Read Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Online
Authors: Robert Conroy
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (4 page)
And who was to say that the same wouldn’t occur even across the Harlem River after the two of them had parted and he was alone.
“Homer, just suppose I do get caught. They would realize that someone helped me. They would force me to tell them everything and lead them to you.”
“Do you know where you are right now?”
“Enough to lead someone back here if I was forced to.”
“Then don’t worry about it because I won’t be here. There’s no reason for me to stay here. I’ll move.”
“But I know your name.”
Homer laughed hugely. “Do you?”
* * *
Owen Wells liked climbing the rigging of a great sailing ship, and the HMS
Victory
was the greatest of them all. Only a few years old, the massive ship of the line still seemed shiny and new. She’d entered the fleet in 1778 and taken part in the two battles of the Ushant where Owen’s skills as a sniper had gained him recognition. The
Victory
carried upwards of a hundred great guns and was the pride of the Royal Navy. She displaced about 3,500 tons and had a crew of almost nine hundred men. She had patrolled off Boston during the revolution and had acquitted herself well fighting the French, although some thought it a shame that she had missed the climactic battle off Virginia that had ended the revolution. Owen didn’t care. People had a nasty habit of dying during battles. He’d already lost a number of mates.
Owen didn’t have to be climbing the rigging at this time of the evening. He was off duty and could have been playing cards, reading, or cleaning his kit. He was a Royal Marine, not a seaman, but he was good at climbing and it gave him a chance to be away from the other marines and sailors who frequently ridiculed him. They called him ape, or monkey, because of his physique. He was short, squat, and dark haired. His arms were disproportionately long and heavily muscled, which enabled him to swing through the rigging with consummate ease.
This strength meant he’d won most of the fights with people who’d initially tormented him. If he got them in his massive arms, it was all over. He would wrap his arms around their chests and squeeze until they either gave up or passed out. He hadn’t yet killed a man with his strength, but he’d come close and that would be bad. It was one thing to kill an enemy, which he’d done, but entirely another to kill a fellow British crewman.
Along with being very strong, Owen was also a deadly shot with his musket. His place in combat was in the rigging, firing down on an enemy deck after clearing the enemy’s rigging of their own riflemen. Lately, that had meant the French, and he’d killed several of them.
Owen was only twenty years old, but had been a Royal Marine for seven years. He’d enlisted after lying about his age and after finding that the local sheriff and squire were after him. His crime was poaching on the squire’s grounds and eating the squire’s damned rabbits, which was how he’d learned to shoot and track. He’d only shot the squire’s rabbits because he was suddenly an orphan and was hungry. For killing rabbits they’d had him flogged before turning him over to the pressmen from the navy.
From his high perch, he could see the
Victory
’s captain far below on the quarterdeck. He’d never been on the quarterdeck. That was officer’s territory, and that struck him as strange. After all, it was just wood planking. The captain was accompanied by Admiral Sir William Cornwallis and General Sir John Burgoyne. Sir William, he’d heard, was the younger brother of Charles Cornwallis, the governor general of the colonies. As if it mattered to him. He toyed with the idea of spitting down and seeing if he could hit either of his mighty lordships on the head. He decided that was not a wise idea as he’d be flogged until his bones showed through, although the thought of hitting someone so important with a gob of spittle made him smile.
The
Victory
was the flagship of an enormous British fleet heading towards the American colonies. Even though it was a dark night, he could see the shapes of a score or more merchant vessels and a half dozen escorting warships, including other massive ships of the line like the
Victory
and a number of smaller, swifter frigates. He’d heard that the French navy wasn’t much of a threat anymore, but it didn’t pay to take chances.
Owen had made a decision. On reaching the New World, he would desert. The country was vast and, even though the British ruled the land, he was confident he could disappear in it. He had some money saved up from winning shooting matches, and, as a marine, he would likely be sent ashore to guard the sailors while picking up stores as he’d done before. His job would be to see the sailors didn’t desert, and no one would be watching for him to run. He’d acquired a reputation for being trustworthy and it was time to use that to his advantage.
Somehow, he’d get civilian clothes and maybe a musket for protection from the red savages, or even the outlaws who, he’d heard, roamed the land outside the cities. He couldn’t keep his smaller, naval version of the Tower musket as that would be too obviously property of the king. He thought seriously about joining the outlaw rebels to the west of the colonies, but discarded it. The army in the convoy was being sent to destroy them, which meant they would be destroyed. He’d never seen rebel soldiers, but he had seen the British and a rebel mob would never stand against them.
At least that was the plan. He shuddered at what could happen to him if it all went wrong. He’d be lucky if they shot him or hanged him. More likely he’d be flogged to death. He shuddered again. He’d been flogged once while in the navy, fifty lashes. He’d screamed after twenty and his back still bore the scars on top of the ones given back in England. He’d been hit with a short knotted rope called a starter a thousand times, but that didn’t count. Everybody got hit like that. He’d worked hard at being a good marine and there was talk he might be promoted. Sure, he laughed, in a hundred years. Thanks to his squat physique, he didn’t wear a dress uniform because none would fit him, which meant he could never command in the ranks. What he did wear was a large man’s uniform that draped all over him.
Burgoyne and William Cornwallis appeared to be arguing. He wondered about what. He could hear the sounds of their voices but couldn’t make out the words or meaning. He thought of the damage he could do to the British cause with his musket if he had it and shot down at them. He was Welsh, not British, and he’d been taught to respect and fear the British, but never to love them.
He wondered what he’d be when he was free.
* * *
“Get your lazy ass up,” Homer said jovially. “We be leaving now.”
It was the middle of the night, and Will had been dozing on a pile of rags. “What’s happened?”
“There’s a whole goddam fleet coming in and it’s gonna be bringing more Redcoats than can be counted. They’ll be crawling all over the place and all of a sudden I don’t think this is a good place for us to be.”
Will dressed quickly. He had nothing else to carry with him. At least it wouldn’t look all that much like they were running away, he thought ruefully. He realized there was another problem involving British security.
“We don’t have passes.”
“Yes, you do.” Homer rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It identified the bearer as Thomas Wolfington, a merchant from Providence, Rhode Island. His date of birth said he was in his late thirties and the document carried all the appropriate stamps and seals. “Like I said, you white people need the pass. Nigger slaves don’t need one. Lucky us.”
Will examined the paper. “Where’d you get this?”
“Off of Thomas Wolfington of Providence, Rhode Island, where else? He was drunk as a lord and fell down in the gutter.”
“Won’t he miss this when he wakes up?”
“He won’t wake up, leastwise not on this earth. I dumped his sorry ass in the river. He’s probably halfway out to join that British fleet right now.”
Will grimaced. Homer had killed a man on his behalf. So what if the man was probably a Tory, it was murder, not battle. But then, did he want to run the risk of being picked up in a city that was full of Tories and soon to be inundated with British soldiers? As with all he had done to survive on the prison hulk, he would beg forgiveness later. Now it was long past time to go, and if Mr. Thomas Wolfington truly was dead, then he was a casualty of a brutal and ongoing war.
Very early in the morning, they rented a wagon and a horse. They promised the stable owner they’d have them back in a day or two and headed north to the Harlem River. As planned, Will drove while Homer sat behind him, the picture of docility.
There was excitement in the air. The overwhelmingly Tory city of New York was expectantly awaiting the arrival of the fleet. There were those who said they could see a forest of sails from the church steeples, which made the need for their departure even more imperative.
Will and Homer rode north against a tide of people heading for the waterfront to take in the scene. The stolen pass got them through the city’s defenses without a second glance by the guards who were far more interested in the fleet’s arrival. Once outside of the city, Manhattan Island was scarcely occupied. An occasional farmhouse broke the monotony as they rode north, but there were few of those and a number of them had been destroyed. Charred ruins near the road showed that hard times and years of warfare had fallen upon the people who had attempted to live there. The fertile land was strangely barren. The trees had been cut down for firewood, and only high weeds grew where once there had been forests.
A number of miles farther on along the trail called the Post Road, Will gazed wistfully at the Harlem Heights where the rebel army had handed the Redcoats a bloody nose following the overwhelming British victory at Long Island. The British had thought the Americans were finished, but they’d been wrong. Will prayed they were wrong again and that there really was a place called Liberty. But the feeling of depression returned when they passed by the site of Fort Washington, where more than two thousand Americans had been captured by the British.
When they finally reached the Harlem River, more than a dozen miles north of the city, it was getting dark and only a couple of very bored British soldiers examined Will’s pass. A dozen others and an ensign commanding them lounged around a dilapidated farmhouse a hundred or so yards away. One scrawny white man and a colored servant were not a threat to their safety. The soldiers were even friendly, and Will allowed himself a moment’s fleeting sympathy for them. This wasn’t their war either. The soldiers said that they were annoyed at the arrival of the fleet and the thousands of reinforcements General Burgoyne had brought with him. The soldiers and sailors would be additional competition for the city’s whores.
Will grinned in mock sympathy. “Don’t worry. I understand most of the women in New York are whores already, so there’ll be plenty to go around.” It was almost the truth. Someone had calculated that one in five women in New York were prostitutes, while others had jokingly said it was the other way around.
The soldiers laughed appreciatively and let the two men pass onto Dykeman’s Bridge that took them across the river. When they were several miles farther away, Will and Homer paused. It was night and the moon gave only a little light.
“This is where we part,” Homer said.
Will nodded. He was on his way to Connecticut to see if a piece of property owned by his family still existed. He wasn’t certain what he’d do when he got there. It was just a small dairy farm, but it was a link to his past and had been in his family for generations. If asked by anyone along the way, he would continue to be the late and unlamented Thomas Wolfington.
“Not going back to New York?” Will teased. “What about returning the horse and wagon?”
Homer grunted. “Fuck the guy who rented them to me and fuck New York. Nothin’ there but Redcoats wanting me to shine their boots or kiss their asses. And like you said, all the women are whores even though all the money in the world won’t get them to fuck a black man. No, I’m on my way to Boston.”
“Homer, there are even more Redcoats there. It’s almost a prison.”
“I ain’t that stupid, Will. I’m just going near Boston. The British are only in the city, not the surrounding area. I understand that the people up there are a lot nicer to colored people than elsewhere in the colonies. Who knows, I might even get laid. And you? Where will you go after you’ve satisfied your curiosity about that farm?”
Will had given that a lot of thought. He wondered if he’d be able to escape his past and live peacefully as a civilian farmer. Then he wondered if he even wanted to be a farmer. He’d studied for the law, but soldiering was almost all he knew. And he was damned certain he didn’t want to be a farmer under an English yoke.
“You’re going to wind up at Liberty, aren’t you?” Homer chuckled.
“If there is such a place. Maybe it’s mystical, like Camelot, and doesn’t even exist?”
“I have no idea what this Camelot is, Will, but if it doesn’t exist, then why are the British going to send an army against it? Naw, Will, there’s something out in the west and I don’t know if it’s called Liberty, or Fort Washington, or Jerusalem, or what in hell. But odds are, that’s where you’ll wind up.”
Chapter 2
G
overnor General Sir Charles Cornwallis received his younger brother William in his private quarters in Fort George on lower Manhattan. They embraced fondly.
“Thank God, a friendly face,” the recently appointed governor general of the thirteen colonies said.
Sir Charles Cornwallis’ responsibilities were awesome, since they included both civil and military matters, and he looked tired and haggard despite being refreshed at meeting his brother. Privately, he sometimes wondered if he’d been rewarded or punished with this high office.
He’d recently been particularly distressed when one of the prison hulks had fallen apart and disgorged more than a hundred emaciated prisoners into the river where most of them drowned. Until then, he’d naively assumed that the civilian contractors who were running the prison ships were at least doing what they were being paid to do—feed, clothe and shelter the prisoners at a minimal level until London could figure out what to do with them. Embarrassed and ashamed at what he’d seen and belatedly recognized, Cornwallis had ordered the surviving prisoners out of all the hulks and into warehouses where British soldiers now guarded them and assured that they received sufficient food and at least a decent level of comforts. A recent inspection showed most of them improving and he’d sent a message to Lord Stormont describing what he’d found and how he hoped it wasn’t being repeated in other prisons where rebels were being held. He’d heard rumors that conditions for senior rebels in Jamaica were even more vile. The rebels deserved to be punished severely, but not starved and abused until they died.
“Good to see you as well,” William said. “And how’s the luckiest man in the world this day?”
It was a joke they shared every one of the infrequent times they got together. The elder Cornwallis’ victory at Yorktown had been as unexpected as it was total. On the verge of surrender, his men starving and out of ammunition, the relieving British fleet had arrived with both supplies and reinforcements. That they’d also destroyed a poorly handled French fleet under Admiral DeGrasse in the great victory at the Battle of the Capes had been an added bonus.
Refreshed in mind and body, the British had surged out of their fortifications and defeated the now dispirited combined French and American forces. The defeat had turned into a rout and the rout into a slaughter in which the rebel army had been destroyed and George Washington taken prisoner.
William, known as “Billy Blue” behind his back, took a brandy from his older brother. “My voyage with General Burgoyne was fine and thank you for asking. Now, what are you going to do with the great man and the little army he’s brought over?”
Charles Cornwallis chuckled. “I suppose I’ll obey my orders, presuming they make any sense. Of course, I’m not sure it makes any sense at all to ship an army, however small, over here when the real war is taking place in France.”
Shortly after the French and American collapse, an attempt by the French monarchy to raise taxes to pay for the debacles had resulted in France being torn apart by a sudden and violently anti-monarchist revolution. The new taxes had started a civil war that was rending France into bloody pieces. Horrified by the violence of the revolution in France, and tormented by the possibility of a similar republican uprising in England, King George III had sent over an army led by Lord Jeffrey Amherst to France to help the monarchists crush the revolution. France was where most professional soldiers wished to be and was where Charles Cornwallis thought he should be. Still, he had doubts. Yorktown had taught him the fickleness of fate on the battlefield.
France was also a war that was not going particularly well for England. The small British army had not had a major impact in trying to restore its version of order on the French, and the efforts of the French monarchists had been just as dismal. As a class, both Cornwallis brothers considered the French aristocracy to be a pack of fools.
“And just how popular is Burgoyne’s adventure in England?” Charles asked.
“Emotions are mixed,” his younger brother answered. “Many wish Burgoyne a swift victory, while others want the rebels left alone, feeling that enough blood and treasure has been spent in subduing the colonies. Others feel that the rebellion in France might spread to the English peasants and that terrifies them. In sum, the war against the American rebels is unpopular with a sizeable portion of the English people and that includes a growing number in Parliament. Burgoyne will have but one chance to win. If he fails, there will, at best, be an independent American nation out in the west. It is entirely possible that all of the colonies would rebel again and win.”
“I will meet with Burgoyne shortly,” Sir Charles said with a hint of distaste. “The man is too flamboyant for my taste, and he did lose an army at Saratoga.”
His brother laughed, “Whereas you only almost lost one at Yorktown.”
Sir Charles grinned happily. “All right, you have me there. And of course I have advance knowledge that he is here to do something about that damned rebel enclave out west and I’m going to be ordered to render whatever assistance possible while, at the same time, governing thirteen fractious and largely unrepentant colonies in the King’s name.”
Billy Blue Cornwallis made a mock bow. “And of course you will obey your orders like a good soldier and to the best of your ability.”
Governor General Sir Charles Cornwallis matched his younger brother’s bow, “Up your arse, Billy.”
* * *
Major James Fitzroy followed General Burgoyne into Lord Cornwallis’ large but surprisingly spartan office in Fort George at the foot of Manhattan Island. Cornwallis took one look at Fitzroy and made a gesture that he should leave. Fitzroy did as told, but positioned himself outside the door so that he could hear the conversation, just as Burgoyne had earlier told him to.
Cornwallis was stood behind a large desk and table which was littered with papers. “What on earth were our lords in London thinking, General Burgoyne?” he said after formally acknowledging the other’s presence.
“I believe it’s quite simple, General,” Burgoyne said with a hint of smugness. “We all want the rebels finally crushed and that is my assignment. When the rebels are destroyed, peace will be assured and then the second phase of pacification will begin.”
“I have no problem with your taking on the rebels in their forest lair, but it is Lord North’s concept of pacification that disturbs me.”
“Oh?”
Cornwallis looked through a window at the harbor. Scores of warships and transports were anchored near the fort, and unloading large numbers of men and vast quantities of supplies. Even so, the harbor of New York was so enormous it somehow seemed largely empty. The large expanse of protected water hinted at what the North American colonies could become with the proper British control. New York had the potential to become one of the world’s major ports.
Cornwallis turned and faced his guest. “Several things bother me. First is the amount of taxes the colonists are going to have to bear. Yes, I know the war has to be paid for somehow, but we are now going to heavily tax those people who supported us in the rebellion and remained loyal, and that bothers me immensely. Please don’t forget that the colonists were divided into three unequal parts. There were the rebels, the loyalists, and those who stayed uninvolved. The rebels should be punished, but not the others.
“Second is the idea of restrictions on jobs, pay, and travel. London seems to be hell bent on turning the remaining colonists into medieval serfs. Benjamin Franklin said that he foresaw England turning these colonies into something equivalent to Ireland—a land full of impoverished and sullen people, governed harshly. If that is the case, it would be a very foolish policy indeed. The Irish are unarmed and have no place to flee to, but it is totally different here. Many, perhaps most, Colonists have their own weapons, and they are perfectly capable of both using them and going westward. This is what so many have done, and which is why you are here.”
Burgoyne made to interrupt but Cornwallis stopped him. “Then there is the king’s idea of establishing a North American nobility to oversee and overawe the poor benighted peasants. What will they do, make Benedict Arnold the Duke of Pennsylvania? Or would Earl of West Point be more appropriate? Lord, that would be ironic justice, wouldn’t it? Will every hamlet and village have its overweight and over-dull squire with his fat and unmarriageable daughters?”
Even though he didn’t like what Cornwallis was saying, Burgoyne had to smile. “Please don’t forget the poor sod’s shrew of a wife.”
Cornwallis laughed at the mental picture. “Oh, that’ll inspire loyalty to the crown. Is the king aware that a previous monarch, James II, tried pretty much the same thing a century or so ago? It failed miserably, and it was one of the factors in James Stuart losing his crown. The colonists have no history of nobility and are singularly unimpressed by titles. Even the loyalists will resist such efforts. Many of the most loyal will insist on the colonial custom of shaking hands as if with equals instead of bowing to one’s betters.”
Burgoyne had turned almost beet red. “And why do you imply that our efforts will fail?” Burgoyne said. “We must have peace and economic stability to support our war in France. There cannot be an enemy in our rear.”
“Of course we must have peace,” Cornwallis replied sarcastically. “Let me see. Since the collapse of the rebellion, the French monarchy has been assailed by two groups. First are the Constitutionalists under the boy general, Lafayette, and the second are the Republicans, who are little more than an armed mob intent on killing everyone who disagrees with them. The Constitutionalists wish to control the king, while the Republicans wish to depose him. Either group frightens our king and his lordships in London since, if successful, the disease of rebellion could spread to England’s own sullen peasants.
“The two groups have chased King Louis out of Paris and off to Calais, where he is protected by the Royal Navy and the British Army. They are trying mightily to put him back on his throne with the help of the third group, the supporters of the status quo. This includes just about everybody the average Frenchie hates, and that includes an incredibly corrupt Papist clergy.”
“France cannot be allowed to slide into anarchy,” Burgoyne said. “We need taxes to restore Louis.”
“And why not? Since when did our ancient enemy become our new friend?” Cornwallis shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Still, I must support you. I have my orders, insane though they are.”
Burgoyne’s complexion had paled slightly. He was visibly shaken by the unexpected response from someone he’d thought was a supporter. “According to the orders, Lord Cornwallis, you are to give me ten thousand British soldiers. Along with the four thousand I have brought, I will have a truly formidable force that will crush the rebels.”
Cornwallis glared at Burgoyne. “Did their lordships remember that I only have fifteen thousand regulars in all of the colonies? That will leave me only a relative handful to protect them should you fail and I do not consider the few Loyalist militia regiments we have as either trained or reliable.”
“I don’t believe I will fail, General.”
“Do you know what you’re up against?”
Burgoyne smiled. “Approximately two or three thousand rebels, including women and children at a place called Fort Washington, or, if you prefer, Liberty. Either name will suffice as long as it’s the same place. It is located on the southern end of Lake Michigan and can be approached either overland from Fort Pitt or Detroit, or by water around Michigan from Detroit.”
“Correct,” said Cornwallis, “Except that Liberty, the name of the village outside Fort Washington, is but one of a number of similar places out in the west. It is, however, by far the largest. London seems to have forgotten that literally thousands of rebels fled to the west, either individually or in groups, and have built a score of villages and forts.”
“Sir, I assumed that there would be other rebels. Otherwise, fourteen thousand to crush a few thousand rebels would be a ridiculous waste of resources that could be utilized against France.”
Cornwallis sighed. There were times when he was heartily sick and tired of the colonies. Some days he only wanted to spend some time back in England where he could better cherish the memory of his late and beloved wife, Jemima. He wanted a different posting. He’d been promised the governorship of India after his victory at Yorktown, but that had been cancelled. He would stay in the American Colonies until—if?—events calmed down.
Cornwallis smiled inwardly. If Burgoyne succeeded, then perhaps he could be replaced as governor general and promoted. Perhaps his replacement would be Burgoyne and wouldn’t that be marvelous justice to see the elegant Burgoyne stuck in the squalor of New York instead of reveling in the delights of London. Perhaps, Cornwallis thought, he’d get an army to fight the French? If Burgoyne failed, why it would be London’s fault, wouldn’t it? Cornwallis decided that he would make sure that no mud from any possible failure by Burgoyne splashed on him. He would do everything his orders required. He would support Burgoyne. Of course he would.