Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (9 page)

“I don’t need rank, Major, I mean General, and, yes, I am up to it.”

“You may not feel you need the rank, Will, but I do. You have both experience and intelligence, and that makes you unique.” Tallmadge steered him to the door. “Come. Let me show you around my domain. Among my other duties, I command the garrison here at Fort Washington.”

* * *

Fort Washington was less than impressive. An earthen wall covered with logs and topped with wooden spikes ran about a hundred yards in each direction and formed a very large square. There were numerous blockhouses, but only the ones at each corner contained cannon, and those were small three and four pounders, which would be almost useless in a real fight with a determined and professional British army. The walls would certainly keep red Indians out, but would not present much of a barrier to the forces rumored to be on their way. He did see how it could be improved significantly by digging a moat, adding abattis made of tree limbs, and other barriers, thus strengthening the dirt wall. However, it would never be a serious deterrent to the British Army.

Inside the walls were numerous log and even a few frame buildings that housed the garrison as well as quarters and meeting rooms for the Congress. Outside the ramparts, there were literally hundreds of log cabins, earthen dwellings, and tents. They ran in all directions and there appeared to be little in the way of city planning.

Tallmadge waved at them. “Everything you want is out there, including hardworking people trying to make a living, and other people trying to steal it from them. In sum, a real city has sprung up here in the wilderness. I don’t know why, but a number of whores decided to make the trek with us. Perhaps they’re here to help out Congress in their efforts to fuck over the entire country.”

Will laughed. “Some things never change.”

“Seriously, it is not as chaotic as it looks. Everyone works here, and that includes the women, the young, and the old. We grow wheat, corn, and other crops. When we want something more substantial, we gather fish in abundance from the lakes and streams, or hunt for our own food, primarily deer and wild birds including ducks and turkeys. We have some cattle and a growing number of chickens. We make many of our own weapons out of metals brought from the north, and train for the war we know will come. If nothing else, General Schuyler is a good organizer, so no one goes cold or hungry. Schuyler is in charge of the men, while Mistress Abigail Adams is in charge of finding tasks for the women. Her husband, John Adams, is a prisoner in Jamaica.”

“So this is what is called Liberty?” Will mused.

“There’s really no such precise place,” Tallmadge answered with a smile. “It’s more of an idea, a concept. Liberty is everywhere and nowhere, if you will. There are dozens of communities like this, although this is by far the largest, and they are all referred to as Liberty along with more specific names. Still, this is the place most people refer to as Liberty.”

“I hope you’re not offended, General, but the fort is not imposing. The cannon are far too small and too few to be effective. The earthen walls, however, should dampen the effects of small cannon, but would be destroyed by anything large.”

“We have eight guns in all,” Tallmadge said. “The British sloops that patrol along the shoreline carry as many on each ship, but that’s all we were able to bring with us when we frankly ran like the devil from the British.”

“Warships?” Will exclaimed. “Just where the hell are we?”

Tallmadge laughed. “About ten miles south of the southernmost point of Lake Michigan. We are just past a swampy area where two rivers run into the lake. The Potawatomi call it the Checagou, or at least they did until we drove them away, which didn’t endear us to them or to the other tribes in the area. They seem to be getting used to us, however. Of course they don’t have much choice. Some of our people call this settlement by the Indian name, but that’s a matter of small import.

“Along with the British, the Potawatomi and other Indian tribes are another set of enemies to watch out for. Right now, they are sitting back waiting to see who wins the coming war. Whenever it is apparent that one side will win, they will pounce on the losing force and then try to curry favor with the victorious army. Under the circumstances, it is precisely what I would do.”

“I see,” said Will. “Let me sum this up. You have a fort that could be knocked over by a strong wind, damn few weapons, not enough generals to command a poorly organized army, and far too many lawyers. Is that correct?”

“Indeed it is, Will.”

They returned in silence to Tallmadge’s office. “Will, I want you to take a patrol down to the Ohio River and check out rumors of a significant British presence there, one that could move down the Ohio and then up north to threaten us. I need to know if that force actually exists. Is it a real threat, nonexistent, or nothing but a nuisance? How many men do you need?”

“Do you expect me to fight them?”

“Not at all, except for your own defense. I want information, not a victory.”

“Then a small patrol will do.” Will thought for a moment. “I want Wells, of course. He may be a foreigner, but he moves through the woods like an Indian. And I’d also like that Sergeant Barley who caught me so cleverly. I would think a dozen men would do nicely. It’d be enough to protect ourselves and not enough to tempt us into fighting a battle.”

Tallmadge grinned. “Good thinking. And when you come back you’ll be at least a major.”

* * *

Half a dozen large canoes snaked down the wide and dark Ohio River. With the exception of the lead canoe, each contained a family group and their possessions, which, since most of the people were virtually penniless, meant there was more than sufficient room for all the people.

Sarah Benton and her family were in the last canoe and, like everyone, scanned the overgrown banks of the deep and westward flowing river. The vegetation was thick and they could see little of anything that might be in the forest. Even though they were well west of Fort Pitt, they felt they were in the most dangerous portion of their trip. The British had patrols out looking for rebel groups and they’d been told that skirmishes were frequent. Rumor said that Tarleton feared an attack on Pitt and would do anything to be forewarned. Worse, as Sarah had already seen, the British troops were vicious and thought they had a right to abuse and rob Americans.

The caravan tried to keep well out from the riverbank where a sudden attack could overwhelm them. It meant they were visible from a ways off when the weather was clear, but it couldn’t be helped. Fortunately, this day an almost providential mist covered the river and helped hide them.

The six canoes were led by a guide named Micah and two of his friends. They were scrawny and their clothes were ragged and filthy. However, their weapons were clean and in good condition, a necessity in the wilderness. Micah and friends had gathered what they referred to as “pilgrims” and, in return for payment, promised them safe passage westward to where they could trek north to American-controlled land.

Neither Faith nor Sarah quite trusted Micah and his companions. He seemed skittish and often declined to look them in the eye. Sarah and Faith still wore men’s clothes as did several of the other women traveling with them. The wilderness was not the place for traditional proprieties.

“I don’t trust him,” said Faith, echoing their concerns. They knew nothing about Micah except for the fact that he was willing to guide them for money.

“I don’t either,” said Sarah. “But I don’t think we had much of a choice. It is either go west with him or someone like him as a guide, or stay back and someday be captured.”

“He keeps staring at my breasts,” Faith added.

Aunt Rebecca snorted. “Perhaps if you kept your shirt fastened, and if your pants weren’t so tight, he wouldn’t be looking so intently.”

“Why have charms if you can’t use them?” Faith sniffed, causing Sarah to conclude that her little cousin had begun to recover from her ordeal with Braxton’s deputies, and that she wasn’t as innocent or naive as Sarah thought she was. Of course, how innocent could anyone be after suffering at the hands of Braxton and his men? Innocent perhaps, but naïve? Never.

Micah signaled with his paddle and the canoes veered closer to the shore. “Why,” Sarah asked. No one knew and Micah didn’t respond. They generally only went to ground at night, but that was a long time away.

“Maybe he sees something,” Faith said, and wondered just how and what he might see through the mist and the dense foliage.

“I won’t be happy until he sees the place where we can get off these things,” Sarah groaned. “Kneeling like this is worse than the stocks.” Not really, she thought. Nothing would ever be worse than that day.

Faith giggled. “Don’t you like paddling a canoe like a Red Indian?”

Sarah declined to respond. At least they were going with the current and not fighting it. Tom signaled another change and they followed the leading canoes still closer to the land. Ahead of them and on the far side of the wide river, the mist parted for an instant and they saw several other canoes heading the opposite direction, and what looked like armed men in them. The mist returned and covered them.

“Ours or theirs?” muttered Uncle Wilford.

“I don’t wish to know,” Sarah said.

What if the men in the other canoes had been a British patrol? Strange, Sarah thought. If it was a British patrol, might they soon be paddling over to intercept the boat? Perhaps their luck had held and they really hadn’t been noticed.

A musket blast shattered the silence. It was followed by another and another and then by screams from the lead canoes. At least one had tipped over, spilling its human contents into the river. In horror, Sarah saw a man’s body floating face down and trailing blood from a gaping wound in his head.

She turned to her left, where the riverbank was close. Men were standing on it and shooting at them. Micah had betrayed them. He had led them into this trap.

More musket fire and more screams filled the air. Sarah picked up a fowling piece and shot at a man only a few yards away. He clutched his leg and fell screaming into the water. It occurred to her that there weren’t all that many attackers and that they weren’t British or Americans. She realized that they were nothing more than bandits. If they were taken by them, it would be worse than being captured by the British. From what they’d heard, the outlaws were little more than animals.

Wilford fired his musket at another man and missed. A bandit jumped into the canoe and clubbed Wilford down to his knees while Faith screamed and jumped on the man’s back. Sarah pulled a knife from her waist and slashed at another man who grabbed her and tried to throw her into the water.

Fortunately, Faith had distracted Wilford’s attacker long enough for him to pull his own knife and stab his assailant in the stomach. Aunt Rebecca helped out by clubbing another bandit with a paddle and then pushing him into the river.

They had regained control of their own canoe, but the others were either capsized or being fought over. Micah’s canoe, of course, was controlled by him and he now turned it towards Sarah’s. The three men originally in it had been reinforced by two of the attackers from shore. With five strong paddlers, there was no way they could outrun Micah’s canoe.

“Load,” Wilford yelled.

One fowling piece and one musket wouldn’t be enough, but it was all they had. Silently, they vowed to sell their lives dearly. Sarah was bitter that it was all coming to this. They would be killed, but not until they were robbed, tortured, and the three women raped. That the women were wearing men’s clothes as a disguise wouldn’t fool their new attackers any more than it had fooled their traitorous leader, Micah. She thought about putting the fowling piece into her mouth and blowing her brains out. No, she thought. She would take at least one more of them with her. Besides, if she fought hard enough, perhaps Faith or one of the others would escape. Logic said it was a fool’s thought, but she could not bring herself to die at her own hand.

The outlaws’ canoe was only yards away when both she and Wilford fired and, to their horror, missed. Micah and his cronies hollered with glee. Micah stood up unsteadily and grabbed his crotch, screaming what he was going to do to the women.

They had only gotten a little closer when a volley of gunfire swept Micah and the others off the canoe and into the river. Sarah watched incredulously as more gunfire was directed at the few remaining attackers on the shore. Those bandits promptly turned and ran.

They were safe, at least for the moment. But why and how?

* * *

Homer’s trek alone from Manhattan Island began quietly and stayed that way for several days. There were few roads leading towards Boston, merely paths at best, and he walked them carefully. He was fully aware of his vulnerability as a lone black man in a land not that far removed from being a savage frontier.

He could not carry a musket or a pistol as white farmers or city-dwellers would find him threatening. They might even take it into their heads to shoot first and ask him his business over his lifeless corpse.

No, he would stay in the shadows of the trees that lined the miserable excuses for roads and endure the additional hardship that it entailed. The few people he had seen had behaved in such a way as to reinforce his plan. Once, a woman in a field screamed when she saw his dark skin and ran back to a cabin. A few seconds later, a man with a musket emerged and aimed it at him, telling him bluntly to get the hell away from his property.

Homer had complied, of course, but wondered to himself if a rampaging Iroquois war party would have gotten the same or better treatment. He also wondered if the poor couple had ever seen a Negro before. He could always go back to New York, he thought. Nobody there would have missed him in the first place. But no, it was time to start something new, a series of thoughts that had been triggered when he pulled that poor naked and starving white man from the river.

“Hold up, nigger.”

Homer froze and cursed silently. He’d permitted himself to be lulled and now two men stood just a few feet in front of him, their muskets not quite pointed at his chest.