Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (11 page)

Later in the privacy of his quarters, Fitzroy read the fairly lengthy document with both astonishment and dismay. There was good reason for it to remain a secret. It was inflammatory at best. It had the potential to outrage the most loyal of colonists. He finished, and returned it to the chest and locked it.

Fitzroy’s quarters were in a private room above a large and fairly decent tavern, the one recommended by his innkeeper in New York. It had proven a pleasant surprise at many levels. When he returned there in the evening, he always wrote of the day’s events in his journal. He referenced reading the “Plans,” and how they dismayed him, but did not go into detail.

There was a tap on the door and Hannah Doorn, the owner of the tavern, entered. She was a blond widow in her mid-thirties, very attractive although a little plumpish. And better, she liked him, which meant he received far better treatment than an ordinary guest, and the tavern was well appointed in the first place.

Hannah Doorn was a sort of woman he’d never met before. Not only was she quite lovely, but she possessed business acumen and had numerous financial interests in Albany and further west. She was a shapely reminder that the Dutch presence predated the British and, although it had faded in New York, places like Albany still had a number of Dutch families and merchants. Typical Dutchies, he’d concluded on meeting Hannah and others. They made money everywhere, just like the Jews.

At least as surprising, Hannah was an artist. Her drawings and paintings of life in the area were quite exact. She wanted to sketch him, but he’d demurred, at least so far.

Hannah wore a floor-length robe which swirled as she walked across the floor and exposed a length of bare leg. “I think you should go down to dinner before the food is all eaten,” she said.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. Hannah set a good table. Not up to London standards, but damn good and hearty nonetheless. “But must it be right now?” He pulled on the sash that held her robe together and it opened. As expected, she was naked underneath and totally blond. She laughed and they fell jubilantly onto the bed.

She was a wild thing, he thought moments later as she wrapped her legs around him and drew him deep inside her, and she really seemed to like the idea of bedding British nobility. Of course, he’d told her he was the most minor of nobility, but that meant nothing to her. She said he intrigued her.

Their coupling was sweaty and brief, a promise of even more satisfying things to come. “Now you really had get to dinner before your hoggish fellow officers eat everything, especially your friend Danforth. His stomach seems bottomless.”

He grinned happily and concurred. When he was dressed he kissed her fondly on the forehead. She really was a fun creature. Too bad he would have to leave her and head west where he was afraid that the only women would be flat-faced and stupid Indians who likely carried every disease known to man.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” she asked as she stretched out like a yellow-haired cat on his bed, utterly shameless.

“No, I’ve got some errands to attend to.” Like playing cards with Danforth and a couple of others and taking their money. He was always short of money. “May I wake you when I come back?”

She smiled coquettishly, enjoying the fact that she was still naked and that he was staring hungrily at her.

“Of course, my dear Major, you go and I’ll clean up your room. It seems like we’ve made quite a mess of it.”

When he was gone, she dressed quickly, picked up the scattered bedclothes and made the bed. Then she checked the door and bolted it. Fitzroy’s journal was on the table and, as usual, unlocked. She scanned the day’s entry. She was puzzled. What on earth was the “Plan for the Future of the American Colonies,” and why on earth did Fitzroy think it was so awful that it had to be kept secret?

She put the journal back where she’d found it. Then she unbolted the door and stepped into the hallway. Once in her own room, she would write the question as a message and send it on its way west where others could try and figure out its significance.

She laughed to herself. Fitzroy was sweet but he thought he was so superior. He didn’t realize there was more than one way to screw the British.

* * *

After their rescue, and escorted by Will and his men, Sarah, her family, and the other survivors of the raid canoed farther west and then walked north from the Ohio towards Fort Washington. During the several weeks it took, she had a number of pleasant conversations with Major Will Drake. They’d solemnly exchanged stories of the horrors they’d endured. For her sake, she could not imagine anything as despicable as keeping naked, freezing, and starving prisoners incarcerated in a hulk like the
Suffolk
. She almost wept at the thought of so many young lives ending in the ships anchored in the Hudson River and elsewhere off Manhattan Island. Damn the British for their cruelty.

To her immense surprise, she found herself opening up to Will about what happened to her after she refused the sexual offer from Sheriff Braxton. She omitted the fact that Faith had accepted the offer and noted the look of gratitude in Faith’s eyes when she realized what they were talking about. Faith was more than a little interested in the squat and muscular Welshman, Owen Wells, and didn’t need her past brought up at this time, however involuntary her actions might have been. Sarah had made one choice and Faith another.

Still, Sarah concluded that whatever had happened to her was dwarfed by the prolonged agonies inflicted on Will.

On arrival at the sprawling community of Fort Washington, Sarah and the other women were assigned quarters in barracks made of logs and raw wood and assigned bunks that were even more crudely made than the barracks. The buildings were hot and stifling, and she wondered just what they’d be like in the winter with the wind and the snow blowing through the cracks. If she was still in them, she would see to it that the cracks were filled with mud, which would keep out the worst of the weather.

Of course, they were separated from Uncle Wilford, although Aunt Rebecca was with them. They were assured that there were married quarters, just not enough to go around just yet. Faith allowed that she was old enough to live away from her parents and the American authorities accepted that. Sarah had doubts, but kept her peace. If Rebecca and Wilford were satisfied, she would be too.

Sarah was further surprised when each of them was asked to write a summary of their skills on a page of paper. If nothing else, she thought wryly, it would separate those who were literate from those who weren’t.

A couple of days later, she and Faith found themselves seated across a table from a pleasant-looking woman who seemed older than someone not yet forty. And why not, Sarah thought. Abigail Adams’ husband John was likely dying in Jamaica.

“I hope you two are willing to work,” Mistress Adams said with a faint smile.

“We are,” Sarah answered for the two of them.

Abigail turned to Faith. “Your father is a blacksmith, is he not? What do you know of working with metals yourself?”

Faith was astonished. “Surely you do not expect me to be a blacksmith?”

“Of course not,” Mistress Adams answered sharply. She was not used to having her questions answered with another question. “I only want to know if you’ve worked with metal.”

“I have,” Faith admitted.

Mistress Adams relaxed and smiled. “Wonderful. While the men are out training for war, those women who have some skills will take their place. We have also found that many women have the dexterity necessary to work with weapons. We would like you to help assembling muskets. Do you accept?”

“Certainly,” Faith said, just a little overwhelmed by Mistress Adams. After all, she was the wife of one of the leaders of the revolution.

“Excellent.” Abigail Adams turned to Sarah. “I have a very cranky old man who needs a clerk and a nursemaid.” She held up the paper Sarah had written. “According to this, you obviously read and write well, and you say you took care of your father before he died.”

“I did,” Sarah answered with some hesitation.

Abigail’s eyes twinkled. She really was quite attractive when she was happy, and she seemed to be enjoying the conversation with Sarah for some reason.

“Don’t worry, Mistress Benton, I will not have you emptying chamber pots or wiping drool from the mouth of some demented old goat. No, there is an older man who may or may not be a little insane, but is certainly eccentric, and who is quite capable of caring for himself. He needs a clerk as much as a housekeeper, and he works well with women. Sometimes too well, if you understand my meaning.”

Sarah laughed. “I believe I can stop an old codger from pawing me.”

“I don’t doubt it at all. Do you accept?”

Do I have a choice, Sarah thought. She did not want to work assembling muskets with Faith, whatever and however one assembled muskets in the first place.

“Of course,” Sarah smiled.

* * *

Braxton wasn’t impressed with General Banastre Tarleton, at least not at first. The British general looked indolent, even pudgy and soft, and not the bold fighter and sadistic killer he was reputed to be.

Braxton had never seen a Frenchman, but Tarleton looked spoiled and pouty and he suspected that was what Frenchmen looked like. But that was until Braxton looked into Tarleton’s eyes and saw coldness and death, and realized that Tarleton was a poisonous viper. For the first time in a long while, Braxton knew the meaning of fear. He silently vowed that he would not make an enemy out of Tarleton.

“Burned Man Braxton,” Tarleton said without emotion, “How incredibly fitting.”

Braxton remained silent. Instead of the revulsion so many people felt when they saw him, Tarleton was not repulsed. Instead, he stared at Braxton almost approvingly. He was calculating.

“And you wish to kill rebels, do you not?”

“I do indeed, sir,” Braxton said with what he hoped was proper humility.

It was for that reason and with Burgoyne’s permission that Braxton and his band had traveled north and west to the British fort at Detroit. What had been a squalid little outpost had been augmented by the more than fifteen hundred British regulars Tarleton had brought from Pitt to reinforce the original garrison of only a couple of hundred soldiers. Rumor had it that Tarleton wanted to attack the rebels now, and not wait for Burgoyne to come with still more reinforcements. He felt that he had more than enough men to crush them this fall and there was no need to wait for reinforcements to arrive in the spring. If the British could get stronger, then so too could the rebels, he’d argued but to no avail.

He’d been overruled by both Cornwallis and Burgoyne. He would have to wait while more British soldiers arrived. Additional rumors said that several thousand more were coming overland and by boat from Montreal. Braxton wondered where they’d all eat, sleep, and shit, but that was not his problem.

“Other than killing people, what can you do for me?” Tarleton asked with a cold smile. “If I wanted people butchered in their beds, I can just turn loose the Indians.”

Braxton nodded. “But will they report back on what they’ve found and will they do that in a language an educated man like you would understand? Hardly, General. What the redskins will do is kill, get drunk, fuck their squaws, and then exaggerate their enemies’ numbers ten times over to make themselves seem like great warriors.”

Tarleton smiled mirthlessly and looked out the window of his cabin and down to the muddy bank of the wide Detroit River. Across the river was Canada, under the control of General Frederic Haldimand, hundreds of miles away in Montreal. Tarleton was absolutely appalled at the thought of spending a winter in this miserable place. “The Indians are rather useless bastards, even when they are sober, aren’t they?”

“Indeed, sir, and I have eighty men who can spread havoc among the rebel communities and kill them, which will mean fewer men for you and General Burgoyne to face.”

From the look on Tarleton’s face, Braxton was afraid he’d gone too far with his assessment of his own abilities. But then the British commander looked intrigued and treated him to another icy smile. “Can you make your attacks look like Indian assaults?”

For a moment, Braxton was puzzled, but then it dawned on him. “So the rebels will attack the Indians in revenge and actually turn the red savages against them? I can do that, sir. Just turn me loose, sir, and I’ll raise bloody fucking hell with the rebels.”

This time Tarleton’s smile was genuine. Death and destruction were going to be spread to his enemies. “Then go forth and smite the bastards, Captain, in full knowledge that whatever you do to them, however awfully it is done, will be forgiven by both me and a grateful king. And, oh yes, try not to get caught.”

* * *

Major General Nathanael Greene lay in his bed. His once healthy and robust frame was but a distant memory. He was gaunt and pale, and his breath was shallow and each one a struggle. Nathanael Greene, the man who was once George Washington’s trusted right hand, was dying at the age of forty-three. It was only a question of time.

Will Drake stood behind General Tallmadge at the foot of the bed. General Philip Schuyler stood beside Greene. Will had made his report on the trip up the Ohio to Tallmadge, who had thought Greene would like to hear it in person. He had. It meant that rumors of a British column approaching from the direction of the Ohio were unfounded. It also meant it was increasingly unlikely that any attack would occur this year.

“Burgoyne’s in winter quarters or will be very shortly. It will be some time before he has the strength to mount an assault on us,” Greene said weakly. “I only wish we had the strength to launch a surprise attack him like Washington did at Trenton.” He took a deep breath. “However, that will not happen. We are more than two hundred miles away from Detroit, not the night’s march from the enemy we were at Trenton.”

“Still, perhaps we can do something?” inquired Tallmadge.

“What do you propose?” asked General Schuyler.

“Raids to keep them occupied and to possibly destroy their resources,” Tallmadge answered. “Whatever we destroy this coming winter won’t be available to use against us in the spring and summer.”