“One can hope,” Fitzroy said.
“I hate this place,” Danforth said while picking a stray fish bone out of his teeth. “They have taken everything that is bad in an English city and brought it here to New York, while leaving out all of the good. What we have is all the squalor of London and none of the elegance and refinement. Do you realize there are no proper theaters in this miserable excuse for a town?”
Fitzroy smiled, “How terrible for you.”
“Well, take me with you when you go and joust with the rebels. At least I can participate in a theater of the absurd.”
Fitzroy almost laughed. Captain Peter Danforth was short, plump, and ruddy-faced. Behind his back, his men called him “Apple,” and he looked like he would want to be nowhere near the hardships of the frontier. For that matter, Fitzroy had his own doubts about staying alive in the wilderness. “I thought you liked working for Cornwallis?”
“I do. He’s a great man. But nothing’s going to happen in New York that would help advance my career. Although I do have some money with which to purchase further advancement, it is not all that huge an amount. Thus, I must augment my funds with glory. Do tell me there’s an opening on Burgoyne’s staff?”
Fitzroy sympathized with his friend, although only to a point. By any definition, Danforth was far better off monetarily than Fitzroy. The problem was that Danforth didn’t always realize it. Or was it that Fitzroy was so bad off in comparison? All the money Fitzroy had earned—well, looted—during his tour of duty in India had gone to buying the commission and rank he now held. Nor would there be any more money from his family. They were fond of him and he of them, but there was simply no money to share. He was on his own to make his fortune. It was too bad there were no jewel-covered temples in the Americas crying out to be plundered.
Still, how transparent of Danforth, Fitzroy thought. Danforth loved the theater as did Johnny Burgoyne. All Fitzroy had to do was mention that a man of Danforth’s ability and interests was available and Burgoyne would jump at having him on his staff. Burgoyne had been mildly disappointed by Fitzroy’s lack of interest in things theatrical and this would make the old man happy. Of course, nothing was quite as simple as all that.
“I will put in a good word for you, Captain Danforth, but will you be spying on him for General Cornwallis?”
Danforth smiled easily and without guile, “Of course.”
The two men laughed. It was near closing time and one of the tavern girls smiled at them. She was plain-looking and skinny, but she was a woman. Danforth grabbed her and pulled her to his lap. She squealed in mock dismay as he slid his hand underneath her skirts and between her legs.
“I think we should celebrate my new position?” Danforth said to her.
The girl smiled and ran her tongue across her lips. “Any particular position you’d like, dearie?”
* * *
Owen Wells walked at the rear of the squad of soldiers accompanying the sailors into town. Even though they were in supposedly friendly territory, he held his musket tightly. It was night and who knew what lurked in New York’s narrow streets. Loyal to the cause or not, it was quite obvious that some New Yorkers would rob and rape a nun if they had a chance.
Adding to his nervousness was the fact that this would be his one and only chance to desert. Tomorrow the HMS Victory would up anchor and sail back to England with the admiral and the other ships of the convoy. There he’d heard the Victory would take up patrol duty off the coast of France. Of course, the officers hadn’t bothered to notify him of their plans; instead, they talked openly about them as if he was a piece of the furniture or part of the hull.
Owen scanned the area for a chance, any chance. He had purposely fallen behind by a few steps, nothing serious that would concern the idiotic and pimply-faced young midshipman in charge of the men sent to get special supplies for the officers. These included wines, tobacco and other expensive foodstuffs that mere sailors and marines would never smoke or taste. The bulkier normal supplies had already been loaded and getting these luxuries from local merchants was the last of their tasks.
A narrow alley appeared to his left. Owen took a deep breath, turned, and darted down it.
“Owen, what the devil are you doing?”
Christ, he thought. It was Alan, another marine. Owen had lost track of where he was. At least the sod hadn’t hollered. The rest of the unit had disappeared around a corner. “Sorry,” Owen said and hit him in the stomach with the butt of his musket. Alan crumpled. Owen quickly stripped off Alan’s jacket and tied him up with it, stuffing Alan’s own filthy kerchief in his mouth. He hated doing it, since Alan was a decent sort, but he was also a loyal Englishman who would have called for help.
He pulled some trash over his former companion and headed down the alley. If it was a dead end he would have a lot of explaining to do. It wasn’t. He continued on, even crossing several narrow and garbage-strewn streets without anyone noticing. Better, he heard no hue and cry behind him. They hadn’t even noticed he’d gone.
Owen’s luck smiled on him again. Despite the hour, laundry hung on a line and it included articles of men’s clothing. He grabbed a couple of shirts and pants and headed away. He found a niche and changed quickly. The clothing was big but it would suffice. Except for being very large around the shoulders and arms he was small to begin with and the damned Americans were so much larger than ordinary Englishmen. Now in civilian clothes, he hid his musket and uniform underneath a pile of rubbish and looked for a way off Manhattan. He hated leaving the weapon, but no one in New York walked around armed with a Tower musket. He kept the socket bayonet. He decided he would feel naked without some sort of weapon.
Again luck favored him. He reached the Hudson River and spied a small boat tied up to a small dock. He jumped into the boat, cast off, and headed downstream in the dark waters. He used an oar to steer the boat in the direction of the black blur that was the land to his right front. If he made landfall on what he thought was Staten Island, he would be free. If he missed, he ran the risk of being swept through the narrows and out to the ocean where he would doubtless die.
* * *
Fitzroy and Danforth eyed each other as they followed their respective leaders, Burgoyne and Cornwallis, into the small room off Cornwallis’ quarters at Fort George. Cornwallis closed the door, which quickly made the room stuffy and uncomfortable. There was a table and chairs, and a large map of the colonies was pinned to the wall. They took their seats.
“First of all, General Burgoyne, I am so thankful that you have accepted Captain Danforth onto your staff.”
Burgoyne smiled. “He and I have much in common. And may I assume that he will be your eyes and ears while on the expedition?”
If Cornwallis was surprised by the bluntness of the comment, he didn’t show it.
“But of course. Although one wonders just how he can be my eyes and ears when he’s five or six hundred miles away.”
“A good staff officer can accomplish miracles, gentlemen,” Danforth said with an impish grin. The comment caused both generals to laugh, which released any tension that might have been in the air. Danforth was Cornwallis’ spy and now everyone knew it. Fitzroy thought he’d have been court-martialed if he’d said anything so cheeky.
Cornwallis continued. “As you were busy seeing to the forces you just landed, I took the liberty of giving orders to those parts of the garrisons of Charleston and Boston that will report to you. I hope you don’t mind.”
If Burgoyne was upset by the gentle reminder that the army still belonged to Cornwallis, his superior, he didn’t show it. “Of course not,” he said.
“Good. The merchant transports that brought your soldiers from England, along with a couple of frigates, will be sent to Charleston to gather up the men you will be getting. The fleet will then continue on to Boston and pick up those men from that garrison. The entire host will then sail up to the St. Lawrence and then down to Quebec, where the men will disembark and await your orders
.”
Burgoyne looked puzzled. “That means my army will be divided. I had intended to march it intact from here.”
Cornwallis shook his head as if talking to a child. “I strongly recommend against it. The problem of maintaining a proper level of supplies will be simplified if there is more than one force to supply from several sources.
“Besides,” Cornwallis added, “there is no danger from an American attack. Tarleton’s scouts from Pitt and Detroit say the Americans lack the resources and the will to attack this far to the east. I see no difficulty in your marching from here to Pitt and joining with Tarleton, while Arnold and the rest march from Quebec to Detroit.”
“I see,” said Burgoyne, clearly unhappy at the thought of his army even temporarily fragmented and out of his control. It was also evident that he was less than thrilled that Arnold would hold an even temporary independent command.
Cornwallis ignored Burgoyne’s displeasure. “I’ve also given directions that a number of sailing barges be constructed at Detroit and elsewhere along Lakes Erie and Ontario. I think you will find them handy if you wish to transport any or all of your army by water around the Michigan peninsula.”
“And why would I wish to do that?” Burgoyne bristled.
Cornwallis stood and walked to the map. “Because it may be as much as a thousand miles from here to where Fort Washington and this Liberty place may lie, and I would think you had enough of the North American wilderness the last time you tried to march through it.”
Burgoyne swallowed and forced a smile. The distances shown on the map were misleading and the American wilderness was sometimes impenetrable, a fact he had indeed learned during his ill-fated Saratoga campaign of 1777. While he had succeeded in dragging hundreds of wagons and numerous cannon down from Canada, it had taken an eternity, exhausted his army, and permitted the Americans the opportunity to gather their damned militia and destroy him.
“You are correct, sir,” Burgoyne admitted.
Fitzroy was stunned. A thousand miles? Burgoyne only had to go a couple of hundred at most in his attempt to take Albany in 1777. It had ended in ignominious failure at Saratoga. Worse, on the map it looked like a trifle in comparison with the distance between New York and the rebel stronghold.
“I’m sure you will concur, General Burgoyne, that sending men and heavy supplies by water is faster and more efficient than having your entire force plowing through the woods and devouring all their supplies as they go, which, I believe, was part of your problem the last time.”
Burgoyne flushed at the reminder, but concurred. “I will continue construction of more of the appropriate craft as soon as we reach a suitable base. They will be similar to what are sometimes referred to as bateaux, but they will be larger and uniform in construction. Like you, I will refer to them as sailing barges, although I admit that the word ‘bateaux’ has more Gallic charm.”
Fitzroy glanced at Danforth and saw shock and dismay on his face. A thousand miles? Building boats? What happened to the lightning strike to destroy the enemy? Fitzroy fought the urge to laugh at his new friend. Instead, he would do it later over several glasses of wine and not in the presence of two senior generals.
Of course, he too was less than thrilled at the thought of going so far into the untracked wilderness and for what was obviously going to be a protracted period of time. But then, how untracked could it be if he American rebels had sent several thousand people into it and created settlements? Buoyed by that thought, he winked at Danforth who nodded surreptitiously. Tonight they would eat, get drunk and find a couple of reasonably clean New York doxies to pleasure them. It was the least they could do before they set off on behalf of their king and country.
Chapter 3
Owen Wells twisted against the ropes that bound him, but to no avail. His captors had tied his hands behind him with the rope wrapped behind a tree. He could kick his legs if he wanted to, but that would likely get him nothing more than another beating, and he’d had enough of those in the several days he’d been a prisoner of the scruffy bandits who’d captured him. His face was a mass of bruises and his ribs ached where he’d been kicked. The beatings only stopped when one of them realized that Owen needed to be alive for them to collect the reward from the British.
Owen’s escape from Manhattan Island had gone extremely well at first. He’d managed to land his stolen boat on Staten Island, and had carefully snuck across to New Jersey and then into Pennsylvania. There he’d felt emboldened enough to work his way openly north and west. He’d had no specific plans. All he wanted to do was put time and distance between himself and the authorities in New York.
He’d been no fool and had kept away from the trails and occasional road. He also avoided contact with the few households and bypassed the villages. He assumed that anyone who looked prosperous was a Tory, while anyone who looked impoverished would turn him in for a reward. If he saw a traveler, he hid in the brush. During the days and weeks of his journey, he’d rehoned the skills he’d possessed as a youthful poacher in his native Wales. Although he occasionally regretted throwing away his musket, he didn’t need it to catch food. A trap and snare made from local materials were more than enough to catch rabbits and squirrels and he reveled in their taste when cooked over a small fire that was also easy to make.
Thus, getting caught was gallingly stupid. Why had he thought he was far enough away from British-controlled land to ask someone how far he was away from this “Liberty” place? He had naively presumed that people so far from New York and well into Pennsylvania would be rebels and that he could drop his guard. But no, he had run into a small band of bounty hunters looking for rebels and deserters just like him, and now he faced being dragged back to New York and hanged if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he’d be sentenced to a thousand lashes, which meant that he would be flogged to death, screaming his lungs out for the mercy of death while the white bones of his ribs and spine were exposed to the air. He’d seen men whipped like that and watched as they became something less than tormented animals before they finally died.
Stupid, stupid, stupid he said to himself. The four-man bounty hunter team was now drunk and asleep. The bayonet he’d kept lay beside one of them. It was further proof that he was a deserter.
The small fire they’d burned was dying out and Owen wished they’d thought enough to feed him. They hadn’t, and were only giving him water to sustain him. They’d rather reasonably decided that it made no sense to waste food on someone who was going to die anyhow, and a weakened prisoner was easier to control.
Owen froze when he sensed rather than heard motion in the trees behind him. It was not an animal—too large. It had to be a man. Maybe it was an Indian who would slice his throat and then scalp him. As horrible as it sounded, that would be preferable to what the Royal Navy would do to him when they got their hands on him. Whoever it was, he was only tolerably good at prowling through the woods. And whoever it was apparently didn’t want the four sleepers to wake up, which meant he wasn’t on their side. Owen tried not to hope and didn’t make any kind of a sound or move. His captors were drunk, but that didn’t mean they might not suddenly wake up and get vicious.
He continued to hold still when he felt a gentle tugging at the rope that curled behind the tree to which he was bound. It sagged and he was free. A firm hand on his shoulder meant that he should stay still. He did as he was told. Then the hand tapped him and gestured for him to move away from the camp. Owen’s muscles were cramped and he found it difficult to walk silently, but he managed to do so without alerting the sleeping outlaws. His rescuer followed a few seconds later.
When they were a ways away, Owen whispered. “Why didn’t you kill them?”
His liberator turned. He now carried a pair of muskets taken from the bandits and a pistol was stuck in his belt. Owen didn’t see his bayonet and didn’t care. The hell with it, he thought.
“It would be murder and I’ve done enough of that lately. Don’t worry. They won’t follow
us without weapons.”
Owen gulped at the response. “Then tell me who you are.”
“I have the guns so you tell me first.”
Owen thought that was reasonable. After all, hadn’t the man risked a lot to untie him? He told him and, as they continued to trot through the forest, he quickly explained that he was a deserter from the Royal Navy and how he’d managed to get his stupid self captured. He added that he sincerely hoped his new friend had nothing to do with the English.
The other man laughed. “I’m Captain Will Drake of the Continental Army. If you really want to find that Liberty place I’ll help you. If it exists, of course.”
“You’ve been there, Captain?”
“No, but I think I stand a better chance of finding it than you do.”
Owen grinned. “And you’re less likely to make a fool of yourself by getting caught like I did. I’d be honored to serve under you, Captain.”
“I thought you might,” said Will. They’d come to the place where Will had been camping. They were a couple of miles away from the bounty hunters camp and had heard nothing of an alarm behind them. The four men would have a most unpleasant surprise in the morning. Perhaps they’d even be thankful that their throats hadn’t been sliced.
Will handed him a spare musket. “Take this.”
Owen grasped it and checked it out. “You think those bastards might still come after us?”
“No. I’d been watching them for about a day and I don’t think they can track very well at all, not that I’m that much better.”
Owen chuckled. “You were good enough to free me without alerting them, Captain. Personally, I don’t think those four could find their asses in the dark with both hands.”
* * *
Sarah and her family had also traveled into Pennsylvania, but that only put them close to the English troops headquartered at Fort Pitt and the adjacent city of Pittsburgh. Banastre Tarleton, the English general commanding the sprawling area, had troops and patrols on the lookout for people heading to and from the rebel enclave out west. His cavalry roamed the trails and roads looking for people to stop and question.
Liberty: 1784 - eARC Page 6
