Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence

by Robert Conroy

  “Now we have to prepare for the assault in an entirely different way. We have to risk the lives of our soldiers to enemy fire while they fill in the moat and are pulling away the barriers that confront us. Don’t tell me your feelings are hurt, because I won’t hear of it. Or would you prefer to be sent back to Detroit under arrest and awaiting court martial for your monumental stupidity in losing those ships and all they carried? If we lose here, I promise you that your failures will be published and you will be disgraced and become even more of a pariah than you already are.”

  Arnold gasped and almost ran from the tent. General Grant shook his head. “I may be the closest you have to a sane subordinate, which means, my dear General, you are in terrible trouble.” He laughed harshly and also departed. Fitzroy looked questioningly at Burgoyne who waved him away.

  As he walked away, an angry Colonel von Bamberg of Hesse marched up towards the tent. Fitzroy gently but firmly took his arm. “This might not be the best time to disturb the general.”

  “More arguments? Dear God, what is it with you British that you can’t get along? Or better yet, why can’t you simply obey the orders of your commander instead of spending so much valuable time squabbling like washerwomen?”

  “Just our nature, Colonel. What was it you wished to see the general about? Perhaps I can schedule you later.”

  Bamberg calmed visibly. When he wasn’t yelling at his troops or hanging innocent civilians, the little Hessian was really rather decent. Now he even regretted hanging the suspected deserters, although he wouldn’t quite admit that he’d made a mistake.

  “The usual problems for me as well, Major. At least four more of my men have deserted and likely gone over to the rebels. I cannot comprehend this. Are they fools? In a few days they’ll all be recaptured and hanged. Only now they will be flogged mercilessly before they are hanged.”

  Indeed, thought Fitzroy. What madness compelled the Hessians to desert and the American rebels to wish to die? He shuddered. And these are the people we are going to do battle against? Was everyone mad?

  * * *

  The next morning brought to the Americans the unpleasant fact that the British had worked through much of the night erecting their own breastworks to prevent the rebels from making surprise attacks on the British camps that sprawled across the front of the American lines.

  A little before noon, the sound of drumming was heard. A drummer boy and a British officer carrying a white flag moved cautiously forward.

  “Don’t tell me they’re surrendering,” someone said and even General Stark laughed at that one.

  “They wish to parley,” General Schuyler announced with a rare smile on his face. “I do believe they think they can talk us into surrendering. Why in God’s name should we surrender when we’ve all been promised a date with the noose? Shall we negotiate with them for new ropes?”

  Stark lowered his telescope. “Still, it is a surprising gesture and one which courtesy says we are required to reciprocate. I do not think they are sending anyone of great rank, so we will not either.” His eyes fell on Major Will Drake, who flushed. “Once again, Major, I do believe you can be of service. Take a white flag and meet their representative, but do make certain that he doesn’t come too close to our lines. What he doesn’t see can’t hurt us.”

  Will grinned and grabbed a cloth that could have passed for white in a previous life. He tied it to a stick and walked across planks that were quickly laid across the moat, and wound his way through the abattis. He noted that the British officer had halted less than halfway and wondered if the man feared being fired upon. Drake shared his concerns and wondered how many British muskets were aimed at him.

  As they approached, Will noted that they were of equal rank. Good, he thought, none of that nonsense about saluting an enemy. He stopped and bowed slightly. “I am Major Will Drake of General Stark’s staff,” he announced, promoting himself to a staff position he didn’t quite have.

  “And I am Major James Fitzroy of General Burgoyne’s staff.”

  They nodded slightly and each professed to be honored to meet the other, although Will had the nagging feeling that Fitzroy’s name was familiar.

  “Tell me,” said Fitzroy, “are you the same Drake who was with the French farmer at Detroit? We found your name in his journal after the fire.”

  Now Will remembered. Fitzroy had been the inadvertent source of so much information about the British Army thanks to Hannah Van Doorn and the Goldmans. “I am.”

  “Not that it matters, but I’m curious. Did you set the fire, or was it Leduc?”

  “I wish I could claim credit, but I can’t. I was back across the river when it started and it was as big a surprise to us as it was to you,” he said and explained that Leduc had been mortally wounded in the brawl and had chosen a fiery death. Fitzroy admitted that Leduc’s death had been heroic and honorable as well as inevitable.

  “Had he survived his wounds, he would have been hanged of course,” said Fitzroy.

  Will continued, “And I recall a lovely lady asking about you, one Hannah Van Doorn.”

  Fitzroy smiled wanly. “She is well, I trust.”

  “She is.”

  “Then tell her I miss her, even though she betrayed me so thoroughly.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, Major Drake, we must attend to the formalities. Will you surrender and prevent the bloodshed and carnage that must otherwise occur?”

  “Major Fitzroy, all carnage and bloodshed could be avoided if you and your army would simply march back the way you came. North America is a huge land. Right now you English share it with the Spanish and even the Russians. There must be room for our little nation. Why must you chase us and hound us? Why not simply leave us to our own devices? Why not let us live in peace these hundreds of miles away from the reach of king and Parliament? I cannot see how we can be any threat to the mighty British Empire.”

  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.r />
  “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 wa
ter 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.