Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (31 page)

Chapter 16

D
anforth walked along the edge of the river as the rising sun revealed the totality of the disaster. Not a single one of the barges remained intact. Most had sunk or disintegrated after burning down to their water lines, the weight of their cargo dragging the shattered boats to the bottom. Those with ammunition on board had exploded and the only things remaining on the surface were a handful of masts and a great deal of charred debris along with a number of burned and mangled bodies.

A handful of the barges had broken loose or had their lines cut and had beached themselves on the shore of the river. But these too were burned hulks.

They retrieved a number of bodies from the river and most of them were American, including one which Arnold identified as John Glover’s. That should have made Danforth feel good, but didn’t. The price the British had paid had been far too high. At least thirty-nine rebels had died in the attack, but it was scant comfort for the utter destruction of the barges and their precious cargo.

Benedict Arnold stood ashen-faced and stared at where his armada had once been. Danforth thought the term “armada” was singularly appropriate. Just as the Spanish Armada had been destroyed, so too had Arnold’s. Along with it had gone any hope of glory for Benedict Arnold.

“How many men did we lose?” Arnold asked.

“Maybe a dozen, General,” Danforth said, “Twenty at the most.”

Included in that figure he counted the six men left to guard the rear and were now presumed dead. Of the half dozen sentries on the barges, three had survived by throwing themselves overboard before being immolated, and a handful of men on shore had been killed by American gunfire or by falling debris.

Arnold nodded. “And that damn fool Rudyard was one of the dead, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” Danforth said reluctantly. Rudyard had indeed been a fool, and a drunken one at that, but he’d also been Danforth’s friend.

“Then he’s fortunate he’s dead, otherwise I’d be forced to court martial him and have him hanged for dereliction of duty. His incompetence has destroyed what remains of my dreams. Damn him,” Arnold said, his voice nearly a sob.

He turned and looked again at the mangled corpses. Some of the fixed grins seemed to be mocking him. “Bury them. Then we’ll finish our journey.”

Danforth turned away. He didn’t give a stinking shit about Benedict Arnold’s dreams of money and glory. All he wanted to do was see a victorious end to this campaign and a return home to England where he could seduce and marry the wealthy daughter of a rural squire. He’d had more than enough of war.

* * *

Will helped the frail old man to the top of the hill. Benjamin Franklin was winded by the time he made it, and had to pause and gather himself before he could speak with General Stark. Will was worried about Franklin’s well-being. The hill wasn’t that tall or that steep. Will had barely noticed it.

Franklin regained his breath and looked about him. General Stark looked on quizzically. “What are you thinking, Doctor Franklin?”

“My dear General, I am thinking that I was expecting so much more. You’ve had a good deal of time to prepare for the second coming of Burgoyne and I’d rather expected defenses that were much more formidable and daunting.”

“Impregnable?” Stark asked with a smile.

“Something like that, General, although I know full well that there is no such thing as an impregnable fortress. Something like irresistible forces meeting immovable objects, I believe. But still, I had rather hoped to see so much more than some ditches and some earthworks protected by wooden spikes. While I admit that they run for several miles, they just aren’t terribly impressive.”

“If you had an army, do you think you could storm this hill?”

“I am many things, but a military man is not one of them. Still, General, I do think that Burgoyne’s army could batter its way through if they were willing to pay the price.”

Will moved a few steps away. He would let the two men discuss matters with a semblance of privacy. Of course, he would stay close enough to listen unless one of them told him to either join the discussion or move farther away.

Stark smiled tightly. “Let me guess, you expected something like the hundred foot tall triple walls of Byzantium that kept barbarians at bay for so many centuries in the days of Rome and the subsequent Byzantine Empire.”

Franklin flushed with anger, “Hardly. But I did expect something more.”

“And what would Burgoyne do if he saw what you wished us to build? Do you think he’d go away? Return to New York? No. His orders are to destroy us and anything less would be a disgrace to him and his ambitions.”

Stark turned and waved at the work going on around them. “No, Doctor, what Burgoyne would do if he found us too strong to attack would be to try to find a way around us. He would probe to our left and he would find a stream in flood that presents a significant barrier and, beyond that, he would find miserable ground leading to the lake. Then he would turn to our right and he would find that the swamp to our right is an even greater deterrent. By the way, Doctor, we have spent a great deal of time and effort making sure that the stream and swamp are formidable barriers by diverting other streams into both.”

Franklin shook his head. “In which case, he could still go farther around our flank and find the end to the swamp.”

“Which would cost him valuable time, and that is a commodity he doesn’t possess. Major Drake stands over there pretending he isn’t listening to us, and he will confirm that, won’t you, Major.”

Will smiled. He was not at all embarrassed. “It’s the truth, Doctor. We’ve intercepted a number of messages from Lord Cornwallis stating the need for Burgoyne to make haste and destroy us before New York and the rest of the colonies explode and take them all to hell. Add to that the reality that George III wants his army back to fight in France and you have the fact that Burgoyne is under great pressure to end this as quickly as is possible. Thus, he is unlikely to spend time maneuvering his army unless he absolutely has to.”

“What a happy thought,” Franklin mused. “But I still don’t understand? Why not make the fortifications greater?”

Stark smiled. “Because, if they were indeed too strong, he would have a legitimate reason to defy Cornwallis and go beyond that damned swamp and devil take the extra time such a move would require. But now he will be faced with a conundrum. The defenses will be strong, but not all that strong. He will face the likelihood of both success and heavy losses if he attacks us here, but he will see no alternative given his orders to make haste.

“Everything I’ve heard says he is tormented by two incidents in his life. First, the tremendous casualties he saw the British army take when it launched frontal assaults on our positions at Bunker Hill and, second, the devastating impact of his surrender at Saratoga caused in part by his dividing his army and attempting to maneuver around us. We want him to come to us where we want him, not anyplace else.”

The truth dawned on Franklin. “And this hill is the place where you want to fight him.”

“Precisely, indeed,” Stark said. “We stand little enough chance as it is, so I wish to be the one to choose the battlefield, not Burgoyne. I have no desire to see him turning our flank and us chasing him to God knows where and then possibly having to fight him in the open without the protection of any significant fixed defenses. No, Doctor, I wish to fight him here.”

“And here we stand a chance of victory? This is reminiscent of Bunker Hill, is it not?”

“We stand very little chance of victory,” Stark admitted. “But a little chance is better than no chance at all. And kindly recall that we lost at Bunker Hill, although I must admit we are now far better trained and equipped then the army we had back then.”

He did not need to add that part of the reason for the British army’s ultimate success at Bunker Hill was because the colonists simply ran out of ammunition. There would be more than enough ammunition for the coming fight, just not enough men.

Stark paced the hill’s gentle crest. “Are you aware that the men are calling this Mount Washington? It’s largely sarcasm of course, since it does not in anyway resemble a mountain, but they know that this is where we will make our stand. What Burgoyne will do differently than what he saw in Boston that day, is that he will prepare the field instead of charging straight into our defenses. He will try to clear the abattis we’ve weaved and fill in the ditches in front of the earthworks before he attacks, and that will tell us exactly where he must fall on us. There will be no room for subtlety.”

“And this is to our advantage?” Franklin asked.

“To a very small extent, but yes.”

“But won’t we be in a better position when the men from the south arrive?” Franklin persisted.

Stark shook his head sadly. “They’re not coming.”

* * *

Burgoyne was livid. “Gone? All of them? Every one of the cannon on those barges? All the ammunition and supplies? This is not possible,” he said as he paced the confines of his tent. “Not even Arnold could be that inept.”

Danforth tried hard to stand at attention. He hadn’t eaten in days and what remained of his uniform was caked with mud and hung in rags. Behind Burgoyne, Fitzroy looked at his friend with deep sympathy. Not only was Benedict Arnold’s career ruined, but so too was Captain Peter Danforth’s. But he quickly changed his mind. Danforth’s family had more than enough wealth to buy forgiveness and even a promotion when the proverbial dust settled. Assuming Danforth wanted either forgiveness or promotion. He’d briefly told Fitzroy of his decision to leave the army.

It was Danforth’s misfortune to be the first to arrive with news of the debacle on the river. With both schooners occupied in recovery operations, Danforth and a handful of men had set out on foot to find Burgoyne. They’d had to elude rebel patrols and could trust no one they found. Since they had no real idea where Burgoyne’s army was, they’d had to backtrack to find its trail and then chase it westward. It had been an exhausting effort and Danforth had an overpowering urge to go to sleep. He wondered if he could possibly do it while standing at attention. Danforth had given Burgoyne both a written and an oral report.

“Is any attempt being made to raise some of the guns, the supplies?”

“Sir, General Arnold is using the schooners to try and do exactly that, but I don’t think he’ll succeed. They’re just too small to lift something as heavy and inert as nine-pound cannon out of the deep mud of the river.”

Burgoyne shook his head angrily, “Assuming, of course, that they can even find the damned things in the muck.” He sighed and tried to calm himself. “Stand at ease and relax, Danforth, I hardly think this farce is your fault and nobody here will blame you for it when they have Arnold as a far more convenient target. After all, he was in command, not you. According to Arnold, the fault lies with the late and unlamented Captain Rudyard who was drunk on duty and allowed the rebels to sneak up on him. Is that correct?”

Burgoyne saw a flicker of hesitation on Danforth’s. “Was this Rudyard creature drunk?”

“He was, sir,” Danforth said miserably. The man was dead. Why heap scorn upon him? Still, Burgoyne was totally blaming Arnold and Rudyard for the debacle which boded well for Danforth’s personal future. Perhaps he would come out of this with his reputation unblemished.

Burgoyne sighed. “And he was your friend, was he not? Of course he was. And don’t worry about your reputation. You were an aide, a representative from me, and had no authority over the expedition. Arnold approved of Rudyard’s plans for the defense of the fleet, did he not? Of course he did. That makes Arnold culpable because he was the man in charge. He can try to shift blame, but it won’t work and Arnold knows it. Command and responsibility are often lonely, and the loss of the cannon is all Arnold’s fault. Except, of course, for the unpleasant fact that I was responsible for putting Arnold in charge in the first place. Tell me, Danforth, despite the small size of our ships, is there any hope at all of recovering anything?”

“Sir, even if Arnold does locate and dredge up some of the cannon, the carriages have likely been destroyed and the gunpowder is soaked and gone. Carriages can be built in time, and I’m sure you have some powder, but where will we get sufficient cannonballs? They would have to be cast and that is simply not possible with the tools and metal we have at hand. Again, we may recover a few cannonballs, but not very many. Like the cannon, they’ve doubtless sunk deep into the muck.”

Burgoyne rubbed his chin. “You are correct. Some powder is all we have. Our reserve supplies were on those damned boats. As for balls,” he mused, “I suppose we might do without solid shot by using stones and such, but the range and accuracy of the weapons would be greatly diminished. And, yes, we could manufacture something out of local wood to function as sledges instead of proper carriages, but, lord, how far we have fallen.”

There was silence while the general contemplated the disaster. He shook his head and smiled slightly. “Thank you for your report, Captain Danforth, and be thankful we don’t behead messengers anymore. Your friend Fitzroy is standing outside the tent and trying to eavesdrop. Tell him to get you fed and bathed and rested.”