“First of all, General Burgoyne, I am so thankful that you have accepted Captain Danforth onto your staff.”
Burgoyne smiled. “He and I have much in common. And may I assume that he will be your eyes and ears while on the expedition?”
If Cornwallis was surprised by the bluntness of the comment, he didn’t show it.
“But of course. Although one wonders just how he can be my eyes and ears when he’s five or six hundred miles away.”
“A good staff officer can accomplish miracles, gentlemen,” Danforth said with an impish grin. The comment caused both generals to laugh, which released any tension that might have been in the air. Danforth was Cornwallis’ spy and now everyone knew it. Fitzroy thought he’d have been court-martialed if he’d said anything so cheeky.
Cornwallis continued. “As you were busy seeing to the forces you just landed, I took the liberty of giving orders to those parts of the garrisons of Charleston and Boston that will report to you. I hope you don’t mind.”
If Burgoyne was upset by the gentle reminder that the army still belonged to Cornwallis, his superior, he didn’t show it. “Of course not,” he said.
“Good. The merchant transports that brought your soldiers from England, along with a couple of frigates, will be sent to Charleston to gather up the men you will be getting. The fleet will then continue on to Boston and pick up those men from that garrison. The entire host will then sail up to the St. Lawrence and then down to Quebec, where the men will disembark and await your orders.”
Burgoyne looked puzzled. “That means my army will be divided. I had intended to march it intact from here.”
Cornwallis shook his head as if talking to a child. “I strongly recommend against it. The problem of maintaining a proper level of supplies will be simplified if there is more than one force to supply from several sources.
“Besides,” Cornwallis added, “there is no danger from an American attack. Tarleton’s scouts from Pitt and Detroit say the Americans lack the resources and the will to attack this far to the east. I see no difficulty in your marching from here to Pitt and joining with Tarleton, while Arnold and the rest march from Quebec to Detroit.”
“I see,” said Burgoyne, clearly unhappy at the thought of his army even temporarily fragmented and out of his control. It was also evident that he was less than thrilled that Arnold would hold an even temporary independent command.
Cornwallis ignored Burgoyne’s displeasure. “I’ve also given directions that a number of sailing barges be constructed at Detroit and elsewhere along Lakes Erie and Ontario. I think you will find them handy if you wish to transport any or all of your army by water around the Michigan peninsula.”
“And why would I wish to do that?” Burgoyne bristled.
Cornwallis stood and walked to the map. “Because it may be as much as a thousand miles from here to where Fort Washington and this Liberty place may lie, and I would think you had enough of the North American wilderness the last time you tried to march through it.”
Burgoyne swallowed and forced a smile. The distances shown on the map were misleading and the American wilderness was sometimes impenetrable, a fact he had indeed learned during his ill-fated Saratoga campaign of 1777. While he had succeeded in dragging hundreds of wagons and numerous cannon down from Canada, it had taken an eternity, exhausted his army, and permitted the Americans the opportunity to gather their damned militia and destroy him.
“You are correct, sir,” Burgoyne admitted.
Fitzroy was stunned. A thousand miles? Burgoyne only had to go a couple of hundred at most in his attempt to take Albany in 1777. It had ended in ignominious failure at Saratoga. Worse, on the map it looked like a trifle in comparison with the distance between New York and the rebel stronghold.
“I’m sure you will concur, General Burgoyne, that sending men and heavy supplies by water is faster and more efficient than having your entire force plowing through the woods and devouring all their supplies as they go, which, I believe, was part of your problem the last time.”
Burgoyne flushed at the reminder, but concurred. “I will continue construction of more of the appropriate craft as soon as we reach a suitable base. They will be similar to what are sometimes referred to as bateaux, but they will be larger and uniform in construction. Like you, I will refer to them as sailing barges, although I admit that the word ‘bateaux’ has more Gallic charm.”
Fitzroy glanced at Danforth and saw shock and dismay on his face. A thousand miles? Building boats? What happened to the lightning strike to destroy the enemy? Fitzroy fought the urge to laugh at his new friend. Instead, he would do it later over several glasses of wine and not in the presence of two senior generals.
Of course, he too was less than thrilled at the thought of going so far into the untracked wilderness and for what was obviously going to be a protracted period of time. But then, how untracked could it be if he American rebels had sent several thousand people into it and created settlements? Buoyed by that thought, he winked at Danforth who nodded surreptitiously. Tonight they would eat, get drunk and find a couple of reasonably clean New York doxies to pleasure them. It was the least they could do before they set off on behalf of their king and country.
Chapter 3
Owen Wells twisted against the ropes that bound him, but to no avail. His captors had tied his hands behind him with the rope wrapped behind a tree. He could kick his legs if he wanted to, but that would likely get him nothing more than another beating, and he’d had enough of those in the several days he’d been a prisoner of the scruffy bandits who’d captured him. His face was a mass of bruises and his ribs ached where he’d been kicked. The beatings only stopped when one of them realized that Owen needed to be alive for them to collect the reward from the British.
Owen’s escape from Manhattan Island had gone extremely well at first. He’d managed to land his stolen boat on Staten Island, and had carefully snuck across to New Jersey and then into Pennsylvania. There he’d felt emboldened enough to work his way openly north and west. He’d had no specific plans. All he wanted to do was put time and distance between himself and the authorities in New York.
He’d been no fool and had kept away from the trails and occasional road. He also avoided contact with the few households and bypassed the villages. He assumed that anyone who looked prosperous was a Tory, while anyone who looked impoverished would turn him in for a reward. If he saw a traveler, he hid in the brush. During the days and weeks of his journey, he’d rehoned the skills he’d possessed as a youthful poacher in his native Wales. Although he occasionally regretted throwing away his musket, he didn’t need it to catch food. A trap and snare made from local materials were more than enough to catch rabbits and squirrels and he reveled in their taste when cooked over a small fire that was also easy to make.
Thus, getting caught was gallingly stupid. Why had he thought he was far enough away from British-controlled land to ask someone how far he was away from this “Liberty” place? He had naively presumed that people so far from New York and well into Pennsylvania would be rebels and that he could drop his guard. But no, he had run into a small band of bounty hunters looking for rebels and deserters just like him, and now he faced being dragged back to New York and hanged if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he’d be sentenced to a thousand lashes, which meant that he would be flogged to death, screaming his lungs out for the mercy of death while the white bones of his ribs and spine were exposed to the air. He’d seen men whipped like that and watched as they became something less than tormented animals before they finally died.