Liberty: 1784

Chapter 3

Owen Wells twisted against the ropes that bound him, but to no avail. His captors had tied his hands behind him with the rope wrapped behind a tree. He could kick his legs if he wanted to, but that would likely get him nothing more than another beating, and he’d had enough of those in the several days he’d been a prisoner of the scruffy bandits who’d captured him. His face was a mass of bruises and his ribs ached where he’d been kicked. The beatings only stopped when one of them realized that Owen needed to be alive for them to collect the reward from the British.

Owen’s escape from Manhattan Island had gone extremely well at first. He’d managed to land his stolen boat on Staten Island, and had carefully snuck across to New Jersey and then into Pennsylvania. There he’d felt emboldened enough to work his way openly north and west. He’d had no specific plans. All he wanted to do was put time and distance between himself and the authorities in New York.

He’d been no fool and had kept away from the trails and occasional road. He also avoided contact with the few households and bypassed the villages. He assumed that anyone who looked prosperous was a Tory, while anyone who looked impoverished would turn him in for a reward. If he saw a traveler, he hid in the brush. During the days and weeks of his journey, he’d rehoned the skills he’d possessed as a youthful poacher in his native Wales. Although he occasionally regretted throwing away his musket, he didn’t need it to catch food. A trap and snare made from local materials were more than enough to catch rabbits and squirrels and he reveled in their taste when cooked over a small fire that was also easy to make.

Thus, getting caught was gallingly stupid. Why had he thought he was far enough away from British-controlled land to ask someone how far he was away from this “Liberty” place? He had naively presumed that people so far from New York and well into Pennsylvania would be rebels and that he could drop his guard. But no, he had run into a small band of bounty hunters looking for rebels and deserters just like him, and now he faced being dragged back to New York and hanged if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he’d be sentenced to a thousand lashes, which meant that he would be flogged to death, screaming his lungs out for the mercy of death while the white bones of his ribs and spine were exposed to the air. He’d seen men whipped like that and watched as they became something less than tormented animals before they finally died.

Stupid, stupid, stupid he said to himself. The four-man bounty hunter team was now drunk and asleep. The bayonet he’d kept lay beside one of them. It was further proof that he was a deserter.

The small fire they’d burned was dying out and Owen wished they’d thought enough to feed him. They hadn’t, and were only giving him water to sustain him. They’d rather reasonably decided that it made no sense to waste food on someone who was going to die anyhow, and a weakened prisoner was easier to control.

Owen froze when he sensed rather than heard motion in the trees behind him. It was not an animal-too large. It had to be a man. Maybe it was an Indian who would slice his throat and then scalp him. As horrible as it sounded, that would be preferable to what the Royal Navy would do to him when they got their hands on him. Whoever it was, he was only tolerably good at prowling through the woods. And whoever it was apparently didn’t want the four sleepers to wake up, which meant he wasn’t on their side. Owen tried not to hope and didn’t make any kind of a sound or move. His captors were drunk, but that didn’t mean they might not suddenly wake up and get vicious.

He continued to hold still when he felt a gentle tugging at the rope that curled behind the tree to which he was bound. It sagged and he was free. A firm hand on his shoulder meant that he should stay still. He did as he was told. Then the hand tapped him and gestured for him to move away from the camp. Owen’s muscles were cramped and he found it difficult to walk silently, but he managed to do so without alerting the sleeping outlaws. His rescuer followed a few seconds later.

When they were a ways away, Owen whispered. “Why didn’t you kill them?”

His liberator turned. He now carried a pair of muskets taken from the bandits and a pistol was stuck in his belt. Owen didn’t see his bayonet and didn’t care. The hell with it, he thought.

“It would be murder and I’ve done enough of that lately. Don’t worry. They won’t follow us without weapons.”

Owen gulped at the response. “Then tell me who you are.”

“I have the guns so you tell me first.”

Owen thought that was reasonable. After all, hadn’t the man risked a lot to untie him? He told him and, as they continued to trot through the forest, he quickly explained that he was a deserter from the Royal Navy and how he’d managed to get his stupid self captured. He added that he sincerely hoped his new friend had nothing to do with the English.

The other man laughed. “I’m Captain Will Drake of the Continental Army. If you really want to find that Liberty place I’ll help you. If it exists, of course.”

“You’ve been there, Captain?”

“No, but I think I stand a better chance of finding it than you do.”

Owen grinned. “And you’re less likely to make a fool of yourself by getting caught like I did. I’d be honored to serve under you, Captain.”

“I thought you might,” said Will. They’d come to the place where Will had been camping. They were a couple of miles away from the bounty hunters camp and had heard nothing of an alarm behind them. The four men would have a most unpleasant surprise in the morning. Perhaps they’d even be thankful that their throats hadn’t been sliced.

Will handed him a spare musket. “Take this.”

Owen grasped it and checked it out. “You think those bastards might still come after us?”

“No. I’d been watching them for about a day and I don’t think they can track very well at all, not that I’m that much better.”

Owen chuckled. “You were good enough to free me without alerting them, Captain. Personally, I don’t think those four could find their asses in the dark with both hands.”

* * *

Sarah and her family had also traveled into Pennsylvania, but that only put them close to the English troops headquartered at Fort Pitt and the adjacent city of Pittsburgh. Banastre Tarleton, the English general commanding the sprawling area, had troops and patrols on the lookout for people heading to and from the rebel enclave out west. His cavalry roamed the trails and roads looking for people to stop and question.

Thus, when they heard the thunder of hooves behind them, they quickly ducked into the thick bushes that lined the trail they’d been following. They dismounted and held their horses steady. Sarah and the others held their breath as about twenty green-coated cavalry pounded past. “Tarleton’s men,” her uncle muttered. “Dragoons, and Tories all, damn them.”

They waited. The enemy seemed to be on a mission, looking for someone or something. Finally, Uncle Wilford stood. “Time to get moving, I guess. But we’re staying off the trail.”

There was no argument. They began to move cautiously through the woods on foot, leading their horses to keep them quiet. After a short while, they heard the sounds of cries and screams. They looked at each other. Whatever was happening up ahead could have easily happened to them. Nobody wished ill on anyone else, but that’s how it sometimes happened. They’d gotten lucky and that’s all there was to it.

Wilford led by a few yards. He paused and signaled the others to wait, but that Sarah should come forward. He indicated that she should crouch or crawl and she complied. He pushed the branches of a bush aside and she saw what had happened.

A group of maybe a dozen travelers had been intercepted by the dragoons who had just ridden past them. There were men and a handful of women along with a couple of children. The women were on the ground, naked, and were being held down and raped by Tarleton’s men, who were whooping and hollering as they took their turns. The men in the group, also naked, were all bound and gagged, except for one man who lay limp and bloody on the ground, probably dead. The children ran around screaming hysterically and were ignored by the British, except for one who was kicked by a dragoon when he tried to get close to one of the women.

“We can’t help them,” her uncle said sadly, but firmly. “It might not be very Christian to ignore them, but we don’t want anyone to see us or the same thing might happen to us. If we stay south of Pittsburgh, we might avoid British patrols. I understand there’s a mighty river that flows westward to the Mississippi. We make it to the river perhaps we can get a boat to take us farther west.”

Sarah thought her uncle was grasping at straws, but said nothing. In truth, she had nothing to add because there were no other options. She wondered what would happen to the surviving travelers. Would they be allowed to continue their journey, naked and abused, or would they be killed? Or arrested? Sarah shuddered. Could have been us, she kept repeating to herself. Clearly this Tarleton was as bad as Sheriff Braxton.

They had to get past the British patrols before they could be safe. Her knowledge of the area’s geography was scant, but, like her uncle, she did recall hearing of several rivers that met at Pitt and at least one of them then flowed west. She thought it was the Ohio. Of course they couldn’t get a boat at Pittsburgh, but perhaps he was right. Maybe they could find something.

A keening wail from one of the abused travelers cut like a knife and drew them back to the tragic scene less than a hundred yards away. She parted the bushes to see better. The dragoons had mounted their horses and were riding off slowly, while the travellers, now only half dressed and trying to repair the torn clothes that had been ripped from their bodies, were gathered over the man who’d been lying on the ground.

“We can help them now,” she said.

“A penny says that man is dead and we can’t help at all,” said cousin Faith, who had quietly joined them.

As the travellers moved the pale body Sarah could see that the man’s head was bloodied and smashed. Worse, his limbs were totally limp. Even at a distance, they judged the situation as hopeless. What made it worse was the commonly held knowledge that Tarleton’s green-coated dragoons were likely all Tories, men who also called the colonies their home. Sarah wondered how they could commit such crimes against people who were their neighbors. Of course, she thought ruefully, there was the little matter of a war that had raged for six years and, in many ways, was a civil war pitting brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. That she and her family were heading west was proof that vengeance was the rule of the day. She wondered just how she would have behaved towards the Tories if the revolution had succeeded.

Silently, they led their horses away. In a bit, they mounted. The tragic scene reinforced their hatred for the British and the correctness of their decision to head west.

Sarah thought that the only good thing to come from their journey was the irony that they were all healthier and stronger than when they’d lived in Pemberton. Sarah felt that she was stronger mentally and physically. She had lost weight, and little plump Faith looked like she’d gained confidence as she shed pounds. So far, they’d had little trouble finding berries and vegetables to eat, and there was fresh water in abundance. An occasional fish, or a trapped rabbit or squirrel, had rounded out their diet.

Of course, all the health in the world would mean nothing if Tarleton’s horsemen caught up to them.

* * *

Will and Owen lay on the ground and stared intently at the half dozen armed men who rested on the small hill a couple of hundred yards in front of them. The men just stood there, nonchalantly holding their muskets, while their unfettered horses grazed contentedly. Behind them was yet another stand of thick forest, which puzzled Will. If the men wanted to be unseen, all they had to do was move a few feet into the woods and they’d be invisible. Also, if it wasn’t for the weapons, they could have passed for workmen taking their ease while the boss was away. They exchanged food and drank from canteens as the two men watched. The group exuded quiet confidence which further concerned Will. They acted as if they owned the forest.

The riders had been easy to spot. Owen and Will had crept as far as they could through the forest and into the brushes without being seen by the armed men. Perhaps, Will thought, the riders had been too easy to spot.

There was no real trail or path as they headed west, but there were places where the presence of previous travelers could be discerned and this was one of them. When paths were obvious, the two men didn’t follow them. Instead, they worked their way parallel to them, hoping that they would not run into an ambush. The sight of the armed men in front of them confirmed their choice.

“Who do you think they are?” Owen asked.

Will didn’t respond. The answer to the question was crucial. They were far enough west, they hoped, for the band of armed men to possibly be American rebels. Still, there was no guarantee of anything. They could be Tarleton’s men, or outlaws like the men who had seized Owen. Hell, he thought, they could be that same group with a couple of more men added to it. They had a major decision to make. Should they try to evade them or go up to them? The wrong step could prove fatal.

“I wish I had a telescope,” Will muttered.

“I wish I could fly,” Owen chuckled.

“We can go around them. It’d mean a big detour, but it may be the best way.”

Owen was about to say he agreed when several more horsemen joined the group and they all spread out. “Shit,” he said. “Now we’ll have to wait forever.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said a deep voice from their rear. “Now get up slowly and raise your hands above your heads and don’t even think of trying for your weapons.”

Owen and Will did as they were told. When they turned around, a group of five men had muskets leveled at them. They wore no uniform, except for a patch of blue cloth sewn to their chests. One large man with a reddish beard and a ruddy complexion wore the insignia of a sergeant and was their leader. He also had been branded on the cheek with the letter “R.” Will saw that a couple of the others bore the same scar.

The sergeant spoke. “Now, just who the hell are you and what are you doing so far west?”

The scars meant that the men were American soldiers. Or at least they had been at one time. Who knew what they were this day? “We’re trying to get to Fort Washington,” Will said. “Or Liberty. Either will do.”

“So is everybody, or at least that’s what they say” the sergeant responded. “Now answer my question, who are you?”

Will stood tall and allowed his arms to slowly drop to his side. The soldiers didn’t seem to mind, even seemed slightly amused by his small act of defiance. “I am Captain Will Drake of the Continental Army, and this is Owen Wells, late of His Majesty’s Navy. We are traveling together.”

“I hope you’re not together for security’s sake, considering how easily we caught you,” the sergeant said.

Will winced as the others guffawed at their expense. They had fallen for an old trick. They’d been gulled into believing that the men in plain sight were dangerous when the real threat was creeping up on them while they were transfixed. The trick may have been as old as the hills, but it had been skillfully done.

“I told you who I was, now, who are you?” Will asked.

The big sergeant straightened slightly. “Sergeant William Barley, Second Regiment, New Continental Army.”

Will nearly gasped with relief. Assuming the armed men were telling the truth, they had finally found the rebel forces.

“If you’re not lying about yourselves, you’ll be welcomed,” Barley continued. “Of course, if you’re lying, we’ll hang your asses. A lot of British have tried to get into Liberty and Fort Washington and maybe some have succeeded, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let in everybody who walks up and knocks. Is there anyone who’ll vouch for you at Fort Washington so you can vouch for the squatty little Brit?”

“Up your ass,” snarled Owen and the troopers laughed.

Barley laughed too, but kept his musket aimed squarely at Owen’s stomach. “You look like a Brit, you sound like a Brit, and you say you were a Brit, so why shouldn’t I think you’re a Brit spy. Anybody can claim they’ve deserted now can’t they? Helluva thing to prove, though. I guess we could turn you back to the Redcoats, and if they hang you, then it would prove you were telling the truth.”

“Watch,” Owen said. He carefully removed his jacket and then his shirt. He turned and showed the Americans his back. It was covered with scars and welts. “Now ask me how much I love fucking King George and his goddamned Royal Navy.”

“Jesus,” said Barley, fingering the branding scar on his own cheek. “You pass, little man, at least for the moment. Put your shirt back on.” He turned to Will. “Now you, Captain. I don’t doubt that you have a brand scar on your leg, along with other marks, but those will get you only so far. So, who’ll vouch for you?”

“Who’s at Fort Washington?” Will asked.

“General Greene knows you?”

Will thought quickly. He’d seen Nathanael Greene on a number of occasions, but doubted that the general who’d been Washington’s second in command would recall him from Adam. Still, it was a comfort that a general of Greene’s stature was at Fort Washington.

“Probably not.”

“Then how about Wayne or von Steuben?”

“I doubt it. What about Alexander Hamilton?”

Barley shook his head. “He’s rotting away in a prison in Jamaica, and, if you’re a spy, you’d have known that.”

“We could guess all day, Sergeant Barley, and maybe not find a match. Why don’t you take me in and then sort it out?”

Barley nodded. “Makes sense. We’ll have to treat you as prisoners until we can turn you over to General Tallmadge.”

Will felt like laughing in relief. “Is General Tallmadge’s first name Benjamin?”

Barley relaxed slightly. “It is. Will he vouch for you?”

Will couldn’t stop grinning. “Yes he will.”

* * *

Major Fitzroy sat behind a small table in the tent that served as Burgoyne’s headquarters near Albany. The air in the tent was stuffy and he was sweating like a pig, but decorum would not let him remove any of his uniform while interviewing colonials. Had to impress them, he thought, and then wondered if they were at all impressed by the idiocy of wearing a heavy wool uniform in the middle of summer. He decided he didn’t want to know.

“Next,” he called.

A large man entered and stood before him. Fitzroy almost choked. The man was a thing, an apparition, an escapee from hell. His eyebrows were gone and his nose little more than two holes in the raw, red skin of what passed for his face. There was next to nothing in the way of lips, exposing broken and rotting teeth, and the man’s ears were equally raw lumps with holes in them.

But the apparition was real and could speak and his eyes showed fury and hatred. “You can stare if you like, Major. Everyone else does. I know what I am and it doesn’t bother me anymore. The Indians and many of those who know me call me the Burned Man.”

“You surprised me, that’s all.” Fitzroy was also surprised that the creature spoke English instead of the language of Satan but did not say so.

“Indeed. Regardless, I am here to volunteer.”

“In what capacity?” Fitzroy asked as he tried to gain control of the situation. Perhaps the creature wanted to be their resident bogeyman.

“I wish to be a militia officer. I’ve brought a band of fifty men who feel like I do towards the rebels, and who want me to lead them, and I’m certain I can get more to join me. We want to kill rebels.”

“Did the rebels do that to you?”

Something ghastly that might have been a grin flickered across the man’s ruined face. “You are quite perceptive.”

Fitzroy caught the sarcasm and flushed. “What happened?”

The man shrugged. “The vicious and cowardly bastards set a trap for me while I was trying to enforce the king’s law, and I fell for it. There was an explosion and I was covered with burning oil. My friends put out the fire by dousing me with water and covering me with dirt. There are more scars on my arms and chest if you wish to see.”

“No thank you,” Fitzroy said, controlling a shudder.

Fitzroy noted that one of Burned Man’s hands was missing two fingers and the other more resembled a claw then something human. Some of the wounds were so raw that he wondered if the man shouldn’t be in bed recuperating.

“You’re right, Major, it didn’t happen all that long ago and everyone thought I was going to die, including my whore of a wife who ran off with another man while I lay in agony. But I didn’t die and I won’t die until I’ve had a good measure of revenge. I caught my slut of a wife and her bastard lover and killed both of them. I let her watch while I cut off his head, and then I chopped off hers and put it on a fence post beside his. But there’s still the rebels who did this to me and I want them dead as well. I know I should still be resting and regaining my strength, but that doesn’t help me kill rebels, now does it?”

“I suppose not,” Fitzroy said.

“And I want to destroy the particular group of damned rebels who did this to me,” he snarled. “That is one way I will become stronger. Hate will keep me going. I trust you won’t stand in my way when I find them?”

Fitzroy thought quickly. The decision was easy. The Burned Man said he had brought fifty men and, if they were anything like their horribly mutilated leader, they would be useful and highly motivated. He had a disquieting thought that the Burned Man’s band would be very difficult to control and discipline, but he reasoned that many terrible things would happen to both sides in the course of the campaign. He put aside his doubts. He had an army to help form and a war to win.

Fitzroy stood up. He did not extend his hand to shake. The thought of touching the Burned Man’s mutilated skin was too repugnant. “As long as you and your men obey orders, they are welcome. And those orders might mean deferring your vengeance for the common good. Is that acceptable?”

“It is as long as it’s not forever.”

“Good. Welcome to General Burgoyne’s army, and I’ll have the papers made up to confirm your rank of militia captain.”

“Excellent.”

“Of course, I will need your real name. Burned Man might do to identify you to the red savages, and even better if you were one, but you aren’t an Indian, are you?”

Burned Man laughed harshly and Fitzroy nearly recoiled at the stench coming from his mouth. “Isn’t my skin red enough for you? But you’re right. My name is Charles Braxton.”

* * *

Tallmadge greeted Will warmly. He rose from behind his desk of raw planks and the two men shook hands. “God, it’s good to see your smiling face, Captain.”

“Good to see yours, too, Major.” Will winced. He’d used Tallmadge’s old rank.

“Correction, Will, I am now a brigadier general.”

“Congratulations, sir.” It did not escape Will that Tallmadge was, at most, only a couple of years older than he, and like so many American leaders, quite young for their rank. And inexperienced as well, he thought. To the best of Will’s now incomplete knowledge, Tallmadge had never commanded men in battle. He’d always been a staff officer. Had things changed?

“I wonder about any congratulations,” Tallmadge said. “I often think I hold this rank because there’s no one else around to give it to. We’ve got a number of soldiers, but damned few real generals to command them, and even fewer lower-ranking officers to lead them. The British managed to capture so many of us after they promised amnesty and then broke their promise.”

“Where are they? I didn’t see too many of them in the hulks.”

“The senior officers are imprisoned in Jamaica, which is where so many of the middle-ranking officers are also held. Many are being forced to work in the fields under brutal conditions. We are developing plans to get them out, but it will be dangerous work at best. I gather they never figured out that you were on Washington’s staff or that you worked for me.”

“They did not.”

Will had indeed been on Washington’s staff. Tallmadge had been his direct superior and the two of them had gathered intelligence and had run some of Washington’s spies. Had the British realized that, Will would have either been hanged or would now be rotting in Jamaica, a place from which there was even less chance of escape than from a prison hulk.

“Washington’s dead, you know,” Tallmadge said grimly. “The bastards chopped off his head. Rumor has it they’ve sent the skeleton here to America to impress us with their sense of fair play and justice. If it is true, I hope it will inflame true Americans.”

“I’d heard about the execution but not about the bones.”

Tallmadge shook his head sadly. “Will, the last time I saw General Washington, it was night and Tarleton’s cavalry were swarming all over us and he’d been knocked from his horse. When the enemy was too numerous, I admit that I cut and ran. They already had Washington in their grip and there was nothing more I could do. I wanted to live and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

Will could not criticize Tallmadge for his decision. He too had been in the act of fleeing for his life when he’d been caught. Will was saddened by the memory.

Tallmadge’s face contorted with anger. “I saw Washington fighting like a tiger until they wrestled him to the ground. They wanted him alive, but it cost them. I know you recall that Washington was immensely strong. He killed at least two of them with his sword and one with his bare hands before they finally captured him. And then I ran away as fast and as far as I could. When I was far enough away, I threw myself into some bushes and stayed there until dawn,” Tallmadge said. “Nobody came looking for me. I wasn’t important enough.”

Will filled in his old commander with his own story, of realizing that the army no longer existed, of his own capture, his almost miraculous escape from the prison hulk, and his subsequent travels to Fort Washington.

“As always,” Tallmadge said approvingly, “you’ve been resourceful and a little ruthless. A good combination for an officer, especially one who’s job is to gather intelligence from a vicious enemy.”

Will laughed at the rough compliment. “You mentioned a shortage of senior officers. Just who is here? I heard that Nathanael Greene commanded.”

“In theory he does, but he is desperately ill from a lung disease he caught while in a British prison. He spent several months in a dungeon that often flooded before we found him and freed him. In a couple of days he too would have been on his way either to the Caribbean or the afterlife. In truth, he may never recover.”

That comment dismayed Will. Nathanael Greene had been Washington’s trusted and most able second in command. If Greene was not able to lead the American army in the field when the British arrived, then who would?

Tallmadge shrugged and answered the question. “We have Anthony Wayne, von Steuben, Schuyler, and Willie Washington, and that’s about it. We understand that others may arrive, but that’s the future, not the present. Of course, we’re a little better stocked with politicians. John Hancock is president of the rump group we call the Continental Congress, and Benjamin Franklin, recently arrived from France, does his best to annoy Hancock and is succeeding marvelously. Seriously, we are in desperate straits.”

“How can I help?”

Tallmadge smiled. “You just did. When you walked in the door, you solved a problem for me. I will talk to Greene or Schuyler about getting you a rank commensurate with your skills and our needs, and then we’ll send you back towards where the British are assembling. Assuming you’re up to it, of course.”

“I don’t need rank, Major, I mean General, and, yes, I am up to it.”

“You may not feel you need the rank, Will, but I do. You have both experience and intelligence, and that makes you unique.” Tallmadge steered him to the door. “Come. Let me show you around my domain. Among my other duties, I command the garrison here at Fort Washington.”

* * *

Fort Washington was less than impressive. An earthen wall covered with logs and topped with wooden spikes ran about a hundred yards in each direction and formed a very large square. There were numerous blockhouses, but only the ones at each corner contained cannon, and those were small three and four pounders, which would be almost useless in a real fight with a determined and professional British army. The walls would certainly keep red Indians out, but would not present much of a barrier to the forces rumored to be on their way. He did see how it could be improved significantly by digging a moat, adding abattis made of tree limbs, and other barriers, thus strengthening the dirt wall. However, it would never be a serious deterrent to the British Army.

Inside the walls were numerous log and even a few frame buildings that housed the garrison as well as quarters and meeting rooms for the Congress. Outside the ramparts, there were literally hundreds of log cabins, earthen dwellings, and tents. They ran in all directions and there appeared to be little in the way of city planning.

Tallmadge waved at them. “Everything you want is out there, including hardworking people trying to make a living, and other people trying to steal it from them. In sum, a real city has sprung up here in the wilderness. I don’t know why, but a number of whores decided to make the trek with us. Perhaps they’re here to help out Congress in their efforts to fuck over the entire country.”

Will laughed. “Some things never change.”

“Seriously, it is not as chaotic as it looks. Everyone works here, and that includes the women, the young, and the old. We grow wheat, corn, and other crops. When we want something more substantial, we gather fish in abundance from the lakes and streams, or hunt for our own food, primarily deer and wild birds including ducks and turkeys. We have some cattle and a growing number of chickens. We make many of our own weapons out of metals brought from the north, and train for the war we know will come. If nothing else, General Schuyler is a good organizer, so no one goes cold or hungry. Schuyler is in charge of the men, while Mistress Abigail Adams is in charge of finding tasks for the women. Her husband, John Adams, is a prisoner in Jamaica.”

“So this is what is called Liberty?” Will mused.

“There’s really no such precise place,” Tallmadge answered with a smile. “It’s more of an idea, a concept. Liberty is everywhere and nowhere, if you will. There are dozens of communities like this, although this is by far the largest, and they are all referred to as Liberty along with more specific names. Still, this is the place most people refer to as Liberty.”

“I hope you’re not offended, General, but the fort is not imposing. The cannon are far too small and too few to be effective. The earthen walls, however, should dampen the effects of small cannon, but would be destroyed by anything large.”

“We have eight guns in all,” Tallmadge said. “The British sloops that patrol along the shoreline carry as many on each ship, but that’s all we were able to bring with us when we frankly ran like the devil from the British.”

“Warships?” Will exclaimed. “Just where the hell are we?”

Tallmadge laughed. “About ten miles south of the southernmost point of Lake Michigan. We are just past a swampy area where two rivers run into the lake. The Potawatomi call it the Checagou, or at least they did until we drove them away, which didn’t endear us to them or to the other tribes in the area. They seem to be getting used to us, however. Of course they don’t have much choice. Some of our people call this settlement by the Indian name, but that’s a matter of small import.

“Along with the British, the Potawatomi and other Indian tribes are another set of enemies to watch out for. Right now, they are sitting back waiting to see who wins the coming war. Whenever it is apparent that one side will win, they will pounce on the losing force and then try to curry favor with the victorious army. Under the circumstances, it is precisely what I would do.”

“I see,” said Will. “Let me sum this up. You have a fort that could be knocked over by a strong wind, damn few weapons, not enough generals to command a poorly organized army, and far too many lawyers. Is that correct?”

“Indeed it is, Will.”

They returned in silence to Tallmadge’s office. “Will, I want you to take a patrol down to the Ohio River and check out rumors of a significant British presence there, one that could move down the Ohio and then up north to threaten us. I need to know if that force actually exists. Is it a real threat, nonexistent, or nothing but a nuisance? How many men do you need?”

“Do you expect me to fight them?”

“Not at all, except for your own defense. I want information, not a victory.”

“Then a small patrol will do.” Will thought for a moment. “I want Wells, of course. He may be a foreigner, but he moves through the woods like an Indian. And I’d also like that Sergeant Barley who caught me so cleverly. I would think a dozen men would do nicely. It’d be enough to protect ourselves and not enough to tempt us into fighting a battle.”

Tallmadge grinned. “Good thinking. And when you come back you’ll be at least a major.”

* * *

Half a dozen large canoes snaked down the wide and dark Ohio River. With the exception of the lead canoe, each contained a family group and their possessions, which, since most of the people were virtually penniless, meant there was more than sufficient room for all the people.

Sarah Benton and her family were in the last canoe and, like everyone, scanned the overgrown banks of the deep and westward flowing river. The vegetation was thick and they could see little of anything that might be in the forest. Even though they were well west of Fort Pitt, they felt they were in the most dangerous portion of their trip. The British had patrols out looking for rebel groups and they’d been told that skirmishes were frequent. Rumor said that Tarleton feared an attack on Pitt and would do anything to be forewarned. Worse, as Sarah had already seen, the British troops were vicious and thought they had a right to abuse and rob Americans.

The caravan tried to keep well out from the riverbank where a sudden attack could overwhelm them. It meant they were visible from a ways off when the weather was clear, but it couldn’t be helped. Fortunately, this day an almost providential mist covered the river and helped hide them.

The six canoes were led by guide named Micah and two of his friends. They were scrawny and their clothes were ragged and filthy. However, their weapons were clean and in good condition, a necessity in the wilderness. Micah and friends had gathered what they referred to as “pilgrims” and, in return for payment, promised them safe passage westward to where they could trek north to American-controlled land.

Neither Faith nor Sarah quite trusted Micah and his companions. He seemed skittish and often declined to look them in the eye. Sarah and Faith still wore men’s clothes as did several of the other women traveling with them. The wilderness was not the place for traditional proprieties.

“I don’t trust him,” said Faith, echoing their concerns. They knew nothing about Micah except for the fact that he was willing to guide them for money.

“I don’t either,” said Sarah. “But I don’t think we had much of a choice. It is either go west with him or someone like him as a guide, or stay back and someday be captured.”

“He keeps staring at my breasts,” Faith added.

Aunt Rebecca snorted. “Perhaps if you kept your shirt fastened, and if your pants weren’t so tight, he wouldn’t be looking so intently.”

“Why have charms if you can’t use them?” Faith sniffed, causing Sarah to conclude that her little cousin had begun to recover from her ordeal with Braxton’s deputies, and that she wasn’t as innocent or naive as Sarah thought she was. Of course, how innocent could anyone be after suffering at the hands of Braxton and his men? Innocent perhaps, but naïve? Never.

Micah signaled with his paddle and the canoes veered closer to the shore. “Why,” Sarah asked. No one knew and Micah didn’t respond. They generally only went to ground at night, but that was a long time away.

“Maybe he sees something,” Faith said, and wondered just how and what he might see through the mist and the dense foliage.

“I won’t be happy until he sees the place where we can get off these things,” Sarah groaned. “Kneeling like this is worse than the stocks.” Not really, she thought. Nothing would ever be worse than that day.

Faith giggled. “Don’t you like paddling a canoe like a Red Indian?”

Sarah declined to respond. At least they were going with the current and not fighting it. Tom signaled another change and they followed the leading canoes still closer to the land. Ahead of them and on the far side of the wide river, the mist parted for an instant and they saw several other canoes heading the opposite direction, and what looked like armed men in them. The mist returned and covered them

“Ours or theirs?” muttered Uncle Wilford.

“I don’t wish to know,” Sarah said.

What if the men in the other canoes had been a British patrol? Strange, Sarah thought. If it was a British patrol, might they soon be paddling over to intercept the boat? Perhaps their luck had held and they really hadn’t been noticed.

A musket blast shattered the silence. It was followed by another and another and then by screams from the lead canoes. At least one had tipped over, spilling its human contents into the river. In horror, Sarah saw a man’s body floating face down and trailing blood from a gaping wound in his head.

She turned to her left, where the riverbank was close. Men were standing on it and shooting at them. Micah had betrayed them. He had led them into this trap.

More musket fire and more screams filled the air. Sarah picked up a fowling piece and shot at a man only a few yards away. He clutched his leg and fell screaming into the water. It occurred to her that there weren’t all that many attackers and that they weren’t British or Americans. She realized that they were nothing more than bandits. If they were taken by them, it would be worse than being captured by the British. From what they’d heard, the outlaws were little more than animals.

Wilford fired his musket at another man and missed. A bandit jumped into the canoe and clubbed Wilford down to his knees while Faith screamed and jumped on the man’s back. Sarah pulled a knife from her waist and slashed at another man who grabbed her and tried to throw her into the water.

Fortunately, Faith had distracted Wilford’s attacker long enough for him to pull his own knife and stab his assailant in the stomach. Aunt Rebecca helped out by clubbing another bandit with a paddle and then pushing him into the river.

They had regained control of their own canoe, but the others were either capsized or being fought over. Micah’s canoe, of course, was controlled by him and he now turned it towards Sarah’s. The three men originally in it had been reinforced by two of the attackers from shore. With five strong paddlers, there was no way they could outrun Micah’s canoe.

“Load,” Wilford yelled.

One fowling piece and one musket wouldn’t be enough, but it was all they had. Silently, they vowed to sell their lives dearly. Sarah was bitter that it was all coming to this. They would be killed, but not until they were robbed, tortured, and the three women raped. That the women were wearing men’s clothes as a disguise wouldn’t fool their new attackers any more than it had fooled their traitorous leader, Micah. She thought about putting the fowling piece into her mouth and blowing her brains out. No, she thought. She would take at least one more of them with her. Besides, if she fought hard enough, perhaps Faith or one of the others would escape. Logic said it was a fool’s thought, but she could not bring herself to die at her own hand.

The outlaws’ canoe was only yards away when both she and Wilford fired and, to their horror, missed. Micah and his cronies hollered with glee. Micah stood up unsteadily and grabbed his crotch, screaming what he was going to do to the women.

They had only gotten a little closer when a volley of gunfire swept Micah and the others off the canoe and into the river. Sarah watched incredulously as more gunfire was directed at the few remaining attackers on the shore. Those bandits promptly turned and ran.

They were safe, at least for the moment. But why and how?

* * *

Homer’s trek alone from Manhattan Island began quietly and stayed that way for several days. There were few roads leading towards Boston, merely paths at best, and he walked them carefully. He was fully aware of his vulnerability as a lone black man in a land not that far removed from being a savage frontier.

He could not carry a musket or a pistol as white farmers or city-dwellers would find him threatening. They might even take it into their heads to shoot first and ask him his business over his lifeless corpse.

No, he would stay in the shadows of the trees that lined the miserable excuses for roads and endure the additional hardship that it entailed. The few people he had seen had behaved in such a way as to reinforce his plan. Once, a woman in a field screamed when she saw his dark skin and ran back to a cabin. A few seconds later, a man with a musket emerged and aimed it at him, telling him bluntly to get the hell away from his property.

Homer had complied, of course, but wondered to himself if a rampaging Iroquois war party would have gotten the same or better treatment. He also wondered if the poor couple had ever seen a Negro before. He could always go back to New York, he thought. Nobody there would have missed him in the first place. But no, it was time to start something new, a series of thoughts that had been triggered when he pulled that poor naked and starving white man from the river.

“Hold up, nigger.”

Homer froze and cursed silently. He’d permitted himself to be lulled and now two men stood just a few feet in front of him, their muskets not quite pointed at his chest.

“Damn, Abel, look what we got. Another fucking escaped slave.”

“I do think you’re right, Joshua.”

“So what do you think we should do with him?”

“I am not a slave,” Homer answered with a trace of indignation. “I am a free black man, and I’m on my way to Boston to find work.”

“Bullshit,” said Joshua. “You’re a fucking escaped slave and we’re going to arrange for you to go back south to your master.”

Homer was incredulous. “Don’t you know that slavery’s been abolished by the British?”

Joshua laughed. He was clearly the pair’s leader. “Nigger, you might just be surprised to know that a lot of people down south are simply ignoring that announcement. And you should know that there are a lot of other places like those owned by Spain and France where slavery still exists.”

This can’t be happening, Homer thought. He had to do something. “I have money. Let me buy my way out of this.”

Abel shook his head. “Amazing. Not only we get a slave to sell, but he has money as well to help pay us for our inconvenience. He ain’t armed so I think I’ll just take it. You keep him covered, Josh.”

Abel stepped forward and reached for Homer. For an instant, he was between Homer and Joshua. Homer shifted his left arm and the knife he had strapped above his wrist slipped into his palm. He rammed it into Abel’s heart and stepped to his left, pulling out the other knife that was below his right elbow. This one he threw at an astonished Joshua, taking him in the throat. He quickly grabbed the musket from Joshua who was clutching at his throat while blood gushed down his shirt.

Homer laughed. As he’d thought, it had never occurred to the fool that a Negro would fight back.

Homer dragged the two bodies a few yards into the forest. If he was lucky, the animals would turn them into unrecognizable slabs of meat and piles of bones in a very short while.

In the meantime, he had some decisions to make. First, he would no longer travel unarmed. He selected the better of the two muskets and threw the other away. He also took their gunpowder and bullets and, surprise, had found some money on their bodies, which he added to his own purse.

Where to go was the next decision. He decided that Boston was not a good idea, if the presence of Joshua and Abel was any indication of the welcome a black man would receive. No, he thought, he would head north, far north. He would go to Canada. Even though it was British-controlled, it might be safer for him than in the colonies.

If, he thought ruefully, anywhere would be safe for a black man.