“Poor man,” Tallmadge again whispered. “Schuyler’s an excellent organizer and probably the reason we’re all alive right now instead of having starved to death, but no one wants him leading an army into battle.”
“What about yourself? You’re a general.”
“Good God no! I’m a desk general, not a fighter.” Tallmadge looked at the officers assembled across the grave site. “Look at who’s here and then think of who isn’t.”
Will glanced over the solemn faces. There were a number of good men, but not enough. The British roundup had decapitated much of the American Army. George Washington was dead, and now so too was Greene, a man many felt was Washington’s superior in battle. Von Steuben and Wayne were present, but where were Knox, Lincoln, St. Clair, Sullivan, and Stirling? In a Jamaican prison, that’s where, along with scores of others.
Morgan was present in spirit, but it was too cold for his aching body to venture outdoors for the ceremony. He might have another battle in him, but not the stress of a campaign. The man who’d had such an impact on the battle of Saratoga was now a shell.
Anthony Wayne was a fighter but too impetuous. The men did not call him Mad Anthony for nothing.
Von Steuben, the genial imposter who had convinced Franklin he was a Prussian general, would be best at training an army, which was what he was doing now.
Willy Washington was on hand, but the other American cavalry leader, Harry Lee, apparently now shared a cell with Alexander Hamilton. Of course, what good was cavalry without horses, and there were precious few of those at Fort Washington.
Glover would arrive in a few days, and that would give them another excellent regimental commander, but still no one experienced enough for overall command. Regiments needed to be formed into brigades and brigades into divisions and only Wayne and Morgan were even marginally capable of that task. Thus, to promote one of them to overall command meant a lesser man would command a division. They needed another good general to assume overall command.
“Someone will have to be appointed and then learn on the job,” Will said.
George Washington had endured years of disaster and defeat before learning how to command, and so too had Greene. There would be no time for such a bloody apprenticeship. There would be only one chance in the spring. One defeat and the revolution was over. They could not again retreat to the west. They’d done that already.
The services were over and the crowd had begun to drift away. Nathanael Greene lay under a mound of cold raw dirt. He deserved better, Will thought.
Tallmadge snorted. “We’re fucked, Will. Properly bloody fucking fucked.”
Chapter 9
“Well, 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.”