Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (8 page)

“I wish I had a telescope,” Will muttered.

“I wish I could fly,” Owen chuckled.

“We can go around them. It’d mean a big detour, but it may be the best way.”

Owen was about to say he agreed when several more horsemen joined the group and they all spread out. “Shit,” he said. “Now we’ll have to wait forever.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said a deep voice from their rear. “Now get up slowly and raise your hands above your heads and don’t even think of trying for your weapons.”

Owen and Will did as they were told. When they turned around, a group of five men had muskets leveled at them. They wore no uniform, except for a patch of blue cloth sewn to their chests. One large man with a reddish beard and a ruddy complexion wore the insignia of a sergeant and was their leader. He also had been branded on the cheek with the letter “R.” Will saw that a couple of the others bore the same scar.

The sergeant spoke. “Now, just who the hell are you and what are you doing so far west?”

The scars meant that the men were American soldiers. Or at least they had been at one time. Who knew what they were this day? “We’re trying to get to Fort Washington,” Will said. “Or Liberty. Either will do.”

“So is everybody, or at least that’s what they say,” the sergeant responded. “Now answer my question, who are you?”

Will stood tall and allowed his arms to slowly drop to his side. The soldiers didn’t seem to mind, even seemed slightly amused by his small act of defiance. “I am Captain Will Drake of the Continental Army, and this is Owen Wells, late of His Majesty’s Navy. We are traveling together.”

“I hope you’re not together for security’s sake, considering how easily we caught you,” the sergeant said.

Will winced as the others guffawed at their expense. They had fallen for an old trick. They’d been gulled into believing that the men in plain sight were dangerous when the real threat was creeping up on them while they were transfixed. The trick may have been as old as the hills, but it had been skillfully done.

“I told you who I was, now, who are you?” Will asked.

The big sergeant straightened slightly. “Sergeant William Barley, Second Regiment, New Continental Army.”

Will nearly gasped with relief. Assuming the armed men were telling the truth, they had finally found the rebel forces.

“If you’re not lying about yourselves, you’ll be welcomed,” Barley continued. “Of course, if you’re lying, we’ll hang your asses. A lot of British have tried to get into Liberty and Fort Washington and maybe some have succeeded, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let in everybody who walks up and knocks. Is there anyone who’ll vouch for you at Fort Washington so you can vouch for the squatty little Brit?”

“Up your ass,” snarled Owen and the troopers laughed.

Barley laughed too, but kept his musket aimed squarely at Owen’s stomach. “You look like a Brit, you sound like a Brit, and you say you were a Brit, so why shouldn’t I think you’re a Brit spy. Anybody can claim they’ve deserted now can’t they? Helluva thing to prove, though. I guess we could turn you back to the Redcoats, and if they hang you, then it would prove you were telling the truth.”

“Watch,” Owen said. He carefully removed his jacket and then his shirt. He turned and showed the Americans his back. It was covered with scars and welts. “Now ask me how much I love fucking King George and his goddamned Royal Navy.”

“Jesus,” said Barley, fingering the branding scar on his own cheek. “You pass, little man, at least for the moment. Put your shirt back on.” He turned to Will. “Now you, Captain. I don’t doubt that you have a brand scar on your leg, along with other marks, but those will get you only so far. So, who’ll vouch for you?”

“Who’s at Fort Washington?” Will asked.

“General Greene knows you?”

Will thought quickly. He’d seen Nathanael Greene on a number of occasions, but doubted that the general who’d been Washington’s second in command would recall him from Adam. Still, it was a comfort that a general of Greene’s stature was at Fort Washington.

“Probably not.”

“Then how about Wayne or von Steuben?”

“I doubt it. What about Alexander Hamilton?”

Barley shook his head. “He’s rotting away in a prison in Jamaica, and, if you’re a spy, you’d have known that.”

“We could guess all day, Sergeant Barley, and maybe not find a match. Why don’t you take me in and then sort it out?”

Barley nodded. “Makes sense. We’ll have to treat you as prisoners until we can turn you over to General Tallmadge.”

Will felt like laughing in relief. “Is General Tallmadge’s first name Benjamin?”

Barley relaxed slightly. “It is. Will he vouch for you?”

Will couldn’t stop grinning. “Yes he will.”

* * *

Major Fitzroy sat behind a small table in the tent that served as Burgoyne’s headquarters near Albany. The air in the tent was stuffy and he was sweating like a pig, but decorum would not let him remove any of his uniform while interviewing colonials. Had to impress them, he thought, and then wondered if they were at all impressed by the idiocy of wearing a heavy wool uniform in the middle of summer. He decided he didn’t want to know.

“Next,” he called.

A large man entered and stood before him. Fitzroy almost choked. The man was a thing, an apparition, an escapee from hell. His eyebrows were gone and his nose little more than two holes in the raw, red skin of what passed for his face. There was next to nothing in the way of lips, exposing broken and rotting teeth, and the man’s ears were equally raw lumps with holes in them.

But the apparition was real and could speak and his eyes showed fury and hatred. “You can stare if you like, Major. Everyone else does. I know what I am and it doesn’t bother me anymore. The Indians and many of those who know me call me the Burned Man.”

“You surprised me, that’s all.” Fitzroy was also surprised that the creature spoke English instead of the language of Satan but did not say so.

“Indeed. Regardless, I am here to volunteer.”

“In what capacity?” Fitzroy asked as he tried to gain control of the situation. Perhaps the creature wanted to be their resident bogeyman.

“I wish to be a militia officer. I’ve brought a band of fifty men who feel like I do towards the rebels, and who want me to lead them, and I’m certain I can get more to join me. We want to kill rebels.”

“Did the rebels do that to you?”

Something ghastly that might have been a grin flickered across the man’s ruined face. “You are quite perceptive.”

Fitzroy caught the sarcasm and flushed. “What happened?”

The man shrugged. “The vicious and cowardly bastards set a trap for me while I was trying to enforce the king’s law, and I fell for it. There was an explosion and I was covered with burning oil. My friends put out the fire by dousing me with water and covering me with dirt. There are more scars on my arms and chest if you wish to see.”

“No thank you,” Fitzroy said, controlling a shudder.

Fitzroy noted that one of Burned Man’s hands was missing two fingers and the other more resembled a claw then something human. Some of the wounds were so raw that he wondered if the man shouldn’t be in bed recuperating.

“You’re right, Major, it didn’t happen all that long ago and everyone thought I was going to die, including my whore of a wife who ran off with another man while I lay in agony. But I didn’t die and I won’t die until I’ve had a good measure of revenge. I caught my slut of a wife and her bastard lover and killed both of them. I let her watch while I cut off his head, and then I chopped off hers and put it on a fence post beside his. But there’s still the rebels who did this to me and I want them dead as well. I know I should still be resting and regaining my strength, but that doesn’t help me kill rebels, now does it?”

“I suppose not,” Fitzroy said.

“And I want to destroy the particular group of damned rebels who did this to me,” he snarled. “That is one way I will become stronger. Hate will keep me going. I trust you won’t stand in my way when I find them?”

Fitzroy thought quickly. The decision was easy. The Burned Man said he had brought fifty men and, if they were anything like their horribly mutilated leader, they would be useful and highly motivated. He had a disquieting thought that the Burned Man’s band would be very difficult to control and discipline, but he reasoned that many terrible things would happen to both sides in the course of the campaign. He put aside his doubts. He had an army to help form and a war to win.

Fitzroy stood up. He did not extend his hand to shake. The thought of touching the Burned Man’s mutilated skin was too repugnant. “As long as you and your men obey orders, they are welcome. And those orders might mean deferring your vengeance for the common good. Is that acceptable?”

“It is as long as it’s not forever.”

“Good. Welcome to General Burgoyne’s army, and I’ll have the papers made up to confirm your rank of militia captain.”

“Excellent.”

“Of course, I will need your real name. Burned Man might do to identify you to the red savages, and even better if you were one, but you aren’t an Indian, are you?”

Burned Man laughed harshly and Fitzroy nearly recoiled at the stench coming from his mouth. “Isn’t my skin red enough for you? But you’re right. My name is Charles Braxton.”

* * *

Tallmadge greeted Will warmly. He rose from behind his desk of raw planks and the two men shook hands. “God, it’s good to see your smiling face, Captain.”

“Good to see yours, too, Major.” Will winced. He’d used Tallmadge’s old rank.

“Correction, Will, I am now a brigadier general.”

“Congratulations, sir.” It did not escape Will that Tallmadge was, at most, only a couple of years older than he, and like so many American leaders, quite young for their rank. And inexperienced as well, he thought. To the best of Will’s now incomplete knowledge, Tallmadge had never commanded men in battle. He’d always been a staff officer. Had things changed?

“I wonder about any congratulations,” Tallmadge said. “I often think I hold this rank because there’s no one else around to give it to. We’ve got a number of soldiers, but damned few real generals to command them, and even fewer lower-ranking officers to lead them. The British managed to capture so many of us after they promised amnesty and then broke their promise.”

“Where are they? I didn’t see too many of them in the hulks.”

“The senior officers are imprisoned in Jamaica, which is where so many of the middle-ranking officers are also held. Many are being forced to work in the fields under brutal conditions. We are developing plans to get them out, but it will be dangerous work at best. I gather they never figured out that you were on Washington’s staff or that you worked for me.”

“They did not.”

Will had indeed been on Washington’s staff. Tallmadge had been his direct superior and the two of them had gathered intelligence and had run some of Washington’s spies. Had the British realized that, Will would have either been hanged or would now be rotting in Jamaica, a place from which there was even less chance of escape than from a prison hulk.

“Washington’s dead, you know,” Tallmadge said grimly. “The bastards chopped off his head. Rumor has it they’ve sent the skeleton here to America to impress us with their sense of fair play and justice. If it is true, I hope it will inflame true Americans.”

“I’d heard about the execution but not about the bones.”

Tallmadge shook his head sadly. “Will, the last time I saw General Washington, it was night and Tarleton’s cavalry were swarming all over us and he’d been knocked from his horse. When the enemy was too numerous, I admit that I cut and ran. They already had Washington in their grip and there was nothing more I could do. I wanted to live and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

Will could not criticize Tallmadge for his decision. He too had been in the act of fleeing for his life when he’d been caught. Will was saddened by the memory.

Tallmadge’s face contorted with anger. “I saw Washington fighting like a tiger until they wrestled him to the ground. They wanted him alive, but it cost them. I know you recall that Washington was immensely strong. He killed at least two of them with his sword and one with his bare hands before they finally captured him. And then I ran away as fast and as far as I could. When I was far enough away, I threw myself into some bushes and stayed there until dawn,” Tallmadge said. “Nobody came looking for me. I wasn’t important enough.”

Will filled in his old commander with his own story, of realizing that the army no longer existed, of his own capture, his almost miraculous escape from the prison hulk, and his subsequent travels to Fort Washington.

“As always,” Tallmadge said approvingly, “you’ve been resourceful and a little ruthless. A good combination for an officer, especially one who’s job is to gather intelligence from a vicious enemy.”

Will laughed at the rough compliment. “You mentioned a shortage of senior officers. Just who is here? I heard that Nathanael Greene commanded.”

“In theory he does, but he is desperately ill from a lung disease he caught while in a British prison. He spent several months in a dungeon that often flooded before we found him and freed him. In a couple of days he too would have been on his way either to the Caribbean or the afterlife. In truth, he may never recover.”

That comment dismayed Will. Nathanael Greene had been Washington’s trusted and most able second in command. If Greene was not able to lead the American army in the field when the British arrived, then who would?

Tallmadge shrugged and answered the question. “We have Anthony Wayne, von Steuben, Schuyler, and Willie Washington, and that’s about it. We understand that others may arrive, but that’s the future, not the present. Of course, we’re a little better stocked with politicians. John Hancock is president of the rump group we call the Continental Congress, and Benjamin Franklin, recently arrived from France, does his best to annoy Hancock and is succeeding marvelously. Seriously, we are in desperate straits.”

“How can I help?”

Tallmadge smiled. “You just did. When you walked in the door, you solved a problem for me. I will talk to Greene or Schuyler about getting you a rank commensurate with your skills and our needs, and then we’ll send you back towards where the British are assembling. Assuming you’re up to it, of course.”