“Please understand, my love, that I bear the English people, such as you, no ill. Indeed, it pains me deeply to write this and leave you. I only hate and despise your king and his vile and grasping ministers.
“I find it highly unlikely that we will ever meet again. Should it happen, it will most certainly be because you are a prisoner, as I have no intention of ever being taken alive. Nor does anyone else who call themselves Americans, so tell your beloved generals that they are in for a battle of no quarter, no retreat. It may well be that the winners will be as bloodied and devastated as the losers. It may well be that neither army will exist when the battle is over. If that is God’s will, so be it.
“Good bye, my dear little major and I fervently hope you are protected from whatever terrible things may come. And finally, I had no intention of falling in love with you, but I did. I can only wish that the world had been different.
Your dearest Hannah.”
Fitzroy folded the paper and put it back in his journal. He felt the tears rolling down his cheeks.
* * *
Will stood with Tallmadge and Schuyler as Glover’s Marblehead Regiment marched slowly in. They were ragged and exhausted and made no attempt at a proper formation. Many were limping, and some men helped others with their muskets and packs, while still others were nearly carried by their comrades. Despite their exhaustion, however, they managed grins and waves which were returned. They had made it and were justifiably proud of themselves.
There were approximately two hundred of the Marblehead men, and they were trailed by about fifty other older men, and a handful of women and children. One of the older civilians was a man who was gaunt and even dirtier and more ragged than the others. He stared at Tallmadge and Will. He had a full nose, a thick white beard, bushy eyebrows, and his hair was long and disheveled.
That man knows us, Will thought, and I think I know him. But how? Had he too served in the army? The man looked out of place with the group of civilians. Despite his physical problems, he carried himself like a soldier. Will thought the old man should be leading the column, such was his presence. Will glanced at Schuyler and Tallmadge. They too stared at the man. Tallmadge seemed to nod slightly. The man turned abruptly and walked away.
It had been an epic journey for the Marblehead Regiment, all the way from the coast of Maine to this place near the shores of Lake Michigan. They had trekked through almost a thousand miles of British-held territory and lived to tell about it. To some of the more historical minded, it was like the journey of Xenophon’s ten thousand Hellenes marching through Asia Minor to their homes. Even though North America wasn’t Asia Minor, Glover’s men had traveled from the seacoast of Maine, overland to the St. Lawrence River, crossed, and then hiked to a point just west of the great falls at Niagara. There they had built boats and sailed or paddled their way to a point south of Detroit, eluded Tarleton’s patrols, and marched the rest of the way to Fort Washington.
To many, their success was no surprise. Though small in number, the Marbleheaders were a superb regiment and had a reputation for doing the impossible. It was they who had saved Washington’s army from being trapped on Long Island. They had commandeered boats and ferried the troops across to Manhattan under the very noses of the British, and, months later they’d help ferry Washington’s men across the Delaware to attack the Hessians at Trenton.
The Marbleheaders were led by their original commander, Brigadier General John Glover. He saluted Schuyler and led his men off to where they could be quartered, rested, warmed, and fed.
“We need more of them,” Tallmadge mused.
“At least they have weapons,” Will said.
Tallmadge laughed. “You’ve been away too long. Franklin’s factories are now making muskets for us. We have far more muskets than we do soldiers to shoot them. Nor are we suffering for lack of powder. Our factories are also turning out pikes, cutlasses, and tomahawks in large numbers. No,” he sighed, “what we need are soldiers.”
“Just curious, General, but do the factories continue to make that weapon I tested, the Franklin?”
“Lord no. That abomination was discarded rather quickly after we couldn’t figure out what to do with it. It was inaccurate at long range, and awkward at short. Thus, we decided to focus on more traditional guns and we are doing quite well. The ‘Franklin,’ however, was not totally consigned to the trash heap. Willy Washington has taken the inventory of a little more than a hundred of the things and further shortened their barrels. He plans to use them as close-up weapons by his cavalry, which will also be armed with sabers and pistols.”
A soldier ran up to Tallmadge, saluted, and handed him a message. Tallmadge unfolded it, crumpled it, and swore.
“More bad news, damn it. The British have found one of my spy centers. Do you recall the King’s Tavern across the river from Detroit? Did you know the name was a joke? The owners were two brothers named King and totally loyal to the American cause.”
“Of course,” Will answered. “I kept some of my men near there while I was at Leduc’s place. I recall you said that the owners were sympathetic.”
“Much more than that. The brothers King and their grubby tavern were the clearing house for many of the messages from Detroit and now they’ve been discovered. The brothers got away, but they’ve been closed down. I can only hope that the people supplying the King brothers with information got themselves away as well.”
“Does that mean nothing more from Detroit?” Will asked.
“Of course not,” he sniffed. “It simply means that the information will come in more slowly and in a less timely manner until I can affect repairs to the system.”
“Which reminds me, General, just how the devil do you get timely information from so far away?”
Tallmadge grinned impishly and punched Will on the shoulder. “When you’re old enough to understand such adult matters, I’ll tell you.”
* * *
Abigail Adams invited a number of women to have tea with her, although the tea was more hot colored water than a proper tea. It was an opportunity to talk about things that were of utmost importance to them. Like the slim possibility that they would even be alive the coming fall.
A good hostess, she waited until the score of women had finished at least a little idle chatter. When there was a lull, she tapped on a cup.
“Ladies, it is time to discuss some serious matters.”
Silence fell. Abigail Adams was the most respected and admired woman at Fort Washington. If she said she had something important to say, then she would be listened to.
“We all know that the summer will bring a bloody end to our stay here. Either we will prevail and return to our homes, or we will be captured and enslaved, if not killed outright.”
There was a mutter that she ignored. “I know that some of you have vowed never to be taken prisoner, never to be enslaved. Some have vowed to fight to the death, while others have decided to flee elsewhere, if there only was an elsewhere. Sadly, there is no elsewhere. We win or lose here. Even if we try to flee, it will be in small numbers and into areas filled with red savages who would like nothing more than to rape us and kill us, if they don’t enslave us themselves. If we lose to the British this summer, our prospects are beneath dismal.”
“Then what do you propose?” asked Sarah. Even though she’d been prepped by Mistress Adams and told when to ask questions, Abigail’s spoken words had chilled her.
John Adams’ wife smiled tightly. “With the blessings of the conniving Doctor Franklin, he has come up with some ideas to help the men in combat and extend their numbers beyond what we have.”