Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence

by Robert Conroy

  “You’re going to wind up at Liberty, aren’t you?” Homer chuckled.

  “If there is such a place. Maybe it’s mystical, like Camelot, and doesn’t even exist?”

  “I have no idea what this Camelot is, Will, but if it doesn’t exist, then why are the British going to send an army against it? Naw, Will, there’s something out in the west and I don’t know if it’s called Liberty, or Fort Washington, or Jerusalem, or what in hell. But odds are, that’s where you’ll wind up.”

  Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

  “Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you know what you’re up against?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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