Still, there were enough muskets to supply far more than the army at Fort Washington. It was testimony to the organizational skills of Schuyler and the improvisational techniques of Franklin. Who would have thought that the iron ore to make them existed in quantity just a few hundred miles north of them? And who would have thought that it could be mined with relative ease, melted into ingots, and then brought down in the large canoes used by the Indians when making long trips with sizeable crews and cargoes? While there would never be enough quality iron or implements to cast cannon, there was enough to manufacture the smaller weapons that filled the warehouses.
“Who will use all these?” Will asked. “Are you expecting company or is this wishful thinking?”
“Perhaps a little of both. Surely, we’ll have more soldiers coming in when the British begin to move on us, but I’m just as certain that a number of our heroic stalwarts will flee anywhere they can, rather than actually fight. Human nature, I’m afraid.”
“Summer soldiers and sunshine patriots,” Will mused. “Tom Paine was correct. And what of Mistress Adams’ ideas?”
Abigail Adams and a deputation of women had proposed to General Schuyler that they function as messengers and couriers within the army. There was a hint that women should also be allowed to load weapons for the men during the fighting that was sure to come. All the suggestions had been met with shock and skepticism. However, they had not been rejected.
“Much will depend on the requirements of whoever actually leads the army,” Tallmadge said, adding that it had been Schuyler’s response.
“And who will that be, and who is that man I’ve seen you talking with? You know, the one who arrived with Glover. Or is he just another of your spies?”
“He’s an old friend.” Tallmadge said with a knowing smile. “Just like you are, which permits you to take such liberties as you do with a high-ranking general such as I am.”
Tallmadge took Will by the arm and steered him out of the warehouse. “Don’t pressure me about him and I’ll share a secret with you.”
“Which one?”
Tallmadge grinned wickedly, “As how I get my information so quickly.”
Will allowed himself to be led back to Tallmadge’s headquarters. As always, the wood-shingled roof was covered with scores of pigeons and stained white with their droppings. A dozen or so flew off and whirled around as the men approached, while others stayed and observed. Instead of going through the front of the building, Tallmadge led him through the back. Inside, Will’s jaw dropped as he saw cage after cage filled with pigeons.
“What is this, dinner?” he asked.
Tallmadge laughed. “Hardly. Cook them forever and they’d still be too bloody tough to chew. Will, this is the secret. The pigeons in these cages are homing pigeons and have been trained to return here once released. A small, short message is tied to their legs and they can make it from a place like Detroit to here in an astonishingly short period of time. It is a trick that’s been in use for perhaps thousands of years. Of course, I must wait for a more detailed explanation to arrive in the traditional manner, such as when you finally show up covered with filth after plodding through the woods.”
“And this is what you lost when the British raided that tavern, isn’t it?”
“In part. Of course it wasn’t the only location sending messages by pigeon. It was, however, the best. I’ve been reconstituting other sites. When the British finally move, their location will be sent to us by a variety of means and we will be able to react rather quickly.”
“Doesn’t that presume we’ll have an army to react with?”
“It does indeed,” Tallmadge said sadly, “and that is the flaw in the plan. We have to have a bloody army and someone competent to lead it. And still that might not be enough.”
Chapter 11
Braxton didn’t like Indians. Most white men didn’t. They considered them drunken ignorant savages who would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down and that included white women. In particular, Braxton didn’t like Joseph Brant and his Iroquois. He thought Brant was arrogant, and as to his so-called Iroquois warriors, Braxton considered them to be nothing more than animals that happened to walk upright. He knew it was a strange distinction from someone who had committed so many murders and atrocities, and the few men of his who had survived the massacre at the so-called farm reminded him of it whenever the occasion arose. Sometimes he agreed and actually thought it was funny.
Thus, it was with a degree of pleasure that he fostered a friendship with Simon Girty, one of the few men whose reputation was more fearsome than his own. Girty had been accused of rape, the murder and torture of innocents, and cannibalism.
Braxton doubted that the rumor about cannibalism was true. It was something he’d never do, unless, of course, he were truly starving. Then nothing counted. Still, he made sure not to get Girty angry at him. The two men were approximately the same age with Girty being just a few years older. They shared many attitudes towards the war and how to survive in it.
Girty had lived in a cabin outside Detroit the last several years after changing sides from rebel scout to loyalist. The rebels wanted to hang him for a multitude of crimes, including treason, and that made Girty a good man for Braxton to follow.
Girty took a swallow of raw homemade whisky and smiled. The two of them and some of their men had just come back from a patrol, and had tried to intercept the group of rebel spies fleeing from Detroit. To no one’s surprise, the spies had too much of a lead for Girty, Braxton, and the dozen men they’d taken to catch up to them. Still, they thought they’d only missed them by a couple of hours from the signs they’d read in the forest. The carts they’d taken with them had slowed them considerably. They called a halt when they decided they were too close to where patrols from Fort Washington were likely.
“Would’ve been fun,” Girty said wistfully. “The Jews we would’ve skinned and then crucified. You ever hear someone squeal when they’ve been skinned?”
“Can’t say as I have,” said Braxton. He had, but he didn’t want to annoy Girty by saying so.
“Almost as much fun as when the Indians take a long time burning someone alive. A real long time,” Girty said and looked at him coldly. “Killing like that don’t bother you, does it? Hell, all they are is rebels.”
“Don’t bother me at all,” Braxton said sincerely as he took another swallow from his cup of whisky. He wanted to ask if Girty had ever eaten the people he’d cooked, but decided against it.
Girty took a swallow. “Then we would’ve fucked that blond bitch until it came out her ears. Gawd, that would’ve been funny. I saw her around the post a number of times with that tight-ass major she was fucking, and it would’ve served both of them right. When we were through, I would’ve cut off her head and tits and sent them to that fucking major as a present. I hear he’s still moaning for her. I’d like to have heard him moan when she arrived all in pieces. Hell, maybe it’ll still happen.”
Girty laughed hugely and yawned as exhaustion and the liquor took control. “Joseph Brant is a fool and his Indians are worse. Brant thinks he’s a white man because he can read and write, or he thinks he’s as good as one. Either way, he’s wrong. He’s an Indian and not a damn thing more. Worse, his big, bad Iroquois will run like rabbits when the actual fighting starts.”
“Why?” Braxton asked. The whisky was taking him over and he felt like nothing more than sleeping. Still, Girty had a lot that was important on his mind and Braxton wanted to hear it.
“Because they’ve been here too long and they’re too far away from whatever swamp they call home. And when they’ve deserted and all run back to upper New York, then Burgoyne will have need of people like us to scout and run the woods for him. How many men you got left, Braxton?”
“A dozen.”
“Tell me the truth, damn it.”
Braxton winced. “Maybe six.”
“I got maybe twenty. We’ll have to start recruiting hard if we’re goi
ng to get our share of loot out of Burgoyne’s victory. I want two hundred or more men in Girty’s Legion.”
“Girty’s Legion?”
Girty laughed again. “How about Girty’s Scouts, or Girty’s Royal Americans, or Girty’s Murdering Fuckers? I don’t care what the hell we’re called just so long as we get to kill a lot of rebels and, when the war is over, we get our share of the loot. How’s that sound, Braxton?”
“Sounds pretty good to me.”
“Good. Now let’s have another drink and see if we can find some people who think like we do.”
* * *
The return of George Rogers Clark and his small band of explorers was met with apprehension. What would be the results of his exploration of the lands to the west? Would they be able to transport Fort Washington and their concept of a new nation out into what people were openly referring to as a Great American Desert? And if they could, it might mean that a battle with the British could be deferred, perhaps permanently. If the rebels could only get far enough away from King George’s claws, they might live a bit longer as free people. They knew they could never fully escape. Their only hope was to be far enough away for a long enough time to establish themselves and let England either forget about them or be willing to let them live in peace.
There would be no secrets. After Hancock and Schuyler met briefly with Clark, anybody who wished to was welcome to come to the room where Congress usually met and hear Clark’s report.
During the war, George Rogers Clark had conquered much of the area around Fort Washington when he captured the British forts of Vincennes and Kaskaskia, and even threatened Detroit. They respected him and admired him; however, everyone at the meeting saw that he was ill at ease and that did not bode well for any who had hopes of a farther retreat.
Clark spoke softly at first, and then gained strength. He told them that the area to the west was a vast grassland, and not a desert, although there were long stretches without much water, and where crops would not grow. It was a paradox since he and his men had to cross a number of rivers, including a few that were extremely wide and deep.
These rivers, however, weren’t all that far away and most people already knew about them. The British would be in striking distance if they moved along their banks. Thus, they would have to flee past the rivers.
Beyond the rivers was an endless plain. Clark said it could and did support life, just not much of it. The buffalo herds were immense and were chased by the Indians, many of whom were on horseback, although some were still on foot. According to Clark, some of the Indians were getting horses from the Spanish to their south and rapidly learning to use them to advantage.
“The savages are taking to horses just as fast as they can get their hands on them, and that generally means stealing them. If we go into their land, we’ll have to be mounted and they’ll try their best to take our horses. A lot of the Indians have guns as well, and they don’t like us at all.”
Clark added that only small communities would survive in such an environment, since there was no place where food was abundant. Small communities would, of course, be juicy targets for the Indians. “In order to move into the plains,” he continued, “we’ll have to fight the Indians and destroy them.”
Farther to the west was what was referred to as a great salt lake. Clark hadn’t seen it, but the Indians all agreed it was there. Since the lake was salt, it was obvious that any land around it must be barren. He had talked to Indians who had been to the lake and beyond, and added that he believed it was indeed a lake and not an arm of the Pacific Ocean which was much farther away.
Still farther beyond the salt lake were great mountains that, if crossed, would send travelers into the land bordering the Pacific Ocean. This land was rumored to be fertile enough, but, unfortunately, it was also occupied, or at least claimed.
“Indians are there, of course, but there are supposed to be Russians to the north and Spanish to the south. That reminds me,” Clark added, “anybody who does go west will quickly find that they’re in territory claimed by Spain and they don’t take too kindly to strangers, especially non-Catholic strangers, coming into their land. We’d probably have to fight them as well as the British and the Indians.”
Benjamin Franklin stood. “Let me ask you a few questions, General Clark.” Clark nodded assent. “First, since grass grows on the prairie, why can’t we plant wheat?”
Clark grinned. “Well, you could. But then you’d have to fence in the planted area to protect it from buffalo and other wild animals that would either eat it or trample it, and I don’t know of any fence that could keep out a herd of ten thousand hungry buffalo.”
“Are the herds really that large?” Franklin asked. Almost everyone had seen buffalo, but only in much smaller numbers.
“The herds are that large and larger. There may be millions of them roaming over the plains and they’re all always looking for food. It’s an incredible sight to see a herd on the move, especially when they’re running, and they’re terrifying when they stampede. The sound is almost deafening. In order to protect our crops, we’d have to kill off all the buffalo and that ain’t gonna happen ’cause there’s too many buffalo to kill off. Besides, if we did, there’d go our primary source of meat.”
He was handed a mug and he took a swig. It was clearly not water. “Nah, if we went out there we’d have to become small groups of nomads just like the savages.”
“But can’t the buffalo be domesticated, tamed?” Franklin inquired genially.
Clark guffawed. “You’d stand a better chance of taming a bear.”
“And the Indians are truly that dangerous?”
“Everything is dangerous out there, Doctor Franklin, the Indians, the animals, and the weather. Look, I went out with thirty men and came back with eighteen. The others are dead, and they were all well-armed and trained soldiers and woodsmen. Life is worse than hard out there. How the hell do you think a bunch of pilgrims would do?”
Clark smiled wickedly at Franklin. “I got one question of my own, Doctor Franklin. Were you cold this past winter?”
Franklin returned the smile. “I was miserable as you and everyone around here knows. My old bones nearly froze.”
Clark nodded. “Then don’t go west. The winds are ten times wickeder than they are here and the temperature’s so cold it freezes piss before it hits the ground. We saw buffalo freeze to death and they got real thick skin and fur.”
Franklin appeared to shudder. “Thank you General Clark.”
There was polite applause. Clark had answered the question of continued flight; it wasn’t feasible for the community of Fort Washington. Individuals could make it into exile, but not the several thousand people in the area. They would have to stand and fight.
Sarah held tight to Will’s arm as they exited the barn. The press of bodies inside had caused the barn to be awfully warm. Will thought that some of his personal warmth might have been due to the fact that Sarah had stood directly in front of him and her back and bottom had been pressed against his body. He hadn’t minded a bit.
“I’m cold,” she said and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, “And afraid.”
* * *
Lieutenant General John Burgoyne was more than a little drunk, which wasn’t unusual for those in the encampments that surrounded what was left of Detroit. It was presumed that the garrisons at Oswego, Albany, and Pitt were also drinking away the winter as they awaited the campaign that would begin in spring and commence fully in summer. There was no fear of a surprise attack from the rebels. Scouts were watching the trails and reported nothing.
“Gates, Arnold, Morgan, and Stark,” Burgoyne muttered. “The four of them conspired to beat me at Saratoga. That cannot happen again. I will not permit it.”
“It can’t happen again,” Fitzroy said. His voice was a little slurred. He’d been helping his commanding officer and distant cousin while away the evening. “I mean, at least not that way. Gates is disgraced and in prison, and Arn
old is on our side.”
Burgoyne snorted. “Gates was a fool. He commanded the rebel army but did nothing. Arnold, Morgan, and Stark won the battles and he got the credit. There was no justice.”
Fitzroy settled back. It was going to be a long evening. “And Morgan shouldn’t be a factor, either,” he said. “I understand the man’s crippled and needed to be carried on a litter for his last battle.”
“During which he annihilated a force led by Tarleton, who was on horseback and didn’t need a litter,” Burgoyne responded. “Yes, he’s crippled, but he’s still a viper with venom. He will command one of their wings and he will do so with skill, just like he did at Freeman’s farm where he stopped my advance.”
Burgoyne took another long swallow. “Anthony Wayne played a subordinate role at Saratoga, so that only leaves Stark among the ones who defeated me. He destroyed my Hessian wing at Bennington when I sent them out to forage for supplies. Where the devil is John Stark?”
Fitzroy shrugged. “Probably in prison. Either that or hiding out on some mountain in Vermont. Maybe he’s even dead.”
“I hope so,” Burgoyne said. “I fervently hope so. The man’s a demon.”
Commanding only local, raw militia, Stark’s skillfully led soldiers had wiped out the Hessian force at Bennington. The Hessians had gone for food and one result of their defeat was that Burgoyne’s army went hungry.
Fitzroy tried to lighten the mood. “Perhaps Schuyler will lead them? You defeated him handily, didn’t you?”
“For which he was court-martialed and acquitted with honor. Nobody could have won anything with the disgraceful force he had at his disposal at that time. However, the rebels won’t let him lead them anyhow because of the taint of defeat that surrounds him.”
“Are you that concerned we won’t win, General?” Fitzroy asked.
Burgoyne unsuccessfully stifled a belch and glared at him. “Of course I’m concerned. I’d be a bloody fool if I wasn’t. A battle never goes as planned.” He finished his drink and lurched to his feet. “And now I’m off to bed.”
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 21
