Fitzroy was more than surprised to find that Hannah was in a partnership with a Jewish merchant who had a store in Detroit.
“After all,” he’d told her, “don’t they delight in cheating Christians?”
“I’ve known Abraham Goldman and his family since I was a little girl and he had a similar arrangement with both my father and my husband. I don’t think he would cheat me. Each year, I receive an amount of money as my share of the venture we own jointly.”
“I see,” Major Fitzroy had said, not certain he saw anything at all.
“And they don’t eat Christian babies either,” she’d laughed, and he happily admitted he really didn’t think they ever did.
They traveled by wagon from Albany north and then west to Oswego, a decrepit and nearly abandoned site on Lake Ontario that was being rejuvenated by the British for the coming campaign. Burgoyne commented, without apparent bitterness, that the direction they were taking took him away from the site of his defeats in 1777, at Saratoga. It was, he informed all, a part of his life that should remain closed except for the obvious lessons to be drawn from it.
Burgoyne also found Hannah Doorn quite attractive and made tentative efforts to influence her and take her from Fitzroy. When she would have none of it, Burgoyne simply shrugged, laughed it off, and went looking for another conquest. To his dismay, there weren’t any other women in the caravan available to be seduced.
From Oswego, they traveled by ship as close as they could to the falls at Niagara, where they paused, rested, and gazed with amazement on the magnificent natural wonders. Burgoyne said that he’d heard of them from travelers, but assumed the descriptions were exaggerations resulting from too much to drink. “Not any longer,” Burgoyne said. “There is nothing like them in all the world. I feel honored and privileged to be here and to have seen them.”
It was a sentiment held by Fitzroy, Hannah, and almost everyone in their traveling party of several hundred. “You’d have to be insane to not see the hand of God in those falls,” Hannah said, and Fitzroy could not contradict her. He was overwhelmed by the vision and the sound of the roaring water.
They continued by land to Lake Erie and then were jammed into a couple of small and filthy merchant ships to take them to Detroit. An eight-gun sloop, the Viper, escorted them. It was encouraging to realize that the Royal Navy had control of the lakes, and not the rebels. It was also incredible to Fitzroy and the others that lakes as immense as Ontario and Erie existed. Could it really be that other so-called great lakes were even greater? Even Burgoyne expressed astonishment.
On first sighting Detroit, Fitzroy was mightily depressed. A wooden stockade enclosed a number of muddy acres filled with ramshackle wooden buildings running inland from the equally muddy banks of the Detroit River. The military outpost was a little ways inland and attached to the town. It was called Fort Lernoult. Although small, the fort at least looked like someone with military experience had planned it. He’d been informed that it had eleven foot high earthen walls and contained several cannon.
A shipyard of sorts lined the riverbank where lumber was piled high and the barges that Burgoyne had ordered were under construction. News of the barges had been a surprise to Fitzroy and Danforth although, to Fitzroy’s chagrin, Hannah had known all about them from her Jewish merchant friend who was selling them supplies. Regardless, the activity on the waterfront looked like chaos.
“One spark and the whole thing would go up like an obscene parody of Nero’s Rome,” Fitzroy muttered as he took in the piles of wood, the shavings, and the dust.
His low opinion of Detroit did not rise as their ship moved against a crude dock that extended into the river and threatened to fall down as they were tied up to it. At least they would not have to wade the final few feet, or climb down into small boats, although he presumed that other, lesser mortals in the other ships would do exactly that. It was always good to be associated with the commanding officer since rank had its privileges.
Several score buildings had sprung up outside the stockade, and Hannah and her servant made for one of the larger ones while Fitzroy tried to figure out where Burgoyne was going to put his headquarters. He took in the hundreds of white tents that dotted the landscape and disrupted the lives of the farmers whose strip farms ran inland from the surprisingly wide Detroit River.
Danforth had pompously informed him that the river was technically a strait and not a river since it only ran thirty-odd miles and connected two lakes, St. Clair and Erie and, no, Lake St. Clair was named for a Papist saint, and not after the rebel general. Fitzroy told Danforth he was a bloody bore and that he’d rather have a drink than a lecture.
The tents housed the British contingent that now consisted of more than four thousand soldiers. Come spring, there would be many more. Pity the poor rebels, he thought.
* * *
Hannah entered the store owned by Abraham Goldman and looked at the items for sale. They included clothing, camping goods, pots, pans, stoves, and even some toys, although she wondered just how many children there were at the depressing outpost. Finally, she wandered over to a different section and looked at the neatly arranged stacks of cloth and blankets. She fingered several of them and nodded approval.
“Mistress Van Doorn?” inquired a small, wiry man of indeterminate age, although Hannah already knew he was in his sixties.
She smiled warmly. “Mr. Goldman, it is just plain Doorn and you know it quite well. There is no ‘Van’ in front of my name.”
Goldman chuckled. “And why shouldn’t you promote yourself? Everyone here is trying to better themselves, and what better place to begin than your name? Let them think you’re even more important than you are.”
To her surprise, Hannah thought it was a good idea. Beginning immediately, her name would be Hannah Van Doorn. She smiled sweetly. “Did you find quarters for me?”
“The army has taken everything that even resembled quality housing,” he said sadly. “First Tarleton’s officers and now Burgoyne’s will require something warm and dry for the winter. The enlisted soldiers and officers of lower rank than generals are expected to live in tents or huts.”
Hannah could not keep the dismay from her voice. “Then what will I do?” The idea of her sharing a tent with Major Fitzroy and Danforth appalled her.
“Don’t worry,” Goldman said with a laugh. “I’ve converted a portion of one of the warehouses into a bedroom with a kitchen and a study. There is even a fireplace and I will see that you are supplied with wood. I think you and your major will be quite satisfied.”
Hannah blushed. How on earth had he found out about Major Fitzroy? She fingered a cloth and pretended to examine it. “I’m sure I will be satisfied. Tell me, do you think red and white will sell well this year?”
Goldman stiffened perceptibly and hesitated. “Perhaps not as well as blue and white,” he said and asked softly, “You?”
Hannah Van Doorn smiled demurely, “And why not?”
* * *
The building assigned to Benjamin Franklin for the development of a new way of making guns was set up for display this afternoon, not work. He called it “Merlin’s Cave” in a fit of whimsical honor to the legendary magician companion of the equally legendary King Arthur. On a series of tables were piles of the components needed to build a gun. Franklin beamed at everyone. He was in his glory.
“Kindly note, gentlemen, that what I have here are the parts of a gun that some people are beginning to call a ‘Franklin’ in my honor.”
“It also bears your shape,” said General Schuyler with a smile that brought chuckles from the others. A completed gun lay on the table. It was short and squat.
Franklin ignored the gibe from his good friend. He would take verbal vengeance over supper and relish it. “A group of people here are charged with making each component, while another group is responsible for assembling the, ah, marvelously and accurately named Franklin.”
“What are the components, Mr. Franklin?” asked Gener
al Tallmadge. Will stood beside him.
“First, gentlemen, we have the wooden rifle stock, then the trigger and flint, and, finally, the barrel. The only really difficult part to make is the trigger. The wooden stock is made on a foot-powered lathe, and the barrel is made by a blacksmith, such as Mr. Benton here. Regardless of the degree of difficulty, groups of workers specialize in making only their own particular part of the gun. Then, others, and often women like the sublimely attractive and young Miss Faith, assemble the components.”
“Why women?” inquired Schuyler.
“Many women are quite skillful at knitting and sewing. Therefore, it seemed logical that their nimble fingers would be able to fashion a weapon out of small and diverse parts. With women performing some tasks, it also frees up men to perform others. With your permission, General Schuyler, would you pick one part out of each pile and hand it to that young lady who, in deference to your advanced age, is pretending to gaze worshipfully at you?”
Schuyler flushed. Franklin had gotten him back. He grinned and took a part at random from each pile. Faith took them solemnly, laid them on a table in the order she wanted, and then proceeded to put them together. It took only a couple of minutes before the unique-looking weapon was completed.
“Impressive,” said Schuyler, “but will it work?”
Franklin took the stubby gun from Faith and held it aloft. “I will test it and fire it.”
“You will not!” exclaimed Schuyler. “If an accident happens, we cannot afford to lose you.”
“You’re right,” said Tallmadge. “Someone less important should fire it. Will Drake, you do it.”
Will grinned at Tallmadge and took the weapon, while the others laughed at his expense. He examined it carefully and saw no obvious flaws. Franklin suggested they go outdoors, where a wall of dirt-filled sacks had been constructed about fifty feet away. Someone had stuck some men’s clothing to it as a target. Will loaded the weapon with a packet of powder and one large lead bullet, cocked the hammer and aimed. The thing was heavy and dragged down the barrel.
He fired and the recoil pushed him a step backwards. A huge flock of pigeons erupted in fright from Tallmadge’s headquarters, flew around in circles and finally settled back down. Will noted that Tallmadge was a bit concerned about the birds. He hoped he’d hit something near the target and not one of the pigeons. Then he wondered just what all those pigeons were doing in the loft of Tallmadge’s office?
They walked through the dissipating smoke. A sandbag just to the left of the target showed a huge hole. Franklin peered at it and winked at Will. “It would appear that the sandbag is dead, but the enemy soldier is just fine, thank you.”
“With practice, sir, I am confident I can do much better.”
“I’m sure you can,” Schuyler agreed. “But I do wonder just what the primary purpose of your weapon will be? It doesn’t have the range of a rifle, or even a musket, so how shall it be used?”
“I see it as a second weapon,” Franklin said. “I visualize a soldier carrying it on his back and, when his musket is emptied, he takes it and fires at very close range at the advancing enemy who will think the soldier is helpless. I believe it would be quite shocking to an enemy, assuming he survives.”
“That might work,” said Tallmadge, “but I doubt it, sir. The heat of battle is confusing enough without having to change weapons.”
“Can it take a bayonet, Mr. Franklin?” asked Schuyler.
“I don’t think so,” Franklin said, “although a short bayonet might be contrived for it.”
“Then a second weapon it must be,” Schuyler said, “Or something for cavalry to use if we ever get some horses. Tell me, how many of these can you make, and why not utilize your assembly method for some other type of weapon?”
If Franklin was disappointed at the less than enthusiastic reception his weapon had just received, he didn’t show it. “When we get going, an initial goal will be ten of these a day. We can improve upwards as we continue to learn. Within a couple of months, I hope to be building a hundred a day. However, if you are not interested in that many of my Franklins, I am certain I can adapt my methods to other killing devices.”
Schuyler nodded solemnly. “Such as muskets?”
“Indeed.”
“And rifles?”
“The problem of cutting the grooves in the barrel is enormous.”
Schuyler smiled. “Then work on it, will you?”
* * *
Owen Wells went looking for Faith Benton. He wanted to get her alone so he could talk to her, but that was proving unlikely as she was either working making Franklin’s guns, or with her cousin Sarah, or with her father. He wanted to tell her that she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Owen had never been in love before, so he had no idea how to proceed. He alternated between periods of deep despondency and great elation. It was like he had been reborn. If only Faith might return his affections.
Sometimes he thought his position as her suitor was hopeless. She was beautiful, and he was nothing more than a stumpy caricature of a man with bulging shoulders and overlong and heavily muscled arms. Perhaps she would laugh at him. She had seemed friendly enough when they traveled from the battle on the Ohio to Fort Washington, but that was back then and he had helped save her life, and this was now and she was safe and secure. Worse, she was surrounded by young men who not only outranked him but looked normal. He didn’t care. He had to know.
Finally, he was in luck. She came out of the women’s quarters and just stood there, breathing deeply of a crisp afternoon, a shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She was so beautiful.
“Good morning, Miss Faith,” he said and walked slowly up to her. She turned and smiled at him in recognition.
“I believe it’s afternoon, Mister Wells.”
He flushed. What a wonderful way to start a conversation with the woman he dreamed about. He’d just shown her that he couldn’t tell time. “I’ve been so busy it’s easy to get confused.”
“I know that feeling.”
“I just wanted to speak to you, to let you know that I’ll be leaving.”
Was that dismay he saw on her face? “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be leading a patrol out to the east, in search of Redcoats and their friends.”
“You’ll be leading it? But I thought you were only a corporal?”
“I was, but Major Drake suggested that I should be a lieutenant because of my experience in the Royal Marines and General Tallmadge agreed. So now I am an officer,” although, he didn’t add, one of the most junior ones in the entire American army.
She grinned. “And a gentleman?”
“Oh, I hope so,” he said and spoke more boldly than he felt. “And I was wondering if you might like to go for a walk with a gentleman? Or perhaps just sit and talk?”
Faith was touched. The short, squat young man was only slightly taller than she and only a couple of years older, but she knew his story and that he had been aged beyond those years by events far beyond his control.
For that matter, so had she. Her experiences at the hands of Sheriff Braxton’s deputies were something she could not put out of her mind, even though she tried to make light of them when talking with Sarah. Wells had to be aware that something awful had occurred to her back east, but that didn’t seem to bother him. Perhaps equally awful things had happened to him on board a British warship? And why not, she thought. He would have been a boy among older, stronger men. She’d heard terrible stories about what happened to boys surrounded by predatory older men.
Faith tightened her shawl around her shoulders. He looked so frightened at being with her and that she might say no thank you to a walk. Perhaps she should say “boo” and see if he’d fall over or just run. No, she decided. He was just too nice a young man.
“A walk would be nice, but not too long a one. I wouldn’t want you catching a chill before your first patrol.”
“Good idea.”
She smiled warml
y. “Perhaps after, we can sit by a fire and talk.”
Chapter 6
Major James Fitzroy arrived back at the rooms he shared with Hannah Doorn—no, make that Hannah Van Doorn. He was nearly shaking with anger and frustration.
“What is the matter, my dear lordship?” Hannah teased, trying to amuse him out of his anger.
“Anything and everything,” he groaned. “I have just found out what a treacherous viper General Banastre Tarleton is, and to make matters worse, I am to blame for some of the evil he is doing. I do not understand how people in England can consider him to be a hero and a saint, while those in the colonies more accurately portray him as a criminal. I accept that war is a ruthless profession by its very nature, but he goes beyond the limits of decency, and I don’t just mean killing prisoners or abusing civilians. I mean atrocities.”
She smiled, asked him to be seated and calm himself, and poured him a cup of real coffee. Very few in Detroit had access to real coffee and the aroma was magnificent. It was one of the benefits of her association with the Jewish merchant. She waited until he took a couple of sips and felt more composed.
“That is so good,” he said with a sigh.
“And now you may tell me what troubles you.”
“Do you know what a loose cannon is, my dear? No? Well, it is a term that I believe comes from the navy. If a cannon on a ship breaks loose during a storm, it can careen all over the ship, injuring and killing people, smashing things, and causing enormous damage to the ship until it is either gotten under control or hurled overboard. Some ships have been sunk by loose cannon, both literally and metaphorically.”
“And Banastre Tarleton is such a loose cannon?”
“Indeed. He makes up his own rules and they are brutal. It has just come to Burgoyne’s notice that Tarleton has been sending out raiders to pillage, torture, rape, and slaughter innocent civilians who happen to be in between the rebels at Fort Washington and here. He wished to convince the rebels that Indians are doing the attacking, which would cause the rebels to retaliate against the red savages, which would then cause the Indians to fight on our side. Even if the Americans won such a war, which is very likely, it would distract and weaken the bloody rebels.”
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 12
