Will sat up, pulled up a long grass and began to chew on it. “Still, you raise a good point. The British are stretched as a result of the deteriorating situation in France, and many of their best leaders want no part of tramping through the forest to take us, any more than they did when the revolution first broke out so many years ago. No glory or honor doing that. No, they all want to be in France when Paris is liberated from the mob.”
Sarah moved beside him and put her head on his shoulder. He flicked the grass away. “So now they spend every day whittling at our defenses and filling in the traps we dug for them.”
“Surely they can’t fill in all of them?” She said.
“No,” he said. “Not all of them.”
She pushed him on his back and rolled on top of him. “Enough of that ugly world. All I want is the here and now.” She reached behind and took his manhood in her hand. To Will’s pleased surprised, he was indeed rising to the occasion. She guided him inside her and began to rock on top of him. “This is all I want today, Will Drake. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”
* * *
Fitzroy was the presenter. He stood in front of the crudely drawn map of the area. “The rebel order of battle is really quite simple. Morgan commands an American division in the center, while Wayne is to our right and Clark to our left. The divisions are not equal in strength. Morgan’s is the largest at close to two thousand men, and Wayne has another thousand. Clark has five hundred at most, although a high percentage of them are woodsmen and considered deadly shots.”
“And the Hessians?” Grant asked. “The bloody deserters? How many are there, and where the devil are they?”
“We estimate their strength at perhaps another thousand, and they are under von Steuben,” Fitzroy said. “We believe they will be behind the center of the line, or wherever they feel we will launch our major attack.”
“They will be extremely dangerous,” Grant said softly. “They know that their best option is a fast death.”
Or victory, Fitzroy thought but was tactful enough not to say it out loud. “We estimate the total rebel numbers at well less than five thousand, which they will attempt to defend against our thirteen thousand.”
Grant nodded. They had started with over fourteen thousand men, but the constant skirmishing and the need to garrison depots along their route had reduced the number to actually less than thirteen thousand. The crews of Arnold’s Armada had been used to form an additional regiment, which Arnold had as part of his command.
Fitzroy continued. “As to artillery, we have the two nine-pounders recovered from Arnold’s ships, and have them on sledges. Sadly, there are no shells for them, so they will fire langrage only. They will not be effective at long range. We will also have the small guns and ammunition which we’ve removed from the two schooners, a total of ten four pounders, and they do have their shells. What they don’t have, however, is proper carriages for being moved about on land or being secured from damage caused by recoil. The carriages they are on are meant to be tied down to the hull of a ship.”
“We will make do with what we have,” Burgoyne said softly.
“And what of their peasant army?” Tarleton inquired with a sneer.
Fitzroy eyed him coldly. He was referring to the group of women, old men, and young boys that would likely include Hannah Van Doorn. “We estimate another thousand ill-armed and poorly trained people of both sexes and all ages who will be used against us. As you are aware, they will be primarily armed with pikes, axes, and anything else they can find or that the evil mind of Dr. Franklin can devise. We believe they will be led in battle by General Schuyler.”
That surprised them. Schuyler was a major general and to lead such a host would be demeaning. Or was it? Like the Hessians, those in what Tarleton contemptuously referred to as a peasant’s army would fight with incredible desperation when the time came.
Burgoyne stood. “As we’ve discussed, General Grant will command a phalanx of ten thousand men. It will be a hundred men across and a hundred men deep, with the first several ranks consisting of grenadiers. Without pretension or subtlety, the phalanx will crash into the center of the American lines and push its way through. It will succeed for the simple reason that the rebels do not have the manpower to stop it. And, if they try to reinforce their center from their flanks, we will attack their weakened flanks and overwhelm them. Casualties will initially be heavy, but the attack will quickly force the rebels to fight us on our terms and we cannot lose such a battle. At the end of a bloody but decisive day, the rebels will cease to exist as an army.”
As might we, Fitzroy thought.
Burgoyne looked away. “There will doubtless be rebel survivors, particularly among the women and children, who will run and, quite frankly, I am inclined to let them run as far away as they wish. Let them flee to the mercies of the Indians, or try to get back to their homes in the east. Let them be messengers of doom. Those people can be picked up at our leisure or simply left to rot in the backwoods.”
There was a round of cheers. Grant seemed confident, and even Tarleton looked pleased at the prospect of such a slaughter. Only Arnold seemed less than enthusiastic. Fitzroy wondered if he was having second, or even third, thoughts about his treason. He almost felt sorry for Arnold. He was a man without a home.
* * *
The shifting of thousands of men did not go unnoticed. Will and Sergeant Barley lay in the grass and watched as large numbers of Redcoats moved hither and yon. They were behind the British, having had little difficulty sneaking through the enemy pickets. Either they were incompetent or they were indifferent as to what the rebels might find out. Will depressingly thought it was the latter.
“What the devil are they up to?” Barley muttered. Will smiled. Finding the answer to that question was why they were there.
“I rather think it has something to do with the coming attack, don’t you?”
Barley grunted and spat on the ground. “Not that I don’t like you, Major, but I’d much rather they’d sent Owen instead of you. He’s a much better tracker.”
Will had wondered the why of that as well. Tallmadge had explained it simply. Will was more of a professional soldier than Owen and would be better able to interpret what the movements all meant. And, for some unexplained reason, Owen was not to be used. Tallmadge kept his intelligence efforts compartmentalized, which meant that Owen was involved in something important and the possibility of his capture could not be allowed to jeopardize it.
Unfortunately, this meant that Will’s capture could indeed be risked. He was out of what little he had that passed for a uniform and he’d be hanged if caught. Fortunately, the only Englishman who might recognize him was his counterpart, Fitzroy, and they’d only met twice. While he was fairly certain he’d recognize the Brit, he wondered if the reverse were true. Probably, he admitted sadly, even though he was unshaven, dirty, dressed in a frontiersman’s buckskins and carrying a long rifle. The rifle was a difficult weapon, but he was confident in his abilities. He also hoped it would help his disguise as a member of an irregular unit.
“Enough,” Will said and stood up. With forced casualness, he stepped boldly out onto a trail and walked to where a number of British officers were examining stakes that had been driven into the ground. They barely noticed him as he watched their deliberations. To them he was just another colonial bumpkin with a long rifle in the crook of his arm and doubtless one of the handful of loyalist militia that had been arriving in very small numbers.
However, a small, trim Hessian officer in an impeccably clean powder blue uniform with gold facing stood apart and Will nodded politely to him. The officer turned and walked toward him. Will gave the Hessian the casual salute that a colonial might give and it was returned.
“And who might you be?” the Hessian enquired.
“Captain John Smith of the newly formed Loyal Connecticut Rangers, sir,” he answered, hoping that the German didn’t recognize such an obvious alias. Foolishly, he hadn’t
thought anyone would ask him his name. “And who might you be?”
The German was momentarily surprised that anyone might question him in return. “I am Colonel Erich von Bamberg of Hesse.”
Will immediately recognized the name of the man who had hanged innocent people on the suspicion of their being deserters. If von Bamberg was annoyed at Will’s posing a question to him, he didn’t seem overly concerned. Obviously he’d grown somewhat used to the ways of the colonies.
“Are you with Girty’s people, then?” von Bamberg asked.
Will allowed his distaste to show. “Hardly, sir. I am a soldier. They are animals.”
Von Bamberg chuckled. “Good for you. And when did you arrive?”
“Just yesterday along with some more messages for General Burgoyne. I’ll be going back to Detroit shortly.”
“Well, that explains why I never saw you before or ever heard of your Loyal Connecticut Rangers.”
Will decided it was time for a change in the conversation. “Colonel, may I ask what all this activity means?”
Von Bamberg smiled happily. “Why, captain, we are trying to prepare for the grand assault which will take place either tomorrow or the next day. Surely you’ve heard that the good and wise General Burgoyne has ordered a massive frontal assault on the rebel works and that the attack is designed to destroy them?”
“I have, sir.”
“Indeed. Approximately ten thousand men will line up in ranks about a hundred across and a hundred deep. They will charge the rebels and be an irresistible force. The wooden stakes are here so the men will know exactly where to line up. It is quite a project and may require a rehearsal, which, since Burgoyne loves theater, he might appreciate. Of course, Burgoyne is telling the rebels exactly where the attack will fall because he certainly cannot shift this mass of soldiers around like chess pieces. There will be no surprise at all, I fear.”
Will nodded. “I sense you do not feel total approval, Colonel.”
“I’m just a guest here, Captain, but perhaps you could tell me what problems such an attack might cause?”
Will pondered. He wasn’t certain if he was being condescended to or if the Hessian genuinely wanted his opinion. “I can think of a couple. To begin with, only the very first rank or two would be able to fire on the enemy. The rest would be useless, although they could certainly use the strength of their push, plus their bayonets, when they closed on the rebels.”
The Hessian was visibly impressed. “Very good. Now what else?”
“By concentrating his forces on such a narrow front, General Burgoyne is forfeiting much of his numerical advantage. We outnumber them, so he might have launched a strong attack at several places and stretched the rebels too thin to withstand all the attacks. If only just one of several attacks succeeded, the rebels would have to retreat. Also, such a narrow front attack means the rebels can concentrate their numbers as well.”
“Excellent. What did you do before joining the Rangers?”
“I was a farmer, but I read a lot.”
“Then you might have heard of the ancient battle of Thermopylae, where a Spartan named Leonidas and three hundred men held off a large Persian host because the Spartans held a narrow front.”
“Indeed, and I also know that the Spartans were ultimately overwhelmed and destroyed. Do you fear that this attack might be another Thermopylae?”
“Not quite,” said von Bamberg. “I do fear that a great loss of life will occur, however, and, by the way, the Spartans were not overwhelmed. They were betrayed.”
Will smiled. “I’d forgotten.”
Von Bamberg nodded and smiled grimly. “Enjoy your observations, Captain, and have a safe trip back to Detroit. Or are you going to stay for the fight?”
“I plan on leaving as soon as possible.”
Von Bamberg turned and walked towards where a pair of his Hessian soldiers were resting. They were about a hundred yards away and snapped to attention as they saw von Bamberg. When he reached them, Von Bamberg turned and began to yell and point to Will.
“Spy! Spy! Grab him, he’s a spy?”
* * *
Will ran as hard and fast as he could. The cluster of trees that had hidden him and Barley was almost a quarter mile away. He looked over his shoulder. Von Bamberg and the two soldiers were pursuing, but all his yells had attracted little other attention, although a couple of unarmed Redcoats were looking at them, slack-jawed with confusion.
What the hell had gone wrong, Will wondered as he ran. Did the damned German know there was no such unit as the Loyal Connecticut Rangers? Perhaps Will had just been too inquisitive for an ignorant colonial. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t reach the trees and Barley, he’d be caught and hanged.
To his astonishment, von Bamberg seemed to be gaining. Of course the Hessian wasn’t trying to run while holding a long rifle. Will thought about turning and firing, but, if he missed, the Hessians would be almost on him. No, he would try for the woods before defending himself.
Less than a hundred yards to go and Will could hear von Bamberg’s heavy breathing.
“Stop, you rebel bastard,” von Bamberg yelled and gasped. The man was clearly out of shape and might not be able to run much farther. However, he might not have to.
A shot rang out and Bamberg screamed. Will turned to see the Hessian falling backwards. A red stain was spreading across his chest.
“Get your ass in here,” Barley shouted as he rose up from the ground.
Will ran into the trees, ducked behind a thick trunk and prepared to fire at the two remaining Hessians who had stopped and were bending over their fallen leader.
“Don’t,” said Barley. “I haven’t reloaded yet.”
Will agreed. One of them should always be ready to shoot. The two Hessians were picking up their colonel who hung limply between them. There was little doubt that he was dead. They showed no interest at all in continuing the chase. Barley had finished loading and the two men looked at each other. There was no reason for more killing.
“Thank you, Barley.”
The sergeant grinned. “If my memory serves me, this isn’t the first time I’ve saved your worthless ass.”
Will punched him on the shoulder. “Try ‘worthless ass, sir,’ and let’s figure out a way to get back to our lines before the unfortunate death of von Bamberg, the murdering Hessian swine, brings more attention than we can handle.”
Chapter 20
Fitzroy stood over the lifeless body of Colonel Erich von Bamberg. The dead German had been laid out on the ground beside an open grave and he tried to generate some sympathy for the man. That he couldn’t was not a surprise. After all was said and done and despite his belated efforts at civility, the Hessian had been a coldblooded and callous murderer of both his own men and those who were innocent. He wondered which part of hell was reserved for men like von Bamberg and monsters like Tarleton and Girty. Perhaps they’d share a cell for all eternity.
That there were rebel spies watching the army maneuver into position came as no surprise, although the audacity of this particular spy was worthy of note. It took courage to simply wander around as if he belonged there and ask questions. In a way, such openness was better than skulking behind trees and peering through telescopes.
The two Hessian soldiers who had been chasing the spy were dumber than oxen and had not seen the face of the spy. All they knew is that he was very tall, very fast, heavily armed, and was accompanied by a large number of rebels, which is why they had given up the chase when Bamberg had been shot. They’d added that it had also been necessary to try to give aid to their beloved colonel whose death the entire Hessian detachment would deeply mourn.
“Bull,” Fitzroy muttered and then concluded that the two Hessians weren’t as dumb as he’d first thought. They’d avoided a possible ambush by pretending to help a hated officer who was dead before he hit the ground. And mourn my ass, he thought. The Hessians who remained out of von Bamberg’s original detachment would celebrate their l
oathsome commander’s death, and Fitzroy wouldn’t blame them for one minute. Von Bamberg’s second in command was a very young lieutenant who looked overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him.
Fitzroy caught Burgoyne’s eye. The general winked. Von Bamberg would not be missed.
Fitzroy wondered just who the spy had been. Perhaps the next time, if there was a next time, that he saw the rebel Major Drake, he would ask him. Then he chuckled. Did he really expect Drake to give him the name of a spy?
“I must be getting old,” he mentioned to Danforth who had just joined the group.
“I dare say we all are,” said Danforth, “just remember that growing old is far better than dying young. You will join me in a drink or several in honor of the dead German to speed him on his way to Valhalla, will you not?”
Fitzroy smiled. Why not indeed?
* * *
Tallmadge looked over the crude map that Will had drawn. The position of the gathering place for the British attack showed that they would attack at very near the center of the American lines. Stark, Schuyler, and Von Steuben watched.
Von Steuben’s English had improved over the years from impossible to understand to fairly good. He turned to Will. “Why did your man find it necessary to shoot von Bamberg? I was so looking forward to hanging him by his testicles. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Sorry, sir,” Will said with a smile.
“Their attack will not be very subtle at all,” Tallmadge continued. Stark and the others silently agreed. “You’ve done a good job, Will. This proves that the British are locked into a specific plan of action with little flexibility at all.”
Von Steuben growled. “That is the good news. Additional good news is that they will be so massed that virtually anything we fire at them will hit someone and most of them will not be able to fire back at us. The bad is that we will be hard pressed to repel such an overwhelmingly strong attack. We will fight hard, especially my Hessians who have no choice and no hope of a life if we do not win, but I do not think we can stop them.”
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 34
