweat. He’d had a terrible dream. The only problem was, like most dreams, there was bloody little he could remember of it. He seemed to recall a great battle involving the British Army and a vast mob that obviously represented the American rebels. Or perhaps it was the damned French peasants who still swarmed about the French countryside and threatened to overwhelm the smaller British army that was trying to reinstate the remnants of the monarchy.

Or perhaps it was both of them.

The dreams had been frequent of late. Most had resulted in him awakening overwhelmed with concern about what might be happening to Burgoyne’s army.

It was maddening. Time and distance were doing unto him what time and distance did to His Majesty’s government in faraway London. For a moment, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Lord North, Stormont, and the others who, like him, were so out of touch with events they desperately needed to control. But only for a moment. The devil take them all.

He would not, of course, mention his dreams to his friend and brother who, with a pair of ships of the line and six frigates, had returned from Boston with the news that the rebels in Massachusetts were largely inactive. It was much the same in New York. It wasn’t safe for small British patrols to go too far out of the town, and he didn’t have enough men to risk in a larger patrol, but both sides seemed to have adopted a live and let live attitude.

So be it.

He welcomed William to his crudely furnished quarters in the massively reinforced fort at the tip of Manhattan Island. Cornwallis had given up the idea of governing New York from Staten Island, and besides, the plague and fires had almost entirely vanished. So too, unfortunately, had most of the population and almost all of the buildings outside the military encampment. The city of New York was very nearly a ghost town.

William Cornwallis took a seat and glanced at the leather case on a shelf. “Please don’t tell me you still have that ghastly thing?”

Cornwallis chuckled. Like himself, William had seen more than enough death, but the idea of a skull in a box along with other bones managed to appall him. “I have my orders,” the general said, “or rather, the orders I was originally given have been reiterated. I am to keep Mr. Washington’s skull until the appropriate moment, which, I presume would be notice of Burgoyne’s victory. At which time I am to make it the centerpiece of a monument to our victory.”

“And if we lose?”

“Then I throw the abominable thing in the river and we all sail away.”

“And how likely is the likelihood of such a defeat, my dear General.”

“The thought of it is the stuff of nightmares, but it is not bloody likely at all, my dear brother.”

William laughed genially. Usually the army and the navy did not get along well, but the relationship between Cornwallis and his younger brother was the exception.

“And what do you think of the latest news from England?” William asked.

Lord Cornwallis merely smirked. “More of the same, I’m afraid. There is chaos in France, although the bloodletting does appear to be winding down and it may just be time for some member of the surviving French nobility-Lafayette, perhaps-to take the crown, even though it is likely that any kingship will be under tight controls. Such controls are anathema to our own beloved king, but apparently he will acquiesce if such a limited monarchy can end the killing in France and end any threat to the house of Hanover in England.”

William Cornwallis nodded thoughtfully. “And what news from Burgoyne?”

“Nothing,” Cornwallis said, “and I am frankly a little worried. There is rebel activity between here and Fort Pitt, which is raising hell with our limited ability to communicate with Burgoyne in the first place.”

William poured the two of them a brandy. He raised his glass in a slightly sardonic toast. “Then here’s to the next messenger bringing word of a stupendous victory.”

* * *

At first glance, the three-masted sailing ship looked like a large but disreputable merchantman, the type that was always putting in at Kingston, Jamaica, and delivering cargoes that varied from clothing, to foodstuffs, to slaves.

The name painted on her filthy stern said she was the Flower, and, given her appearance and the ripe smell coming from her, the name was utterly incongruous. Once ships like the Flower sailed in fear of American privateers and the occasional rebel naval vessel and either sailed in convoys protected by Royal Navy ships, or were heavily armed. Now, they sailed alone, which was just fine with their captains who were a touchy and independent lot, always jockeying for additional profit even if it meant taking on additional risk. Convoys, however safer, stifled creativity, which meant reducing opportunities to make money, often through discreet smuggling. But now there was relative peace since the rebellion had been quashed. The French navy was in disarray, and there was no reason to hide in a convoy.

The Flower, however, was not an ordinary merchantman. She was a floating lie. Her captain was a small hard man named John Paul Jones, and she carried no cargo. Along with her crew was a detachment of eighty Marines, men who had sailed on other, regular American Navy ships. Nor was the ship as disreputable as she seemed. Her original clean lines had been purposely and skillfully obscured to make her look totally unthreatening. Rough, even sloppy, painting covered the twelve gun ports that lined each side and totally hid the nine and twelve pound cannon behind them. Additional hastily applied planking altered her true shape.

Nor was the ship’s real name something as vapid as the Flower. Instead, her true papers showed her to be an American naval warship, the Liberator, and she’d been chosen and named for this singular mission. That she was a regular navy ship and not a privateer or a pirate was a distinction that meant a lot only to the officers and men of the Liberator, all of whom couldn’t wait to paint over the ridiculous name of Flower. So far as they knew, she was the only regular navy ship the Colonies now had. John Hancock had signed the commission a few months earlier and it was clearly of dubious legality. The officers and men of the Liberator didn’t care. She and they had a job to do.

The frigate did not put in at the major port of Kingston. Instead, she anchored in a cove a dozen miles away from the city. This did not attract undue attention. Many planters had their cargoes unloaded at places more convenient to them than the town. As long as duties were paid, no one cared. And if duties weren’t paid, then sometimes nobody cared either, especially when a bribe to an underpaid local official was cheaper than paying duty.

When darkness fell, there was no one to see the ship’s boats lowered. They were filled with heavily armed Marines who were dressed as ordinary seamen, a fact that they accepted as necessary but resented nonetheless. They were proud of their uniforms, particularly the leather collars that kept their heads proudly upright.

Captain Samuel Nicholas commanded the Marines. Nearly forty, he’d served with Jones when, in 1775, the pugnacious little Scotsman had command of the Alfred and attacked the British in the Bahamas. Thus, neither he nor Jones were strangers to each other or to the Caribbean waters.

Nicholas marched his men quickly overland to their target, a sprawling farm compound a couple of miles inland. However, it was no longer a farm. It was a prison.

It was a little after midnight and all was quiet when they approached. A handful of the stealthier Marines reconnoitered ahead and returned with the information that only a few British soldiers guarded the compound and seemed to be uninterested at best. After all, where would the occupants go even if they did manage to set themselves free?

The Marines waited until a squad was in position to block anyone from escaping down the road to Kingston.

A scream and a musket fired. Nicholas cursed-surprise was lost. “At them,” he hollered and his men swarmed into the compound. British guards tumbled out of their barracks and were quickly and brutally cut down by Marine muskets and then by cutlasses and bayonets. It was over in a couple of minutes, and a score of dead and wounded British soldiers were sprawled on the ground, while a handful of others stood with their hands in the air.

“Any of them get away?” Nicholas asked and no one was certain. Nor could the British commander tell them. He had fallen with a musket ball in his neck. The Marines would assume the worst and make all haste back to the ship. Nicholas was suddenly aware of scores of eyes watching him and his men from behind the barred windows of the prison buildings.

Nicholas gave the order and the prison buildings were broken into. Scores of confused and bleary-eyed men poured out and stared at the Marines who stared back in dismay at the wretches. The men the Marines had come to liberate were thin to the point of being little more than sticks. Many of them were half naked and their backs bore signs of floggings. Some couldn’t stand up and Nicholas suddenly despaired of getting them back to the ship anywhere near as quickly as planned.

Nicholas swore and sent a runner back to Jones with the bad news. It would take longer then planned, and he would need additional manpower from the Liberator to help with the men they’d freed while the Marines maintained a rear guard.

Damn, he thought. But that was the way with plans. They never worked out as they were supposed to.

Thus, it was mid-day before the last of the wretched men had been aided across country, and then been helped aboard the Liberator, and put below decks. Some of the freed prisoners had to be carried, which meant that litters and stretchers had to be improvised, and all of them needed to be aided during the slow, tortuous journey back to the waiting ship. Many of the Marines and crew of the Liberator wept openly at the misery they were witnessing, while all of them treated the freed prisoners with a degree of tenderness and compassion that would have surprised those who’d seen them in battle.

Fortunately, no attack from the city materialized. While the crew of the Liberator made ready to sail, the freed men were given soup and fruit and some seemed to improve dramatically. Food and the prospect of freedom will do that to a man, Jones remarked to Nicholas, even though more than a few of them had vomited their meals.

As they raised anchor and put to sea, a small cutter showing the British flag rounded the point of land that had shielded them. Jones ordered the guns run out and a dozen cannon made ready to blow the tiny vessel out of the water. The cutter mounted only swivel guns.

“Chain shot and aim for their rigging,” Jones commanded as the cutter came within range.

Twelve cannon fired as one. The two masts on the cutter disintegrated and the little ship began to wallow helplessly.

“Are we going to sink her?” Nicholas asked.

“Nay,” said Jones in his thick Scottish accent. “They’re now no threat to us and, besides, let them describe us to their British masters. It won’t matter. In a matter of hours, this ship won’t resemble the one that they saw.”

A small, thin man with a scraggly beard and dressed in rags stood before Jones. “On behalf of all of us, dear sir, thank you. A few more months and we might all be dead.”

Jones bowed. “You are more than welcome, sir. Now, may I ask who you might be?”

“John Adams,” he replied.

Jones smiled. He knew they’d struck gold in Jamaica. Adams was one of the surviving American leaders they’d wanted most to free. “Welcome aboard.”

Adams smiled and Jones winced. Several of Adams’ teeth were missing and others were rotten. They had paid a terrible price in their Jamaican prison. They had survived, sort of, but the health of many of them was doubtless ruined. Jones wondered why the bastard British hadn’t killed their prisoners outright instead of letting them live on in agony. Because the British were bastards, he decided.

“Captain Jones, may I inquire as to our destination?” Adams asked.

Jones wished he had a simple answer for Adams and the others. So much was out of his control. Almost everything would depend on the actions of others many hundreds of miles away. His plans called for him to call at a French port for food and news of the war and, if all was well, he would choose between Boston and New Orleans as a destination. And if all was not well? Well, he thought he could find a place, but the current political situation was complicating matters. During the revolution, the world was against Britain, but now, the world was on her side and against the madmen in revolutionary France. A handful of islands remained under French control and these were being ignored by the British, but they represented nothing in the way of long-term safety. The only good thing about the fighting in Europe was that it had pulled away many of the Royal Navy warships that ordinarily prowled the Caribbean.

In truth, the only nation he could think of that might be sympathetic to the American cause was Russia, where Catherine the Great ruled. He had no idea just how he might make it to St. Petersburg if he had to, although he did have a Russian flag in his quarters and a letter from Catherine inviting him to come and join her navy. He wondered what either would get him if a British seventy-four gun ship of the line stopped him.

Still, he’d gotten his orders and fulfilled them. What the devil to do next was the problem.

“Hopefully, sir, we’ll have a home in a free country. If not, we may have to sail the seas forever. Perhaps we might be fortunate and find a tropical paradise in the South Pacific.”