Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (36 page)

Chapter 20

F
itzroy stood over the lifeless body of Colonel Erich von Bamberg. The dead German had been laid out on the ground beside an open grave and he tried to generate some sympathy for the man. That he couldn’t was not a surprise. After all was said and done and despite his belated efforts at civility, the Hessian had been a coldblooded and callous murderer of both his own men and those who were innocent. He wondered which part of hell was reserved for men like von Bamberg and monsters like Tarleton and Girty. Perhaps they’d share a cell for all eternity.

That there were rebel spies watching the army maneuver into position came as no surprise, although the audacity of this particular spy was worthy of note. It took courage to simply wander around as if he belonged there and ask questions. In a way, such openness was better than skulking behind trees and peering through telescopes.

The two Hessian soldiers who had been chasing the spy were dumber than oxen and had not seen the face of the spy. All they knew is that he was very tall, very fast, heavily armed, and was accompanied by a large number of rebels, which is why they had given up the chase when Bamberg had been shot. They’d added that it had also been necessary to try to give aid to their beloved colonel whose death the entire Hessian detachment would deeply mourn.

“Bull,” Fitzroy muttered and then concluded that the two Hessians weren’t as dumb as he’d first thought. They’d avoided a possible ambush by pretending to help a hated officer who was dead before he hit the ground. And mourn my ass, he thought. The Hessians who remained out of von Bamberg’s original detachment would celebrate their loathsome commander’s death, and Fitzroy wouldn’t blame them for one minute. Von Bamberg’s second in command was a very young lieutenant who looked overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him.

Fitzroy caught Burgoyne’s eye. The general winked. Von Bamberg would not be missed.

Fitzroy wondered just who the spy had been. Perhaps the next time, if there was a next time, that he saw the rebel Major Drake, he would ask him. Then he chuckled. Did he really expect Drake to give him the name of a spy?

“I must be getting old,” he mentioned to Danforth who had just joined the group.

“I dare say we all are,” said Danforth, “just remember that growing old is far better than dying young. You will join me in a drink or several in honor of the dead German to speed him on his way to Valhalla, will you not?”

Fitzroy smiled. Why not indeed?

* * *

Tallmadge looked over the crude map that Will had drawn. The position of the gathering place for the British attack showed that they would attack at very near the center of the American lines. Stark, Schuyler, and Von Steuben watched.

Von Steuben’s English had improved over the years from impossible to understand to fairly good. He turned to Will. “Why did your man find it necessary to shoot von Bamberg? I was so looking forward to hanging him by his testicles. Don’t let it happen again.”

“Sorry, sir,” Will said with a smile.

“Their attack will not be very subtle at all,” Tallmadge continued. Stark and the others silently agreed. “You’ve done a good job, Will. This proves that the British are locked into a specific plan of action with little flexibility at all.”

Von Steuben growled. “That is the good news. Additional good news is that they will be so massed that virtually anything we fire at them will hit someone and most of them will not be able to fire back at us. The bad is that we will be hard pressed to repel such an overwhelmingly strong attack. We will fight hard, especially my Hessians who have no choice and no hope of a life if we do not win, but I do not think we can stop them.”

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 fire?

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.