Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence (19 page)

Chapter 9

“W
ell, Major Fitzroy, what have you found about spies and such?” asked General Burgoyne. He was in a good mood. An almost empty food plate was on his desk and a snifter of brandy was in his hand. He’d moved from that drafty tent to a hastily built cabin with a genuine wood floor, and a fire burned in a stove that some insisted had been designed by the rebel, Benjamin Franklin. If the old rebel had indeed designed it, Burgoyne silently saluted him as the device gave off plenty of heat, keeping him and anyone else in the one room cabin warm and dry.

Fitzroy took off his snow-soaked cape and hat and sat down. “Nothing firm, sir, but many suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how did the rebels learn that Braxton was going to attack where he did? On top of the suspicious fire in Detroit, it is too much to be coincidental.”

Burned Man Braxton had returned to Detroit the day before with a handful of men. He was wounded and hungry. Several of his toes were frostbitten, and possibly part of what remained of his nose. He would lose the toes and the joke around was that any loss of his nose wouldn’t make him any uglier than he already was. He’d lost almost all of his men in what was obviously an ambush. He’d ranted almost incoherently about betrayal and Fitzroy had to agree with him. Someone had indeed betrayed him.

Burgoyne took a sip of brandy. “I can’t imagine you’re terribly distressed about Braxton’s failure.”

“I’m not, but if the rebels can find out about a matter so unimportant, what else can they learn about our major plans, our capabilities and, more important, our weaknesses?”

The general wiped some crumbs and grease off his chin with his sleeve. “Good point. What do you propose?”

“Sir, despite the wretched weather, there is still commerce between the Detroit community and the farmers across the river. I believe at least one of them might be playing a part in betrayal, and I continue to hear rumors that a tavern a mile or two up the road has been known to harbor strangers who might be rebels. With your permission, I propose to take some men across and raid that tavern.”

Burgoyne nodded angrily. “Permission granted and the devil with Haldimand and his concern with provincial boundaries. I’ve already written him that such forays might be necessary. He won’t respond, of course. Will you wait until spring?”

Fitzroy winced. The river was sometimes frozen solid and the rest of the time the ice flowed freely and with dangerous floating chunks. Even though the locals still crossed occasionally, it was not something he was looking forward to. Some enterprising souls had rigged a rope line between the two sides, and flat bottom sleds carrying people and supplies could be pulled across. If a ship did happen by, not likely at this time of year, the rope could be slackened so that the keel passed over it. If the sled being pulled went through the ice, it would float and could still be pulled along. At least that was the theory. Fitzroy shuddered at the thought of making such a trip, but had decided it couldn’t wait several months for the river to be clear of ice.

“No sir, I plan on going over in the next few days.”

“Then go and good hunting.”

As Fitzroy left the office he nearly ran into General Banastre Tarleton. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Major Spy-Chaser,” Tarleton said with an undisguised sneer.

Fitzroy glared at him. “Sir, I believe you’re drunk.”

“I am and you ought to be,” Tarleton answered. His breath nearly caused Fitzroy to stagger backwards. “It’s the only way to exist in this miserable shithole of an outpost. At least I’ve accomplished something while you spend your days and nights fornicating with that Dutch whore who’s just as likely a rebel spy as anyone in this primitive place.”

Fitzroy seethed. How dare he call Hannah a whore, and how dare he imply that she was a spy. Still, one doesn’t challenge generals to a duel, especially one like Tarleton who might accept and kill Fitzroy. No, he stifled his anger. He would have satisfaction some other time and place.

Fitzroy smiled insincerely. “And what wondrous deeds have you accomplished lately, General?”

If Tarleton was aware of the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. “While you have been looking on and under mattresses for spies,” he replied. “I have arrested a number of Hessian deserters who are doubtless sending information to the rebels.”

“Hessians who are spies? Here? Why on earth would someone from Germany come here to spy? They would be so utterly obvious.”

“Of course they would be, that’s why we caught them. Twenty of the bastards are now in custody and they’ll all hang.”

Now it became clearer. Tarleton had captured his “spies” in advance of the arrival of the Hessian officer tasked with finding and punishing deserters. His name would go to London and be praised for his diligence.

“What proofs did you find them with?” Fitzroy asked softly.

Tarleton belched loudly and the effort pitched him off balance. He steadied himself with effort. “They’re Hessians. Don’t need proof.”

“General, people from the Germanic states have been living in the colonies for generations. That doesn’t make them spies, and they cannot be deserters if they were never in anybody’s army. We need proof they deserted before they can be executed.”

“They’ll be what I make them to be, Major, and the bastards will all hang. That’ll send the fear of God, or whatever Germanic totem they worship, into the Hessian deserters now at Fort Washington and preparing to fight us.”

Fitzroy managed to extricate himself and went to the provost’s office in the fort where he looked on the score of confused and bedraggled men crammed together in a small cell. They were in shackles and looked at him mutely. Some were bruised; it was obvious they had resisted being arrested.

How on earth could they be spies? Several were old enough to be his grandfather and others were still children. To hang these people would be an atrocity. But then, he reminded himself, Tarleton specialized in atrocities.

“Bloody Christ,” he muttered to himself. “How do I stop this from happening?”

* * *

Benjamin Franklin loved to have little soirees where he could make the informal contacts that were his specialty and use his still considerable influence to affect the course of the young nation.

Sadly, his get-togethers were nothing like what he’d held in Paris, or even Philadelphia. The surroundings were plain at best, and the refreshments were Spartan. There was bread and butter, and some meats and jams, and a choice of raw whiskies or a kind of tea to drink. Nobody went hungry, but there was nothing impressive or tantalizing. Certainly, there were none of the French wines that had made dealing with the miserable French themselves so pleasant and tolerable. Most of those present were thankful for a surprisingly good beer that a former assistant of Samuel Adams had managed to brew. Even though these were the rebellion’s leaders, their dress was shabby. Many men wore buckskins and otherwise plain woolen cloth. Again, none of the elegance of France or even Philadelphia was present. It was so depressing. It didn’t help matters that the floor was dirt.

Every host needs a hostess, and Franklin had called on Sarah and a handful of others to fulfill those duties. The ladies had managed to find enough fair quality dresses to make them presentable. He made pains to ensure that everyone knew that Sarah was his hostess and not his mistress, although he also made pains to let anyone know that he would be delighted if she were. For her part, Sarah found it amusing, as did Will.

In return for her duties, she’d insisted that Franklin also invite Will, who stood against a wall, sipping a wretched tea and watching the great and the not so great mingle. Cyrus Radnor, a man who referred to himself as a congressman from South Carolina, stood by him and smiled affably.

“I understand you were rescued from prison by a Negro?”

“That is correct,” Will answered, puzzled by the question. Radnor was one of many congressmen who represented absolutely nobody. An obscure militia colonel and an only moderately successful tobacco farmer, he’d owned property and slaves before being chased out of South Carolina by the British and their Tory allies. He had not signed the Declaration of Independence, nor had he been sent to Congress in Philadelphia. He’d been chosen by the others to be in the current Congress because of his South Carolina residence and the fact that the Congress needed someone from South Carolina to claim any degree of legitimacy. There were some who doubted that Radnor had ever been a congressman in the first place.

“Then you have opinions about slavery, do you not?” Radnor asked.

“The Negro who freed me was a free man himself. He was never a slave and I would not want him to ever be one. I owe him too much for that to happen.”

Radnor nodded, causing loose skin from his face to shake. It looked like he’d lost weight, but then, so had many people in Fort Washington. Will thought he was one of the few who’d gained, since he’d still been suffering from his privations when he’d arrived.

Radnor persisted. “Doctor Franklin says we should abandon the slave issue, Major, do you agree? Do you think slavery is inherently evil?”

“Whether I think it is evil or not is irrelevant. The egg has been broken and cannot be mended. Slaves have been free for a while now and will not take lightly to being reenslaved. During the war, the British raised several regiments of Negro infantry and they acquitted themselves quite well against Indians, although, to my knowledge, they never fought against us. If we win and attempt to enslave them again, it will be another war resulting in a bloodbath that could destroy what we had won.” Assuming we win anything, he thought.

Radnor sighed. “With extreme reluctance, I tend to agree, although not all of my southern friends are of like mind. At the worst, they feel that we can import fresh slave stock for our plantations; however, the British will not permit that. They suggested that planters use white prisoners as indentured servants, and that won’t work for several reasons. First, there aren’t enough of them to supply the needs of the planters, and, second, the two groups hate each other and there would be murders.” He blinked owlishly and Will realized that Radnor was drunk. “There must be a third reason, but I can’t think of it.”

“And why can’t the planters import fresh slaves?”

Radnor chuckled and took a beer from a passing serving girl. It was Sarah’s cousin Faith and she winked at Will.

“Goodness, what great tits on her and I think she likes you, Major. Too bad her cousin does as well.”

Will winced. Were there no secrets in this bloody town?

Radnor laughed at Will’s discomfort and continued, “Southern planters cannot import a fresh crop of slaves because the British have used their navy to close down the slave trade from Africa and the Indies. The British government is beginning to come under tremendous pressure to abolish slavery altogether and it may come to pass. In which case, they will piously impose their decision everywhere they can.”

Will thought that would be a good thing, but kept quiet.

“Franklin wants us to have a constitution,” Radnor continued, “and he wants that document to include a statement of freedoms to all Americans so they can see what we’re fighting for and why the British proposals are so odious. The British have, in the opinion of many people, seized the moral high ground by freeing the slaves, and Franklin feels that we can attract followers by declaring our freedoms within an official constitution.”

“How do you feel, Mr. Radnor?”

“I heartily agree with the need for a constitution and reluctantly agree that the issue of slavery is over and must be put behind us.”

Will added. “Then whatever document we agree on must be published throughout the colonies well before the British strike so it can be another weapon in our humble arsenal.”

Radnor belched, nodded and walked away. A moment later, Abigail Adams took him by the elbow and steered him away from the wall.

“Are you having a pleasant time, Major Drake?”

“Indeed, and are you Mistress Adams?”

She laughed wickedly. “Surprisingly so. There are too many men and too few women. I do believe I’ve had my middle-aged bottom patted a good dozen times and not all of them by Dr. Franklin.”

“Doctor Franklin is a most interesting man,” Will said, grinning.

“And I think your poor Sarah is suffering the same fate. She is a quite remarkable woman, I hope you realize.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t lose, her, Major. And how was your conversation with the distinguished gentleman from South Carolina?”

“We discussed slavery.”

She arched an eyebrow. The arguments for and against slavery had been a divisive issue in Congress. “I’ve heard rumors that he was wavering?”

Will smiled. “They would appear to be correct.”

* * *

Owen and Faith met in a dark and cluttered storeroom after Franklin’s party. He was delighted that she was willing to be alone with him, particularly since they were in what could easily be considered a compromising situation. Even though he felt that she liked him, she had seemed withdrawn instead of drawing closer since his return from Detroit.