Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (20 page)

Now that they were together, he wasn’t certain what to do. He arranged a pile of clothing as a makeshift couch. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and invited her to sit, but she shook her head and continued to stand as did he. There was no heat in the storeroom and the wind came through the plain wooden walls. He thought he heard scurrying in the piles of clothing and wondered how many small animals were making their homes there. He hoped they didn’t bite or have fleas.

“I hope you like the smell of tobacco,” she said. “So many of the men at Franklin’s were smoking pipes and that I could almost cut the smoke with a knife.”

“I think you smell wonderful,” he said.

“I think you are very nice, but very foolish.” She shifted and shuddered. “I’m still cold.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here,” he said sadly.

“No. It’s all right. Make some more space in the pile and sit down.”

Owen did as he was told and, to his astonishment, Faith sat on his lap with her legs curled up and the blanket wrapped around both of them. “I am shameless, aren’t I?” she asked.

“Hardly.”

“Well, you know I’m not an innocent little child, don’t you?”

“And I am?” he said as he shifted her closer to him. She was referring to the horrors of the jail in Pendleton and the abuse by the deputies. His response was an opening to show that he understood, and that there would be no secrets, no taboos, between them.

“Do you know what terrible things happen to young boys in the hold of a ship when no one is around and someone has stuffed a rag into your mouth so you can’t scream? And then, of course, everyone denies it, so everyone can claim it never happened? The Royal Navy has some nasty little secrets. I thank God I first made some true friends and then grew up strong enough to protect myself and others.”

She shuddered at the picture that appeared in her mind. “But you had no choice. They forced you.”

He squeezed her to him. “And did you have a choice? You told me enough so that I have a good idea what happened back in Pendleton and you didn’t have much of a choice either based on what later happened to your cousin.”

“So what do we do with ourselves?” she asked as she rested her head on his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead and she snuggled closer. “We start from the beginning, and without any baggage or remorse from a past over which we had no control. May I introduce myself, lovely young miss? My name is Owen and I am in love with you.”

She giggled and kissed him on the cheek. “And my name is Faith and don’t say love just yet, although you Welsh have a marvelous way with words.”

“When can I say it?”

“When I tell you that you may,” she said and they kissed deeply and passionately. “In the meantime, we enjoy each other’s company.”

They struggled within the confines of the clothing pile, embracing and kissing. “We are not consummating this tonight,” she said, removing his hand from her breast. Despite everything, she still considered herself a virgin. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because I’m not ready, that’s why. Because there’ll be a battle in the summer and I don’t want to be either a widow or a woman with a child on the way and her man dead on the battlefield, or worse, maimed. And I’m not alone in thinking like that. Many women are afraid of being abandoned. Lord, what if you were a prisoner like Will Drake had been, rotting away for years?”

“You’re right. I do not wish to lose you so I will not push you. Do you want to go back to Franklin’s party?”

She giggled again. He was so sweet. Other young boys in Pendleton would not have been as understanding. A couple of them had tried to seduce her, but none had succeeded, at least not fully.

“No, silly. I only said we wouldn’t consummate tonight. There’s still plenty we can do to make this night a pleasant one.”

He smiled and kissed her again and again and this time she let his hands roam where they wished. She slipped her dress down to her waist so he could kiss her glorious breasts while he ran his hands up her thighs to where she was already moist. A second or two later, she had his manhood in his hand and stroked him while he continued to caress her. Lord, he thought as his mind reeled, whoever said New England girls were frigid Puritans didn’t know what they were talking about.

They scarcely noticed that it was no longer so cold in the storeroom.

* * *

Fitzroy was nearly frozen with terror as the sled he was on was dragged across the ice-choked river. Frozen with terror, he thought. That’s a good one. He was frozen on the frozen river. He’d never seen an iceberg, but he thought some of the chunks of ice floating by qualified.

Beneath a veneer of ice that sometimes buckled and shifted, the wide and deep Detroit River flowed at its usual strong rate. Somebody said nearly four miles an hour, which was a goodly walking pace for a strong man. If he looked down he could see bubbles of air moving beneath the ice as the river continued to flow. He thought that he could see fish staring up at him and laughing at him. He decided not to look down anymore.

“Tell them to hurry,” pleaded Danforth from behind him.

“If they pull too hard they might spill you into the river and everyone says your balls will turn blue and freeze solid before they can get you out of the water.”

Danforth shuddered. “Right. Then tell them to slow down. I prefer my balls warm and dry.” They were wearing heavy wool coats over their uniforms and were still shivering from the cold.

Fitzroy stared at the farther shore, willing it to be closer. Finally it was and he stepped shakily off the sled and onto firm frozen ground. Three of his men had preceded him and three more followed in a sled behind his. A corporal, five privates, and two officers would be enough to raid a small tavern, he hoped.

One of the soldiers led a string of eight horses acquired earlier from local farmers. To Fitzroy’s eye, they looked old and decrepit and he was sure he’d overpaid for their rental. Whoever said the Canadians loved the British had never tried to deal with the financial aspects of that love. Damned Canadians, he thought, and especially damn the French ones, who loved money and loved even more taking it from the British.

But at least they had horses, which meant they wouldn’t have to walk through the knee-deep snow and mush. His six troopers were all part of Tarleton’s cavalry and could ride anything, they said proudly. Still, it would be hell if they had to launch a cavalry charge or even a short chase with these miserable beasts and in the awful weather.

They mounted up and proceeded down the trail at a sedate pace. There was no reason to even pretend to keep their existence a secret. He was certain that their presence had already been spread for quite some distance, and he wondered if their cover story, a food-buying expedition, fooled anyone.

A short while later they came upon their target. The sign said it was the King’s Inn, but no self-respecting king would ever stay at such a decrepit place, although he wondered if the current refugee king of France might consider it. As they approached, a cloud of pigeons left the roof of the adjacent barn, circled, and flew away.

“Danforth, did you do that, scare those silly birds away?”

Danforth held on to his steed’s mane. He was not a good rider. “Not that I’m aware of. I rather thought my boyish good looks would have charmed them, not frightened them.”

They pulled up in front of the inn. Their weapons were in their arms and half-cocked, ready to be quickly fully cocked and fired. Fitzroy signaled for two of the soldiers to go around back and for two more to check out the barn. He dismounted and, along with Fitzroy and the other two soldiers, entered the tavern. Two local men were supposed to own the place and they might have hired hands to help them.

Of course the place was empty. Fitzroy cursed roundly. There was evidence that the owner’s departure had been hasty as a small fire still burned in the fireplace and a pot of stew was simmering above it.

“Barn’s empty, sir,” the corporal reported. “And no one’s come out the back. There are tracks. They left on horseback. Do you want us to follow them?”

Fitzroy considered it briefly and discarded the idea. His men were not woodsmen or trackers and didn’t even know who they were looking for. Worse, even though they were cavalrymen they were riding horses that couldn’t catch a dead man. It had begun to snow again, and the tracks they saw would disappear shortly, and they couldn’t go arresting just anyone they might catch up with. Bloody Tarleton might do that, but Fitzroy felt he had to have at least have some suspicions before acting. Of course, the tavern’s owners’ flight was highly suspicious behavior, which meant their adventure had paid off at least a little bit by scaring off suspicious characters.

“Thank you, no, Corporal. Bring your men in and warm and feed yourselves. You’ve done a good day’s work.”

The soldiers grinned and began to help themselves to the abandoned food.

Danforth emerged from a back room. His expression was grim. “I think you should look at this.”

Fitzroy followed him into what was obviously an office. There was a desk made out of planking and papers were scattered all about. It was as if the owner had been thinking of discarding them, but interrupted before he could do it.

Fitzroy sat down and began to rummage through them. Some were irrelevant, the usual mundane bills and notes of a tavern keeper. He’d bought beer from one local farmer and stronger stuff from another. He’d bought meat and bread from others, and chickens from still another.

“I see nothing remotely interesting,” Fitzroy said. He was beginning to feel tired. Their day had been a long one.

“You’re looking at the wrong pile,” Danforth said, and handed another stack of papers to him.

Fitzroy sniffed, annoyed at his mistake, and began to read. Danforth was right. This was far more intriguing. First were lists of British regiments as they’d arrived, along with estimates of their strengths. Then there was information about supplies and equipment, and information about the army’s commanders and the existence of the now damaged barges. It was a detailed compilation of the British Army’s presence at Detroit.

While some of it could have been the result of simple observation, much required someone with an intimate knowledge of the British Army, and the sheer volume implied a nest of spies.

“Interesting reading, eh?” asked Danforth.

“The bloody bastards. I wonder how many spies there were and how they got the information to Fort Washington.”

“Does it matter?” Danforth said happily. “We’ve stopped it at the source, although I’m certain they’ll try to set up another spy center. At least finding this will keep Bloody Banastre Tarleton off our backs.”

That thought cheered Fitzroy as he continued to look through the papers. Now he was finding observations on the Great Fire as those who had survived it were now calling it. Of course, some of the comments on the fire could have been made by simply looking across the river, but some of them contained detail about military losses that could only have been gotten first hand.

Fitzroy recognized a name and cursed. “Damned Jews.”

“What?” asked Danforth as he looked up from some additional papers.

“It looks like Abraham Goldman, the Jewish merchant, is one of the spies. Damn. He’s getting rich on us and betraying us at the same time.”

Danforth yawned. “No surprise. The stinking Jews are capable of almost anything. We’ll arrest the Shylock when we return.”

Then a phrase on a sheet of paper caught his attention and he felt a chill go down his spine. “Dear God,” he muttered, causing Danforth to start and stare at him.

Fitzroy put down that paper and picked up another. This one referenced Braxton and his orders from Tarleton to attack the newly found settlement. He had argued with both Tarleton and Burgoyne against turning Braxton loose, but Burgoyne had been distracted and Tarleton wanted the raid to go forward. Someone had betrayed Braxton, taken over the buildings, and baited what Fitzroy later realized was a trap. Worse, the phraseology of the document he was reading was familiar. It ought to be, he realized with a sickening feeling—the words were his.

He felt staggered and his head spun. He took a closer look at the handwriting and recognized it. He felt like weeping.

Danforth grabbed his arm. “James, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said and shook his head violently. “I mean no. I’m not all right at all. I’ve been betrayed. Damn it, I’ve been betrayed and played for a fool.”

Danforth closed the office door so the enlisted men couldn’t hear. They were busy feeding themselves, but could easily become curious.

“What is it, James?”

Fitzroy handed him a sheet of paper. “Recognize the words, the writing?”

“Can’t say as I do,” Danforth said, puzzled.

“The words are mine, they come from my journal.”

“Somebody’s been reading it?”

“Of course, and I’ve been sleeping with that somebody. The handwriting is Hannah’s. She’s been copying my notes and forwarding them to the rebels.” He shook his head. “This could not get any worse.”

There was a tap on the door and the corporal opened it tentatively. “Sir, there’s a man here from the sled pulley. He says someone cut the rope on the Detroit side and we can’t get back tonight, maybe tomorrow at the earliest. Could be even longer if the weather turns bad.”

* * *

Will and Sarah were aware that they were watching history unfold. They only hoped that they would be around years from now to tell the tale to their grandchildren. The very small gallery that the general public could use to watch Congress in action was jammed. This in itself was unusual as popular opinion said that Congress never actually did anything except talk a topic to death.

But this time it was different. The Continental Congress was actually going to do something. The distinguished members were going to vote on and, if approved, sign a draft constitution, and it contained a fundamental bill of rights. Franklin had insisted on the bill of rights. He’d argued that it was all well and good to decide the mechanics of a republican form of government, which was based on the writings of a Frenchman named Montesquieu. But what, he’d insisted, would that government stand for? It had to go beyond mere words. The words had to inspire.