Liberty: 1784

Chapter 21

The sound of the drums chilled them, and men on both sides shivered despite the summer’s warmth. The red-coated beast was beginning to stir. What had been almost casual lines of British soldiers changed into straight lines that were intimidating in their precision.

To either side of the British phalanx, cannon boomed. Fitzroy watched as the two rescued nine-pounders belched out the rocks that were all that could be fired from them. Predictably, they did little more that stir up dirt on the hill, resulting in derisive taunts from the defenders. Their intended use was to frighten the rebels and Fitzroy was afraid that they’d become laughably ineffective.

The same happened with the guns taken from the two schooners. Since the ships were now defenseless, they had been sent back to Mackinac. These small guns also sent their projectiles into the earthworks with no apparent effect.

Not a most auspicious start, Fitzroy thought. As he approached Burgoyne, he saw Tarleton ride off, whipping his horse in petulant anger.

Burgoyne smiled calmly. “You saw Tarleton depart, I trust?”

“Indeed, sir, and he looked very angry.”

“He was. Once again he asked for the honor of leading the army and once again I declined his offer. I did think, however, that the timing of his request was most unusual.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, because he waited until he knew it would be impossible for me to honor it under any circumstances. If anyone hasn’t noticed, the attack is commencing and there would be no reason on earth to remove Grant at this late moment, and replace him with Banastre Tarleton even if I desired it, which I don’t. This proves only one thing, in my opinion. Do you know what that is, dear cousin?”

“I have thoughts, General.”

“Share them.”

Fitzroy laughed sharply. “Deep down, Banastre Tarleton is a coward. He’s fantastically good at raiding small units when he outnumbers them, and butchering prisoners and civilians. But put him up against a good fighter, as happened when he took on Morgan at the Cowpens, and he fails and runs.”

Burgoyne nodded and smiled, “My sentiments exactly. Where General Arnold is both brave and foolhardy, Tarleton is merely foolhardy and not brave at all. No, General Grant is the professional whose services I trust. Ergo, he commands the attack.”

Burgoyne took a deep breath. “Regardless, to what do I owe the honor of your presence? Do tell me that you wish something other than you too commanding the assault.”

Fitzroy flushed. It wasn’t that far from the mark. “No, but I do wish to be released so I can join General Grant in the center of the phalanx.”

Given the size of the British formation and the potential difficulty in controlling it, Grant had placed himself and his small staff almost exactly in its middle. It was a unique solution to a unique situation.

“Sorry James, but you may not. I need you here in case something unexpected happens, which is usually the case when two armies collide. I understand and commend your desire to be at the center of the fighting, but my and the army’s needs must come first. I must have someone I trust nearby.”

Fitzroy was disappointed, but understood. But he also felt relieved. Even if the rebel defenses collapsed, they would not do so until they had taken more than the proverbial pound of flesh from the British attackers. The thought of the carnage to take place chilled him. Perhaps Tarleton wasn’t the only coward on the field of battle.

* * *

Burned Man Braxton stared in disbelief. Behind him a battle was beginning and this arrogant young jackass was giving him orders. Worse, the snot had the power of General Arnold and the British hierarchy behind him. It was all due to a rule that said a British officer of any rank was superior to a militia officer of any rank. Thus, the very young Ensign Spencer, whose nose actually was draining snot onto his chin, had announced that he would command the detachment going into the swamp.

For a moment Braxton understood why the colonists had rebelled. He put the heretical thought out of his mind. He would obey orders no matter what he thought of them. English victory would put him that much closer to wreaking vengeance on the people who had maimed him.

He also thought that he would put a musket ball into Ensign Spencer’s head if the little boy’s actions threatened Braxton’s existence. Glancing at the men around him, he thought he wasn’t the only one who would finish Ensign Spencer if the need arose.

“I want the men closer together than the last time,” Spencer said. “There’s too much danger of us getting separated and losing contact if we spread out.”

Braxton nodded and passed on the order. He had his doubts, but he also understood that the boy was at least a little bit correct. If his men got separated and if any of them ran into the rebels, there was the real danger that they could be destroyed by an inferior force. They might also get lost.

“Then let’s go,” Spencer said and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

* * *

The approaching horde of British soldiers was slightly obscured by the dust that thousands of marching feet were kicking up. Will could not begin to fathom what was going on in the minds of the British soldiers as they marched forward. A pennant was raised in the middle of the block of men and he presumed it showed where whatever senior officer who commanded the army was located. Intelligence said it was General Grant, and Will had no reason to doubt it. Grant was a logical choice. Still, the pennant made a splendid target, or it would when it and the British army came closer.

He mounted his scrawny horse and took his position alongside Brigadier General William Washington, who nodded. Behind them were the hundred and fifty men who constituted the entire mounted force that the Americans could field. Not even Washington could call them cavalry and keep a straight face. They were mounted infantry on bedraggled ponies that were so small that several men’s feet almost dragged on the ground.

Still, they remained better than Burgoyne’s cavalry, which was nonexistent. The British had brought fewer than fifty horses and most of those that hadn’t been killed by crossbow bolts were being utilized by the British for use by couriers and ranking officers.

If opportunities presented themselves, however, William Washington’s men could cause damage. With knowledge of exactly where the British were going to attack, Stark had ordered that lanes be opened through the thickets in hopes that spoiling attacks on the British could take place. The lanes were not visible to the British as the brush entanglements had not been removed, merely loosened so they could be pulled aside quickly.

The small American cannon boomed. If they hit anything, no dust was raised up so Will couldn’t tell. “I hope they are aiming at that damned pennant,” he said.

“Why bother,” said Washington. “At a point, whoever is commanding won’t control anything and, besides, how do you know that the pennant isn’t a ruse to get us to waste our ammunition shooting at it?”

Will agreed. A small commotion behind the American lines caught his attention. “You won’t need me for a few moments, will you?”

William Washington laughed good-naturedly. “Didn’t think I needed you at all, Drake.”

* * *

Will found Sarah’s uncle Wilford sweating heavily as he pushed a wooden contraption into position. It and a number of others had been hauled up the hill and manhandled into place by groups of older men and women. Some of the men, however, had the look of artisans and seemed pleased with themselves. For his part, Will could only gape. He had only seen things like this in history books.

Wilford wiped sweat from his brow and smiled at Will. “Damn it, son, I am too old for this.”

“Wilford, have you and Dr. Franklin gone out of your minds? You have brought us catapults with which to fight the British.”

“Catapults, Will, were used to batter down the walls of many enemy castles and cities in the Middle Ages. These little devices are designed to kill soldiers.”

“How?”

“Originally, it was thought they could hurl pointed and weighted projectiles at the enemy. The balance of the projectiles would cause them to fall point down and find British flesh. Sadly, we found we didn’t have the ability to make enough of the projectiles to be worthwhile, so we determined that they could be used to throw rocks at them, large, man-killing rocks and large numbers of them.”

Drake shook his head. “Clever and good, but they won’t stop that army.”

“No, but they will cause casualties and annoy the hell out of it. Anyone who is hit by a good-sized rock will be either killed or seriously injured with badly broken bones.”

Wilford was correct, of course. But the ultimate truth was that only another army could stop the British. Still, the idea of distracting and bleeding the British had considerable merit.

“Any other ideas from yours and Franklin’s fertile minds, Wilford?”

“See those jugs half buried in the ground?”

“I do.”

“And see the ropes leading from them?”

Will grinned, his curiosity piqued. “Of course.”

“When the time is right, I and others will pull on those ropes and when that happens, do yourself a favor, Will. Don’t be anywhere near those jugs.”

* * *

Owen Wells led his men behind the Loyalists commanded by Braxton and the little British officer. With the British bunched up, it had been a simple matter to wait for the men led by Braxton and the little ensign to go past. Nor was there any problem staying unnoticed. Individually, a man traveling through the woods could hear other sounds, but a group of them, however hard they would try to, just couldn’t remain silent. Nor could their ears easily pick up other sounds as they sloshed through the water and the muck.

Owen ordered his men to move out in a manner that basically mirrored Braxton’s force. To his delight, Braxton and his men were totally focused on their front and not their rear. The two groups were approximately the same number as they slogged through the dank water that came well over their knees. Owen signaled his crossbowmen to go to the front. When they got to within twenty or thirty yards of the enemy he waved his arm and a score of crossbow bolts flew to their targets.

A dozen enemy soldiers screamed or fell silently into the water, their bodies pierced by the bolts. The remainder turned and milled, searching for their attackers. Owen heard a high-pitched and youthful voice calling for the Loyalists to open fire. Muskets barked, but at what? Owen’s men had dropped to the water or taken position behind trees.

The crossbowmen quickly reloaded and fired again, striking several more targets. Owen urged his men up and toward the enemy soldiers who were frantically reloading the muskets they’d so foolishly emptied at the trees. At nearly point-blank range, Owen’s men fired their own muskets with devastating effect and hurled themselves at the confused survivors of Braxton’s force.

The two groups became a howling, splashing, bloody tangle as men clubbed each other with rifle butts, stabbed with knives or hacked with tomahawks. Men wrestled and bit and fell beneath the water, some to remain there. Braxton’s Loyalists fought desperately. The Americans now outnumbered them and were between them and refuge back in the British lines.

Owen saw Braxton with a pistol in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. He was bleeding from a crossbow wound in his leg and was having difficulty standing. The little British officer lay face down in the muck, his arms and legs twitching. One of Owen’s men ran up to Braxton, who shot him in the face. Another of Owen’s men took a tomahawk swipe in the arm and reeled away, screaming. Braxton was a wounded and dangerous animal and several Americans were keeping their distance.

“Mine!” yelled Owen. His own rifle was empty and his remaining weapon was a broad-bladed knife. As he approached Braxton, the scarred man seemed puzzled. “I want to kill you, Braxton.”

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

Owen decided he didn’t want to inform the gathering circle of men in any detail about what had happened to Faith and her family. Or for that matter, Winifred Haskill, who was slowly recovering from her even greater ordeal at the hand of Braxton.

Owen swung his knife in a lazy arc, confident that Braxton couldn’t escape. “Let’s say I am a friend of some people you hurt.”

Braxton laughed. “That’d be a large number, short boy.” he said. To Owen’s surprise, he threw the tomahawk, causing Owen to duck, and charged awkwardly at Owen. The two men collided, and Owen lost his knife. They grappled with their hands and Owen was astonished at how strong Braxton was. But being shorter gave him greater leverage than Braxton. The two rolled around in the muck, seeking advantage. Finally, Owen managed to get his arms around Braxton’s waist and buried his head in the other man’s back before the other man could find his throat or eyes.

Owen began to squeeze with his heavily muscled arms.

Braxton grunted and tried to break Owen’s grip. He couldn’t. Nor could he reach behind and find Owen’s eyes to gouge out as Owen’s head was in his back, and Owen’s testicles were also out of reach. Braxton’s grunts turned to groans and his body began to thrash and arch as Owen squeezed the life out of his chest.

The groans became cries of agony and Owen used all his strength and energy to increase pressure. Finally, there was the terrible sound of bones breaking. Owen continued to squeeze even though he thought his own lungs would explode from the effort. Braxton tried to scream, but he couldn’t gather his breath to do it.

There was a nauseating crack as Braxton’s spine snapped. Braxton sagged and was still. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t move. In a moment, Braxton’s eyes glazed over and he was dead.

Owen allowed Barley to pull him off and help him to his feet, shaking and exhausted. “He’s dead and that’s good,” Barley said. “Now maybe you can get over your personal feud and let us get back to fighting the British.”

Owen inhaled deeply and realized his mistake. All his remaining men, maybe thirty of them, were gathered around them, wide-eyed. They’d been watching the brawl. Any survivors from Braxton’s group had fled and probably gotten back to the British lines. Worse, the little officer had managed to get up and run away as well.

“How many escaped?” he asked.

“Maybe six of them. Not more than ten,” Barley answered. “One of them was that officer. I saw him waddling away like he’d crapped his pants and he probably did.”

Owen wished Barley had thought to stop them as he counted his own survivors. Thirty-two effectives. Ten of his men were dead and another handful too wounded to continue. He ordered a couple of men to help the wounded back to the American lines. He turned and addressed the rest.

“The swamp ends in a little ways and there’s a hill just beyond it. I want to see what’s on the other side, don’t you?”

Barley laughed. “What if it’s the whole British Army?”

“Then we’ll run like our pants are on fire back into the swamp and hide. But before we do that, maybe we can cause some more harm to the Redcoats. Are you with me?”

His men gave him a ragged cheer. They had already begun picking up their rifles and other discarded weapons and were loading and cleaning. He told them to load any weapon they could find. He gave them a few moments to get organized and ordered them forward.

* * *

The old man’s open eyes stared vacantly in the direction of the two men who sat before him-one a young man and the other a boy barely into adolescence. Owl couldn’t see them, but he knew them well. He had sent them and others out to watch the white men and their armies. And to learn.

The young man was a skilled and brave warrior who had fought the Americans. He was named Little Turtle and the boy was his nephew, Tecumseh. The old man knew he was going to die soon, which was the reason he’d been chosen to make the important and terrible decision regarding their destiny. The fate of the tribes in the area depended upon his judgment. If he chose correctly, then his name would be remembered in song as a hero. If he was wrong, well, he’d still be dead. His bones ached and his leathery skin was cracked. He would not see another spring. Some days he thought death would be a welcome friend and in the cold and lonely dark of night he was certain of it.

The old man spoke. “And what is happening to our future enemies?”

“They are killing each other, grandfather,” Little Turtle said. “And they are doing so with ferocity and skill I never thought the white man possessed.”

The old man nodded. The loose alliance of tribes had first been shocked when the Americans came to their area, and their shock had turned to horror when they saw how many Americans there were and how well armed and disciplined they were. When they’d heard that another force of white men was gathering to drive the Americans away, they’d rejoiced at the thought that they would be rid of the white invaders. As they waited for this miraculous event to occur, they’d decided to remain peaceful with the Americans, trading with them and observing them until the British arrived. Then they would pounce and earn the gratitude of the British.

The British had come in astonishing numbers, but had brought the hated Iroquois as their allies. All the tribes in the area felt betrayed. If the English were allied with their enemy, then they too were the enemy.

“You are my eyes, Little Turtle, did you see the armies prepare?”

In the distance they could hear rumble of war. “I did, grandfather, and I watched them begin to fight. They are not like real warriors the way they march and move. In some ways it is almost funny, but in others it is frightening. They have discipline and guns, while we have neither. They also have numbers far larger than we can gather even if all the tribes united as one. And, despite the foolish way they fight, they are very brave. They would be formidable enemies.” He shook his head sadly. “Others of our people remain to observe them while I speak with you.”

Although Little Turtle had fought the Americans, it had been in the form of raids, not battles like the one beginning to take place.

The old man was concerned. “You and Tecumseh have not been detected have you?”

Tecumseh answered. “No, grandfather, we have not. But I wonder if it would matter if we were? Both sides know we are out here because these are our lands. Indeed, grandfather, I would be surprised if they did not expect us to be out here, watching and waiting. I’m sure they wonder what we are going to do as do we.”

The old man smiled inwardly. The boy was so smart. Little Turtle was a war leader, but Tecumseh possessed the wisdom of a far older man. Tecumseh, if he lived, was the future. If there was a future for the red man, he thought sadly.

The old man smiled. “Tecumseh, tell me what you did when you heard the first cannon?”

Tecumseh grinned. “I nearly jumped out of my skin.”

Owl grinned and Little Turtle laughed, “And the second time?”

“Then I merely flinched, grandfather, as I realized they weren’t aiming their flying stones at me. Then they became like the thunder in a rainstorm.”

The old man nodded. “Little Turtle, could we fight them?”

Little Turtle shrugged then remembered with mild chagrin that the old man couldn’t see the gesture. “Of course we could fight them, but we wouldn’t win, not even against their smallest army. They all have muskets or rifles, which we do not, and, as has been said, they have many more warriors then we have. You are right, father, we must not have the white men as enemies.”

“Yet at least one of the two groups must be,” the old man said softly.

But which one, he wondered? The Americans who said they only wished to return to their homes in the east, or the British who wished to drag the Americans away? Both groups had said they wished to depart, which would be good for the tribes. But who could believe either of them? The white men always came, but they never left and it didn’t matter who they fought for. The British, if they won, would doubtless leave a fort, like Mackinac, and traders would come who would corrupt the tribes with liquor and cheap goods in return for furs. The Americans would return to their homes in the east if they won, but would all of them depart? Certainly not. Where the white men went, they always stayed. They had contempt for the red man who they thought of as ignorant, drunken savages. Sadly, the white men were often correct. Alcohol and smallpox had ruined so many tribes.

So which of the two armies would be the enemy? Or would it be both? The several hundred warriors gathered in the woods behind him wondered the same thing.

* * *

Danforth was in the middle of the British Army with Grant, and it was rapidly becoming a mob. Even General Grant grudgingly admitted that he was losing control. Grant professed to be unconcerned. “Everything breaks down when the fighting begins. Just keep marching towards the enemy and all will be well.”

Danforth agreed except for one thing-the fighting hadn’t really begun. American and British cannon had been firing at each other for some minutes and to little effect. American riflemen were firing slowly and carefully at the ponderously moving British horde, but were of no concern to any but the men in the first few ranks. Those men in front would be terribly bloodied before this day was over, but that was their fate. The ones who fell would be replaced by those behind and the inexorable advance would continue.

Danforth was concerned that the structure of the British force was proving even more unwieldy than thought. Even Grant had been a little surprised by that fact. Still, the British Army moved forward. The Americans would be crushed.

A soldier near them screamed and fell to his knees. “What the devil?” Danforth exclaimed. The man had been wounded by a falling rock.

* * *

Benedict Arnold looked at Ensign Spencer with some sympathy. The boy’s left arm dangled uselessly and there was a large and growing welt on the boy’s forehead. He was in intense pain and was having difficulty standing.

“General, we went into the swamp as you ordered and we were ambushed. There must have been hundreds of them and they had us surrounded. Only a handful of men managed to get away.”

“Where’s Braxton?” Girty snapped.

“I don’t know,” Spencer said and began to blubber.

Arnold was sympathetic to the boy. “Go have your wounds tended to. Your first battle is over. And for God’s sake wipe your nose.”

Arnold thought quickly. He doubted that “hundreds” of rebels had infiltrated through the swamp, but there had obviously been more than enough to overwhelm Braxton’s and Spencer’s command. Whatever numbers out there could play hell in the British rear unless he did something to stop it.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, puffs of smoke appeared on the hill blocking his view of the swamp. Arnold stood and swore. The insolent bastards were firing on them. He made up his mind.

“Girty, I will take your command and all but two companies of regulars and attack those rebels coming at us from the swamp. That should be more than enough to send any American force packing.”

That and it would show him acting decisively in the face of an unexpected enemy. Perhaps the day would turn out well for him after all.

* * *

Burgoyne also saw the firing from the hill and was dismayed by the obvious fact that an unknown number of rebels had worked their way behind him. The impassible swamp was obviously not as impassible as he’d been led to believe. Had a large force gotten in his rear, or was it just a minor thing?

Damn Arnold, he seethed, could the man do nothing right? Quite obviously reinforcements were needed to plug the rebel entry point from the swamp.

“Fitzroy, get over there and tell Arnold to send more men to reinforce the swamp area. Damn it,” Burgoyne raged, “must I do everything myself? Why the devil didn’t I get generals who could think?”

Fitzroy was about to ask for a clarification of the orders, but the look of fury on Burgoyne’s face told him it was not a good idea. If the general wanted more men sent to their left, then more men would be sent.

Fitzroy mounted his bedraggled excuse for a horse and urged it where Arnold was supposed to be. If Arnold wasn’t there, he would issue orders on General Burgoyne’s behalf. He would do it and return as quickly as possible as the furious sounds to his right and front said that the battle was rapidly approaching its climax.