Thus, when they heard the thunder of hooves behind them, they quickly ducked into the thick bushes that lined the trail they’d been following. They dismounted and held their horses steady. Sarah and the others held their breath as about twenty green-coated cavalry pounded past. “Tarleton’s men,” her uncle muttered. “Dragoons, and Tories all, damn them.”
They waited. The enemy seemed to be on a mission, looking for someone or something. Finally, Uncle Wilford stood. “Time to get moving, I guess. But we’re staying off the trail.”
There was no argument. They began to move cautiously through the woods on foot, leading their horses to keep them quiet. After a short while, they heard the sounds of cries and screams. They looked at each other. Whatever was happening up ahead could have easily happened to them. Nobody wished ill on anyone else, but that’s how it sometimes happened. They’d gotten lucky and that’s all there was to it.
Wilford led by a few yards. He paused and signaled the others to wait, but that Sarah should come forward. He indicated that she should crouch or crawl and she complied. He pushed the branches of a bush aside and she saw what had happened.
A group of maybe a dozen travelers had been intercepted by the dragoons who had just ridden past them. There were men and a handful of women along with a couple of children. The women were on the ground, naked, and were being held down and raped by Tarleton’s men, who were whooping and hollering as they took their turns. The men in the group, also naked, were all bound and gagged, except for one man who lay limp and bloody on the ground, probably dead. The children ran around screaming hysterically and were ignored by the British, except for one who was kicked by a dragoon when he tried to get close to one of the women.
“We can’t help them,” her uncle said sadly, but firmly. “It might not be very Christian to ignore them, but we don’t want anyone to see us or the same thing might happen to us. If we stay south of Pittsburgh, we might avoid British patrols. I understand there’s a mighty river that flows westward to the Mississippi. We make it to the river perhaps we can get a boat to take us farther west.”
Sarah thought her uncle was grasping at straws, but said nothing. In truth, she had nothing to add because there were no other options. She wondered what would happen to the surviving travelers. Would they be allowed to continue their journey, naked and abused, or would they be killed? Or arrested? Sarah shuddered. Could have been us, she kept repeating to herself. Clearly this Tarleton was as bad as Sheriff Braxton.
They had to get past the British patrols before they could be safe. Her knowledge of the area’s geography was scant, but, like her uncle, she did recall hearing of several rivers that met at Pitt and at least one of them then flowed west. She thought it was the Ohio. Of course they couldn’t get a boat at Pittsburgh, but perhaps he was right. Maybe they could find something.
A keening wail from one of the abused travelers cut like a knife and drew them back to the tragic scene less than a hundred yards away. She parted the bushes to see better. The dragoons had mounted their horses and were riding off slowly, while the travellers, now only half dressed and trying to repair the torn clothes that had been ripped from their bodies, were gathered over the man who’d been lying on the ground.
“We can help them now,” she said.
“A penny says that man is dead and we can’t help at all,” said cousin Faith, who had quietly joined them.
As the travellers moved the pale body Sarah could see that the man’s head was bloodied and smashed. Worse, his limbs were totally limp. Even at a distance, they judged the situation as hopeless. What made it worse was the commonly held knowledge that Tarleton’s green-coated dragoons were likely all Tories, men who also called the colonies their home. Sarah wondered how they could commit such crimes against people who were their neighbors. Of course, she thought ruefully, there was the little matter of a war that had raged for six years and, in many ways, was a civil war pitting brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. That she and her family were heading west was proof that vengeance was the rule of the day. She wondered just how she would have behaved towards the Tories if the revolution had succeeded.
Silently, they led their horses away. In a bit, they mounted. The tragic scene reinforced their hatred for the British and the correctness of their decision to head west.
Sarah thought that the only good thing to come from their journey was the irony that they were all healthier and stronger than when they’d lived in Pemberton. Sarah felt that she was stronger mentally and physically. She had lost weight, and little plump Faith looked like she’d gained confidence as she shed pounds. So far, they’d had little trouble finding berries and vegetables to eat, and there was fresh water in abundance. An occasional fish, or a trapped rabbit or squirrel, had rounded out their diet.
Of course, all the health in the world would mean nothing if Tarleton’s horsemen caught up to them.
* * *
Will and Owen lay on the ground and stared intently at the half dozen armed men who rested on the small hill a couple of hundred yards in front of them. The men just stood there, nonchalantly holding their muskets, while their unfettered horses grazed contentedly. Behind them was yet another stand of thick forest, which puzzled Will. If the men wanted to be unseen, all they had to do was move a few feet into the woods and they’d be invisible. Also, if it wasn’t for the weapons, they could have passed for workmen taking their ease while the boss was away. They exchanged food and drank from canteens as the two men watched. The group exuded quiet confidence which further concerned Will. They acted as if they owned the forest.
The riders had been easy to spot. Owen and Will had crept as far as they could through the forest and into the brushes without being seen by the armed men. Perhaps, Will thought, the riders had been too easy to spot.
There was no real trail or path as they headed west, but there were places where the presence of previous travelers could be discerned and this was one of them. When paths were obvious, the two men didn’t follow them. Instead, they worked their way parallel to them, hoping that they would not run into an ambush. The sight of the armed men in front of them confirmed their choice.
“Who do you think they are?” Owen asked.
Will didn’t respond. The answer to the question was crucial. They were far enough west, they hoped, for the band of armed men to possibly be American rebels. Still, there was no guarantee of anything. They could be Tarleton’s men, or outlaws like the men who had seized Owen. Hell, he thought, they could be that same group with a couple of more men added to it. They had a major decision to make. Should they try to evade them or go up to them? The wrong step could prove fatal.
“I wish I had a telescope,” Will muttered.
“I wish I could fly,” Owen chuckled.
“We can go around them. It’d mean a big detour, but it may be the best way.”
Owen was about to say he agreed when several more horsemen joined the group and they all spread out. “Shit,” he said. “Now we’ll have to wait forever.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” said a deep voice from their rear. “Now get up slowly and raise your hands above your heads and don’t even think of trying for your weapons.”
Owen and Will did as they were told. When they turned around, a group of five men had muskets leveled at them. They wore no uniform, except for a patch of blue cloth sewn to their chests. One large man with a reddish beard and a ruddy complexion wore the insignia of a sergeant and was their leader. He also had been branded on the cheek with the letter “R.” Will saw that a couple of the others bore the same scar.
The sergeant spoke. “Now, just who the hell are you and what are you doing so far west?”
The scars meant that the men were American soldiers. Or at least they had been at one time. Who knew what they were this day? “We’re trying to get to Fort Washington,” Will said. “Or Liberty. Either will do.”
“So is everybody, or at least that’s what they say” the sergeant responded
. “Now answer my question, who are you?”
Will stood tall and allowed his arms to slowly drop to his side. The soldiers didn’t seem to mind, even seemed slightly amused by his small act of defiance. “I am Captain Will Drake of the Continental Army, and this is Owen Wells, late of His Majesty’s Navy. We are traveling together.”
“I hope you’re not together for security’s sake, considering how easily we caught you,” the sergeant said.
Will winced as the others guffawed at their expense. They had fallen for an old trick. They’d been gulled into believing that the men in plain sight were dangerous when the real threat was creeping up on them while they were transfixed. The trick may have been as old as the hills, but it had been skillfully done.
“I told you who I was, now, who are you?” Will asked.
The big sergeant straightened slightly. “Sergeant William Barley, Second Regiment, New Continental Army.”
Will nearly gasped with relief. Assuming the armed men were telling the truth, they had finally found the rebel forces.
“If you’re not lying about yourselves, you’ll be welcomed,” Barley continued. “Of course, if you’re lying, we’ll hang your asses. A lot of British have tried to get into Liberty and Fort Washington and maybe some have succeeded, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let in everybody who walks up and knocks. Is there anyone who’ll vouch for you at Fort Washington so you can vouch for the squatty little Brit?”
“Up your ass,” snarled Owen and the troopers laughed.
Barley laughed too, but kept his musket aimed squarely at Owen’s stomach. “You look like a Brit, you sound like a Brit, and you say you were a Brit, so why shouldn’t I think you’re a Brit spy. Anybody can claim they’ve deserted now can’t they? Helluva thing to prove, though. I guess we could turn you back to the Redcoats, and if they hang you, then it would prove you were telling the truth.”
“Watch,” Owen said. He carefully removed his jacket and then his shirt. He turned and showed the Americans his back. It was covered with scars and welts. “Now ask me how much I love fucking King George and his goddamned Royal Navy.”
“Jesus,” said Barley, fingering the branding scar on his own cheek. “You pass, little man, at least for the moment. Put your shirt back on.” He turned to Will. “Now you, Captain. I don’t doubt that you have a brand scar on your leg, along with other marks, but those will get you only so far. So, who’ll vouch for you?”
“Who’s at Fort Washington?” Will asked.
“General Greene knows you?”
Will thought quickly. He’d seen Nathanael Greene on a number of occasions, but doubted that the general who’d been Washington’s second in command would recall him from Adam. Still, it was a comfort that a general of Greene’s stature was at Fort Washington.
“Probably not.”
“Then how about Wayne or von Steuben?”
“I doubt it. What about Alexander Hamilton?”
Barley shook his head. “He’s rotting away in a prison in Jamaica, and, if you’re a spy, you’d have known that.”
“We could guess all day, Sergeant Barley, and maybe not find a match. Why don’t you take me in and then sort it out?”
Barley nodded. “Makes sense. We’ll have to treat you as prisoners until we can turn you over to General Tallmadge.”
Will felt like laughing in relief. “Is General Tallmadge’s first name Benjamin?”
Barley relaxed slightly. “It is. Will he vouch for you?”
Will couldn’t stop grinning. “Yes he will.”
* * *
Major Fitzroy sat behind a small table in the tent that served as Burgoyne’s headquarters near Albany. The air in the tent was stuffy and he was sweating like a pig, but decorum would not let him remove any of his uniform while interviewing colonials. Had to impress them, he thought, and then wondered if they were at all impressed by the idiocy of wearing a heavy wool uniform in the middle of summer. He decided he didn’t want to know.
“Next,” he called.
A large man entered and stood before him. Fitzroy almost choked. The man was a thing, an apparition, an escapee from hell. His eyebrows were gone and his nose little more than two holes in the raw, red skin of what passed for his face. There was next to nothing in the way of lips, exposing broken and rotting teeth, and the man’s ears were equally raw lumps with holes in them.
But the apparition was real and could speak and his eyes showed fury and hatred. “You can stare if you like, Major. Everyone else does. I know what I am and it doesn’t bother me anymore. The Indians and many of those who know me call me the Burned Man.”
“You surprised me, that’s all.” Fitzroy was also surprised that the creature spoke English instead of the language of Satan but did not say so.
“Indeed. Regardless, I am here to volunteer.”
“In what capacity?” Fitzroy asked as he tried to gain control of the situation. Perhaps the creature wanted to be their resident bogeyman.
“I wish to be a militia officer. I’ve brought a band of fifty men who feel like I do towards the rebels, and who want me to lead them, and I’m certain I can get more to join me. We want to kill rebels.”
“Did the rebels do that to you?”
Something ghastly that might have been a grin flickered across the man’s ruined face. “You are quite perceptive.”
Fitzroy caught the sarcasm and flushed. “What happened?”
The man shrugged. “The vicious and cowardly bastards set a trap for me while I was trying to enforce the king’s law, and I fell for it. There was an explosion and I was covered with burning oil. My friends put out the fire by dousing me with water and covering me with dirt. There are more scars on my arms and chest if you wish to see.”
“No thank you,” Fitzroy said, controlling a shudder.
Fitzroy noted that one of Burned Man’s hands was missing two fingers and the other more resembled a claw then something human. Some of the wounds were so raw that he wondered if the man shouldn’t be in bed recuperating.
“You’re right, Major, it didn’t happen all that long ago and everyone thought I was going to die, including my whore of a wife who ran off with another man while I lay in agony. But I didn’t die and I won’t die until I’ve had a good measure of revenge. I caught my slut of a wife and her bastard lover and killed both of them. I let her watch while I cut off his head, and then I chopped off hers and put it on a fence post beside his. But there’s still the rebels who did this to me and I want them dead as well. I know I should still be resting and regaining my strength, but that doesn’t help me kill rebels, now does it?”
“I suppose not,” Fitzroy said.
“And I want to destroy the particular group of damned rebels who did this to me,” he snarled. “That is one way I will become stronger. Hate will keep me going. I trust you won’t stand in my way when I find them?”
Fitzroy thought quickly. The decision was easy. The Burned Man said he had brought fifty men and, if they were anything like their horribly mutilated leader, they would be useful and highly motivated. He had a disquieting thought that the Burned Man’s band would be very difficult to control and discipline, but he reasoned that many terrible things would happen to both sides in the course of the campaign. He put aside his doubts. He had an army to help form and a war to win.
Fitzroy stood up. He did not extend his hand to shake. The thought of touching the Burned Man’s mutilated skin was too repugnant. “As long as you and your men obey orders, they are welcome. And those orders might mean deferring your vengeance for the common good. Is that acceptable?”
“It is as long as it’s not forever.”
“Good. Welcome to General Burgoyne’s army, and I’ll have the papers made up to confirm your rank of militia captain.”
“Excellent.”
“Of course, I will need your real name. Burned Man might do to identify you to the red savages, and even better if you were one, but you aren’t an Indian, are you?”
> Burned Man laughed harshly and Fitzroy nearly recoiled at the stench coming from his mouth. “Isn’t my skin red enough for you? But you’re right. My name is Charles Braxton.”
* * *
Tallmadge greeted Will warmly. He rose from behind his desk of raw planks and the two men shook hands. “God, it’s good to see your smiling face, Captain.”
“Good to see yours, too, Major.” Will winced. He’d used Tallmadge’s old rank.
“Correction, Will, I am now a brigadier general.”
“Congratulations, sir.” It did not escape Will that Tallmadge was, at most, only a couple of years older than he, and like so many American leaders, quite young for their rank. And inexperienced as well, he thought. To the best of Will’s now incomplete knowledge, Tallmadge had never commanded men in battle. He’d always been a staff officer. Had things changed?
“I wonder about any congratulations,” Tallmadge said. “I often think I hold this rank because there’s no one else around to give it to. We’ve got a number of soldiers, but damned few real generals to command them, and even fewer lower-ranking officers to lead them. The British managed to capture so many of us after they promised amnesty and then broke their promise.”
“Where are they? I didn’t see too many of them in the hulks.”
“The senior officers are imprisoned in Jamaica, which is where so many of the middle-ranking officers are also held. Many are being forced to work in the fields under brutal conditions. We are developing plans to get them out, but it will be dangerous work at best. I gather they never figured out that you were on Washington’s staff or that you worked for me.”
“They did not.”
Will had indeed been on Washington’s staff. Tallmadge had been his direct superior and the two of them had gathered intelligence and had run some of Washington’s spies. Had the British realized that, Will would have either been hanged or would now be rotting in Jamaica, a place from which there was even less chance of escape than from a prison hulk.
Liberty: 1784 - eARC Page 7
