“I have,” Faith admitted.
Mistress Adams relaxed and smiled. “Wonderful. While the men are out training for war, those women who have some skills will take their place. We have also found that many women have the dexterity necessary to work with weapons. We would like you to help assembling muskets. Do you accept?”
“Certainly,” Faith said, just a little overwhelmed by Mistress Adams. After all, she was the wife of one of the leaders of the revolution.
“Excellent.” Abigail Adams turned to Sarah. “I have a very cranky old man who needs a clerk and a nursemaid.” She held up the paper Sarah had written. “According to this, you obviously read and write well, and you say you took care of your father before he died.”
“I did,” Sarah answered with some hesitation.
Abigail’s eyes twinkled. She really was quite attractive when she was happy, and she seemed to be enjoying the conversation with Sarah for some reason.
“Don’t worry, Mistress Benton, I will not have you emptying chamber pots or wiping drool from the mouth of some demented old goat. No, there is an older man who may or may not be a little insane, but is certainly eccentric, and who is quite capable of caring for himself. He needs a clerk as much as a housekeeper, and he works well with women. Sometimes too well, if you understand my meaning.”
Sarah laughed. “I believe I can stop an old codger from pawing me.”
“I don’t doubt it at all. Do you accept?”
Do I have a choice, Sarah thought. She did not want to work assembling muskets with Faith, whatever and however one assembled muskets in the first place.
“Of course,” Sarah smiled.
* * *
Braxton wasn’t impressed with General Banastre Tarleton, at least not at first. The British general looked indolent, even pudgy and soft, and not the bold fighter and sadistic killer he was reputed to be.
Braxton had never seen a Frenchman, but Tarleton looked spoiled and pouty and he suspected that was what Frenchmen looked like. But that was until Braxton looked into Tarleton’s eyes and saw coldness and death, and realized that Tarleton was a poisonous viper. For the first time in a long while, Braxton knew the meaning of fear. He silently vowed that he would not make an enemy out of Tarleton.
“Burned Man Braxton,” Tarleton said without emotion, “How incredibly fitting.”
Braxton remained silent. Instead of the revulsion so many people felt when they saw him, Tarleton was not repulsed. Instead, he stared at Braxton almost approvingly. He was calculating.
“And you wish to kill rebels, do you not?”
“I do indeed, sir,” Braxton said with what he hoped was proper humility.
It was for that reason and with Burgoyne’s permission that Braxton and his band had traveled north and west to the British fort at Detroit. What had been a squalid little outpost had been augmented by the more than fifteen hundred British regulars Tarleton had brought from Pitt to reinforce the original garrison of only a couple of hundred soldiers. Rumor had it that Tarleton wanted to attack the rebels now, and not wait for Burgoyne to come with still more reinforcements. He felt that he had more than enough men to crush them this fall and there was no need to wait for reinforcements to arrive in the spring. If the British could get stronger, then so too could the rebels, he’d argued but to no avail.
He’d been overruled by both Cornwallis and Burgoyne. He would have to wait while more British soldiers arrived. Additional rumors said that several thousand more were coming overland and by boat from Montreal. Braxton wondered where they’d all eat, sleep, and shit, but that was not his problem.
“Other than killing people, what can you do for me?” Tarleton asked with a cold smile. “If I wanted people butchered in their beds, I can just turn loose the Indians.”
Braxton nodded. “But will they report back on what they’ve found and will they do that in a language an educated man like you would understand? Hardly, General. What the redskins will do is kill, get drunk, fuck their squaws, and then exaggerate their enemies’ numbers ten times over to make themselves seem like great warriors.”
Tarleton smiled mirthlessly and looked out the window of his cabin and down to the muddy bank of the wide Detroit River. Across the river was Canada, under the control of General Frederic Haldimand, hundreds of miles away in Montreal. Tarleton was absolutely appalled at the thought of spending a winter in this miserable place. “The Indians are rather useless bastards, even when they are sober, aren’t they?”
“Indeed, sir, and I have eighty men who can spread havoc among the rebel communities and kill them, which will mean fewer men for you and General Burgoyne to face.”
From the look on Tarleton’s face, Braxton was afraid he’d gone too far with his assessment of his own abilities. But then the British commander looked intrigued and treated him to another icy smile. “Can you make your attacks look like Indian assaults?”
For a moment, Braxton was puzzled, but then it dawned on him. “So the rebels will attack the Indians in revenge and actually turn the red savages against them? I can do that, sir. Just turn me loose, sir, and I’ll raise bloody fucking hell with the rebels.”
This time Tarleton’s smile was genuine. Death and destruction were going to be spread to his enemies. “Then go forth and smite the bastards, Captain, in full knowledge that whatever you do to them, however awfully it is done, will be forgiven by both me and a grateful king. And, oh yes, try not to get caught.”
* * *
Major General Nathanael Greene lay in his bed. His once healthy and robust frame was but a distant memory. He was gaunt and pale, and his breath was shallow and each one a struggle. Nathanael Greene, the man who was once George Washington’s trusted right hand, was dying at the age of forty-three. It was only a question of time.
Will Drake stood behind General Tallmadge at the foot of the bed. General Philip Schuyler stood beside Greene. Will had made his report on the trip up the Ohio to Tallmadge, who had thought Greene would like to hear it in person. He had. It meant that rumors of a British column approaching from the direction of the Ohio were unfounded. It also meant it was increasingly unlikely that any attack would occur this year.
“Burgoyne’s in winter quarters or will be very shortly. It will be some time before he has the strength to mount an assault on us,” Greene said weakly. “I only wish we had the strength to launch a surprise attack him like Washington did at Trenton.” He took a deep breath. “However, that will not happen. We are more than two hundred miles away from Detroit, not the night’s march from the enemy we were at Trenton.”
“Still, perhaps we can do something?” inquired Tallmadge.
“What do you propose?” asked General Schuyler.
“Raids to keep them occupied and to possibly destroy their resources,” Tallmadge answered. “Whatever we destroy this coming winter won’t be available to use against us in the spring and summer.”
Greene stared at Will. “I presume you’d send someone like Major Drake against them?”
Schuyler answered. “In some instances yes, General; however I was more thinking of George Rogers Clark and his men. I have it on good authority that he is in Kentucky and eager to help us. I’ve sent for him.”
Greene managed a wan smile. “You mean there’s somebody else the British didn’t send to Jamaica?”
“Yes sir,” said Tallmadge, “although there are rumors he’s drinking heavily. Again.”
Greene struggled to a sitting position. The effort seemed to exhaust him and he had to pause before continuing. “Actually, Clark is not in Kentucky and I have no idea whether he’s drinking or not. Last summer we sent Clark out west to check on the feasibility of our retreating farther towards the Pacific if the need arose. He has not yet returned and I don’t expect him until spring.”