Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (29 page)

Chapter 15

T
he screams and howls of rage and fury from behind him were Owen’s first and terrible indication that something was horribly wrong. He wheeled and found himself face to face with a horde of Iroquois who’d exploded from the woods to his rear.

He and the others fired the muskets and crossbows they’d just been aiming at a patrol of Redcoats. Indians fell but the press of numbers carried them into the small group of rebels before they could reload. For a moment that seemed an eternity, it was a brawl with musket butts, tomahawks, knives and, ultimately, fists and teeth. Men screamed and fell while others fought desperately.

An Indian grabbed Owen from behind and began to strangle him. With his strong arms, he pried the man’s hands from his throat and smashed his fist into the Indian’s face, blood gushed from the Iroquois’ mouth. Something hard hit him in the back and knocked him to his knees. He couldn’t breathe and the world spun. I’m going to die, he thought, but then his assailant fell beside him, a tomahawk in his skull.

Hands grabbed Owen and pulled him upright. “We’d better run, Lieutenant.”

Owen nodded. The pain from his back was so intense that he could barely inhale. Talking was out of the question. The Indians had also pulled back, leaving several dead and dying on the ground. From the receding screams and pleas it looked like they’d taken prisoners from Owen’s small force.

Despite wanting to rescue his men, Owen had to retreat. The British patrol they’d been stalking was approaching rapidly. His remaining men helped him into the darkening woods as yet another summer rain began to fall. In a matter of moments they were relatively safe, unless they ran into some more of Brant’s Iroquois or Girty’s white savages.

Owen was half carried, half dragged to the rendezvous point where Sergeant Barley waited with the other half of the platoon. He was laid on the ground and covered with a blanket. He was offered water and he gulped it greedily.

“Got yourself into a mess, didn’t you, Owen?”

“Go screw yourself,” Owen managed to rasp. The effort cost him dearly.

Barley laughed and checked Owen’s wound. “Somebody hit you with a tomahawk, but with not enough force to go all the way through your thick skin. In fact, it just glanced off. We’ll sew it and wrap you up since I think some ribs may be broken. Then you’ve got to go back to Fort Washington. You’re useless as tits on a boar with that wound.”

Owen groaned in dismay, but had to agree. In his wounded state he would be a handicap to a force that had to move quickly and lightly through the woods.

Then he saw the bright side. Even the slowest mule would move faster than the British column and he’d be back to spend at least some time with lovely little Faith while he healed.

* * *

To Fitzroy’s disgust and dismay, Burgoyne agreed with Brant and Tarleton—the prisoners belonged to the Indians who had captured them. It was a gesture to keep the Indians more or less happy. They’d suffered heavy casualties and, along with those who had returned home in disgust, now numbered fewer than two hundred. It was apparent by their sullen looks that they were dispirited as well, and Fitzroy thought they were going to leave as soon as they could, no matter what Burgoyne did to placate them.

But first, the prisoners had to be disposed of, and in the traditional Iroquois manner. The two men were only slightly wounded and seemed fully aware of the horrible fate they were about to endure. Seeing the white faces in the crowd, they called out and pleaded for help, proclaiming that they were Christians and white men and didn’t deserve to be slowly destroyed by red savages. Some of the spectators might have agreed, but was to no avail. The prisoners were stripped naked and each was tied to a pair of long poles that had been driven into the ground. With their arms and legs outstretched, every inch of their bodies was now vulnerable.

Girty sidled up beside Fitzroy. “This part they’d normally leave to the squaws, and they are really nasty bitches. The fucking female animals would eat the prisoners alive if the warriors let them. However, since there are no squaws around, the warriors will fill in for them. I hope you enjoy it, Fitzroy.” Girty laughed.

The torture took time. While the Iroquois yelled and taunted their victims, wooden splinters were shoved under fingernails and toenails and then set afire. The prisoners screamed all the while, which further excited and encouraged the Iroquois. When they were done with this, they took burning twigs and poked them into the prisoner’s genitals and under their arms and onto the soles of their feet while the screaming reached new and purely animal crescendos.

“The Indians despise them for howling like that,” Girty said. “They think that only women and cowards scream, so they’re going to make it worse for them. They admire someone who endures in silence and might even finish him off quickly.”

“Could you endure in silence, Girty?” Fitzroy asked.

“Probably not, but if it meant dying sooner, I’d give it a hell of a try.”

Fitzroy found it difficult to speak, and wanted to scream himself. There was vomit rising in his throat. He was disgusted and appalled that Burgoyne had permitted this atrocity. He turned and saw Burgoyne standing a few feet away, his face pale and drawn. Tarleton was behind him and he was grinning broadly. Of course he would enjoy this spectacle. General Grant was nowhere to be seen. Smart man.

Burgoyne stepped forward and whispered to Fitzroy. “I see your dismay, but understand this—if this is what I have to do to keep my army intact and defeat the rebels, then so be it. I will beg God for forgiveness later.”

Fitzroy understood but did not agree. War was brutal and hellish, but this was pure savagery, not war. This might have been done by some barbarian Hun or Mongol, but should never be permitted or condoned by British generals in this, the eighteenth century. As a soldier, he had been trained to kill, not to murder and certainly not to torture for pleasure or to prove a point. He turned away from Burgoyne, not trusting himself to answer.

Girty laughed. “It’ll be over soon, Major, and then you can go and puke all over your boots if you want.” Girty laughed even harder when Fitzroy found himself unable to respond.

The Indians piled bushes underneath the feet of the victims and set them alight. The carefully controlled fires first seared their lower limbs and then their torsos. The prisoners writhed and twisted in vain attempts to escape the slowly rising flames. A few moments later, one of them slumped over. His heart had given out.

“Well that lucky bastard’s dead already,” Girty said as an Indian reached in and scalped the unmoving man with one quick motion.

The second man didn’t stop screaming and writhing until the flames were almost up to his chin. An Iroquois warrior leaned in and ripped off his scalp, but got his arm badly burned for his efforts. This pleased Fitzroy and the other Indians thought it was hilarious.

As the bodies charred and the stinking fire died down, the Indians drifted off. “Now what?” asked Fitzroy. The stench of burned flesh was adding to his problem. He wondered what Hannah Van Doorn would have thought of this. Even though she was a child of the frontier, had she ever seen anything like this? He wanted to talk to her. She would know what to say to comfort him. He missed her. Damn it to hell.

“The brutes are satisfied,” Girty said and spat on the ground, “At least for the moment.”

Behind him a dull popping sound followed by laughter drew their attention. One of the prisoner’s skulls had exploded from the heat. “Yeah, they’re satisfied for now,” Girty said. “Next they’re gonna get good and drunk.”

That, Fitzroy thought, was a magnificent idea.

* * *

Tallmadge looked at the small piece of paper in his hand. The pigeon who’d brought it stood proudly and heroically on the table and puffed out its chest. It promptly spoiled the scene by dropping a load on said table.

Tallmadge and the others chuckled. “How appropriate,” Tallmadge said. “Would that we had a million pigeons that could do the same for Burgoyne and his army.”

Will joined in the brief laughter. “But what’s the message? Burgoyne’s through building a depot and is on the move once again, isn’t he?”

“And perhaps only two weeks away,” Tallmadge said. “Time to prepare our wills, Will.”

Drake winced at the bad pun. “I would if I had anything to leave. I am as poor as the day I escaped from that hulk in New York.”

“Aren’t we all,” Tallmadge added. “But, think of all the wealth that was abandoned by so many of the people who are here. Yes, people like Franklin, Schuyler, and Hancock are considered traitors by the British and subject to be hanged. But don’t you think that a goodly portion of their wealth could have been used to buy forgiveness, much in the way that the papist priests require a payment as penance from their parishioners before they’re forgiven?”

Schuyler grinned. “The papists have the right idea. Say you’re sorry and you’re permitted to buy your way into heaven.”

Tallmadge shook his head. “I think your understanding of Catholic theology is highly suspect at best, my dear General, but the principle is the same—forgiveness can be bought and sold. It is a commodity. It might be something that could be traded by those Dutch investors who congregate on Wall Street in New York if someone could figure out how to market forgiveness in the form of shares.”

“In times like these, wealth doesn’t much matter,” Schuyler said quietly. “Whatever I have lost in the way of money and lands, I can make back if given the chance. However, I cannot earn back my life if I lose it.”

Will thought back to his months—years?—as a prisoner of the British and how he’d been starved. His position then had been far more hopeless than the one he was in now. At least now he could fight back.

So too could people like Owen Wells. Owen had ridden back from the skirmish where he’d been wounded as quickly as any wounded man could. He’d ignored the pain from his body so he could heal and get back to the fighting.

Sarah was another example of the wealth that was now his although, he considered ruefully, he’d yet to possess her.

Tallmadge poured brandies into small cups. There wasn’t much good liquor left, although, like the tea, they’d tried to distill some of their own. It had been only marginally successful at best, although a number of men and women had managed to get falling down drunk from testing the results.

Schuyler raised his cup. “Gentlemen, let me propose a toast to the one thing of value that we now possess that, if we are successful, we can bequeath to our heirs.”

“Hear, hear,” they chorused, “To Liberty.”

* * *

Silent and menacing, they moved like Viking longships descending upon the hapless British coast where they would fight the soldiers of Alfred the Great or Ethelred the Unready. The cold mist and rain hid them from their unsuspecting prey. In moments they would be ashore, wielding swords and axes to chop down the inept guardians of the land. When that pleasant task was completed, they would begin pillaging the rude homes and ravaging the local women. Many women wouldn’t resist much. Instead they would feel honored to be the concubine of mighty Viking warriors. Fires and destruction would show where they had been.

Danforth chuckled softly. At least it sounded good, he thought as Benedict Arnold’s small armada moved slowly and soundlessly through the cold, wet Lake Michigan morning. The air was calm, so the crews used the sweeps to row through the flat lake.

As with the trip north to Fort Mackinac, they had begun by making better time than expected and, according to plan, Arnold’s orders called for them to anchor in the St. Joseph River, which was about a day’s sail from where Burgoyne was supposed to reach the lake and meet up with them.

Their schedule was somewhat disrupted by a couple of violent squalls that arose shortly after they had left Mackinac Island and cost them one barge sunk and two badly damaged after they collided with each other. Danforth had worked hard to help pull the injured from the water, along with a couple of the dead, and received the silent gratitude from the crews for his efforts. Even Arnold complimented him tersely. Arrogant shit, Danforth thought.

After that, they made it a point to sail closer to the Michigan shoreline, which would enable them to beach the barges should another storm arise. None did, but the route did give Danforth and Rudyard an opportunity to view the coastline. They were both astonished by a number of large sand dunes towering several hundred feet into the sky.

It truly was a land of wonders, Danforth thought. Not only did North America seem to go on forever, but he had seen the marvel of the falls near Niagara and now dunes like those from the Sahara emerging from the lake.

There was significant evidence of Indian presence along the coast as well, and Rudyard informed Danforth that the lake was teaming with edible fish.

“Which is part of the reason the rebels haven’t starved,” Rudyard said. “You can even chop holes in the ice in the wintertime and fish. The silly creatures are just dying to take your bait and become your dinner.”

As they continued to sail south, one new problem had arisen. The British fort on the St. Joseph River had been abandoned several years before, and there was no one with the flotilla who was certain where either it or the river was. Since it was incumbent that they not sail too far south and alert the rebels of their presence, they’d slowed to a crawl and sent the smaller warship, the
Snake,
to search the coast and find the bloody thing. So far the search had not been successful.