Liberty: 1784

Chapter 2

Governor General Sir Charles Cornwallis received his younger brother William in his private quarters in Fort George on lower Manhattan. They embraced fondly.

“Thank God, a friendly face,” the recently appointed governor general of the thirteen colonies said.

Sir Charles Cornwallis’ responsibilities were awesome, since they included both civil and military matters, and he looked tired and haggard despite being refreshed at meeting his brother. Privately, he sometimes wondered if he’d been rewarded or punished with this high office.

He’d recently been particularly distressed when one of the prison hulks had fallen apart and disgorged more than a hundred emaciated prisoners into the river where most of them drowned. Until then, he’d naively assumed that the civilian contractors who were running the prison ships were at least doing what they were being paid to do-feed, clothe and shelter the prisoners at a minimal level until London could figure out what to do with them. Embarrassed and ashamed at what he’d seen and belatedly recognized, Cornwallis had ordered the surviving prisoners out of all the hulks and into warehouses where British soldiers now guarded them and assured that they received sufficient food and at least a decent level of comforts. A recent inspection showed most of them improving and he’d sent a message to Lord Stormont describing what he’d found and how he hoped it wasn’t being repeated in other prisons where rebels were being held. He’d heard rumors that conditions for senior rebels in Jamaica were even more vile. The rebels deserved to be punished severely, but not starved and abused until they died.

“Good to see you as well,” William said. “And how’s the luckiest man in the world this day?

It was a joke they shared every one of the infrequent times they got together. The elder Cornwallis’ victory at Yorktown had been as unexpected as it was total. On the verge of surrender, his men starving and out of ammunition, the relieving British fleet had arrived with both supplies and reinforcements. That they’d also destroyed a poorly handled French fleet under Admiral DeGrasse in the great victory at the Battle of the Capes had been an added bonus.

Refreshed in mind and body, the British had surged out of their fortifications and defeated the now dispirited combined French and American forces. The defeat had turned into a rout and the rout into a slaughter in which the rebel army had been destroyed and George Washington taken prisoner.

William, known as “Billy Blue” behind his back, took a brandy from his older brother. “My voyage with General Burgoyne was fine and thank you for asking. Now, what are you going to do with the great man and the little army he’s brought over?”

Charles Cornwallis chuckled. “I suppose I’ll obey my orders, presuming they make any sense. Of course, I’m not sure it makes any sense at all to ship an army, however small, over here when the real war is taking place in France.”

Shortly after the French and American collapse, an attempt by the French monarchy to raise taxes to pay for the debacles had resulted in France being torn apart by a sudden and violently anti-monarchist revolution. The new taxes had started a civil war that was rending France into bloody pieces. Horrified by the violence of the revolution in France, and tormented by the possibility of a similar republican uprising in England, King George III had sent over an army led by Lord Jeffrey Amherst to France to help the monarchists crush the revolution. France was where most professional soldiers wished to be and was where Charles Cornwallis thought he should be. Still, he had doubts. Yorktown had taught him the fickleness of fate on the battlefield.

France was also a war that was not going particularly well for England. The small British army had not had a major impact in trying to restore its version of order on the French, and the efforts of the French monarchists had been just as dismal. As a class, both Cornwallis brothers considered the French aristocracy to be a pack of fools.

“And just how popular is Burgoyne’s adventure in England?” Charles asked.

“Emotions are mixed,” his younger brother answered. “Many wish Burgoyne a swift victory, while others want the rebels left alone, feeling that enough blood and treasure has been spent in subduing the colonies. Others feel that the rebellion in France might spread to the English peasants and that terrifies them. In sum, the war against the American rebels is unpopular with a sizeable portion of the English people and that includes a growing number in Parliament. Burgoyne will have but one chance to win. If he fails, there will, at best, be an independent American nation out in the west. It is entirely possible that all of the colonies would rebel again and win.”

“I will meet with Burgoyne shortly,” Sir Charles said with a hint of distaste. “The man is too flamboyant for my taste, and he did lose an army at Saratoga.”

His brother laughed, “Whereas you only almost lost one at Yorktown.”

Sir Charles grinned happily. “All right, you have me there. And of course I have advance knowledge that he is here to do something about that damned rebel enclave out west and I’m going to be ordered to render whatever assistance possible while, at the same time, governing thirteen fractious and largely unrepentant colonies in the King’s name.”

Billy Blue Cornwallis made a mock bow. “And of course you will obey your orders like a good soldier and to the best of your ability.”

Governor General Sir Charles Cornwallis matched his younger brother’s bow, “Up your arse, Billy.”

* * *

Major James Fitzroy followed General Burgoyne into Lord Cornwallis’ large but surprisingly spartan office in Fort George at the foot of Manhattan Island. Cornwallis took one look at Fitzroy and made a gesture that he should leave. Fitzroy did as told, but positioned himself outside the door so that he could hear the conversation, just as Burgoyne had earlier told him to.

Cornwallis was stood behind a large desk and table which was littered with papers. “What on earth were our lords in London thinking, General Burgoyne?” he said after formally acknowledging the other’s presence.

“I believe it’s quite simple, General,” Burgoyne said with a hint of smugness. “We all want the rebels finally crushed and that is my assignment. When the rebels are destroyed, peace will be assured and then the second phase of pacification will begin.”

“I have no problem with your taking on the rebels in their forest lair, but it is Lord North’s concept of pacification that disturbs me.”

“Oh?”

Cornwallis looked through a window at the harbor. Scores of warships and transports were anchored near the fort, and unloading large numbers of men and vast quantities of supplies. Even so, the harbor of New York was so enormous it somehow seemed largely empty. The large expanse of protected water hinted at what the North American colonies could become with the proper British control. New York had the potential to become one of the world’s major ports.

Cornwallis turned and faced his guest. “Several things bother me. First is the amount of taxes the colonists are going to have to bear. Yes, I know the war has to be paid for somehow, but we are now going to heavily tax those people who supported us in the rebellion and remained loyal, and that bothers me immensely. Please don’t forget that the colonists were divided into three unequal parts. There were the rebels, the loyalists, and those who stayed uninvolved. The rebels should be punished, but not the others.

“Second is the idea of restrictions on jobs, pay, and travel. London seems to be hell bent on turning the remaining colonists into medieval serfs. Benjamin Franklin said that he foresaw England turning these colonies into something equivalent to Ireland-a land full of impoverished and sullen people, governed harshly. If that is the case, it would be a very foolish policy indeed. The Irish are unarmed and have no place to flee to, but it is totally different here. Many, perhaps most, Colonists have their own weapons, and they are perfectly capable of both using them and going westward. This is what so many have done, and which is why you are here.”

Burgoyne made to interrupt but Cornwallis stopped him. “Then there is the king’s idea of establishing a North American nobility to oversee and overawe the poor benighted peasants. What will they do, make Benedict Arnold the Duke of Pennsylvania? Or would Earl of West Point be more appropriate? Lord, that would be ironic justice, wouldn’t it? Will every hamlet and village have its overweight and over-dull squire with his fat and unmarriageable daughters?”

Even though he didn’t like what Cornwallis was saying, Burgoyne had to smile. “Please don’t forget the poor sod’s shrew of a wife.”

Cornwallis laughed at the mental picture. “Oh, that’ll inspire loyalty to the crown. Is the king aware that a previous monarch, James II, tried pretty much the same thing a century or so ago? It failed miserably, and it was one of the factors in James Stuart losing his crown. The colonists have no history of nobility and are singularly unimpressed by titles. Even the loyalists will resist such efforts. Many of the most loyal will insist on the colonial custom of shaking hands as if with equals instead of bowing to one’s betters.”

Burgoyne had turned almost beet red. “And why do you imply that our efforts will fail?” Burgoyne said. “We must have peace and economic stability to support our war in France. There cannot be an enemy in our rear.”

“Of course we must have peace,” Cornwallis replied sarcastically. “Let me see. Since the collapse of the rebellion, the French monarchy has been assailed by two groups. First are the Constitutionalists under the boy general, Lafayette, and the second are the Republicans, who are little more than an armed mob intent on killing everyone who disagrees with them. The Constitutionalists wish to control the king, while the Republicans wish to depose him. Either group frightens our king and his lordships in London since, if successful, the disease of rebellion could spread to England’s own sullen peasants.

“The two groups have chased King Louis out of Paris and off to Calais, where he is protected by the Royal Navy and the British Army. They are trying mightily to put him back on his throne with the help of the third group, the supporters of the status quo. This includes just about everybody the average Frenchie hates, and that includes an incredibly corrupt Papist clergy.”

“France cannot be allowed to slide into anarchy,” Burgoyne said. “We need taxes to restore Louis.”

“And why not? Since when did our ancient enemy become our new friend?” Cornwallis shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Still, I must support you. I have my orders, insane though they are.”

Burgoyne’s complexion had paled slightly. He was visibly shaken by the unexpected response from someone he’d thought was a supporter. “According to the orders, Lord Cornwallis, you are to give me ten thousand British soldiers. Along with the four thousand I have brought, I will have a truly formidable force that will crush the rebels.”

Cornwallis glared at Burgoyne. “Did their lordships remember that I only have fifteen thousand regulars in all of the colonies? That will leave me only a relative handful to protect them should you fail and I do not consider the few Loyalist militia regiments we have as either trained or reliable.”

“I don’t believe I will fail, General.”

“Do you know what you’re up against?”

Burgoyne smiled. “Approximately two or three thousand rebels, including women and children at a place called Fort Washington, or, if you prefer, Liberty. Either name will suffice as long as it’s the same place. It is located on the southern end of Lake Michigan and can be approached either overland from Fort Pitt or Detroit, or by water around Michigan from Detroit.”

“Correct,” said Cornwallis, “Except that Liberty, the name of the village outside Fort Washington, is but one of a number of similar places out in the west. It is, however, by far the largest. London seems to have forgotten that literally thousands of rebels fled to the west, either individually or in groups, and have built a score of villages and forts.”

“Sir, I assumed that there would be other rebels. Otherwise, fourteen thousand to crush a few thousand rebels would be a ridiculous waste of resources that could be utilized against France.”

Cornwallis sighed. There were times when he was heartily sick and tired of the colonies. Some days he only wanted to spend some time back in England where he could better cherish the memory of his late and beloved wife, Jemima. He wanted a different posting. He’d been promised the governorship of India after his victory at Yorktown, but that had been cancelled. He would stay in the American Colonies until-if? — events calmed down.

Cornwallis smiled inwardly. If Burgoyne succeeded, then perhaps he could be replaced as governor general and promoted. Perhaps his replacement would be Burgoyne and wouldn’t that be marvelous justice to see the elegant Burgoyne stuck in the squalor of New York instead of reveling in the delights of London. Perhaps, Cornwallis thought, he’d get an army to fight the French? If Burgoyne failed, why it would be London’s fault, wouldn’t it? Cornwallis decided that he would make sure that no mud from any possible failure by Burgoyne splashed on him. He would do everything his orders required. He would support Burgoyne. Of course he would.

“Shall I assume that you will take possession of Mr. Washington’s skull and bones from me?” Burgoyne asked.

The look on Cornwallis’ face showed what he thought of bringing the barbaric trophies across the Atlantic. Again, friends in London had forewarned him that Washington’s skull and a number of other bones would be sealed in a trunk along with some of Washington’s personal possessions. So far the existence of what Cornwallis considered to be vile relics was a secret. If the word got out, the Tories would want them destroyed with great ceremony, while the rebels would want them enshrined in a North American version of the Vatican. If anything, the damned bones should have been kept in London.

“The box containing them will be left with me and locked away for what I hope will be forever,” Cornwallis said grimly. “If Lord North or Stormont want Washington’s bones displayed prominently, let them come and do it.”

Burgoyne nodded. “Which is precisely what I would do. I protested, but was overruled.”

Cornwallis smiled in a belated attempt at conviviality. “You will have my total cooperation, General Burgoyne. In anticipation of your orders, I have already notified the various units and garrisons under my command that you will be using many of their men. Some will reduce their forces, while others will have to close up, temporarily, one hopes. The situation will be precarious, but you’re right. The return on investment will be well worth it if the rebels are finally crushed. If all goes well, you will have the beginnings of an army in a few months and you’ll be able to begin campaigning in full strength by next spring.”

Outside the door, Fitzroy’s jaw almost dropped. Next spring before they could even begin? He’d known it would be a long campaign, but he’d expected to be back in England well before next spring. What in God’s name had he gotten himself into?

* * *

It took Sarah Benton several days to recover her strength. In the meantime, the outcry against Sheriff Braxton had grown large enough to attract the attention of the British government in Boston. As a result, he had been chastised for his excesses and warned never to do it again. Braxton had laughed off the punishment. He would do as he damned well pleased. However, he would wait a very short while before beginning his ways anew.

As a result, Sarah was often hesitant about going outside. Either the sheriff or one of his deputies was always hanging around the white picket fence outside her uncle’s home. On the rare occasions she did venture outdoors, they would tease her lewdly. Braxton also said it was only a matter of time before she would again have the choice of a day in the stocks or giving him sexual gratification. Of course, he’d added, it would be two days in the stocks for a second crime.

Sarah was despondent. Was this going to be the way of the rest of her life? If so, how long would the rest of her life be? She’d spoken with Faith and found that it hadn’t been the first time Faith and other village women had been forced to perform for the sheriff and his deputies. She suspected that her own aunt had been one of those abused by him, but dared not voice her concern.

“You live with it,” Faith had said, her voice bleak with bitterness and shame. “You do what you have to and get on with your life.”

In many ways, Faith was still a child, and it pained Sarah to see her so abused and depressed. She knew that Faith felt guilty. In an obscene way, Sarah had suffered the most, while Faith endured only the humiliation. But perhaps humiliation was worse than anything.

Deep down, Sarah knew that she would ultimately lose to the sheriff and the thought repelled her. Not the act, but the sheriff. She had done such a deed for her husband, Tom, but that had been an act of love, not vengeance or power. Worse, the deputies let it be known that she would be servicing them as well and as often as they wished. They were going to break her, and she knew that anyone could be broken.

Then one evening, Uncle Wilford made a simple pronouncement. “We’re leaving.”

Faith and Sarah were surprised, while Aunt Rebecca simply beamed. “I’ve sold the property and we’re heading west,” Wilford said.

“There are Indians and outlaws out there,” Faith wailed. “We’ll be robbed and scalped.”

“Could they be worse than the sheriff and his men?” Aunt Rebecca replied with a cold fury that confirmed Sarah’s concerns that her dear old aunt had been forced to perform for the sheriff as well. Was it because of something Rebecca had done herself, or had she done it to protect Faith? Or her husband? Probably the latter as Wilford was fairly outspoken. Sarah wondered if her uncle even knew or suspected.

“I have no plans to go all that far west, Faith,” Uncle Wilford added gently, evading the fact that Indians would always be a menace no matter where they went. There were Indians near Pendleton but they were mainly a pathetic bunch of drunken beggars, something to be scorned, not feared.

He continued. “I do not plan on totally leaving civilization. I think we will find a place in Pennsylvania that will be far enough from the sheriff and the damned English who are so corrupt and cruel as to put a man like Braxton in charge of us.”

“Don’t say it so loud,” Faith said, looking around in fear.

“Unless the sheriff’s under the table I don’t think he can hear us,” Sarah answered with a tight smile. Under the iron rule of Sheriff Braxton, Pendleton was an evil place and she would be glad to be rid of it.

Uncle Wilford continued. “I sold the place as is to someone from Boston. A Tory, so he and Braxton will be happy with each other. I have the money and we’ll just pack up and leave quickly. We can be miles away before the sheriff even realizes we’re gone. We can lose ourselves in a vast country such as this.”

To himself he hoped it was true. He’d heard rumors of terrible British oppressions to the west under the command of Banastre Tarleton at Pittsburgh.

Now even Faith looked excited. “When do we pack?”

“We’ll start tonight,” Wilford said. “I want to leave at sunset tomorrow.”

A thought chilled Sarah. “Uncle, did you say the buyer is a Tory?”

“Yes.”

“And did he pay in gold?”

Wilford laughed, “Of course. Did you want him to pay in Continentals?”

“Then I think we should leave tonight, and I think we should only take what we can carry. Leave everything else.”

Her uncle looked shocked, while Faith looked puzzled. “But why, Sarah?” she said.

“Because no Tory would miss a chance to get back the money he’s paid to a rebel. They’ll raid us and rob us. Or worse, since Braxton will doubtless help them recover their money. And we’ll be considered criminals for planning to leave without permission.”

Uncle Wilford stood, anger contorted his face. “She’s right. I’m a fool for not recognizing the peril I was creating. We pack now and we run.”

* * *

They waited until dark and moved into the woods near the house. The women were dressed in men’s clothes so they could ride the horses they were leading, along with a couple of other pack animals. What few personal possessions they brought were carried in pathetically small sacks. They had only two weapons, a musket carried by Wilford, and a fowling piece carried by Sarah. Wilford had to leave his blacksmithing tools since they were too heavy to carry. He only retained a large hammer that he said he’d like to use on either Braxton’s or the Tory land buyer’s skulls. Sarah seethed with anger at the injustice of it all, while Faith sobbed softly.

They were less than a mile away from their house when they heard horses in the distance, coming closer. They stopped and waited silently, holding their own horses heads down so they wouldn’t respond. A line of riders moved past them less than a hundred yards away. Sarah counted seven men and thought she recognized the bulk of Sheriff Braxton on the lead horse. When they were past, she asked her uncle if he recognized the buyer of the house as well. He did and snarled that he’d like to kill the son of a bitch.

“We should ride away now,” said her aunt.

“No,” Uncle Wilford said. “We’ll wait until they’re distracted.” A grim smile played on his face.

The riders circled the comfortable and quiet-looking frame house and dismounted. What looked like a candle shone through an open window. Funny, Sarah thought, I don’t remember seeing that candle before, but it does make it look like the house is occupied. She wondered if that was the distraction he mentioned? If so, it wasn’t much of one. As she watched, the men smashed down the front door and rushed inside.

Uncle Wilford swore and then smiled with a cold fury. “The bastards. But now watch.”

A moment later, the soft glow in the window became much brighter and, suddenly, flames erupted from the house. Wilford chuckled harshly.

“I rigged the oil lamps to spill if someone tried to come in through the doors. If I can’t have the house, then no would-be Tory thief’s going to get it either.”

An explosion lit the night and men tumbled from her uncle’s home. At least two of them were on fire and writhing on the ground, screaming at the top of their lungs. Others grabbed buckets from the well and doused the burning men while the house was quickly consumed. Sarah and the others hoped that one of the men burning was Sheriff Braxton or the thief of a Tory who had come to rob them. Wilford thought it likely that one was indeed Braxton. For all his faults, Braxton wasn’t a coward and he would have led his men inside. One of the burning men was being ignored and obviously dead, while the other was frantically being treated by his companions.

Sarah smiled grimly as they mounted their horses. She was confident that no one would chase them this night. Even Faith looked pleased. The war against the English was not over.

* * *

Will Drake found his Connecticut property easily enough, but he didn’t particularly like what he saw. Instead of a neat, clean, well-painted, and tidy house and barn, the main building was almost a ruin and the barn looked like it would fall over in a mild breeze. He had lived there until the end of his boyhood and had fond memories of the house and his family. Now, it looked like a shell, a mausoleum, and a tawdry one at that.

Worse was the presence of Francis and Winnie Holden, his cousins. They had never been close and Will had always suspected them of Tory leanings. Their presence on the property reinforced it-otherwise how would they have gotten the property that was rightfully Will’s?

They were thoroughly surprised to see him, but greeted him cordially enough. Will looked in their eyes and could see it was all superficial. Their eyes were cold and wary, even fearful. They wondered why he had come, and what he wanted.

“I know you’re surprised to see us living here,” Winnie said nervously. She and her husband were obviously not thrilled at Will’s unexpected arrival. “But we bought the place at a government sale. It’d been seized for nonpayment of taxes after it was abandoned. I can’t imagine you’d be displeased. After all, it’s staying in the family.”

“Of course not,” Will said evenly and with great effort. They were in the small kitchen eating some kind of stew prepared by Winnie who, in Will’s opinion, should have let someone else cook. Still, it was food, and he wasn’t that far from his days in the Suffolk to pass up a meal.

“We had no idea what’d happened to you,” Francis said. “It was as if you’d dropped off the face of the earth. Heard rumors, though, that you were in a British prison.”

“I was for a bit, but they let me go,” Will lied.

“But I heard they were still keeping officers.” Winnie said.

Will forced a laugh. “I wasn’t an officer when the war ended. I got broken to the ranks for hitting a man senior to me. The man was a coward and I damn near killed him.”

It was yet another lie, but he didn’t trust his cousins, and was beginning to regret coming. He didn’t doubt that they’d gobbled up the property for far less than what it was worth, and he didn’t doubt they feared his presence as a potential claimant on what was now their land. He knew they’d turn him in if they suspected him of being an escapee.

“What are your plans?” Winnie asked, so transparent and cautious that Will almost laughed.

“I just want a good meal with you folks and then I’m heading west to start over. I’m satisfied that everything is in good hands here, and I want to start my life up again. If you’d be kind enough to give me breakfast, I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

They both nodded and smiled happily at the thought of him leaving so quickly. “We’d be honored,” Winnie said, her normally sour face breaking into a smile.

“And tonight I’ll sleep in the barn. I’m used to that sort of thing and I wouldn’t want to put you nice people out.”

He got no argument from Francis and Winnie. In the barn, Will spread a blanket they’d given him on some straw and pretended to go to sleep. After a while, he heard a rustling outside and then heavy breathing by the wall. Cousin Francis, he decided, was about as quiet as a herd of horses. When Francis went back to the house, Will followed him far more silently.

“He’s sound asleep,” Francis told Winnie. “If I leave right now, I can get help and be back in a couple of hours.”

“Why not just let him leave like he says he’s going to,” Winnie hissed.

“Because the bastard’s a rebel and, besides, there’s a ten-pound reward for turning in escaped prisoners. Or did you believe that bullshit about him being demoted from officer for fighting? The Will Drake I remember was too self-righteous to get his sanctimonious ass in that kind of trouble. We turn him in and we get the reward along with seeing that he doesn’t ever trouble us about this land.”

At least they think highly of me, Will thought as he listened through the glassless window.

They argued a little more, but Francis prevailed. He left at a trot and Winnie sat on a chair with a musket across her lap and stared fixedly at the door.

Will decided he wanted that musket. It was fairly new and looked as if it had been cared for. He took a rock and threw it at the barn. Winnie, who had been half dozing, awoke with a start and ran to the door, her musket held firmly before her.

As she stepped outside, Will slipped through the window and hid beside the door. When Winnie turned and entered, it was simplicity itself to grab the musket’s barrel and yank it from her. He laughed as he saw it wasn’t even cocked. Winnie, however, started to scream. Will shoved her back down in the chair and clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Winnie, I am not going to hurt you unless you make me, so be still. But if I do have to hurt you I will do so very terribly. Do you understand?”

She nodded, he eyes still wide with terror. Will released his hand from her mouth and replaced it with a gag made from dirty torn cloth. He tied her arms and legs to the chair while she moaned. Her nightdress had fallen open and her flat, sagging breasts were exposed. Will shook his head. He’d been a long time without a woman, but he wasn’t that desperate. He fastened her nightdress, which calmed her, took the musket, and went outside into the darkness. He had human prey to stalk.

Will moved about a half a mile away from the house and down the rude path that his cousin had just used. He settled himself in some brush and waited.

He didn’t have long. The sound of footsteps and gasping breath told him that his cousin had returned and had brought some help. As Will had hoped, there was only one other man. He didn’t think his cousin would want to involve too many people. They’d have to split the reward even more ways if he had.

Will let them shamble past him and began to follow a few yards behind. He wasn’t worried about being detected. They were fixated on the farmhouse and were making a lot of noise. Francis looked unarmed, but the other man had a musket, and a pistol was stuck in the waist of his pants. When they got to within a few hundred yards of the house, Cousin Francis and the other man stopped and gathered themselves, breathing deeply. He heard them murmuring a plan. They would approach the barn as quietly as they could and surprise what they expected would be a sleeping Will.

They were so intent on what was ahead of them that they paid no attention to their rear. Will did not think twice about such a thing as fighting fair. He’d been in too much combat to believe that killing someone else before he could kill you was not fair. You did it in order to survive.

Will approached them and, when he was within a few yards, he fired, shooting the man with the musket in the back. As Francis turned in shock, Will ran up and hit him in the head with the stock of the now empty musket.

It was over in seconds. He checked the man he’d shot. He was dead with a hole in his back that left a gaping exit wound in his chest. Francis was out cold, and a lump was forming on his skull. Will hoped he hadn’t killed the greedy, treacherous fool, and then wondered why he cared.

After pushing the dead body well into the field where it couldn’t be seen, he dragged Francis into the house. No one was near enough to have heard the shot, or they simply didn’t care. Winnie began to moan again when she saw her husband’s bloody and unconscious body.

“You’re not stupid,” Will said to her. “I’m going to loosen your bonds so you can get yourself out of them in a while. If anybody tries to follow me, I’ll kill them just like I did that other Tory bastard outside. Remember that I didn’t kill Francis, even though I could have and with ease. He stole my farm and was going to sell me back to that stinking prison for ten miserly pounds. Your husband is a cruel cheap shit. Even Judas wanted thirty pieces of silver.”

Francis began whimpering and groaning, so Will tied him up as well. He again turned to Winnie and loosened both her bonds and her gag. When he was satisfied she could get help for herself and dear Cousin Francis, Will searched the house for useful things to take with him. He settled on an ax, a knife, a bullet mold, lead, and powder. They had some bread and dried meat, so he took that as well. He also now had two muskets and a pistol. You could never have too many weapons, he thought. He would never be taken alive.

As he stepped out into the night, he checked the stars and headed roughly west. It was in that direction that Fort Washington, and whatever Liberty was, were said to be. He only wondered just how far away they were.

* * *

Major James Fitzroy thought the city of New York was depressing and squalid. More than thirty thousand people, many of them enthusiastically if belatedly proclaiming their loyalty to King George III and the government of Lord North and General Cornwallis, were jammed into its narrow and winding streets. There were two exceptions to the rule of narrowness, Broad Street and De Heere Street, which was also called the Broad Way. These seemed to be the center of what life existed in New York.

Much of the town was still in ruins from the fire of 1776, and little had been done to rebuild. That took money, and the country was still in a state of war.

Fitzroy was puzzled. He wondered why, if the people were so solidly behind the king, were so many of them ignoring him or worse, glaring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking? In the weeks since his arrival, he’d noticed that he got better service in a tavern or a shop when he didn’t wear his uniform. He was beginning to think that the veneer of loyalty in the colonies was very thin indeed.

He had a small room on the second floor of a pleasant inn on Wall Street, once the site of the city’s walls and now a place where merchants and investors congregated. At least they’d used to when the city was vibrant and alive. It was an easy walk to Fort George, which meant that he didn’t have to live in the cramped officer’s quarters inside the fort. No matter how small and overpriced his room might be, it was his and a hundred times better than living with his stinking and dirty brother officers.

Adding to the city’s problems was the influx of soldiers and sailors from the fleet and convoy. Admirals like William Cornwallis could and did live in elegance on their ships, but army officers had to go ashore, as did their men. This meant imposition and resentment as soldiers were quartered in civilian homes. It was ironic in that the forcible quartering of soldiers in private homes was one of the issues that had caused the rebellion in the first place, and now those who’d remained loyal were suffering from it.

Fitzroy sighed. It was the small price the Loyalists had to pay if they wanted the damned western rebel force stamped out and British control over the colonies strengthened and completed. The newly arrived army would pack up and leave soon, marching in stages to Albany and then to Fort Pitt. General Burgoyne had seen the irony of his army marching to Albany from New York. Albany had been his goal when he was defeated at Saratoga in his attempt to march south in 1777. He still cursed Generals Howe and Clinton for having abandoned him instead of marching to join him as he’d understood the plans to be.

Less ironic was the choice of Burgoyne’s lieutenants. General Banastre Tarleton commanded the British garrison at Pitt, which made him a logical choice even though he had the reputation among the rebels of a barbarian and a butcher. It was thought that knowing that Tarleton was advancing on them would terrify the rebels into surrendering or fleeing. Fitzroy had his doubts, even considering it wishful thinking. Tarleton had a habit of murdering his prisoners, which made surrendering to him an adventure. Thus, others thought that Tarleton’s presence would inspire desperate opposition. Burgoyne and Cornwallis were less than thrilled, but had no choice. The orders came from London.

Even more controversial was the choice of one of the other generals, Benedict Arnold. London thought the former rebel general and now turncoat in the service of England would inspire large numbers of Loyalists to his cause. So far, the effect had been exactly the opposite. Even the staunchest Loyalists had been repelled by the idea of the turncoat Benedict Arnold commanding an English army.

Fitzroy went downstairs to the restaurant portion of the inn and took a seat a small table. His friend, Captain Peter Danforth, entered a minute later. The two men drank a tankard of passable ale and ordered a fish dinner, fresh from the Hudson River. Seared in butter, it was, as always, excellent. On complimenting his host, the innkeeper had again reminded him that he had a cousin, a young woman, who ran a similar facility in Albany. Fitzroy would make it a point to pay a visit, although he did think it ironic that everyone in New York seemed to know the army’s plans. He was especially intrigued that a young woman could handle such a business out in the wilderness.

“One thing I will hand to the colonists,” Danforth said, wiping his chin, “they do have excellent and hearty food. And why not, with all these rivers and forests to hunt and fish from?”

“And no one to tell them where and when they might hunt,” Fitzroy added.

“At least not yet,” Danforth said. “Once the last of this stupid war is over, then we shall turn this vast land into a proper English province with proper English squires and nobility in charge. Then we shall see order in the Americas, which will then turn into lands of peace and prosperity. Lord, I hope some of it rubs off onto us.”

“Peter, it will be interesting. Personally, I see more migrations to the west if we are overly harsh. Just look at the resentment the quartering of a few thousand soldiers for a short period of time has caused in this miserable excuse for a town.”

“They’ll get over it,” Danforth said. “It’s not like they have a choice if they want to serve their king.”

“One can hope,” Fitzroy said.

“I hate this place,” Danforth said while picking a stray fish bone out of his teeth. “They have taken everything that is bad in an English city and brought it here to New York, while leaving out all of the good. What we have is all the squalor of London and none of the elegance and refinement. Do you realize there are no proper theaters in this miserable excuse for a town?”

Fitzroy smiled, “How terrible for you.”

“Well, take me with you when you go and joust with the rebels. At least I can participate in a theater of the absurd.”

Fitzroy almost laughed. Captain Peter Danforth was short, plump, and ruddy-faced. Behind his back, his men called him “Apple,” and he looked like he would want to be nowhere near the hardships of the frontier. For that matter, Fitzroy had his own doubts about staying alive in the wilderness. “I thought you liked working for Cornwallis?”

“I do. He’s a great man. But nothing’s going to happen in New York that would help advance my career. Although I do have some money with which to purchase further advancement, it is not all that huge an amount. Thus, I must augment my funds with glory. Do tell me there’s an opening on Burgoyne’s staff?”

Fitzroy sympathized with his friend, although only to a point. By any definition, Danforth was far better off monetarily than Fitzroy. The problem was that Danforth didn’t always realize it. Or was it that Fitzroy was so bad off in comparison? All the money Fitzroy had earned-well, looted-during his tour of duty in India had gone to buying the commission and rank he now held. Nor would there be any more money from his family. They were fond of him and he of them, but there was simply no money to share. He was on his own to make his fortune. It was too bad there were no jewel-covered temples in the Americas crying out to be plundered.

Still, how transparent of Danforth, Fitzroy thought. Danforth loved the theater as did Johnny Burgoyne. All Fitzroy had to do was mention that a man of Danforth’s ability and interests was available and Burgoyne would jump at having him on his staff. Burgoyne had been mildly disappointed by Fitzroy’s lack of interest in things theatrical and this would make the old man happy. Of course, nothing was quite as simple as all that.

“I will put in a good word for you, Captain Danforth, but will you be spying on him for General Cornwallis?”

Danforth smiled easily and without guile, “Of course.”

The two men laughed. It was near closing time and one of the tavern girls smiled at them. She was plain-looking and skinny, but she was a woman. Danforth grabbed her and pulled her to his lap. She squealed in mock dismay as he slid his hand underneath her skirts and between her legs.

“I think we should celebrate my new position?” Danforth said to her.

The girl smiled and ran her tongue across her lips. “Any particular position you’d like, dearie?”

* * *

Owen Wells walked at the rear of the squad of soldiers accompanying the sailors into town. Even though they were in supposedly friendly territory, he held his musket tightly. It was night and who knew what lurked in New York’s narrow streets. Loyal to the cause or not, it was quite obvious that some New Yorkers would rob and rape a nun if they had a chance.

Adding to his nervousness was the fact that this would be his one and only chance to desert. Tomorrow the HMS Victory would up anchor and sail back to England with the admiral and the other ships of the convoy. There he’d heard the Victory would take up patrol duty off the coast of France. Of course, the officers hadn’t bothered to notify him of their plans; instead, they talked openly about them as if he was a piece of the furniture or part of the hull.

Owen scanned the area for a chance, any chance. He had purposely fallen behind by a few steps, nothing serious that would concern the idiotic and pimply-faced young midshipman in charge of the men sent to get special supplies for the officers. These included wines, tobacco and other expensive foodstuffs that mere sailors and marines would never smoke or taste. The bulkier normal supplies had already been loaded and getting these luxuries from local merchants was the last of their tasks.

A narrow alley appeared to his left. Owen took a deep breath, turned, and darted down it.

“Owen, what the devil are you doing?”

Christ, he thought. It was Alan, another marine. Owen had lost track of where he was. At least the sod hadn’t hollered. The rest of the unit had disappeared around a corner. “Sorry,” Owen said and hit him in the stomach with the butt of his musket. Alan crumpled. Owen quickly stripped off Alan’s jacket and tied him up with it, stuffing Alan’s own filthy kerchief in his mouth. He hated doing it, since Alan was a decent sort, but he was also a loyal Englishman who would have called for help.

He pulled some trash over his former companion and headed down the alley. If it was a dead end he would have a lot of explaining to do. It wasn’t. He continued on, even crossing several narrow and garbage-strewn streets without anyone noticing. Better, he heard no hue and cry behind him. They hadn’t even noticed he’d gone.

Owen’s luck smiled on him again. Despite the hour, laundry hung on a line and it included articles of men’s clothing. He grabbed a couple of shirts and pants and headed away. He found a niche and changed quickly. The clothing was big but it would suffice. Except for being very large around the shoulders and arms he was small to begin with and the damned Americans were so much larger than ordinary Englishmen. Now in civilian clothes, he hid his musket and uniform underneath a pile of rubbish and looked for a way off Manhattan. He hated leaving the weapon, but no one in New York walked around armed with a Tower musket. He kept the socket bayonet. He decided he would feel naked without some sort of weapon.

Again luck favored him. He reached the Hudson River and spied a small boat tied up to a small dock. He jumped into the boat, cast off, and headed downstream in the dark waters. He used an oar to steer the boat in the direction of the black blur that was the land to his right front. If he made landfall on what he thought was Staten Island, he would be free. If he missed, he ran the risk of being swept through the narrows and out to the ocean where he would doubtless die.

* * *

Fitzroy and Danforth eyed each other as they followed their respective leaders, Burgoyne and Cornwallis, into the small room off Cornwallis’ quarters at Fort George. Cornwallis closed the door, which quickly made the room stuffy and uncomfortable. There was a table and chairs, and a large map of the colonies was pinned to the wall. They took their seats.

“First of all, General Burgoyne, I am so thankful that you have accepted Captain Danforth onto your staff.”

Burgoyne smiled. “He and I have much in common. And may I assume that he will be your eyes and ears while on the expedition?”

If Cornwallis was surprised by the bluntness of the comment, he didn’t show it.

“But of course. Although one wonders just how he can be my eyes and ears when he’s five or six hundred miles away.”

“A good staff officer can accomplish miracles, gentlemen,” Danforth said with an impish grin. The comment caused both generals to laugh, which released any tension that might have been in the air. Danforth was Cornwallis’ spy and now everyone knew it. Fitzroy thought he’d have been court-martialed if he’d said anything so cheeky.

Cornwallis continued. “As you were busy seeing to the forces you just landed, I took the liberty of giving orders to those parts of the garrisons of Charleston and Boston that will report to you. I hope you don’t mind.”

If Burgoyne was upset by the gentle reminder that the army still belonged to Cornwallis, his superior, he didn’t show it. “Of course not,” he said.

“Good. The merchant transports that brought your soldiers from England, along with a couple of frigates, will be sent to Charleston to gather up the men you will be getting. The fleet will then continue on to Boston and pick up those men from that garrison. The entire host will then sail up to the St. Lawrence and then down to Quebec, where the men will disembark and await your orders.”

Burgoyne looked puzzled. “That means my army will be divided. I had intended to march it intact from here.”

Cornwallis shook his head as if talking to a child. “I strongly recommend against it. The problem of maintaining a proper level of supplies will be simplified if there is more than one force to supply from several sources.

“Besides,” Cornwallis added, “there is no danger from an American attack. Tarleton’s scouts from Pitt and Detroit say the Americans lack the resources and the will to attack this far to the east. I see no difficulty in your marching from here to Pitt and joining with Tarleton, while Arnold and the rest march from Quebec to Detroit.”

“I see,” said Burgoyne, clearly unhappy at the thought of his army even temporarily fragmented and out of his control. It was also evident that he was less than thrilled that Arnold would hold an even temporary independent command.

Cornwallis ignored Burgoyne’s displeasure. “I’ve also given directions that a number of sailing barges be constructed at Detroit and elsewhere along Lakes Erie and Ontario. I think you will find them handy if you wish to transport any or all of your army by water around the Michigan peninsula.”

“And why would I wish to do that?” Burgoyne bristled.

Cornwallis stood and walked to the map. “Because it may be as much as a thousand miles from here to where Fort Washington and this Liberty place may lie, and I would think you had enough of the North American wilderness the last time you tried to march through it.”

Burgoyne swallowed and forced a smile. The distances shown on the map were misleading and the American wilderness was sometimes impenetrable, a fact he had indeed learned during his ill-fated Saratoga campaign of 1777. While he had succeeded in dragging hundreds of wagons and numerous cannon down from Canada, it had taken an eternity, exhausted his army, and permitted the Americans the opportunity to gather their damned militia and destroy him.

“You are correct, sir,” Burgoyne admitted.

Fitzroy was stunned. A thousand miles? Burgoyne only had to go a couple of hundred at most in his attempt to take Albany in 1777. It had ended in ignominious failure at Saratoga. Worse, on the map it looked like a trifle in comparison with the distance between New York and the rebel stronghold.

“I’m sure you will concur, General Burgoyne, that sending men and heavy supplies by water is faster and more efficient than having your entire force plowing through the woods and devouring all their supplies as they go, which, I believe, was part of your problem the last time.”

Burgoyne flushed at the reminder, but concurred. “I will continue construction of more of the appropriate craft as soon as we reach a suitable base. They will be similar to what are sometimes referred to as bateaux, but they will be larger and uniform in construction. Like you, I will refer to them as sailing barges, although I admit that the word ‘bateaux’ has more Gallic charm.”

Fitzroy glanced at Danforth and saw shock and dismay on his face. A thousand miles? Building boats? What happened to the lightning strike to destroy the enemy? Fitzroy fought the urge to laugh at his new friend. Instead, he would do it later over several glasses of wine and not in the presence of two senior generals.

Of course, he too was less than thrilled at the thought of going so far into the untracked wilderness and for what was obviously going to be a protracted period of time. But then, how untracked could it be if he American rebels had sent several thousand people into it and created settlements? Buoyed by that thought, he winked at Danforth who nodded surreptitiously. Tonight they would eat, get drunk and find a couple of reasonably clean New York doxies to pleasure them. It was the least they could do before they set off on behalf of their king and country.