Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence

by Robert Conroy

  Burgoyne nodded angrily. “Permission granted and the devil with Haldimand and his concern with provincial boundaries. I’ve already written him that such forays might be necessary. He won’t respond, of course. Will you wait until spring?”

  Fitzroy winced. The river was sometimes frozen solid and the rest of the time the ice flowed freely and with dangerous floating chunks. Even though the locals still crossed occasionally, it was not something he was looking forward to. Some enterprising souls had rigged a rope line between the two sides, and flat bottom sleds carrying people and supplies could be pulled across. If a ship did happen by, not likely at this time of year, the rope could be slackened so that the keel passed over it. If the sled being pulled went through the ice, it would float and could still be pulled along. At least that was the theory. Fitzroy shuddered at the thought of making such a trip, but had decided it couldn’t wait several months for the river to be clear of ice.

  “No sir, I plan on going over in the next few days.”

  “Then go and good hunting.”

  As Fitzroy left the office he nearly ran into General Banastre Tarleton. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Major Spy-Chaser,” Tarleton said with an undisguised sneer.

  Fitzroy glared at him. “Sir, I believe you’re drunk.”

  “I am and you ought to be,” Tarleton answered. His breath nearly caused Fitzroy to stagger backwards. “It’s the only way to exist in this miserable shithole of an outpost. At least I’ve accomplished something while you spend your days and nights fornicating with that Dutch whore who’s just as likely a rebel spy as anyone in this primitive place.”

  Fitzroy seethed. How dare he call Hannah a whore, and how dare he imply that she was a spy. Still, one doesn’t challenge generals to a duel, especially one like Tarleton who might accept and kill Fitzroy. No, he stifled his anger. He would have satisfaction some other time and place.

  Fitzroy smiled insincerely. “And what wondrous deeds have you accomplished lately, General?”

  If Tarleton was aware of the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. “While you have been looking on and under mattresses for spies,” he replied. “I have arrested a number of Hessian deserters who are doubtless sending information to the rebels.”

  “Hessians who are spies? Here? Why on earth would someone from Germany come here to spy? They would be so utterly obvious.”

  “Of course they would be, that’s why we caught them. Twenty of the bastards are now in custody and they’ll all hang.”

  Now it became clearer. Tarleton had captured his “spies” in advance of the arrival of the Hessian officer tasked with finding and punishing deserters. His name would go to London and be praised for his diligence.

  “What proofs did you find them with?” Fitzroy asked softly.

  Tarleton belched loudly and the effort pitched him off balance. He steadied himself with effort. “They’re Hessians. Don’t need proof.”

  “General, people from the Germanic states have been living in the colonies for generations. That doesn’t make them spies, and they cannot be deserters if they were never in anybody’s army. We need proof they deserted before they can be executed.”

  “They’ll be what I make them to be, Major, and the bastards will all hang. That’ll send the fear of God, or whatever Germanic totem they worship, into the Hessian deserters now at Fort Washington and preparing to fight us.”

  Fitzroy managed to extricate himself and went to the provost’s office in the fort where he looked on the score of confused and bedraggled men crammed together in a small cell. They were in shackles and looked at him mutely. Some were bruised; it was obvious they had resisted being arrested.

  How on earth could they be spies? Several were old enough to be his grandfather and others were still children. To hang these people would be an atrocity. But then, he reminded himself, Tarleton specialized in atrocities.

  “Bloody Christ,” he muttered to himself. “How do I stop this from happening?”

  * * *

  Benjamin Franklin loved to have little soirees where he could make the informal contacts that were his specialty and use his still considerable influence to affect the course of the young nation.

  Sadly, his get-togethers were nothing like what he’d held in Paris, or even Philadelphia. The surroundings were plain at best, and the refreshments were Spartan. There was bread and butter, and some meats and jams, and a choice of raw whiskies or a kind of tea to drink. Nobody went hungry, but there was nothing impressive or tantalizing. Certainly, there were none of the French wines that had made dealing with the miserable French themselves so pleasant and tolerable. Most of those present were thankful for a surprisingly good beer that a former assistant of Samuel Adams had managed to brew. Even though these were the rebellion’s leaders, their dress was shabby. Many men wore buckskins and otherwise plain woolen cloth. Again, none of the elegance of France or even Philadelphia was present. It was so depressing. It didn’t help matters that the floor was dirt.

  Every host needs a hostess, and Franklin had called on Sarah and a handful of others to fulfill those duties. The ladies had managed to find enough fair quality dresses to make them presentable. He made pains to ensure that everyone knew that Sarah was his hostess and not his mistress, although he also made pains to let anyone know that he would be delighted if she were. For her part, Sarah found it amusing, as did Will.

  In return for her duties, she’d insisted that Franklin also invite Will, who stood against a wall, sipping a wretched tea and watching the great and the not so great mingle. Cyrus Radnor, a man who referred to himself as a congressman from South Carolina, stood by him and smiled affably.

  “I understand you were rescued from prison by a Negro?”

  “That is correct,” Will answered, puzzled by the question. Radnor was one of many congressmen who represented absolutely nobody. An obscure militia colonel and an only moderately successful tobacco farmer, he’d owned property and slaves before being chased out of South Carolina by the British and their Tory allies. He had not signed the Declaration of Independence, nor had he been sent to Congress in Philadelphia. He’d been chosen by the others to be in the current Congress because of his South Carolina residence and the fact that the Congress needed someone from South Carolina to claim any degree of legitimacy. There were some who doubted that Radnor had ever been a congressman in the first place.

  “Then you have opinions about slavery, do you not?” Radnor asked.

  “The Negro who freed me was a free man himself. He was never a slave and I would not want him to ever be one. I owe him too much for that to happen.”

  Radnor nodded, causing loose skin from his face to shake. It looked like he’d lost weight, but then, so had many people in Fort Washington. Will thought he was one of the few who’d gained, since he’d still been suffering from his privations when he’d arrived.

  Radnor persisted. “Doctor Franklin says we should abandon the slave issue, Major, do you agree? Do you think slavery is inherently evil?”

  “Whether I think it is evil or not is irrelevant. The egg has been broken and cannot be mended. Slaves have been free for a while now and will not take lightly to being reenslaved. During the war, the British raised several regiments of Negro infantry and they acquitted themselves quite well against Indians, although, to my knowledge, they never fought against us. If we win and attempt to enslave them again, it will be another war resulting in a bloodbath that could destroy what we had won.” Assuming we win anything, he thought.

  Radnor sighed. “With extreme reluctance, I tend to agree, although not all of my southern friends are of like mind. At the worst, they feel that we can import fresh slave stock for our plantations; however, the British will not permit that. They suggested that planters use white prisoners as indentured servants, and that won’t work for several reasons. First, there aren’t enough of them to supply the needs of the planters, and, second, the two groups hate each other and there would
be murders.” He blinked owlishly and Will realized that Radnor was drunk. “There must be a third reason, but I can’t think of it.”

  “And why can’t the planters import fresh slaves?”

  Radnor chuckled and took a beer from a passing serving girl. It was Sarah’s cousin Faith and she winked at Will.

  “Goodness, what great tits on her and I think she likes you, Major. Too bad her cousin does as well.”

  Will winced. Were there no secrets in this bloody town?

  Radnor laughed at Will’s discomfort and continued, “Southern planters cannot import a fresh crop of slaves because the British have used their navy to close down the slave trade from Africa and the Indies. The British government is beginning to come under tremendous pressure to abolish slavery altogether and it may come to pass. In which case, they will piously impose their decision everywhere they can.”

  Will thought that would be a good thing, but kept quiet.

  “Franklin wants us to have a constitution,” Radnor continued, “and he wants that document to include a statement of freedoms to all Americans so they can see what we’re fighting for and why the British proposals are so odious. The British have, in the opinion of many people, seized the moral high ground by freeing the slaves, and Franklin feels that we can attract followers by declaring our freedoms within an official constitution.”

  “How do you feel, Mr. Radnor?”

  “I heartily agree with the need for a constitution and reluctantly agree that the issue of slavery is over and must be put behind us.”

  Will added. “Then whatever document we agree on must be published throughout the colonies well before the British strike so it can be another weapon in our humble arsenal.”

  Radnor belched, nodded and walked away. A moment later, Abigail Adams took him by the elbow and steered him away from the wall.

  “Are you having a pleasant time, Major Drake?”

  “Indeed, and are you Mistress Adams?”

  She laughed wickedly. “Surprisingly so. There are too many men and too few women. I do believe I’ve had my middle-aged bottom patted a good dozen times and not all of them by Dr. Franklin.”

  “Doctor Franklin is a most interesting man,” Will said, grinning.

  “And I think your poor Sarah is suffering the same fate. She is a quite remarkable woman, I hope you realize.”

  “I do.”

  “Then don’t lose, her, Major. And how was your conversation with the distinguished gentleman from South Carolina?”

  “We discussed slavery.”

  She arched an eyebrow. The arguments for and against slavery had been a divisive issue in Congress. “I’ve heard rumors that he was wavering?”

  Will smiled. “They would appear to be correct.”

  * * *

  Owen and Faith met in a dark and cluttered storeroom after Franklin’s party. He was delighted that she was willing to be alone with him, particularly since they were in what could easily be considered a compromising situation. Even though he felt that she liked him, she had seemed withdrawn instead of drawing closer since his return from Detroit.

  Now that they were together, he wasn’t certain what to do. He arranged a pile of clothing as a makeshift couch. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and invited her to sit, but she shook her head and continued to stand as did he. There was no heat in the storeroom and the wind came through the plain wooden walls. He thought he heard scurrying in the piles of clothing and wondered how many small animals were making their homes there. He hoped they didn’t bite or have fleas.

  “I hope you like the smell of tobacco,” she said. “So many of the men at Franklin’s were smoking pipes and that I could almost cut the smoke with a knife.”

  “I think you smell wonderful,” he said.

  “I think you are very nice, but very foolish.” She shifted and shuddered. “I’m still cold.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have come here,” he said sadly.

  “No. It’s all right. Make some more space in the pile and sit down.”

  Owen did as he was told and, to his astonishment, Faith sat on his lap with her legs curled up and the blanket wrapped around both of them. “I am shameless, aren’t I?” she asked.

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, you know I’m not an innocent little child, don’t you?”

  “And I am?” he said as he shifted her closer to him. She was referring to the horrors of the jail in Pendleton and the abuse by the deputies. His response was an opening to show that he understood, and that there would be no secrets, no taboos, between them.

  “Do you know what terrible things happen to young boys in the hold of a ship when no one is around and someone has stuffed a rag into your mouth so you can’t scream? And then, of course, everyone denies it, so everyone can claim it never happened? The Royal Navy has some nasty little secrets. I thank God I first made some true friends and then grew up strong enough to protect myself and others.”

  She shuddered at the picture that appeared in her mind. “But you had no choice. They forced you.”

  He squeezed her to him. “And did you have a choice? You told me enough so that I have a good idea what happened back in Pendleton and you didn’t have much of a choice either based on what later happened to your cousin.”

  “So what do we do with ourselves?” she asked as she rested her head on his shoulder.

  He kissed her forehead and she snuggled closer. “We start from the beginning, and without any baggage or remorse from a past over which we had no control. May I introduce myself, lovely young miss? My name is Owen and I am in love with you.”

  She giggled and kissed him on the cheek. “And my name is Faith and don’t say love just yet, although you Welsh have a marvelous way with words.”

  “When can I say it?”

  “When I tell you that you may,” she said and they kissed deeply and passionately. “In the meantime, we enjoy each other’s company.”

  They struggled within the confines of the clothing pile, embracing and kissing. “We are not consummating this tonight,” she said, removing his hand from her breast. Despite everything, she still considered herself a virgin. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Because I’m not ready, that’s why. Because there’ll be a battle in the summer and I don’t want to be either a widow or a woman with a child on the way and her man dead on the battlefield, or worse, maimed. And I’m not alone in thinking like that. Many women are afraid of being abandoned. Lord, what if you were a prisoner like Will Drake had been, rotting away for years?”

  “You’re right. I do not wish to lose you so I will not push you. Do you want to go back to Franklin’s party?”

  She giggled again. He was so sweet. Other young boys in Pendleton would not have been as understanding. A couple of them had tried to seduce her, but none had succeeded, at least not fully.

  “No, silly. I only said we wouldn’t consummate tonight. There’s still plenty we can do to make this night a pleasant one.”

  He smiled and kissed her again and again and this time she let his hands roam where they wished. She slipped her dress down to her waist so he could kiss her glorious breasts while he ran his hands up her thighs to where she was already moist. A second or two later, she had his manhood in his hand and stroked him while he continued to caress her. Lord, he thought as his mind reeled, whoever said New England girls were frigid Puritans didn’t know what they were talking about.

  They scarcely noticed that it was no longer so cold in the storeroom.

  * * *

  Fitzroy was nearly frozen with terror as the sled he was on was dragged across the ice-choked river. Frozen with terror, he thought. That’s a good one. He was frozen on the frozen river. He’d never seen an iceberg, but he thought some of the chunks of ice floating by qualified.

  Beneath a veneer of ice that sometimes buckled and shifted, the wide and deep Detroit River flowed at its usual strong rate. Somebody said nearly four miles a
n hour, which was a goodly walking pace for a strong man. If he looked down he could see bubbles of air moving beneath the ice as the river continued to flow. He thought that he could see fish staring up at him and laughing at him. He decided not to look down anymore.

  “Tell them to hurry,” pleaded Danforth from behind him.

  “If they pull too hard they might spill you into the river and everyone says your balls will turn blue and freeze solid before they can get you out of the water.”

  Danforth shuddered. “Right. Then tell them to slow down. I prefer my balls warm and dry.” They were wearing heavy wool coats over their uniforms and were still shivering from the cold.

  Fitzroy stared at the farther shore, willing it to be closer. Finally it was and he stepped shakily off the sled and onto firm frozen ground. Three of his men had preceded him and three more followed in a sled behind his. A corporal, five privates, and two officers would be enough to raid a small tavern, he hoped.

  One of the soldiers led a string of eight horses acquired earlier from local farmers. To Fitzroy’s eye, they looked old and decrepit and he was sure he’d overpaid for their rental. Whoever said the Canadians loved the British had never tried to deal with the financial aspects of that love. Damned Canadians, he thought, and especially damn the French ones, who loved money and loved even more taking it from the British.

  But at least they had horses, which meant they wouldn’t have to walk through the knee-deep snow and mush. His six troopers were all part of Tarleton’s cavalry and could ride anything, they said proudly. Still, it would be hell if they had to launch a cavalry charge or even a short chase with these miserable beasts and in the awful weather.

  They mounted up and proceeded down the trail at a sedate pace. There was no reason to even pretend to keep their existence a secret. He was certain that their presence had already been spread for quite some distance, and he wondered if their cover story, a food-buying expedition, fooled anyone.

  A short while later they came upon their target. The sign said it was the King’s Inn, but no self-respecting king would ever stay at such a decrepit place, although he wondered if the current refugee king of France might consider it. As they approached, a cloud of pigeons left the roof of the adjacent barn, circled, and flew away.