Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (33 page)
Read Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Online
Authors: Robert Conroy
Why not indeed? Inwardly, Fitzroy thought they were good questions. “If I told you it was because certain people in London think you are all traitors and bandits and threats to established order, would that satisfy you?”
“No.”
“Would you be satisfied if I told you it was because the entire world has gone mad?”
“Yes,” Will said with a grin. “And why on earth would we even think of surrendering? Haven’t you promised to hang our leaders, brand and flog the rest of the men, and sell everyone into slavery, including the women and children? Surrender to what? A long and lingering death? Of course, we know that Burgoyne is under great pressure to win quickly and return to England with an intact army. Do you really think that either can occur if we do battle?”
Will gestured behind him, where, a few hundred yards away, the American earthworks were heavily manned with additional regiments of reinforcements waiting in the rear. Only Will knew that the large numbers were an illusion. The “regiments” in reserve consisted of every woman and child in the camp, now dressed in men’s clothing and holding a pike. Nor were the heads and shoulders of all of the men behind the earthworks real. Many of them were scarecrows.
Still, at this distance, Will could see that Fitzroy was impressed. “Major Drake, are you aware that we have repudiated the draconian policies towards the colonies that originally came from London?” Fitzroy asked. “They were ill-advised at best and will not be implemented.”
Will was unimpressed. “They may have been rescinded, but they could be reinstated at any time. We all remember your betrayal and capture of our leaders after the collapse of the rebellion. It was scandalous and scurrilous. Thank you, Major, but I think we will take our chances on freedom and independence. Nothing other than fighting you English will give us the rights other Englishmen have. Surely you must find that ironic.”
“Indeed.” Fitzroy nodded and bowed slightly. “Then our meeting is over. Perhaps we shall meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Perhaps,” Will said and turned to return to the American lines.
“But will you please give my regards to Mistress Van Doorn?” Fitzroy added.
Will smiled. The major was a love-sick puppy. “I will.”
* * *
“Mistress Van Doorn,” Tallmadge said with a wide smile. The lady, if she was a lady, had lost some weight during her stay at Fort Washington, but remained a ripe and most delicious-looking woman. “It is so good of you to come and see me.”
She smiled and seated herself and he felt charmed. “I always obey the orders of a general, especially one who commanded me in the past.”
“I trust you have been informed of the British major’s concern about you?”
Her eyes misted for a moment. “I have. Major Drake is the soul of courtesy in forwarding Major Fitzroy’s thoughts.”
“He is. And we have not forgotten your great aid in supplying us with information regarding the British at Detroit. May I ask if you would be willing to help us again?”
She shrugged and smiled. “As long as I don’t get hanged, or at least not hanged right away.”
“I have been told that you have some skills as an artist. Is that true?”
“I paint and sketch. I likely think I have more talent than I actually do, but I enjoy it and others have complimented me.”
“Can you draw accurately?”
She looked puzzled. “Of course.”
Tallmadge opened a drawer and pulled out several papers. “Could you draw these?”
Hannah Van Doorn looked at the sheets before her in puzzlement. Then the realization of what he wanted dawned on her. She smiled wickedly. She had done such drawings before, but not for such an important personage as Tallmadge was requesting.
“Of course I can, and they will be so accurate that not even his mother could tell the difference.”
* * *
Fitzroy reported his failure to Burgoyne and Tarleton, neither of whom had expected anything else. “I never thought for a moment that they would surrender, but honor dictated that we make the effort,” Burgoyne said. “There was always the off chance that they would see the hopelessness of their situation and save us the blood price we will all have to pay.”
Burgoyne shuddered as he remembered the blood-soaked fields at Bunker Hill and Saratoga. Along with the piles of dead there was the stench of war and the screams and moans of the wounded and dying. Not for the first time did he wonder if he was too old for this type of endeavor. Win this one battle, he told himself, and there would be no more war for him. Win this battle in the wilderness and he could go back to London and luxury and, oh yes, the theater.
“The rebels seem to feel they will pay that terrible price regardless of what they do,” Fitzroy said. “It would appear that they have decided to perish honorably rather than die later and more slowly as prisoners or slaves. It appears to be brave on their part, although it may just be desperation.”
“Scum,” snapped Tarleton. “They are all nothing but scum. Let me have one good attack and they’ll scatter and we can gather them up at our leisure.”
“We will attack when we are ready and not a moment sooner,” Burgoyne bristled. “And your role in that attack will be sharply defined. You will be secondary to Grant and that will not change.”
“Did you see the men they had behind their earthworks?” asked Fitzroy. “It seems their army is larger than we thought.”
Both generals laughed and Fitzroy flushed. What had he missed? Burgoyne responded. “While you were arguing with this Major Drake, we had men creeping as close as possible and checking out their army with our telescopes. Many of those ‘soldiers’ were either women or cleverly contrived dummies. Their army is no larger than we thought it was.”
Fitzroy felt just a little foolish. “And what about their cavalry? I saw maybe a hundred riders, which is a hundred more than we have.”
Fitzroy decided to sting Tarleton, who loved commanding swift-striking cavalry more than anything. “I believe they are commanded by William Washington. You crossed swords with him at the Cowpens before you retreated after losing your entire command, did you not?”
Burgoyne hid a smile as Tarleton’s face grew red at the memory of the destruction of his force at Cowpens. Morgan had commanded the Americans, and Tarleton had indeed briefly and literally crossed swords with Colonel Washington.
“The bastard had an unfair advantage of me. This time I will catch him and kill him.” He wheeled on Burgoyne. “Give me half a chance and I will kill them all.”
With that, Tarleton stormed away.
“Your attempt to get them to surrender, Fitzroy, was well done. Futile, and the results unsurprising, but well done,” Burgoyne said. “A shame they didn’t take it, but I don’t blame them and I know you don’t either. On the other hand, you really shouldn’t be so unkind to dear Banastre Tarleton, now should you?”
Burgoyne laughed and walked away, leaving Fitzroy to his own thoughts. They were of the probability of battle in the next few days in which he could be killed or wounded, or worse, maimed.
And, to his surprise and dismay, his thoughts were also of Hannah Van Doorn.
* * *
Braxton’s feelings of disgust increased with each step his feet took into the muck of the swamp. At one time he’d been a commander to contend with, a man whose name and ruined visage inspired fear. Now he was reduced to leading a dozen malcontents through a stinking swamp.
“How much farther?” a very young and junior British officer asked. Ensign Spencer was miserable. His bright red uniform was getting filthy. According to British army regulations, Spencer was in charge of the patrol, but he was terrified of both Braxton and the idea of taking a patrol away from the safety of the camp. Braxton wondered how the pale little boy had made it this far without wetting himself. Perhaps he had. They’d all stumbled and were wet enough to hide that little problem from the others.
“I’ll let you know,” snarled Braxton. Spencer was beginning to realize that signing up to fight for the king might actually mean fighting for the king and possibly even dying. And in a swamp at that.
“And spread out,” Braxton ordered. Like all inexperienced troops, they had a tendency to bunch up in the mistaken perception of mutual security. Of course, this made them marvelous targets. At least they’d gotten rid of all the Indians. Only Brant and a couple others remained out of the hundreds of Iroquois who had begun the march. Screw ’em, he thought.
And screw Benedict Arnold. Nobody wanted to serve under a turncoat, but that’s what Braxton’s world had become. At least checking to see if the swamp was passable by an army made a little bit of sense, even if it was the turncoat Arnold who’d come up with the idea. If the British could swing through it and get in the rebel rear, there would be no need to storm those fortifications. Not that Braxton would have any part of storming the rebel earthworks. That’s what the regular forces were for. The thought of marching straight into enemy guns sickened him. How the devil did the regulars do it?
Of course, they had to make sure that the rebels couldn’t get through into Arnold’s rear either. He laughed to himself. Somebody ought to do something to Arnold’s rear. Or maybe to Ensign Spencer’s plump little rear.
Spencer stumbled and swore petulantly. The water was now up to his knees and the heavy rains were making it worse. Each step was now a major effort. It had rained all day and that was turning everything into mud.
Spencer lurched to his feet. He looked like a drowned little dog. “They tell me the rebels are diverting streams to make this swamp even worse than it is.”
Braxton didn’t answer. He’d heard the same rumors but didn’t think much of them. How could anyone divert streams?
At least the water wasn’t particularly cold. In a perverse way, it was almost refreshing, assuming, that is, that there weren’t any snakes lurking around. He shuddered. He hated snakes.
He stopped and Spencer halted beside him. They were almost a mile into the swamp and the water was now up to his waist. He took a few steps more and the water got deeper. He made a decision. No way in hell that an army was going to come this way, especially not the British army. Not the way they liked to march in neat formations and keep their uniforms bright and red. Nor did he think the rebels would try it either. They just didn’t have the manpower, or so he’d been told.
Braxton froze. Was that motion in a pile of branches and other debris? Logic said the rebels would have their own scouts checking on the swamp. Now it really was time to return.
“Now what?” Spencer asked, his voice trembling. He had picked up on Braxton’s fears.
“It’s time for us to go back and tell Benedict Fucking Arnold that there’s no way an army can get through this shit. Maybe a handful could and they’d be too exhausted to move, but not an army. You agree, don’t you?”
Spencer nodded solemnly, obviously relieved at the thought of returning to camp. “I concur.”
Braxton didn’t care whether Ensign Spencer concurred or not. He just wanted to get back to the camp. All they needed to do was keep a few men a little ways into the swamp to check on possible spies since determined individuals could always make it through. Again Spencer concurred, and this time Braxton laughed in his face.
* * *
Owen and Barley lifted themselves out of the muck of the swamp. The leaves and twigs they’d been hiding under fell away from them. “Think they saw us?” Barley asked.
“I think they did, or at least they suspected something. That’s why they stopped.”
“And that hideous-looking mess was Burned Man Braxton, wasn’t it?”
“Nobody else could be that ugly,” Owen said. “Excepting maybe yourself.”
Owen said it in jest. In truth, he’d been stunned to see Braxton standing just a few feet away. He was the man who had abused both Faith and Sarah and raped poor Winifred Haskill. He could have killed the monster, but that would have alerted the British to the fact that the Americans had crossed the swamp, if only a few. Braxton would wait. Owen would not tell Faith or the others that he’d seen their tormentor.
Barley plucked a twig from his hair. “They’re gone, Owen, and what tales will they take back to tell Arnold?”
“That the swamp is wet and the water is deep and the rain is making it worse.”
Barley chuckled. “Did you see the little ass in the red uniform? Is that really an officer of the crown? He’s just a damned little baby. I wonder if he wears diapers under that uniform. Christ, I thought you were bad enough.”
Owen punched his companion lightly in the arm. “The boy’s probably the youngest son of Lord Fumble-Dumble or maybe his lordship’s illegitimate child born out of a barnyard coupling with a slow-witted milk maid who bent over at just the wrong time. But you’re right, if that’s an officer, I should be a general at least.”
The two men laughed and began to crawl back to their lines. They now knew how deep the swamp was, and they also knew how deep the British thought it was.
Chapter 18
“T
o arms!” the lookouts hollered and the cry was echoed down the line. Men scrambled to take their positions behind the earthworks as drums added to the din.
A stunned Benjamin Franklin stared at an equally confused John Hancock. Both turned to General Stark. “General,” Franklin said, “what the devil is going on?”
Stark had pulled out a telescope and was watching down the line to his left. “British skirmishers,” he said. “Likely nothing more than a probe.”
“That’s Tarleton’s wing,” Tallmadge added. “He probably wants to see if we’re awake.”
Franklin took a proffered telescope and squinted. A scattered line of Redcoats had emerged from behind the British works and was advancing on the portion of the American lines commanded by General Anthony Wayne.
“Why aren’t we firing?” Franklin asked, his voice quavering. He had never been this close to an actual battle.
Stark’s face twitched in what was almost a smile. “They’re just a little too far away, my dear Doctor.” The distance was about a mile and well beyond rifle or musket range.
Moments later, the main body of the British right wing emerged behind the skirmishers and began to advance purposefully towards their American counterparts.
“Dear God,” said Franklin, “they’re going to attack, aren’t they?”
Now Stark was truly smiling. Perhaps the short but maddening waiting was over. “One can only hope so.”
The silence was broken by the sound of the drums and spoken commands coming from the American lines. In a short while, British officers could be heard ordering their men to keep order. The British force moved forward with a precision that was enviable, admirable, and chilling. The British were the consummate professionals, while the Americans, although good, simply were not up to those standards when it came to marching and maneuvering.
“Are you going to reinforce Wayne?” Tallmadge asked.
Von Steuben’s Hessians were the reserve force and were behind the hill and hidden from British sight. Stark nodded and turned to Will Drake. “Tell my good Prussian friend to move his men over behind Wayne’s but not to deploy or show themselves unless I deem it necessary. Impress on von Steuben that he is to move closer on my orders only, not Wayne’s.”
American marksmen started firing and the British skirmishers began to fall. The rest melted back into the main body which continued to advance at a deliberate but steadily ground-eating pace.
“Tarleton’s mad,” said Tallmadge.
“That is not a surprise,” Stark said. “This is either a feint to pull us away from the center in order to leave us weakened for an attack by their main force, or Tarleton is trying to grab the glory of victory for himself.” He turned to Franklin. “Nor is it quite time for any of your strange devices, Doctor Franklin. Insofar as the remainder of the British force hasn’t begun to move, I rather think that this is Tarleton acting on his own initiative.”
The British were now within range of the Americans and an American volley ripped through their ranks. Men fell, some jerking and some still. Suddenly, the British stopped and the whole mass appeared to stumble. They were enmeshed in the webbing of tree branches and shrubs that came to their knees and was very difficult to walk through. The British advanced slowed to almost nothing. Another American volley and more British fell.
Commands were screamed and Redcoats began to pull at the entanglement while others returned fire at the Americans who were fairly safe behind their earthen walls. Smoke billowed over both sides and a bitter cloud wafted its way over Franklin and Stark, causing the older man to cough violently. A third American volley and then a fourth and the British began to pull back. A ragged cheer came from the American lines. In a moment, the firing ended, as suddenly as it began.
“We’ve stopped them,” Franklin said, incredulous.
“We stopped nothing,” Stark replied. “That was not their main force. God only knows what Tarleton planned, although I’m rather certain it was as much a surprise to Burgoyne as it was to us.”
Franklin checked his pocket watch. The fighting had lasted less than fifteen minutes. Scores of Redcoats lay on the ground. He felt his stomach churning. The sights and sounds of battle had sickened him. He could hear the wounded moaning and screaming. Standing beside him, John Hancock was pale but in control of himself.
“Your first battle, Doctor?” Stark asked, not unkindly.
“It is.” Franklin answered. “And I would prefer it be my last.”
Stark glared at Franklin and Hancock. “Then think upon this, Doctor Franklin and Mr. Hancock. The men who are lying still are dead. A few moments ago, they were laughing, cursing, and sweating, and doubtless thought themselves immortal. Now they are dead. And the ones who are moving and who you hear calling for help are the wounded. Some will lose limbs, eyes, faces, and many will die before the night is over. This is the price of the folly of war and we have not even begun to pay the full amount.”
“Damn the British,” snarled Hancock. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?”
A white flag of truce showed from the British lines. A handful of unarmed men moved out to pick up the dead and the wounded. They were unmolested. Franklin could hear the cries of the American wounded, which told him that the fight had not been totally one-sided.
Franklin walked alone back down the hill. Hancock had already departed to go and give such solace as he could to the wounded. Franklin’s stomach was still churning. He wanted to vomit. He was too old for this. He was too old for anything. And what had he gotten himself into?
He gazed into the face of Will Drake. “I confess that I had no idea,” he said.
“And it will be worse, far worse, when the main battle begins,” Will said softly.
Franklin nodded and allowed himself to be aided to a cart that would take him back to his quarters. Perhaps Sarah would be there. She was a good listener and he needed someone to hear his rantings at this moment.
* * *
Tarleton stood at attention. He barely concealed a smirk. Burgoyne was again livid with anger, which seemed to amuse the younger general.
“Your folly has cost us more than a hundred casualties, and all for nothing. What in God’s name were you thinking? Or were you thinking about anything at all?”
Tarleton was unconcerned. “Actually, my dear General, I was thinking and quite profoundly. I decided that it was time that we actually did something instead of sitting around on our asses. And so what if I lost a few men? They were soldiers and they died for a purpose.”
“And what purpose might that be?” asked Burgoyne, his anger barely under control. He had a paternal attitude towards his men and hated to lose them. More pragmatically, he especially hated to lose highly trained professional soldiers for no apparent reason. It took a long time to turn raw material into a British soldier and wasting their lives was to be avoided.
“Simple,” Tarleton answered, his tone implying that Burgoyne was the one who was simple. “If we had succeeded and penetrated their lines, then they would have been forced to use their reserves, which would have permitted General Grant to advance with his main body and crush them. Either way, the battle would have been over, and we could shortly find ourselves on our way to home and glory.”
Burgoyne shook his head in disbelief. “Did it occur to you that General Grant was uninformed of your intention and was totally unready to assist you?”
Tarleton shrugged. “Then he should have been ready. And I rather think he was ready a few moments after my men began to advance. Victory, General, belongs to the bold.”
“But you accomplished nothing, did you?”
Tarleton laughed, “Hardly. The almost invisible presence of that low and man-made thicket that stopped my men was an unpleasant surprise of the highest order. Think how catastrophic it would have been if the main attack had become entangled in it. The rebels would have had a wonderful time shooting and slaughtering our men while we could do nothing about it, except ultimately withdraw. It would have been a massacre most awful. Now we can take steps to eliminate that obstacle.”
Burgoyne had to admit that the insolent and arrogant Tarleton had a point, albeit a small one. Twenty-eight British regulars were dead and seventy-four wounded and, as in any battle, many of the wounded were lost for this campaign if not forever. It had been far too high a price to pay to find out about the obstacle. A simple nighttime patrol would have been more than sufficient. Of course, no such patrol had occurred nor had one been planned. Damn Tarleton, he thought.
A thicket of twigs and branches? And it had stopped Tarleton in his tracks? Who would have thought it possible? And what other devilish tricks did the Americans have up their sleeves? Or, he grinned wryly, were they up Benjamin Franklin’s sleeves?
Someone hailed him. A horseman was approaching. Burgoyne began to seethe. It would doubtless be another epistle from Cornwallis filled with unwanted advice and asking for the return of the army. He felt like throwing a clump of mud or horse dung at the rider.
* * *
Will Drake watched sternly as the delegation of four men came forth and stood before him. Their spokesman was a large, dour, and bearded man about forty. His name was Ephram. “Have you considered our request?” he asked without preamble, although he did glance nervously at the detachment of fully armed soldiers behind Will.
“We have, and we don’t quite understand it.” Will said. “Why in God’s name do you want to go back to the British now?”
“It’s simple, Major Drake, we all have families and we wish them to live out their lives rather than have them snuffed out in the next few days. We made a mistake in coming here. We honestly thought that the British wouldn’t come this far to chase us and that we would be allowed to live out our lives in peace. We sincerely felt that the great distance between us and what the British call civilization would be our salvation. That and our faith in the Lord.”
“And there are about fifty of you?” Will asked, although he already knew their numbers. “And you no longer wish to fight for your freedom?”
Ephram shrugged. “Yes to the numbers of us who wish to leave, and yes we would be willing to fight for our freedom if the fight would be a fair one, and where we would have a chance of winning. But you can see the vast array before us. We would have no chance at all and it would result in a massacre followed by the enslavement of the survivors.”
Will shook his head in disbelief. “Yet you think you stand a better chance by just walking up to the Redcoats and announcing that you’re so very sorry you rebelled, and that you would be good and loyal subjects of King George if you would only forgive us for our trespasses.”
Ephram flushed angrily. “Please do not blaspheme by misusing the Lord’s Prayer, Major. We are protecting our families.”
“You are what Tom Paine wrote about, aren’t you. You are the ‘summer soldiers and sunshine patriots,’ aren’t you? You stay with us when the times are easy, but run like rabbits when difficulties arise.”
“I would not refer to being slaughtered as simple difficulties, Major, nor do I think of us as rabbits. We are honest godly people who have made what is to us a highly moral decision. Yet, if that’s what you think of us, then yes. Now, may we leave?”
Will pretended to ponder. In truth, the matter had already been decided by General Stark and communicated through General Tallmadge.
“No.”
Ephram looked flustered and the other three men showed obvious dismay. “Will you please tell us why not?”
“How many reasons do you want? First, you know details of our defenses and would doubtless tell everything to curry favor with your new masters.”
To Will’s surprise, Ephram actually smiled before he replied. “Of course, and, second, we might also unleash a trickle that would soon become a flood of people like us if the British did indeed welcome us back to their bosom, now wouldn’t we? It might eliminate the necessity of a war or a battle in the first place.”
Will matched his smile. “There is that. I won’t lie to you. But the answer remains the same. And, in order to ensure your cooperation, you and your people will be kept under guard until the fighting starts. At that time you can make a final decision as the guards will probably then be needed elsewhere. When you are no longer under guard, you can run straight to hell for all I’ll care.”
“You will be damned for the innocent lives your rejection of mercy will cost,” Ephram said with a sigh of resignation.
“Just as you will be damned for being a fool, a turncoat, and a traitor. You will be compared to Benedict Arnold.”
Will signaled for the detachment of soldiers to take up positions around the men and take control of them and the others. He turned and walked away. A few paces on, Sarah stepped from behind the corner of a building. She took his arm and they walked away.
“Will, are you afraid that there are others like them?”
He squeezed her hand. “No one knows, and that’s the problem. Deep down, many must be wondering if there is an alternative to fighting the battle that is coming. Tell me, dear Sarah, would you have us flee if there was a place we could go?”