Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence

by Robert Conroy

  Nor was the ship’s real name something as vapid as the Flower. Instead, her true papers showed her to be an American naval warship, the Liberator, and she’d been chosen and named for this singular mission. That she was a regular navy ship and not a privateer or a pirate was a distinction that meant a lot only to the officers and men of the Liberator, all of whom couldn’t wait to paint over the ridiculous name of Flower. So far as they knew, she was the only regular navy ship the Colonies now had. John Hancock had signed the commission a few months earlier and it was clearly of dubious legality. The officers and men of the Liberator didn’t care. She and they had a job to do.

  The frigate did not put in at the major port of Kingston. Instead, she anchored in a cove a dozen miles away from the city. This did not attract undue attention. Many planters had their cargoes unloaded at places more convenient to them than the town. As long as duties were paid, no one cared. And if duties weren’t paid, then sometimes nobody cared either, especially when a bribe to an underpaid local official was cheaper than paying duty.

  When darkness fell, there was no one to see the ship’s boats lowered. They were filled with heavily armed Marines who were dressed as ordinary seamen, a fact that they accepted as necessary but resented nonetheless. They were proud of their uniforms, particularly the leather collars that kept their heads proudly upright.

  Captain Samuel Nicholas commanded the Marines. Nearly forty, he’d served with Jones when, in 1775, the pugnacious little Scotsman had command of the Alfred and attacked the British in the Bahamas. Thus, neither he nor Jones were strangers to each other or to the Caribbean waters.

  Nicholas marched his men quickly overland to their target, a sprawling farm compound a couple of miles inland. However, it was no longer a farm. It was a prison.

  It was a little after midnight and all was quiet when they approached. A handful of the stealthier Marines reconnoitered ahead and returned with the information that only a few British soldiers guarded the compound and seemed to be uninterested at best. After all, where would the occupants go even if they did manage to set themselves free?

  The Marines waited until a squad was in position to block anyone from escaping down the road to Kingston.

  A scream and a musket fired. Nicholas cursed—surprise was lost. “At them,” he hollered and his men swarmed into the compound. British guards tumbled out of their barracks and were quickly and brutally cut down by Marine muskets and then by cutlasses and bayonets. It was over in a couple of minutes, and a score of dead and wounded British soldiers were sprawled on the ground, while a handful of others stood with their hands in the air.

  “Any of them get away?” Nicholas asked and no one was certain. Nor could the British commander tell them. He had fallen with a musket ball in his neck. The Marines would assume the worst and make all haste back to the ship. Nicholas was suddenly aware of many pairs of eyes watching him and his men from behind the barred windows of the prison buildings.

  Nicholas gave the order and the prison buildings were broken into. Scores of confused and bleary-eyed men poured out and stared at the Marines who stared back in dismay at the wretches. The men the Marines had come to liberate were thin to the point of being little more than sticks. Many of them were half naked and their backs bore signs of floggings. Some couldn’t stand up and Nicholas suddenly despaired of getting them back to the ship anywhere near as quickly as planned.

  Nicholas swore and sent a runner back to Jones with the bad news. It would take longer then planned, and he would need additional manpower from the Liberator to help with the men they’d freed while the Marines maintained a rear guard.

  Damn, he thought. But that was the way with plans. They never worked out as they were supposed to.

  Thus, it was mid-day before the last of the wretched men had been aided across country, and then been helped aboard the Liberator, and put below decks. Some of the freed prisoners had to be carried, which meant that litters and stretchers had to be improvised, and all of them needed to be aided during the slow, tortuous journey back to the waiting ship. Many of the Marines and crew of the Liberator wept openly at the misery they were witnessing, while all of them treated the freed prisoners with a degree of tenderness and compassion that would have surprised those who’d seen them in battle.

  Fortunately, no attack from the city materialized. While the crew of the Liberator made ready to sail, the freed men were given soup and fruit and some seemed to improve dramatically. Food and the prospect of freedom will do that to a man, Jones remarked to Nicholas, even though more than a few of them had vomited their meals.

  As they raised anchor and put to sea, a small cutter showing the British flag rounded the point of land that had shielded them. Jones ordered the guns run out and a dozen cannon made ready to blow the tiny vessel out of the water. The cutter mounted only swivel guns.

  “Chain shot and aim for their rigging,” Jones commanded as the cutter came within range.

  Twelve cannon fired as one. The two masts on the cutter disintegrated and the little ship began to wallow helplessly.

  “Are we going to sink her?” Nicholas asked.

  “Nay,” said Jones in his thick Scottish accent. “They’re now no threat to us and, besides, let them describe us to their British masters. It won’t matter. In a matter of hours, this ship won’t resemble the one that they saw.”

  A small, thin man with a scraggly beard and dressed in rags stood before Jones. “On behalf of all of us, dear sir, thank you. A few more months and we might all be dead.”

  Jones bowed. “You are more than welcome, sir. Now, may I ask who you might be?”

  “John Adams,” he replied.

  Jones smiled. He knew they’d struck gold in Jamaica. Adams was one of the surviving American leaders they’d wanted most to free. “Welcome aboard.”

  Adams smiled and Jones winced. Several of Adams’ teeth were missing and others were rotten. They had paid a terrible price in their Jamaican prison. They had survived, sort of, but the health of many of them was doubtless ruined. Jones wondered why the bastard British hadn’t killed their prisoners outright instead of letting them live on in agony. Because the British truly were bastards, he decided.

  “Captain Jones, may I inquire as to our destination?” Adams asked.

  Jones wished he had a simple answer for Adams and the others. So much was out of his control. Almost everything would depend on the actions of others many hundreds of miles away. His plans called for him to call at a French port for food and news of the war and, if all was well, he would choose between Boston and New Orleans as a destination. And if all was not well? Well, he thought he could find a place, but the current political situation was complicating matters. During the revolution, the world was against Britain, but now, the world was on her side and against the madmen in revolutionary France. A handful of islands remained under French control and these were being ignored by the British, but they represented nothing in the way of long-term safety. The only good thing about the fighting in Europe was that it had pulled away many of the Royal Navy warships that ordinarily prowled the Caribbean.

  In truth, the only nation he could think of that might be sympathetic to the American cause was Russia, where Catherine the Great ruled. He had no idea just how he might make it to St. Petersburg if he had to, although he did have a Russian flag in his quarters and a letter from Catherine inviting him to come and join her navy. He wondered what either would get him if a British seventy-four gun ship of the line stopped him.

  Still, he’d gotten his orders and fulfilled them. What the devil to do next was the problem.

  “Hopefully, sir, we’ll have a home in a free country. If not, we may have to sail the seas forever. Perhaps we might be fortunate and find a tropical paradise in the South Pacific.”

  Chapter 21

  The sound of the drums chilled them, and men on both sides shivered despite the summer’s warmth. The red-coated beast was beginning to stir. What had been almost casual lines of
British soldiers changed into straight lines that were intimidating in their precision.

  To either side of the British phalanx, cannon boomed. Fitzroy watched as the two rescued nine-pounders belched out the rocks that were all that could be fired from them. Predictably, they did little more that stir up dirt on the hill, resulting in derisive taunts from the defenders. Their intended use was to frighten the rebels and Fitzroy was afraid that they’d become laughably ineffective.

  The same happened with the guns taken from the two schooners. Since the ships were now defenseless, they had been sent back to Mackinac. These small guns also sent their projectiles into the earthworks with no apparent effect.

  Not a most auspicious start, Fitzroy thought. As he approached Burgoyne, he saw Tarleton ride off, whipping his horse in petulant anger.

  Burgoyne smiled calmly. “You saw Tarleton depart, I trust?”

  “Indeed, sir, and he looked very angry.”

  “He was. Once again he asked for the honor of leading the army and once again I declined his offer. I did think, however, that the timing of his request was most unusual.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, because he waited until he knew it would be impossible for me to honor it under any circumstances. If anyone hasn’t noticed, the attack is commencing and there would be no reason on earth to remove Grant at this late moment, and replace him with Banastre Tarleton even if I desired it, which I don’t. This proves only one thing, in my opinion. Do you know what that is, dear cousin?”

  “I have thoughts, General.”

  “Share them.”

  Fitzroy laughed sharply. “Deep down, Banastre Tarleton is a coward. He’s fantastically good at raiding small units when he outnumbers them, and butchering prisoners and civilians. But put him up against a good fighter, as happened when he took on Morgan at the Cowpens, and he fails and runs.”

  Burgoyne nodded and smiled, “My sentiments exactly. Where General Arnold is both brave and foolhardy, Tarleton is merely foolhardy and not brave at all. No, General Grant is the professional whose services I trust. Ergo, he commands the attack.”

  Burgoyne took a deep breath. “Regardless, to what do I owe the honor of your presence? Do tell me that you wish something other than you too commanding the assault.”

  Fitzroy flushed. It wasn’t that far from the mark. “No, but I do wish to be released so I can join General Grant in the center of the phalanx.”

  Given the size of the British formation and the potential difficulty in controlling it, Grant had placed himself and his small staff almost exactly in its middle. It was a unique solution to a unique situation.

  “Sorry James, but you may not. I need you here in case something unexpected happens, which is usually the case when two armies collide. I understand and commend your desire to be at the center of the fighting, but my and the army’s needs must come first. I must have someone I trust nearby.”

  Fitzroy was disappointed, but understood. But he also felt relieved. Even if the rebel defenses collapsed, they would not do so until they had taken more than the proverbial pound of flesh from the British attackers. The thought of the carnage to take place chilled him. Perhaps Tarleton wasn’t the only coward on the field of battle.

  * * *

  Burned Man Braxton stared in disbelief. Behind him a battle was beginning and this arrogant young jackass was giving him orders. Worse, the snot had the power of General Arnold and the British hierarchy behind him. It was all due to a rule that said a British officer of any rank was superior to a militia officer of any rank. Thus, the very young Ensign Spencer, whose nose actually was draining snot onto his chin, had announced that he would command the detachment going into the swamp.

  For a moment Braxton understood why the colonists had rebelled. He put the heretical thought out of his mind. He would obey orders no matter what he thought of them. English victory would put him that much closer to wreaking vengeance on the people who had maimed him.

  He also thought that he would put a musket ball into Ensign Spencer’s head if the little boy’s actions threatened Braxton’s existence. Glancing at the men around him, he thought he wasn’t the only one who would finish Ensign Spencer if the need arose.

  “I want the men closer together than the last time,” Spencer said. “There’s too much danger of us getting separated and losing contact if we spread out.”

  Braxton nodded and passed on the order. He had his doubts, but he also understood that the boy was at least a little bit correct. If his men got separated and if any of them ran into the rebels, there was the real danger that they could be destroyed by an inferior force. They might also get lost.

  “Then let’s go,” Spencer said and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  * * *

  The approaching horde of British soldiers was slightly obscured by the dust that thousands of marching feet were kicking up. Will could not begin to fathom what was going on in the minds of the British soldiers as they marched forward. A pennant was raised in the middle of the block of men and he presumed it showed where whatever senior officer who commanded the army was located. Intelligence said it was General Grant, and Will had no reason to doubt it. Grant was a logical choice. Still, the pennant made a splendid target, or it would when it and the British army came closer.

  He mounted his scrawny horse and took his position alongside Brigadier General William Washington, who nodded. Behind them were the hundred and fifty men who constituted the entire mounted force that the Americans could field. Not even Washington could call them cavalry and keep a straight face. They were mounted infantry on bedraggled ponies that were so small that several men’s feet almost dragged on the ground.

  Still, they remained better than Burgoyne’s cavalry, which was nonexistent. The British had brought fewer than fifty horses and most of those that hadn’t been killed by crossbow bolts were being utilized by the British for use by couriers and ranking officers.

  If opportunities presented themselves, however, William Washington’s men could cause damage. With knowledge of exactly where the British were going to attack, Stark had ordered that lanes be opened through the thickets in hopes that spoiling attacks on the British could take place. The lanes were not visible to the British as the brush entanglements had not been removed, merely loosened so they could be pulled aside quickly.

  The small American cannon boomed. If they hit anything, no dust was raised up so Will couldn’t tell. “I hope they are aiming at that damned pennant,” he said.

  “Why bother,” said Washington. “At a point, whoever is commanding won’t control anything and, besides, how do you know that the pennant isn’t a ruse to get us to waste our ammunition shooting at it?”

  Will agreed. A small commotion behind the American lines caught his attention. “You won’t need me for a few moments, will you?”

  William Washington laughed good-naturedly. “Didn’t think I needed you at all, Drake.”

  * * *

  Will found Sarah’s uncle Wilford sweating heavily as he pushed a wooden contraption into position. It and a number of others had been hauled up the hill and manhandled into place by groups of older men and women. Some of the men, however, had the look of artisans and seemed pleased with themselves. For his part, Will could only gape. He had only seen things like this in history books.

  Wilford wiped sweat from his brow and smiled at Will. “Damn it, son, I am too old for this.”

  “Wilford, have you and Dr. Franklin gone out of your minds? You have brought us catapults with which to fight the British.”

  “Catapults, Will, were used to batter down the walls of many enemy castles and cities in the Middle Ages. These little devices are designed to kill soldiers.”

  “How?”

  “Originally, it was thought they could hurl pointed and weighted projectiles at the enemy. The balance of the projectiles would cause them to fall point down and find British flesh. Sadly, we found we didn’t have the ability to make enough of the projectiles to be w
orthwhile, so we determined that they could be used to throw rocks at them, large, man-killing rocks and large numbers of them.”

  Drake shook his head. “Clever and good, but they won’t stop that army.”

  “No, but they will cause casualties and annoy the hell out of it. Anyone who is hit by a good-sized rock will be either killed or seriously injured with badly broken bones.”

  Wilford was correct, of course. But the ultimate truth was that only another army could stop the British. Still, the idea of distracting and bleeding the British had considerable merit.

  “Any other ideas from yours and Franklin’s fertile minds, Wilford?”

  “See those jugs half buried in the ground?”

  “I do.”

  “And see the ropes leading from them?”

  Will grinned, his curiosity piqued. “Of course.”

  “When the time is right, I and others will pull on those ropes and when that happens, do yourself a favor, Will. Don’t be anywhere near those jugs.”

  * * *

  Owen Wells led his men behind the Loyalists commanded by Braxton and the little British officer. With the British bunched up, it had been a simple matter to wait for the men led by Braxton and the little ensign to go past. Nor was there any problem staying unnoticed. Individually, a man traveling through the woods could hear other sounds, but a group of them, however hard they would try to, just couldn’t remain silent. Nor could their ears easily pick up other sounds as they sloshed through the water and the muck.

  Owen ordered his men to move out in a manner that basically mirrored Braxton’s force. To his delight, Braxton and his men were totally focused on their front and not their rear. The two groups were approximately the same number as they slogged through the dank water that came well over their knees. Owen signaled his crossbowmen to go to the front. When they got to within twenty or thirty yards of the enemy he waved his arm and a score of crossbow bolts flew to their targets.