Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (38 page)

Chapter 21

T
he 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 worthwhile, 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.

A dozen enemy soldiers screamed or fell silently into the water, their bodies pierced by the bolts. The remainder turned and milled, searching for their attackers. Owen heard a high-pitched and youthful voice calling for the Loyalists to open fire. Muskets barked, but at what? Owen’s men had dropped to the water or taken position behind trees.

The crossbowmen quickly reloaded and fired again, striking several more targets. Owen urged his men up and toward the enemy soldiers who were frantically reloading the muskets they’d so foolishly emptied at the trees. At nearly point-blank range, Owen’s men fired their own muskets with devastating effect and hurled themselves at the confused survivors of Braxton’s force.

The two groups became a howling, splashing, bloody tangle as men clubbed each other with rifle butts, stabbed with knives or hacked with tomahawks. Men wrestled and bit and fell beneath the water, some to remain there. Braxton’s Loyalists fought desperately. The Americans now outnumbered them and were between them and refuge back in the British lines.

Owen saw Braxton with a pistol in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. He was bleeding from a crossbow wound in his leg and was having difficulty standing. The little British officer lay face down in the muck, his arms and legs twitching. One of Owen’s men ran up to Braxton, who shot him in the face. Another of Owen’s men took a tomahawk swipe in the arm and reeled away, screaming. Braxton was a wounded and dangerous animal and several Americans were keeping their distance.

“Mine!” yelled Owen. His own rifle was empty and his remaining weapon was a broad-bladed knife. As he approached Braxton, the scarred man seemed puzzled. “I want to kill you, Braxton.”

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

Owen decided he didn’t want to inform the gathering circle of men in any detail about what had happened to Faith and her family. Or for that matter, Winifred Haskill, who was slowly recovering from her even greater ordeal at the hand of Braxton.

Owen swung his knife in a lazy arc, confident that Braxton couldn’t escape. “Let’s say I am a friend of some people you hurt.”

Braxton laughed. “That’d be a large number, short boy.” he said. To Owen’s surprise, he threw the tomahawk, causing Owen to duck, and charged awkwardly at Owen. The two men collided, and Owen lost his knife. They grappled with their hands and Owen was astonished at how strong Braxton was. But being shorter gave him greater leverage than Braxton. The two rolled around in the muck, seeking advantage. Finally, Owen managed to get his arms around Braxton’s waist and buried his head in the other man’s back before the other man could find his throat or eyes.

Owen began to squeeze with his heavily muscled arms.

Braxton grunted and tried to break Owen’s grip. He couldn’t. Nor could he reach behind and find Owen’s eyes to gouge out as Owen’s head was in his back, and Owen’s testicles were also out of reach. Braxton’s grunts turned to groans and his body began to thrash and arch as Owen squeezed the life out of his chest.