Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence

by Robert Conroy

  There was silence as this sunk in. “But we can slow them,” Stark said.

  “Of course,” said Schuyler, “but slow them for what purpose? Or do you propose that we pray for miracles?”

  “That would not be a bad idea,” Stark added. “However, think of the battle as a vast and bloody test of wills. Yes, they outnumber us badly, but they are not fighting for their lives as we will be. Even if they are defeated, the worst that could happen to the survivors is that they would be captured and someday be exchanged and returned home. As for us, any who survived would be hanged or enslaved and, frankly, I’d rather be hanged than live the life that Hamilton, Jefferson, Adams, and so many others are living in Jamaica and elsewhere.”

  Stark glared at Will. “What about returning to a prison hulk, Major, and starving to death after being flogged and branded anew? If you were lucky and not hanged outright, that is. What do you think about that?”

  Will stiffened. “I’ll be dead before that happens, sir. I will not be taken prisoner.”

  Von Steuben chuckled. “Live free or die again, General Stark?”

  Stark smiled. “If the statement worked at Bennington, it cannot hurt to use it again.”

  * * *

  “Mark this date,” Benjamin Franklin said. “It is September 15, 1784, and it is the day on which the fate of our nation will be decided. If it wasn’t so frightening, it would be glorious.”

  Sarah smiled fondly. The old man was dressed and ready even though it wasn’t yet dawn. He’d put on old clothes and let it known that he would be present at the battle whether anybody wanted him there or not. Incongruously, he had a pair of dueling pistols in his waistband along with a thick knife taken from someone’s kitchen. He noticed Sarah staring at them.

  “Like so many people, dear Sarah, I too will not be taken alive. I don’t fear hanging. Or death, for that matter. After all, I’ve avoided it for quite a long time and I fear it’s ready to catch up to me. No, what I dread is being taken prisoner and carried back to London and put on exhibit like some caged but senile animal. I am far too proud to handle living in my own filth and hearing the ridicule of the British nobility.”

  Sarah started to speak, but found she couldn’t. She began to sob and reached out for him and embraced him. “Except for Will, there is no man on earth that I love more than you, Doctor Franklin.”

  Franklin returned the embrace and she felt his tears. “Would that you were forty years older, Sarah, or that I were forty years younger.”

  * * *

  Owen was awakened from dreams of Faith well before dawn. He grumbled for a moment, then became fully alert. One of General George Rogers Clark’s aides was going around and shaking the officers who dutifully followed to where Clark waited.

  “Today’s the day,” Clark said grimly. “Word has it that the British are through rehearsing and will attack before noon. We have orders. We will be dividing into two groups. The first will stay here and shoot as many Redcoats as they can from the flanks of their major attack. You will also try to disrupt the flankers they will have out to protect their so-called phalanx. If you can get any of them to flee, then more the better.

  “The second group, the smaller one, will have the pleasure of mucking through the swamp and making sure that the British don’t attempt an attack through that miserable body of water that extends to our rear.”

  Clark glanced at Owen. “Since you’ve been through the swamp a number of times, Wells, you will lead that group. If they start to come through in force you are to retreat and make sure that we are informed, although I have to admit I have no idea where we’ll find reinforcements for you. You are not to stand and fight and be overwhelmed without us knowing that the devils are coming.”

  Owen was aware of the number of eyes staring at him. He would not make a mistake if he could possibly avoid it. But something bothered him and Clark picked up on it.

  “You have a problem, Wells?”

  “Not really, General. I understand fully that we are to withdraw and not fight a superior force, but what about an inferior force? What if we see that we can defeat a small force and get into their rear and raise holy hell with them?”

  There were chuckles and Clark smiled. “If you think you can destroy the British army by attacking like that, then go ahead. However, I don’t think the Redcoats will be so cooperative, even if it is Benedict Arnold commanding that flank. However, don’t hesitate if the British offer up themselves as a sacrifice.”

  The meeting broke up and Owen returned to where Barley and the rest of his men awaited. Along with the twenty men in his command, another sixty would be attached to him and he’d be given the temporary rank of captain. Not bad for an enlisted deserter from the Royal Navy.

  “So what do we do?” Barley asked.

  “Very simple,” Owen said. “We get wet and dirty while watching and waiting, and, if the gods and the British cooperate, we get to raise holy hell with them.”

  Barley nodded. “Sounds good to me. Just one thing, Acting Captain Wells, there’s only one God so don’t say gods. Don’t tempt the Lord by blaspheming. Like a lot of us, Owen, I’ve been thinking about death and God and we’re in enough trouble without getting Him mad at us too.”

  * * *

  Drums rattled and thundered, with fifes piercing the din, as thousands of men marched to their places and their destiny.

  Fitzroy thought it was an impressive, even awesome, sight even though the numbers were far less than some of the great and epic battles the British Army had fought. When victory came, and the histories written, this battle would be its own epic.

  The men had been fed and almost all looked rested. Some looked confident, while others showed fear and concern on their faces. At least they felt that all their efforts, for good and ill, would come to fruition this day. And, as they looked around, they openly wondered just what if anything could stand before the mighty host of which they were a part.

  Frequently, a unit would break into spontaneous cheers if they saw a particular general, like Grant or Burgoyne, or sometimes just for the sheer devil of it.

  Burgoyne grinned. “With men like this, just how can we lose?”

  Fitzroy agreed.

  * * *

  Banastre Tarleton watched the display of bravado with contempt. In his opinion, Grant was an obese pig and should not be in command of the main attack force, although Tarleton had to admit that Grant had once been a very good and brave general. He also had to admit that Grant had lost a considerable amount of weight on the march, although he still had a ways to go before anyone would consider him trim.

  Tarleton’s anger, however, was directed more at Burgoyne than Grant, who was simply following orders. That Burgoyne had more confidence in the sixty-four-year-old Grant than in the younger Tarleton was simply beyond his comprehension. An attack like this would require bravery and strength and, while Tarleton acknowledged Grant’s fundamental bravery, he doubted that the old man had the strength to follow through. No, he fumed; command of the main assault should have been his.

  Nor was Tarleton pleased that Arnold held the left flank which abutted the stinking swamp. At least there was the remote possibility that some of the rebels would come sneaking through, but nothing like that was even remotely possible where he commanded the two regiments that were all that Burgoyne had left him.

  Skirmish with the rebels, he’d been told, but don’t hazard an attack of your own. Burgoyne had left Tarleton with no doubts as to what would happen if he disobeyed and again went off on his own.

  Still, one could hope. In his fantasy, he had terrible things befalling Grant and the attack, and Burgoyne calling on him in desperation to save the day. Were that to occur, he wondered if he would even honor Burgoyne’s request. Let Grant and Burgoyne be defeated. Then, the next day, he would assume command and a new attack would succeed.

  Or perhaps he should wait until the last bloody damn minute before sending his troops to help pull Grant’s chestnuts out of the fi
re?

  Tarleton sighed. He knew his fate. Grant’s attack would succeed for the simple reason that he was too strong to fail. Tarleton’s men would be permitted to follow and help clean up the debris of what had been an American army.

  Still, his first version of the future was the one he liked best.

  * * *

  On the other British flank, Benedict Arnold was equally glum as he contemplated his lost reputation and fortune. His beautiful wife Peggy would be so disappointed in him. She had such expensive tastes.

  There would be no glory in holding a flanking position that would protect Grant’s enormous and illustrious phalanx and, at the same time, keep an eye on anything that might happen in the swamp.

  Like Tarleton, he too had only a pair of regiments and only one consisted of British regulars. The other was made up of the remnants of Joseph Brant’s command mingled with Simon Girty’s animals. What a comedown for a man who had commanded armies to victory! Not that he envied Grant in his position. Arnold was convinced that the attack was going to be bloodier and far more difficult than anyone envisaged. Still, it would succeed and all the glory would be Grant’s. Damn it to hell, he thought.

  He paced angrily. He was a man of nervous action and standing by doing nothing was not something he did well He turned to where the swamp would be if he could see it. A low mound obscured his view and he knew that Burgoyne could not see it either. He didn’t like that, although earlier patrols had proven that a large detachment could not get through the swamp to his rear. However, what about a small one? A handful of rebel irregulars could play holy hell with the British rear.

  Arnold smiled. He could actually do something while getting rid of Girty’s swine who would be of no use at all in the coming fight. He called over an aide.

  “Ensign Spencer, go to Mr. Girty and direct him to send Braxton’s men into the swamp where they are to watch out for any rebels attempting to get into our rear. You will command them as you did previously. This time, however, please let them know that you are truly in charge and please act like it.”

  Spencer paled. Going back into the swamp was the last thing he wanted to do, especially with Braxton the monster. Arnold smiled inwardly. Spencer was the type of person he both hated and admired. Spencer was skinny, spoiled, whiny, and totally unworthy of being an officer in any army. However, he was also rich, titled and descended from Normans who had landed in England seven hundred or so years earlier. This made him privileged, while Arnold was not. So damn him. Arnold also thought that Spencer’s Norman ancestors had likely been made up of stronger and sterner stuff.

  Arnold did smile. “And again, don’t forget that, as a British officer, you will be in command. Don’t let those filthy wretches tell you what do to; no, you tell them what for. Do you understand me, Spencer?”

  Arnold saw a flicker of hatred replace the fear in the boy’s eyes. “I understand, sir.”

  * * *

  Should the women wear dresses to the battle or not? Sarah thought the question ridiculous at a time like this. Who cared what one wore? The British drums were growing louder and it looked like they were ready to march.

  Still, the debate had been interesting. One group said that the women would be better off wearing men’s clothing because pants were so much more functional. They also said that the British might momentarily think that the Americans had more men than they supposed and react accordingly.

  The other side had agreed, but thought that the impact of seeing they were opposed by women in skirts would bring home the fact that putting down the rebellion was so much more than fighting an army of men. The British had to know they were fighting a people.

  Abigail Adams had settled the issue. Each woman could do whatever the devil she wished.

  Sarah decided to wear a skirt, but she hedged her bet by having pants underneath them. If the skirt proved cumbersome, she would yank it off.

  “Or a Redcoat will rip it off for you,” Hannah Van Doorn said with an impish grin. “And won’t he be shocked to see pants instead of something more intimate.”

  Beside her, Faith tried to laugh, but she was too nervous, too pale, too scared. So too was Hannah and everyone else. She couldn’t imagine how soldiers steeled themselves to go into battle time after time. Sarah looked around and saw her aunt and uncle and then, to her utter astonishment, there was Benjamin Franklin and he was holding a pike. Behind him was John Hancock cradling a light fowling piece, and with them stood virtually all of the members of Congress.

  She caught Franklin’s eye and he walked over. “I believe I may have said something about hanging separately or hanging together, and this is another one of those moments. If we prevail it will be because of all of us. If we fail, the results will be too dismal to be contemplated.”

  She was about to say something when a host of men rushed by. They were part of Morgan’s contingent and they were heading to their posts behind the earthworks. It was beginning. God help us, she prayed.

  * * *

  In his quarters in New York, Lord Charles Cornwallis had awakened that morning in a cold sweat. He’d had a terrible dream. The only problem was, like most dreams, there was bloody little he could remember of it. He seemed to recall a great battle involving the British Army and a vast mob that obviously represented the American rebels. Or perhaps it was the damned French peasants who still swarmed about the French countryside and threatened to overwhelm the smaller British army that was trying to reinstate the remnants of the monarchy.

  Or perhaps it was both of them.

  The dreams had been frequent of late. Most had resulted in him awakening overwhelmed with concern about what might be happening to Burgoyne’s army.

  It was maddening. Time and distance were doing unto him what time and distance did to His Majesty’s government in faraway London. For a moment, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Lord North, Stormont, and the others who, like him, were so out of touch with events they desperately needed to control. But only for a moment. The devil take them all.

  He would not, of course, mention his dreams to his friend and brother who, with a pair of ships of the line and six frigates, had returned from Boston with the news that the rebels in Massachusetts were largely inactive. It was much the same in New York. It wasn’t safe for small British patrols to go too far out of the town, and he didn’t have enough men to risk in a larger patrol, but both sides seemed to have adopted a live and let live attitude.

  So be it.

  He welcomed William to his crudely furnished quarters in the massively reinforced fort at the tip of Manhattan Island. Cornwallis had given up the idea of governing New York from Staten Island, and besides, the plague and fires had almost entirely vanished. So too, unfortunately, had most of the population and almost all of the buildings outside the military encampment. The city of New York was very nearly a ghost town.

  William Cornwallis took a seat and glanced at the leather case on a shelf. “Please don’t tell me you still have that ghastly thing?”

  Cornwallis chuckled. Like himself, William had seen more than enough death, but the idea of a skull in a box along with other bones managed to appall him. “I have my orders,” the general said, “or rather, the orders I was originally given have been reiterated. I am to keep Mr. Washington’s skull until the appropriate moment, which, I presume would be notice of Burgoyne’s victory. At which time I am to make it the centerpiece of a monument to our victory.”

  “And if we lose?”

  “Then I throw the abominable thing in the river and we all sail away.”

  “And how likely is the likelihood of such a defeat, my dear General.”

  “The thought of it is the stuff of nightmares, but it is not bloody likely at all, my dear brother.”

  William laughed genially. Usually the army and the navy did not get along well, but the relationship between Cornwallis and his younger brother was the exception.

  “And what do you think of the latest news from England?” William asked.
<
br />   Lord Cornwallis merely smirked. “More of the same, I’m afraid. There is chaos in France, although the bloodletting does appear to be winding down and it may just be time for some member of the surviving French nobility—Lafayette, perhaps—to take the crown, even though it is likely that any kingship will be under tight controls. Such controls are anathema to our own beloved king, but apparently he will acquiesce if such a limited monarchy can end the killing in France and end any threat to the house of Hanover in England.”

  William Cornwallis nodded thoughtfully. “And what news from Burgoyne?”

  “Nothing,” Cornwallis said, “and I am frankly a little worried. There is rebel activity between here and Fort Pitt, which is raising hell with our limited ability to communicate with Burgoyne in the first place.”

  William poured the two of them a brandy. He raised his glass in a slightly sardonic toast. “Then here’s to the next messenger bringing word of a stupendous victory.”

  * * *

  At first glance, the three-masted sailing ship looked like a large but disreputable merchantman, the type that was always putting in at Kingston, Jamaica, and delivering cargoes that varied from clothing, to foodstuffs, to slaves.

  The name painted on her filthy stern said she was the Flower, and, given her appearance and the ripe smell coming from her, the name was utterly incongruous. Once ships like the Flower sailed in fear of American privateers and the occasional rebel naval vessel and either sailed in convoys protected by Royal Navy ships, or were heavily armed. Now, they sailed alone, which was just fine with their captains who were a touchy and independent lot, always jockeying for additional profit even if it meant taking on additional risk. Convoys, however safer, stifled creativity, which meant reducing opportunities to make money, often through discreet smuggling. But now there was relative peace since the rebellion had been quashed. The French navy was in disarray, and there was no reason to hide in a convoy.

  The Flower, however, was not an ordinary merchantman. She was a floating lie. Her captain was a small hard man named John Paul Jones, and she carried no cargo. Along with her crew was a detachment of eighty Marines, men who had sailed on other, regular American Navy ships. Nor was the ship as disreputable as she seemed. Her original clean lines had been purposely and skillfully obscured to make her look totally unthreatening. Rough, even sloppy, painting covered the twelve gun ports that lined each side and totally hid the nine and twelve pound cannon behind them. Additional hastily applied planking altered her true shape.