“How did we miss it?” asked Fenton.
“Probably because it’s such a little bitty place out there in a great big forest,” Braxton answered.
He was tolerant with Fenton because they went back a long ways, even though he thought his old deputy was more than a little bit stupid. Fenton wasn’t totally useless, however. It had been Fenton’s idea way back in Pendleton to extort sex from female prisoners, or the wives, daughters, and even the mothers of male prisoners. Hell, some of the older women had been great at what Braxton asked them to do in order to save their families from further harm.
Still, Braxton thought Fenton would fuck a goat if that was all that was available. “It’s at a place where two streams meet. I know one of them. We follow it downstream and it’ll lead us to the rebels. Maybe the fun we’ll have will make some of the boys who left us regret it.”
Braxton’s band was now down to under twenty. Lack of action had caused some to leave while others were affected by the fact that they were pariahs and no one wanted anything to do with them. Bring back a few scalps and brag about new meat they’d screwed and the right kind of men would come running real fast.
Then Harris had a thought. “Hey, didn’t Burgoyne say he didn’t want us around? Did the fire change all that?”
Braxton spread his ruined mouth in a parody of a smile. “Maybe our new orders didn’t come from Burgoyne.”
“Who then?” asked Harris.
Braxton laughed. “Bloody fucking Tarleton.”
* * *
Neither Sarah nor Faith had worked up enough courage to greet Will and Owen with open arms and passion as they’d discussed. Faith was still apprehensive about pushing Owen, and Sarah wasn’t certain she wanted to go too far with Will, at least not just yet.
That and the almost total lack of privacy in Fort Washington conspired against them. Sarah was not going to copulate against a barrack wall or on a pile of hay in a cold barn. Others were always doing exactly that, but she would not.
Still, Sarah made sure Will knew she was delighted to see him even though he was as filthy as a pig dressed as he was in a mixture of dirty woolen cloth and ripe buckskin. She laughed and told him any pig would be insulted by the comparison. Will thought he was immaculate in comparison with what he’d been like when existing in the hold of the prison hulk. He shuddered at the memory and, with a twinge of guilt, wondered what happened to the Negro, Homer, the man who’d rescued him and given him a second chance at life and freedom. If a miracle occurred and the Americans won their war, maybe he would find out.
While Will went to his quarters and scrubbed his body with ash soap and lukewarm water from a bowl, Sarah took his clothing to her barracks and cleaned them as best she could. They agreed to meet later in the evening. She strongly felt that people should be as clean as possible and bathed as frequently as it was safe, and was pleased that Will seemed to feel the same way.
Will still did not have a proper uniform and put on other civilian clothing. A badge showed his rank in the army. So accoutered, he went to Tallmadge for further information.
First, the news of the draconian laws to be enacted against the colonists, whether loyal or rebel, was beginning to get out and circulate throughout the colonies. Rebel households were horrified, while loyalists were either disbelieving or shocked, with disbelief being the prominent emotion. They wanted proof and they would doubt the news until they either saw the official documents, or when Governor General Cornwallis admitted it.
“I wonder if people will finally believe it when they are enslaved and have had all their property taken from them,” Tallmadge said bitterly. “Of course, even if they do, we might not be here to laugh at them.”
They wondered if confirmation of the report would result in mass emigration of Loyalists from the colonies to Canada and elsewhere. “South Africa would be my choice,” Will said.
In other areas the news was mixed at best. On the negative side, Nathanael Greene’s young wife had informed them that the already very ill general had taken a turn for the worse. He was now partially paralyzed and drifting in and out of a coma. Even the most optimistic admitted that he would never again command in the field. This was a particularly upsetting condition because Greene had been Washington’s right-hand man and, in the opinion of many, a better tactician and fighter than Washington himself. It had been Greene who had taken command of the southern theater and maneuvered Cornwallis into a corner of Virginia called Yorktown that should have been the coffin of British hopes.
None of the remaining American generals had ever commanded an army or held a significant independent command. And, with few exceptions, the rank and file had little confidence in their abilities.
The closest to a war leader at Fort Washington was Daniel Morgan, the Old Wagoneer. He had led a wing at Saratoga and defeated the British under Tarleton at the Cowpens where he had utterly destroyed the British force. He had arrived along with Willy Washington, the dead General George Washington’s nephew and a decent cavalry commander in his own right. Morgan, however, was often bedridden himself as a result of bouts of rheumatism and arthritis brought on by too much campaigning in the field. He was nearing fifty and old beyond his years. Willy Washington had been captured before the debacle at Yorktown and subsequently paroled. He’d been one of the lucky ones to have missed the later British sweep of rebel officers.
“It could be worse,” Will had said, “we could still have Gates and Lee.”
Neither Horatio Gates nor Charles Lee had distinguished themselves in command of an American army. Although Gates was widely considered to be the victor at Saratoga, the battle had been largely won by his subordinates-Morgan, John Stark and the subsequently traitorous Benedict Arnold. In a later battle and after being given command in the south, Gates had fled in disgrace from his defeat at Camden. He’d been captured by the British and now languished in a Jamaican prison. Lee had been sacked by Washington after his confused performance at Monmouth. He too had been captured by the British and, for reasons unknown, had been hanged. Few mourned him.
On the positive side, John Glover and his small regiment from Marblehead, Massachusetts, was rumored to be en route. Not only were they fine soldiers and well led, but they were boatmen whose skills had already proven useful. Their work during the retreat from Long Island and the crossing of the Delaware came to mind.
Still, Glover’s presence would not solve the problem of an overall field commander. He was a fine regimental commander, but not a man to lead an army. Will had heard that at one skirmish on Manhattan, Glover had fought bravely but had openly longed for someone else to lead the effort.
Tallmadge fumed. “We have colonels and brigadiers, but no one with experience in independent command except for a sickly Morgan. And there’s precious little time for anyone to learn. The only other experienced ranking officer we have is Schuyler and the men won’t follow him.”
“Don’t you think he got unfair blame for losing Ticonderoga?” Will asked. The defeat at Ticonderoga had resulted in Schuyler’s removal and replacement by Gates.
“Will, it doesn’t matter what I think. The army has no confidence in him. If Schuyler commands, they will fight with one eye on the Redcoats and one on an escape route out to the west because they think he can do nothing but lose for them.”
“That reminds me,” Will said, “Have you heard from Clark and his explorers?”
“Not a peep. Well, perhaps a little,” Tallmadge said in the same smug way he’d said that Will wasn’t the first with the news of the Detroit fire. What the devil was going on, Will wondered.
“Clark and his men made it well west to a fascinating discovery, a huge salt lake. But now they are hibernating for the winter. What they did find is that there is precious little likelihood of a large number of people finding sustenance in such a barren landscape.”