“Dear God,” exclaimed Grant.
“Dear God, indeed,” Burgoyne continued. “Apparently their French majesties concluded that, if they did not cooperate with the marquis, the moderates in France would proclaim Lafayette as a new king and leave them to live out the remainder of their lives as exiles in England. As it is, there may well be a constitutional monarchy with Louis and Marie as little more than figureheads.”
Tarleton laughed harshly, “Serves them right. They are utter dunces and probably incompetent to serve as anything but figureheads.”
Burgoyne smiled. “That may be true, but it does not thrill our own beloved King George. He sees a constitutional monarachy as a potential threat to the House of Hanover and its control over England. King George would like the monarchy to have more power, not less.”
“Is Cornwallis asking for his army back?” Tarleton asked.
“Not quite. He acknowledges that we need the time to do the job properly, but he does not wish us to dawdle. I have sent him a report on our condition and our intentions. However, he is well aware that so much of what we will be able to do is dependent on the weather. First, the ice must melt and the land must thaw and then it must dry up before we can move.”
Tarleton nearly snorted. “Still, I want this ordeal to be over. Migawd, I first thought that New York was the most diseased crotch of the world, but this manure pile called Detroit is far worse. Now I actually find myself looking forward to New York or Charleston.”
“Not Boston?” Grant asked in an attempt at humor.
“Never Boston,” Tarleton responded angrily. “Puritans, rebels, merchants, and witch burners, along with pale, ugly women who think it’s a sin to enjoy a good fuck. I think I’d rather be here than in Boston, thank you.”
Grant turned to Fitzroy. “In the meantime we prepare and look for spies. Curiously, but I almost don’t care if the rebels know everything we are doing. After all, what can they do about it? We outnumber them hugely, outgun them enormously, and have better trained soldiers.”
“And superior generals,” Tarleton said and drew laughter from the others, even from Burgoyne who normally didn’t think Butcher Tarleton was funny at all. Or even that good a general.
* * *
“I still don’t see how we missed this,” Harris muttered. Beside him in the brush, Braxton was deep in thought.
“Only thing I can think of is that it’s a new settlement,” Braxton said. “I mean, look at the place. Just a couple of log cabins poorly thrown together. No crops yet and not much of a place for animals. These people just arrived, and that’s why we missed it. It wasn’t here for us to miss.”
He didn’t bother to add again that the forest was huge and the settlement small, and they might have continued to miss it if it hadn’t been for the specific directions they’d been given. For all Braxton knew there were a score of similarly undetected settlements like this just waiting to be discovered and then wiped out by his men. He hoped so.
Following the directions received from Tarleton in Detroit, Braxton and nearly twenty men had labored through the winter snow and mud to find the settlement that was claimed to harbor rebels.
Braxton didn’t much care if the claim was true or not. He and his men needed some action. The bad weather made their approach easier. There was no one out in the fields preparing the soil for crops and they’d detected no sign of any hunters. Of course there might be one or two, but it would appear that they’d successfully bypassed them. If they were discovered, it would be too late. It was already too late for the occupants of the settlement and he didn’t give a damn if they were rebels or not.
The settlement consisted of a larger building that was likely a barn, and a slightly smaller one, which he assumed was the main house. The shutters were closed against the weather, which meant that the occupants couldn’t see them very well if at all.
“Look,” Harris hissed. Two women, their heads covered with shawls, came out of the main house and went into what Braxton had assumed was the barn. A moment later, they emerged with two men and returned to the main house. No one was carrying a weapon.
Braxton signaled the others with a soft whistle and they began to move forward at a crouch. At a hundred yards away, he ordered a pause. There was still nothing to indicate that they’d been discovered. He waved the men forward. One group of a half dozen headed toward the barn, while the rest raced toward the house.
At about twenty yards distance, the shutters opened and a dozen gun barrels poked out. Braxton screamed at his men to stop, but it was too late. Sheets of fire cut down his men. To his left, he heard a similar fate befalling the men attacking the barn. Harris, directly in front of him, took a bullet in the head. Blood and brain matter spewed onto Braxton.
“Ambush!” Braxton howled. “Run.”
Armed men poured from the buildings, screaming and waving knives and tomahawks. A couple of his surviving men managed to fire their weapons, but didn’t appear to hit much. Braxton felt a pain in his arm and realized he’d been shot. A wild looking rebel came up to him. Braxton screamed out his fury and shot the man in the chest with his pistol.
He turned and ran for the woods. He felt agony from his arm
and nearly passed out. Almost all of his men were down and being hacked at by the rebels who had poured from the buildings. Maybe one or two had survived the slaughter and maybe not.
Somehow, he made it to the shelter of the forest. He was almost incredulous at his own good fortune. He managed to reload his pistol with his one good hand. If the rebels came close he would use it on himself. He had no urge to be imprisoned or hanged, which he knew would happen.
He had to make it back to Detroit. Someone had betrayed him to the rebels, and Tarleton would want to know that.
* * *
Nathanael Greene was dead. The brave and skillful general, a trusted subordinate and confidante of George Washington, went to sleep and never woke up. Many hoped that such a peaceful death would be theirs as well, but doubted they’d ever be that lucky. Large numbers would die fighting the British in the spring, and they might be the lucky ones. Hanging or slavery waited for the survivors. Perhaps a few could wander west and be assimilated into the Indian tribes. Either way, many thought that a miserable life awaited them.
Greene’s passing hadn’t been all that gentle. The illnesses that had racked his body would have felled a lesser man much sooner. He’d fought and fought, but the brave warrior was slowly overwhelmed.
The ground was frozen and a score of deeply saddened men hacked at it for the better part of a day before they’d dug a hole of appropriate depth and width. Greene’s body lay in a plain wooden box. Everyone felt that such a hero deserved better but that was all they had. Reinterment at a better place and with an appropriate monument would wait for the future, if there was a future.
They buried him with all the honors they could summon up. A squad of soldiers fired their muskets over the grave while a pair of drummer boys manfully plied their trade, after which a preacher spoke. He was mercifully short. Tallmadge whispered to Will that the poor man was probably freezing. So too were the several hundred who had gathered for the ceremony. Greene’s widow Catherine and Abigail Adams stood together. A handful of other women, including Sarah, Faith, and Winifred Haskill, stood behind them.
Officers and men felt the loss deeply. Greene was the man in whom they had confidence, but the now ranking officer was General Schuyler. Will noted that no one stood next to Schuyler. Was it out of deference to his rank or because they had no confidence in his ability to lead? He feared the latter. Even Schuyler looked unusually glum and depressed. The weight of the revolution was now on his shoulders