Bored, De Peyster got up, left his tent, and walked towards the riverfront. A handful of good-sized bateaux had arrived with a large number of men who said they were Loyalists and on their way to reinforce Burgoyne. De Peyster thought it more likely that they were thieves and bandits who would prey on innocent people, so he ordered them kept on their boats and had a guard posted.
The bateaux were lined up on the riverbank, much like Burgoyne’s sailing barges had been. De Peyster blinked. The bateaux appeared empty. Where were the crews? “Damn it,” he muttered angrily. Obviously, they’d gotten away and were off in the town drinking. He turned and strode towards the fort. He would roust the handful of men on guard duty and send them and anyone else he could find to locate the missing Loyalists, if indeed that’s what they were.
“Major?”
He turned towards the sound. A group of men quickly surrounded him and took his small sword and pistol before he could even blink.
“What the devil is this?” De Peyster snarled as he regained his poise.
He gasped as he felt the cold metal touch of a knife against his throat.
“Now please be a good little British officer and nothing will happen to you or your men. If you understand, please nod.” De Peyster nodded emphatically and the pressure was lessened. He also thought that the man spoke with a southern drawl.
He became aware of scores of men moving quickly and silently past him and into Fort Lernoult. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Major, my name is Colonel Isaac Shelby and I’ve come a hell of a long ways to help out the people in Liberty and bring ruin to your General Burgoyne. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve just seized Detroit in the name of the independent colonies, and another force from the south has likely done just the same thing to Fort Pitt.”
De Peyster sighed. He was a realist. The fort, the city, and what remained of his career were all gone. The fort and the city might be regained, but his career? Never.
“Colonel Shelby, I hereby give you my word that my men and I will not attempt to escape. Will you treat my men kindly and allow my officers their parole?”
Shelby smiled in relief. He’d been terrified that he and his men would have to storm the fort. Even undermanned, the defenders would have exacted a terrible price. “Agreed,” he said.
De Peyster smiled wanly. It was time to make the best of an atrocious situation. “Excellent. Now kindly let me buy you a drink.”
Chapter 19
Burgoyne gathered his senior officers in his tent. Tarleton, Grant, and Arnold were in attendance, along with several other brigadiers. Girty and Brant were there as well, and Fitzroy thought it amusing that the regular British officers didn’t want to get too close to the disreputable pair. As usual, he stood behind his cousin and commanding general and waited for events to transpire.
Burgoyne cleared his throat and began. “Gentlemen, after reviewing the situation and after watching the defeat of Tarleton’s attack, I had come to the reluctant conclusion that a frontal assault on the rebel works would require that we pay a dreadful cost.”
When Tarleton started to protest, he was waved to silence. “I felt that such a frontal assault would ultimately prevail, but that our effectiveness to aid Cornwallis in New York, or Amherst’s efforts in Europe, would be significantly diminished. It would be a battle not unlike Bunker Hill and after it our army might not exist as an effective force.
“Therefore, I had determined to march to our left and find a way around that bloody swamp and away from their fortifications; thus forcing the rebels to meet us on an open field, however long that might have taken. Sadly, that will not occur. We no longer have the luxury of time, if, indeed, we ever had that luxury in the first instance.”
Burgoyne took up a few sheets of paper. “Last evening, I received this from Cornwallis.”
“Another epistle?” Tarleton jibed. “Or would Papal Bull be the more proper term?”
Burgoyne joined in the wry laughter before continuing. “Indeed, bull is quite the appropriate term. And this is the twenty-third letter to the heathen, who are us, and I am ungodly sick of them. However, this is by far the worst of them and will greatly impact on what we do here.”
That silenced the laughter and he continued. “This first sheet is a letter from Cornwallis with fresh orders for us, and the other is a summary from Lord North as to what is transpiring in France. According to North, the situation in France has gone from mildly hopeful to catastrophically bad. Thinking that the situation had calmed down enough for them to return, their foolish majesties, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, departed for France where their welcome was lukewarm at best. However, they forgot that their new role called for them to become limited monarchs, and, with monumental stupidity, had some local leaders summarily hanged for their part in the rebellion. The result was that the mobs arose again. Louis and Marie were captured trying to flee back to the coast. He was literally torn to pieces while she was thrown down a well where she drowned or suffocated under large quantities of excrement that were dumped on top of her as she struggled.”
“The animals! Barbarians!” exclaimed Grant, and the others joined in shouts of anger. “Regicide,” Tarleton added, somehow forgetting that Englishmen had killed Charles I a century and a half before. Only Arnold was silent.
Burgoyne continued. “As a result of the brutal murders and fresh uprisings, the situation is even more dire than it was before. Hundreds of moderates like Lafayette have again fled to England leaving the mob in control of France, where it is busy butchering what remains of the aristocracy along with anyone who ever even helped the nobles. The revolutionaries have raised an army of several hundred thousand peasants and, while untrained and poorly equipped, are so great in numbers that they could overwhelm a smaller army of British regulars should they meet in the field.”
Burgoyne handed the letters to Grant who began to read them for himself as Burgoyne went on. “Simply put, Lord North and Cornwallis want their army back, and as immediately as possible. I was required to sign a receipt upon receiving the message from Cornwallis, which also informed me that I had but a week after signing said document to finish things here. If the rebels have not been subdued by that time, we are to return to New York as quickly as possible. Even though that could take some months, and would leave the damned rebels in charge of this land and their own destiny, it would have to be done.”
Voices rose in protest and Burgoyne silenced them with a wave. “And yes, gentlemen, I understand fully that the information received by Cornwallis and now by us is many months old, and any request for urgency could have been overtaken by new facts we are not privy to, but our orders stand. We will move much more quickly on the rebel works than I had wished even though it will result in higher casualties than I had desired. I can only hope that we will not destroy the army Lord North wants returned to his bosom.
“Therefore, we will not march around their flanks in search of a weak point to force them out of their works. We will indeed attack frontally, but only after we have prepared the field to limit their advantages. I have spoken of this to General Grant whose force will lead the assault, which will consist of the bulk of our army attacking as a great phalanx across a narrow front. The phalanx will consist of a number of columns, each column ten men across, approximately as we did at Bunker Hill. They will use only the bayonet since the men behind can’t fire without hitting those in front. We will rush them and overwhelm them with cold steel, the most frightening weapon we have. Then the columns will spread out and destroy the remnants of the rebel army. We will have three days to remove those thickets and fill in such ditches as we can. Then we will attack and smash our way through them, and we will prevail come what may.”
Tarleton stood up. “I beg for the honor of leading the attack.”
Burgoyne smiled inwardly. Getting the arrogant ass killed might be a good and pleasing thing, but with Tarleton’s luck, he might pull it off and be proclaimed a hero.
&nbs
p; “Your courageous offer is duly noted,” Burgoyne said, “but that command will still fall to General Grant. It is a decision based on his seniority, his rank, and his experience. You, however, will use what will remain of your force to protect our flank and harass theirs, as well as being available to support Grant when his phalanx smashes through the rebel lines. Fear not, Banastre, there will be plenty of honor to go around.”
Tarleton appeared to sulk for a moment, but Fitzroy thought he actually looked relieved that his request for glory had been denied. “Has the messenger departed?” Tarleton inquired. “I have some correspondence to send if he hasn’t.”
“No, he has gone. He had orders to leave as soon as I had signed the receipt. He didn’t even have time to wait for a response. Curious though, that he couldn’t even wait for a little while.”
Fitzroy thought briefly about the short but powerfully young Welsh ensign who’d brought the message and departed so quickly. He’d wanted to quiz the messenger about a multitude of things, but the man had pleaded the necessity of duty, jumped back on his horse and ridden away. He’d been in such a devil of a hurry that he hadn’t even waited to be fed. Curious indeed.
* * *
Ephram and four of his cronies quickly overpowered the two men detailed to guard the would-be changelings during the night. They were bound and gagged, but, other than a few bruises, not harmed. Ephram had no urge to kill them. He considered himself a man of peace. He gathered the rest of his men along with the women and children and headed towards the rear of the American defenses.
As hoped, the American sentries were watching the British and not very much caring what was going on behind them. If they heard anything from the fifty-odd people, the soldiers probably thought that a detachment of fellow soldiers was moving around behind them.
Just before they reached the earthworks, they paused. In the night they could hear the sounds of the British pulling and hacking at the thicket that had destroyed the earlier British attack. The British soldiers were lying prone as much as much as they could and hurling grappling hooks into the thicket. Once snagged, the British pulled on them and dragged the abattis apart. He thought it was curious that the rebels weren’t firing on the British workers, but concluded that there were no good targets in the night.
Ephram was pleased. The British efforts meant that they would have that much less distance to run to safety. He had all his people bunch together. The women and boys would hold the youngest children as they dashed towards the British. As a sign of good faith, they were unarmed. Their faith was in British mercy and their god.
“Now!” he ordered and they all rushed over the parapet and out into the no man’s land between the two lines, and headed through the narrow gaps in the abattis he knew existed.
“Save us!” he hollered to the British and ran towards them with his hands in the air. The others picked up the chant and “save us” was chorused by more than two score throats.
Ephram was conscious that the British diggers had abandoned their shovels and were also running towards their lines and it confused him. Why would they do that? Gasping and stumbling, he and his followers continued on.
Then, only a few yards away, they perceived a line of soldiers. They were indeed safe, Ephram thought smugly. A few more strides and they would be behind British lines and with much to tell. Damn the rebels for not releasing them and forcing them to go through with this charade.
A ripple of fire shattered the night as a hundred muskets fired into them. Ephram died immediately, a bullet in his skull. Most of his followers fell to the ground, wounded and screaming, or, like Ephram, dead. Deprived of their leader, the survivors simply milled around in confusion and dismay, howling at the loss of their love ones.
A second volley scythed through them and most of the survivors were killed or wounded. The literal handful who still lived, turned and ran towards the American lines, screaming that the British were murderers. There was no third volley.
Behind the embankment, General Tallmadge watched with General John Stark. “Did you expect that to happen?” Stark inquired angrily.
“No,” Tallmadge said. “I had no idea they would try such a thing.” The slaughter sickened him. “But I cannot say I am disappointed. Such butchery will drive home the fact that the Redcoats are murderers, and that neither they nor their promises can be trusted.”
“What will you do with the survivors?”
“Those who made it back will be allowed to do whatever they wish. They can even leave if they so desire, although I doubt that they will want to go to the British after what has happened to their friends and families. They will stand as living proof of British perfidy. In the morning, we will attempt to see if any remain alive out there and ask for a truce to recover bodies if the British don’t do so first. I would think parading dead children throughout the camp would again be a reminder to our people that the British will show no mercy.”
“You, General Tallmadge, are a devious, conniving bastard,” Stark said with a small smile. “I admire that in a man.”
Tallmadge nodded solemnly. “Which is exactly what you need to stand a chance of winning; thus, I will accept your compliment.”
* * *
Dawn brought another flag of truce and another meeting between Will Drake and James Fitzroy. For his part, the British officer looked shaken, while Will was righteously grim, although sickened by the carnage.
“Major Drake, I want you to know that we had no idea that those people were unarmed civilians. Had we but known, we would never have fired on them. The officers and men who fired on them are stunned by what has happened.”
Will responded solemnly. “If it’s any consolation, we understand fully how it must have looked to your men. In the middle of the night, what looked like a large number of people came out of our lines, yelling and running up to the men who are trying to destroy our defenses. I cannot see how your men could have behaved otherwise. It is a tragedy, Major, and the only ones truly to blame are those foolish, foolish people who ran at you like that.”
“The officer in charge of the guard detail is very distraught,” Fitzroy added. “Several small children were killed and he blames himself for the atrocity.”
“Tell him that neither General Stark, nor, for that matter, the survivors who made it back, hold him responsible. They were under the spell of a messianic leader named Ephram and to the extent that any individual is to blame for that piece of horror, it is Ephram.”
“I will tell Captain Blaylock that, although one wonders how much solace he will get hearing it from his enemy.”
Will considered it ironic that the British were so concerned about the inadvertent killing of people they’d come to destroy in the first place.
“Do you have any survivors on your side?” Will asked.
“Three, and they are badly wounded, although,” Fitzroy added wryly, “don’t worry about them betraying your secrets. I rather doubt that they know anything that we haven’t already learned. On the other hand, I am certain you have figured out that the massacre, however unintended, can be used to your advantage. I rather think that your people consider us vile killers of women and children, and that you will do nothing to change their minds.”
Will shrugged. “I cannot help what people think, although I rather doubt that they were favorably disposed towards you in the first place, since you’ve marched all this way to either kill us or enslave us.”
“You’re right, of course, Major Drake. At any rate, thank you for accepting our sincere apologies, however useless they are.”
“As I said, we understand fully. And, by the way, Mistress Van Doorn sends her regards, and, for your information, she is a lady who is most highly regarded and respected in our camp.” He held out a piece of paper. “She asked me to deliver a small note if I thought you’d be favorably disposed to receive it.”
Fitzroy almost grabbed it and Drake laughed, “Just a little anxious, Major?”
* * *
“So how do you like consorting with the enemy?” Sarah teased. “You and that major must be good friends by now.”
Will lay back on the grass and looked up at the clouds that scudded across the sky. They were about a half mile from any houses and in a world of their own. They had made love, bathed in a small pond, and made love again. For his part, Will was sated, but he had the feeling that Sarah was not. He could only hope he would be up to the occasion. It was almost sunset and he didn’t have to be back until morning, so maybe he could manage it.
“He actually seems like a decent sort, as, frankly, so many of them do. The people I dealt with on the battlefield were professional soldiers and our enemy, but human beings nonetheless. The animals were the sort who ran the prisons and the hulks. They were looked down on contemptuously by the regular line officers.”
“Tarleton’s one of those professionals that you admire, isn’t he?” she teased.
Will chuckled. “Tarleton’s an exception to any rule. He’s a monster. And people like Girty and Braxton are animals, and not professionals. In any other time and place they would be nothing more than criminals. I still cannot fathom why Tarleton is considered a hero in England.”
“Will, has it occurred to you that they haven’t really sent their best generals to conquer us?”
He raised himself on his elbow and thought it unusual that they would be talking military matters while lying naked on the grass. “We’ve talked about it. Tarleton’s not experienced enough, and Arnold isn’t trusted by anyone. However, Grant is as solid as they come, and Burgoyne is an experienced professional who seems to have learned from many of his past mistakes. We all hope that he hasn’t learned too much.”
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 33
