Liberty: 1784

Chapter 11

Braxton didn’t like Indians. Most white men didn’t. They considered them drunken ignorant savages who would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down and that included white women. In particular, Braxton didn’t like Joseph Brant and his Iroquois. He thought Brant was arrogant, and as to his so-called Iroquois warriors, Braxton considered them to be nothing more than animals that happened to walk upright. He knew it was a strange distinction from someone who had committed so many murders and atrocities, and the few men of his who had survived the massacre at the so-called farm reminded him of it whenever the occasion arose. Sometimes he agreed and actually thought it was funny.

Thus, it was with a degree of pleasure that he fostered a friendship with Simon Girty, one of the few men whose reputation was more fearsome than his own. Girty had been accused of rape, the murder and torture of innocents, and cannibalism.

Braxton doubted that the rumor about cannibalism was true. It was something he’d never do, unless, of course, he were truly starving. Then nothing counted. Still, he made sure not to get Girty angry at him. The two men were approximately the same age with Girty being just a few years older. They shared many attitudes towards the war and how to survive in it.

Girty had lived in a cabin outside Detroit the last several years after changing sides from rebel scout to loyalist. The rebels wanted to hang him for a multitude of crimes, including treason, and that made Girty a good man for Braxton to follow.

Girty took a swallow of raw homemade whisky and smiled. The two of them and some of their men had just come back from a patrol, and had tried to intercept the group of rebel spies fleeing from Detroit. To no one’s surprise, the spies had too much of a lead for Girty, Braxton, and the dozen men they’d taken to catch up to them. Still, they thought they’d only missed them by a couple of hours from the signs they’d read in the forest. The carts they’d taken with them had slowed them considerably. They called a halt when they decided they were too close to where patrols from Fort Washington were likely.

“Would’ve been fun,” Girty said wistfully. “The Jews we would’ve skinned and then crucified. You ever hear someone squeal when they’ve been skinned?”

“Can’t say as I have,” said Braxton. He had, but he didn’t want to annoy Girty by saying so.

“Almost as much fun as when the Indians take a long time burning someone alive. A real long time,” Girty said and looked at him coldly. “Killing like that don’t bother you, does it? Hell, all they are is rebels.”

“Don’t bother me at all,” Braxton said sincerely as he took another swallow from his cup of whisky. He wanted to ask if Girty had ever eaten the people he’d cooked, but decided against it.

Girty took a swallow. “Then we would’ve fucked that blond bitch until it came out her ears. Gawd, that would’ve been funny. I saw her around the post a number of times with that tight-ass major she was fucking, and it would’ve served both of them right. When we were through, I would’ve cut off her head and tits and sent them to that fucking major as a present. I hear he’s still moaning for her. I’d like to have heard him moan when she arrived all in pieces. Hell, maybe it’ll still happen.”

Girty laughed hugely and yawned as exhaustion and the liquor took control. “Joseph Brant is a fool and his Indians are worse. Brant thinks he’s a white man because he can read and write, or he thinks he’s as good as one. Either way, he’s wrong. He’s an Indian and not a damn thing more. Worse, his big, bad Iroquois will run like rabbits when the actual fighting starts.”

“Why?” Braxton asked. The whisky was taking him over and he felt like nothing more than sleeping. Still, Girty had a lot that was important on his mind and Braxton wanted to hear it.

“Because they’ve been here too long and they’re too far away from whatever swamp they call home. And when they’ve deserted and all run back to upper New York, then Burgoyne will have need of people like us to scout and run the woods for him. How many men you got left, Braxton?”

“A dozen.”

“Tell me the truth, damn it.”

Braxton winced. “Maybe six.”

“I got maybe twenty. We’ll have to start recruiting hard if we’re going to get our share of loot out of Burgoyne’s victory. I want two hundred or more men in Girty’s Legion.”

“Girty’s Legion?”

Girty laughed again. “How about Girty’s Scouts, or Girty’s Royal Americans, or Girty’s Murdering Fuckers? I don’t care what the hell we’re called just so long as we get to kill a lot of rebels and, when the war is over, we get our share of the loot. How’s that sound, Braxton?”

“Sounds pretty good to me.”

“Good. Now let’s have another drink and see if we can find some people who think like we do.”

* * *

The return of George Rogers Clark and his small band of explorers was met with apprehension. What would be the results of his exploration of the lands to the west? Would they be able to transport Fort Washington and their concept of a new nation out into what people were openly referring to as a Great American Desert? And if they could, it might mean that a battle with the British could be deferred, perhaps permanently. If the rebels could only get far enough away from King George’s claws, they might live a bit longer as free people. They knew they could never fully escape. Their only hope was to be far enough away for a long enough time to establish themselves and let England either forget about them or be willing to let them live in peace.

There would be no secrets. After Hancock and Schuyler met briefly with Clark, anybody who wished to was welcome to come to the room where Congress usually met and hear Clark’s report.

During the war, George Rogers Clark had conquered much of the area around Fort Washington when he captured the British forts of Vincennes and Kaskaskia, and even threatened Detroit. They respected him and admired him; however, everyone at the meeting saw that he was ill at ease and that did not bode well for any who had hopes of a farther retreat.

Clark spoke softly at first, and then gained strength. He told them that the area to the west was a vast grassland, and not a desert, although there were long stretches without much water, and where crops would not grow. It was a paradox since he and his men had to cross a number of rivers, including a few that were extremely wide and deep.

These rivers, however, weren’t all that far away and most people already knew about them. The British would be in striking distance if they moved along their banks. Thus, they would have to flee past the rivers.

Beyond the rivers was an endless plain. Clark said it could and did support life, just not much of it. The buffalo herds were immense and were chased by the Indians, many of whom were on horseback, although some were still on foot. According to Clark, some of the Indians were getting horses from the Spanish to their south and rapidly learning to use them to advantage.

“The savages are taking to horses just as fast as they can get their hands on them, and that generally means stealing them. If we go into their land, we’ll have to be mounted and they’ll try their best to take our horses. A lot of the Indians have guns as well, and they don’t like us at all.”

Clark added that only small communities would survive in such an environment, since there was no place where food was abundant. Small communities would, of course, be juicy targets for the Indians. “In order to move into the plains,” he continued, “we’ll have to fight the Indians and destroy them.”

Farther to the west was what was referred to as a great salt lake. Clark hadn’t seen it, but the Indians all agreed it was there. Since the lake was salt, it was obvious that any land around it must be barren. He had talked to Indians who had been to the lake and beyond, and added that he believed it was indeed a lake and not an arm of the Pacific Ocean which was much farther away.

Still farther beyond the salt lake were great mountains that, if crossed, would send travelers into the land bordering the Pacific Ocean. This land was rumored to be fertile enough, but, unfortunately, it was also occupied, or at least claimed.

“Indians are there, of course, but there are supposed to be Russians to the north and Spanish to the south. That reminds me,” Clark added, “anybody who does go west will quickly find that they’re in territory claimed by Spain and they don’t take too kindly to strangers, especially non-Catholic strangers, coming into their land. We’d probably have to fight them as well as the British and the Indians.”

Benjamin Franklin stood. “Let me ask you a few questions, General Clark.” Clark nodded assent. “First, since grass grows on the prairie, why can’t we plant wheat?”

Clark grinned. “Well, you could. But then you’d have to fence in the planted area to protect it from buffalo and other wild animals that would either eat it or trample it, and I don’t know of any fence that could keep out a herd of ten thousand hungry buffalo.”

“Are the herds really that large?” Franklin asked. Almost everyone had seen buffalo, but only in much smaller numbers.

“The herds are that large and larger. There may be millions of them roaming over the plains and they’re all always looking for food. It’s an incredible sight to see a herd on the move, especially when they’re running, and they’re terrifying when they stampede. The sound is almost deafening. In order to protect our crops, we’d have to kill off all the buffalo and that ain’t gonna happen ’cause there’s too many buffalo to kill off. Besides, if we did, there’d go our primary source of meat.”

He was handed a mug and he took a swig. It was clearly not water. “Nah, if we went out there we’d have to become small groups of nomads just like the savages.”

“But can’t the buffalo be domesticated, tamed?” Franklin inquired genially.

Clark guffawed. “You’d stand a better chance of taming a bear.”

“And the Indians are truly that dangerous?”

“Everything is dangerous out there, Doctor Franklin, the Indians, the animals, and the weather. Look, I went out with thirty men and came back with eighteen. The others are dead, and they were all well-armed and trained soldiers and woodsmen. Life is worse than hard out there. How the hell do you think a bunch of pilgrims would do?”

Clark smiled wickedly at Franklin. “I got one question of my own, Doctor Franklin. Were you cold this past winter?”

Franklin returned the smile. “I was miserable as you and everyone around here knows. My old bones nearly froze.”

Clark nodded. “Then don’t go west. The winds are ten times wickeder than they are here and the temperature’s so cold it freezes piss before it hits the ground. We saw buffalo freeze to death and they got real thick skin and fur.”

Franklin appeared to shudder. “Thank you General Clark.”

There was polite applause. Clark had answered the question of continued flight; it wasn’t feasible for the community of Fort Washington. Individuals could make it into exile, but not the several thousand people in the area. They would have to stand and fight.

Sarah held tight to Will’s arm as they exited the barn. The press of bodies inside had caused the barn to be awfully warm. Will thought that some of his personal warmth might have been due to the fact that Sarah had stood directly in front of him and her back and bottom had been pressed against his body. He hadn’t minded a bit.

“I’m cold,” she said and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, “And afraid.”

* * *

Lieutenant General John Burgoyne was more than a little drunk, which wasn’t unusual for those in the encampments that surrounded what was left of Detroit. It was presumed that the garrisons at Oswego, Albany, and Pitt were also drinking away the winter as they awaited the campaign that would begin in spring and commence fully in summer. There was no fear of a surprise attack from the rebels. Scouts were watching the trails and reported nothing.

“Gates, Arnold, Morgan, and Stark,” Burgoyne muttered. “The four of them conspired to beat me at Saratoga. That cannot happen again. I will not permit it.”

“It can’t happen again,” Fitzroy said. His voice was a little slurred. He’d been helping his commanding officer and distant cousin while away the evening. “I mean, at least not that way. Gates is disgraced and in prison, and Arnold is on our side.”

Burgoyne snorted. “Gates was a fool. He commanded the rebel army but did nothing. Arnold, Morgan, and Stark won the battles and he got the credit. There was no justice.”

Fitzroy settled back. It was going to be a long evening. “And Morgan shouldn’t be a factor, either,” he said. “I understand the man’s crippled and needed to be carried on a litter for his last battle.”

“During which he annihilated a force led by Tarleton, who was on horseback and didn’t need a litter,” Burgoyne responded. “Yes, he’s crippled, but he’s still a viper with venom. He will command one of their wings and he will do so with skill, just like he did at Freeman’s farm where he stopped my advance.”

Burgoyne took another long swallow. “Anthony Wayne played a subordinate role at Saratoga, so that only leaves Stark among the ones who defeated me. He destroyed my Hessian wing at Bennington when I sent them out to forage for supplies. Where the devil is John Stark?”

Fitzroy shrugged. “Probably in prison. Either that or hiding out on some mountain in Vermont. Maybe he’s even dead.”

“I hope so,” Burgoyne said. “I fervently hope so. The man’s a demon.”

Commanding only local, raw militia, Stark’s skillfully led soldiers had wiped out the Hessian force at Bennington. The Hessians had gone for food and one result of their defeat was that Burgoyne’s army went hungry.

Fitzroy tried to lighten the mood. “Perhaps Schuyler will lead them? You defeated him handily, didn’t you?”

“For which he was court-martialed and acquitted with honor. Nobody could have won anything with the disgraceful force he had at his disposal at that time. However, the rebels won’t let him lead them anyhow because of the taint of defeat that surrounds him.”

“Are you that concerned we won’t win, General?” Fitzroy asked.

Burgoyne unsuccessfully stifled a belch and glared at him. “Of course I’m concerned. I’d be a bloody fool if I wasn’t. A battle never goes as planned.” He finished his drink and lurched to his feet. “And now I’m off to bed.”

Fitzroy left and walked on unsteady legs to his tent. The air was more bracing than cold and hinted at spring. Good, he thought, enough of this waiting. Were the rebels drinking themselves through the winter at Fort Washington? He hoped so.

And what was Hannah doing? How was she spending the cold winter days and nights? Had she found another lover? He hated the thought.

Danforth was sitting on his bunk and polishing his boots. This was another sign of their dismal state. No servants. And no reason to polish boots except that it killed time. Worse, they had to mend their own uniforms, and those were starting to look very ragged.

“How is his generalship?” Danforth asked.

“Having another bout of nightmares filled with monsters and goblins. He sees outstanding rebel generals everywhere and it doesn’t help that some of those who were at Saratoga are at Fort Washington. He’s afraid of failure, and why not. Another defeat and he’d be a laughingstock.”

“So would you, James,” Danforth said softly. “You’re both his cousin and his aide and I know you have no money or position to fall back on. I would survive because I’m just an ordinary officer and because my family does have enough funds to buy me another commission, or even a seat in Parliament. That and I’m confident Cornwallis would welcome me back with open arms. But you? You’d be associated by default with Burgoyne’s mess and become a military pariah. You’d be lucky to get a job in India sorting elephant dung into piles according to size and stench.”

“Thank you for the kind thoughts,” Fitzroy said and rubbed his forehead. He felt the onset of a massive headache. Still, Danforth’s comments were nothing he hadn’t thought of before. For better or worse, his star was hitched to John Burgoyne’s. If Burgoyne soared, so would James Fitzroy. If Burgoyne plummeted to earth, so would he. Damn.

So, who would finally lead the rebels? Would Morgan regain his health or would Schuyler recover his men’s respect? And where the hell was this John Stark?

* * *

The women were organized into ten groups of ten each. In front, directing each group was a sergeant or a lower-ranking officer. The women held pikes, and the spear-like weapons were longer than the women were tall.

Even though training women on pikes had been agreed upon and was strictly voluntary, there was concern on the part of Schuyler and others as to whether giving weapons to women was the right thing to do. First and foremost, training women on the use of the musket had been ruled out. The musket was a large and cumbersome weapon and it was doubted that many women would be able to handle it effectively in the heat of battle; thus, even though there was a surplus of muskets and even though there were women who already knew how to use them, they would not be issued to the women. It was tacitly understood, however, that whatever happened when the fighting began would be beyond anyone’s control.

The instructors understood the fundamental problem. The pikes were far heavier and more awkward than anything the women were used to handling. Thus, after a few clumsy near-stabbings, the first part of each drill focused on developing strength and familiarity with the pikes. After a few weeks of training, it now showed. The women, thin Winifred Haskill included, wielded their pikes with a degree of alacrity, and some with unexpected and new found strength. Winifred enjoyed anything that might bring destruction to the British.

“Thrust,” Sergeant Bahlmann yelled at a group that included Sarah Benton and Winifred. Faith was absent this day, because of female problems, but Hannah Van Doorn was enthusiastically present. Bahlmann was a Hessian deserter and an expert with both the bayonet and the pike. Sarah and the others yelled and jabbed at an imaginary target. They had done this a hundred times and were getting bored as their arms grew leaden. The sergeant knew it. “Shoulder your weapons and follow me.”

Puzzled, the women did as they were told. They were among the first groups who were being trained. What they learned and how well they learned it would set the tone for future trainee groups. It was a technique brought to the American army by von Steuben.

Congress and General Schuyler had reluctantly come around to the idea that females who wished it should be taught to defend themselves. No one thought for a second that it would alleviate the Continental Army’s shortage of numbers in comparison with the British, but it might help in some small matter.

Besides, it made the women feel that they were contributing to the cause and, as Benjamin Franklin told Sarah, that was more important than anything. Sarah had given serious thought to hitting the old man when he’d said it, but he’d laughed and she’d realized he’d been teasing her.

The ten women and their sergeant were marched over a hill and were quickly out of sight of the others. Bahlmann halted them, turned, and stood before them. Behind him, a dead sheep was tied to a stake. They stared at it, knowing what was to come.

“Can you kill them?” Bahlmann asked in his accented English. “Them” came out as “zem.” “Or do you just hope that you can? Or maybe you are here to impress someone with your bravery? A lover, perhaps. That there thing on the post is a dead sheep, not a living Redcoat, so the wee dead lamb won’t try to stab you or shoot you any more than a chicken would. But can you jab that pike into it? Because that’s what I want you to do. I want you to know what it’s like to stick a pike into meat, and feel it driving into flesh.”

There was silence as some of the women were openly dismayed at the thought of actually stabbing something. That they’d killed chickens and sliced meat from a cow or a deer was somehow now irrelevant. This was supposed to represent a living human being.

“We can do it,” Sarah muttered. Hannah nodded, while Winifred looked enthusiastic.

The sergeant grinned. “I thought it would be you, Mistress Benton. Take a position in front of the attacking sheep and imagine that it is about to kill you.”

Sarah did as she was told. “Lunge,” she was ordered and she complied, the pike stopping just short of the carcass.

“Into the damned thing, Mistress Benton! Tickle it like you’re doing and he’ll come at you and kill you and then go baa-baa over your body.” Sarah lunged again and felt the tip go an inch or so into the sheep’s torso before stopping.

“You just hit a rib, Mistress Benton. People have them and so do sheep, and they’re supposed to protect people from things like pikes. If you’re very lucky you won’t hit one, but most likely you will because there are a lot of them, so you will have to hit with enough force to break your way in. Do it again.”

Sarah tried once more and was again stopped by the cadaver’s ribs. Bahlmann yelled that she was a weakling, a child, a fool. She was getting angry. She pulled back slightly, screamed, and pushed forward with all her might. The pike hit flesh, then bone, and then went through. She tried to pull it out, but it caught on something and she wanted to gag.

“Twist and pull back,” the sergeant said, and she did. The pike released itself. The spear point was covered with congealed red matter. Behind her, she heard a couple of the women snuffling and crying. She turned on them angrily.

“And what did you think was going to happen when you stuck someone?” she said while Sergeant Bahlmann grinned. “Sergeant, what happens if I can’t get the bloody thing out by twisting like you said?”

“Leave it and get another one if you have to, but first try hard to get it out. If the Redcoat’s lying on the ground, just put your foot on his chest and jerk it out. It should come out if you do that. Don’t worry about him looking up your dress and seeing your sweet furry cunny ’cause he’s going to have other things on his mind if that spear’s so far inside his gut. However you do it, you must get it out fast before another British soldier comes up on you.”

Sarah glared at him. “I have no intentions of wearing a dress in battle, Sergeant.”

Bahlmann laughed and chose another victim and put her through the same paces. One woman couldn’t do it and was dismissed from the group. To no one’s surprise, Winifred Haskill had no problems, attacking the carcass with a ferocity that surprised and impressed Bahlmann.

The sergeant was good. He’d made them do things they never really thought were possible. The drill instructors had been sent over by von Steuben from the Hessian camp and were considered the best. She could see why. Franklin might have teased her, but Steuben was serious about the women’s efforts.

The group was dismissed after cleaning their pikes and Sarah walked over to the fence where Will lounged. He took the pike from her. They would put it in the armory on the way to their respective quarters.

“Feel like dinner?” he asked.

Sarah realized she’d worked up a tremendous appetite. “I would love dinner. What are you serving?”

Will grinned wickedly. “Mutton.”

* * *

A few yards away from the building where congress met, and ignored by the Americans nearby, two Indians watched intently as important white people exited the hall. One Indian was a blind old man and the other a boy in his early teens. They were dirty and dressed in rags. They’d been in the camp on a number of occasions, selling game or just simply watching. They were considered harmless as were a number of other Indians who came and went. Some came simply to beg and scrounge and it was accepted that some were calculating the strength of the American forces.

The older man was named Owl and not only because he was wise. A birth defect had made him wheeze and hoot when he talked. He looked towards the boy he couldn’t quite see. Age had made his vision cloudy.

“What are your thoughts?” Owl asked.

The boy was named Tecumseh and it was understood that he was going to be a chief someday. It was considered good that he would see people who might be his enemy. His uncle was Little Turtle, a Miami chief who had fought against the American rebels. Now, Little Turtle openly wondered which was the better side for the Indians to support? The British were more powerful, apparently, but the rebels simply would not go away.

“The rebel women will fight,” the boy answered. “Not as hard as our women might, but they will fight. But that is not what is important, grandfather, is it?” Owl was not the boy’s grandfather, but it was a mark of respect and affection. “The true question is whether or not they will win. Answer that question and we can decide who to back, can’t we? If we back the right side, perhaps we will win their gratitude and peace within our own land.”

It was still a sore point that the Americans had come and driven away the Indians, primarily the Potawatomi, who’d been living for many generations, in the area now called Liberty. Still, even the angriest among them fully understood that the Indians had no chance of driving away either the Americans or the British without the help of the other side.

The boy smiled. The old man couldn’t see it, but he heard it in the boy’s voice. “But which will it be, grandfather, and just when will we make our decision? Or perhaps we will not back either side?”

The older man smiled and affectionately put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Yes, he would someday be a good chief.

* * *

This afternoon General Burgoyne was the essence of confidence. Gone were the doubts of the previous night and present was the confidence of a man who believed he possessed overwhelming advantage against an enemy that was inferior in all ways. Today he was a man who felt that destiny had chosen him to succeed where he had failed before.

Perhaps some of his pleasure was derived from the fact that the lakes, while still bitterly cold, were finally clear of ice and that more sailing barges, fully loaded with supplies, had arrived from Oswego. Also, several thousand more men were marching along the Lake Erie coast and still more were coming in from Pitt. Soon the army would be all together and they could commence to move westward. For many-most-it could not come soon enough.

Burgoyne beamed at the half dozen men in the room. Grant, Arnold, and Tarleton were the senior generals present, while Fitzroy sat quietly behind Burgoyne, ready to do his master’s bidding. Two secretaries were ready to scribble notes and compare them later for accuracy.

“This is not a true council of war, gentlemen, rather it is a meeting where we can begin to coordinate our thoughts and our efforts. First, the arrival of the boats from Oswego strengthens us and vindicates my plan for them. They are now proven seaworthy and will most certainly make it to their destination.”

Eyes turned to Benedict Arnold who fidgeted slightly and then nodded. “They, their crews, and their precious cargo are all intact,” the one-time rebel general said.

Burgoyne went on to announce that the boats built at Detroit would be sent in ballast to Oswego where they too would be loaded with supplies and shipped back to Detroit. The supplies largely consisted of heavier items, like cannon, shells, and ammunition that could only be transported with enormous difficulty through the dense forest and along the area’s almost nonexistent roads. It was a bitter truth that Burgoyne had learned during his Saratoga campaign. Had he left his cannon behind, he might have arrived at his goal of Albany long before the rebels could gather and defeat him.

Burgoyne repeated the fact that Benedict Arnold would command the flotilla of sailing barges, which would be augmented by two armed schooners, the Vixen and the Snake. Burgoyne added that the trip from Detroit to Oswego and back would be an excellent shakedown cruise for those boats and their crews that hadn’t been more than a few feet from where they’d been built.

Arnold had been chosen to command because of his experience commanding rebel boats at the battle of Valcour Island. He’d been defeated, but his aggressive efforts had forced a year’s delay in the British attack that ultimately led to Burgoyne’s disastrous defeat at Saratoga. He would also command the united flotilla when it ultimately sailed for Fort Washington. Fitzroy wondered if this was a form of revenge on Burgoyne’s part but decided it wasn’t. The decision made just too much sense. Arnold now had the independent command he so fervently desired, and the heartily detested turncoat would be out of the way of most of the rest of the British officers.

Arnold quickly informed them that the barges would have their decks covered over with planking to protect the cargo from the heavy seas that sometimes occurred on the lakes. The cannon and shot they were to take would be carried as ballast, although some barges would have cannon mounted as bow guns for defense. When Burgoyne commented that perhaps more of the guns should be mounted on the deck so they could fire broadsides, Arnold countered by saying that they could not make the decks strong enough to carry their weight and it might even make the barges unseaworthy. Fitzroy was impressed by Arnold’s quick mind and grasp of the situation.

Burgoyne added that Captain Danforth would travel with Arnold as liaison from the army’s headquarters and that they would sail on the Vixen. Arnold smiled tightly. Cornwallis’ spy on Burgoyne was now Burgoyne’s spy on Arnold. It also meant that Danforth couldn’t report to Cornwallis on Burgoyne’s advance to Fort Washington because he wouldn’t be there to observe it.

“I will not make the same mistakes I did at Saratoga,” Burgoyne added solemnly. “Except for the flotilla of barges, I will not divide my forces in any great manner, and I will not be held up for lack of supplies. Nor will I be dragging cannon through the forest. When Arnold’s fleet finally departs from Detroit for Fort Washington, we will move out as one mighty army. We will move slowly and allow those supplies that aren’t going by boat to catch up with us. We will build depots along the way so we won’t have to depend on food and ammunition coming all the way from Detroit.”

Tarleton yawned. “Won’t that require garrisons and won’t that result in the army being divided anyhow?”

“To a point, of course,” Burgoyne said with a degree of exasperation. Garrisoning the depots was an obvious need. “But the numbers will be small in comparison with the army as a whole and represent no significant reduction.”

General Grant nodded agreement. “You say we will move

slowly. How slowly? For myself, I would prefer to get there as quickly as possible and smash them.”

“I estimate that it will take two months for General Arnold’s fleet and the attending sloops of war to reach a point close to where Fort Washington is supposed to be. Since we have no reliable maps, the exact location is still a bit of a mystery.

We will target our arrival to be within just such a time frame. While we certainly cannot coordinate these things very tightly, we can at least be close.

“While on the march, General Tarleton’s force will lead with those units led by Joseph Brant. Simon Girty’s forces will provide scouting and distant flank support.”

Fitzroy was mildly amused that Burgoyne could not bring himself to refer to those men under the control of Brant and Girty as soldiers.

“I hate having those white savages watching out for us, especially Girty,” snarled Grant.

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” Tarleton said with a smile. “Anyone willing to kill rebels is a friend of ours.”

Burgoyne continued. “While on the march, it is possible, even likely, that our army will stretch upwards of twenty miles, We will be passing in a narrow column through thick forests where the danger of ambushes will be constant. Say what you will about Brant and Girty and their savage followers, but we will need them lest a raid cut our column in pieces.”

“Understood,” said Grant. “I just don’t have to like the buggers. And I think both groups will run rather than fight against the rebels.”

“They will fight as long as they think they are winning,” said Burgoyne, “which means the promise of loot to them. My only wish is that they help get us to our destination in good order and then the devil can have them.”

“The devil already has them,” Tarleton laughed, “or don’t you believe that creatures like Burned Man Braxton are already owned by Satan?”

* * *

“Would you be offended if I said this isn’t much of a cavalry regiment?” Will asked as he observed both the small numbers of men in the “regiment” and the quality of their horses.

Colonel William Washington smiled bleakly. “I would like to say that it is an example of quality over quantity, but even that isn’t true.” William Washington was an experienced and resourceful cavalry commander. He had once fought Banastre Tarleton sword to sword while his cavalry defeated the British at Cowpens.

“I’m afraid these poor men and their even poorer mounts would not be able to stand against the British,” Washington said. “However, General Tallmadge has informed me that the British won’t be bringing much in the way of cavalry either.”

Colonel Washington’s regiment of cavalry consisted of a hundred and fifty men, and only half of them had horses. The remaining men were prepared to fight on foot.

Nor were the horses anything to brag about. They were small and thin and little more than ponies. Will thought he’d seen larger and healthier dogs. But it was correct that the British had little cavalry either. “You’ll fight as dragoons, I presume?”

“Correct. And in order to make up the shortage in horses, I am prepared to send men into battle two on a horse, or even carried in wagons.”

Will couldn’t resist the jibe. “You presume that these horses can carry two. I find it hard to believe that some could even carry one rider.”

Washington slapped will on the shoulder. “If it weren’t true, Will, I’d have you court martialed for slandering my horses. I can only hope we get more mounts and that a period of eating good spring grasses will strengthen the ones we have; however, I will not hold my breath that either will occur. But then, all we have to do is be ready to fight one time.”

Will noticed they were practicing with a familiar weapon. “Aren’t those the guns Dr. Franklin designed?”

“Indeed. Those are Franklin’s Franklins, if you’ll permit the pun. We’ve shortened the barrel and plan to use them as a close-range fowling piece or a small blunderbuss. They will be loaded with several musket balls that’ll be held in by wax or mud so the balls don’t roll out. They won’t be much on accuracy, but I dare say they will make life interesting for a formation of massed Redcoats when fired at close range.”

“Assuming you can get your men there before the British fire.”

He nodded sadly. “Then we will have to endure a volley and attack them after they’ve fired and before they can reload.” Washington pulled out a watch and checked it. “Three o’clock and all is well. Do you think the meeting has started?”

Congress had finally acted. A commander for the army would be chosen and everyone had their own preferences and doubts. Will had some sympathy for General Schuyler who seemed a decent sort and who had possibly gotten a bad deal from an earlier congress over the loss of Ticonderoga in 1777. But then, Will thought, did he want his army led by a man who was a “decent sort,” and who had lost his only major battle?

“I only hope they make the right decision,” he said.