“Understood,” said Grant. “I just don’t have to like the buggers. And I think both groups will run rather than fight against the rebels.”
“They will fight as long as they think they are winning,” said Burgoyne, “which means the promise of loot to them. My only wish is that they help get us to our destination in good order and then the devil can have them.”
“The devil already has them,” Tarleton laughed, “or don’t you believe that creatures like Burned Man Braxton are already owned by Satan?”
* * *
“Would you be offended if I said this isn’t much of a cavalry regiment?” Will asked as he observed both the small numbers of men in the “regiment” and the quality of their horses.
Colonel William Washington smiled bleakly. “I would like to say that it is an example of quality over quantity, but even that isn’t true.” William Washington was an experienced and resourceful cavalry commander. He had once fought Banastre Tarleton sword to sword while his cavalry defeated the British at Cowpens.
“I’m afraid these poor men and their even poorer mounts would not be able to stand against the British,” Washington said. “However, General Tallmadge has informed me that the British won’t be bringing much in the way of cavalry either.”
Colonel Washington’s regiment of cavalry consisted of a hundred and fifty men, and only half of them had horses. The remaining men were prepared to fight on foot.
Nor were the horses anything to brag about. They were small and thin and little more than ponies. Will thought he’d seen larger and healthier dogs. But it was correct that the British had little cavalry either. “You’ll fight as dragoons, I presume?”
“Correct. And in order to make up the shortage in horses, I am prepared to send men into battle two on a horse, or even carried in wagons.”
Will couldn’t resist the jibe. “You presume that these horses can carry two. I find it hard to believe that some could even carry one rider.”
Washington slapped will on the shoulder. “If it weren’t true, Will, I’d have you court martialed for slandering my horses. I can only hope we get more mounts and that a period of eating good spring grasses will strengthen the ones we have; however, I will not hold my breath that either will occur. But then, all we have to do is be ready to fight one time.”
Will noticed they were practicing with a familiar weapon. “Aren’t those the guns Dr. Franklin designed?”
“Indeed. Those are Franklin’s Franklins, if you’ll permit the pun. We’ve shortened the barrel and plan to use them as a close-range fowling piece or a small blunderbuss. They will be loaded with several musket balls that’ll be held in by wax or mud so the balls don’t roll out. They won’t be much on accuracy, but I dare say they will make life interesting for a formation of massed Redcoats when fired at close range.”
“Assuming you can get your men there before the British fire.”
He nodded sadly. “Then we will have to endure a volley and attack them after they’ve fired and before they can reload.” Washington pulled out a watch and checked it. “Three o’clock and all is well. Do you think the meeting has started?”
Congress had finally acted. A commander for the army would be chosen and everyone had their own preferences and doubts. Will had some sympathy for General Schuyler who seemed a decent sort and who had possibly gotten a bad deal from an earlier congress over the loss of Ticonderoga in 1777. But then, Will thought, did he want his army led by a man who was a “decent sort,” and who had lost his only major battle?
“I only hope they make the right decision,” he said.
Chapter 12
Benjamin Franklin took his seat at the head of the long table. He adjusted his glasses and peered at the men gathered in the small room. They were the cream of the crop of the small army’s leaders. God help us, he thought, as he gazed at Schuyler, Wayne, Morgan, Glover, and Tallmadge. Only von Steuben wasn’t present. He was away with his Hessians and had said that he would support any decision that was made, just as long as he wasn’t given the command.
“The time for dreaming and hoping is over, gentlemen,” Franklin began. “Nathanael Greene is well and truly dead. And now the army needs a leader, a man who can inspire confidence in our soldiers and a sense of dread in the enemy. All of you are candidates for the position, yet all of you have serious flaws. Like it or not, I shall enumerate them.”
There was a small amount of shuffling that Franklin ignored. “You, General Schuyler, are a major general and, thus, the highest ranking officer at Fort Washington. By rights, you should have the command. Yet, the rank and file and many of the officers have no confidence in you because of what happened in the past.”
“Unfair,” said Schuyler, shaking his head sadly.
“Life is not fair,” Franklin retorted. “I too believe you were shabbily treated when you were removed from command by Congress, but it was done and cannot be undone any more than Ticonderoga can be returned to you. I believe that, if you were named to command now, many of our soldiers would simply melt away into the wilderness. Still, your obvious skills at organizing this settlement and creating the army we have cannot be denied. Indeed, they must be continued, which is a good reason for keeping you where you are. Without you, I am afraid that we would have starved to death a long time ago.”
Schuyler accepted the compliment with a small smile. “My work has been made easier these past few weeks thanks to the Jew, Goldman, and the Dutch woman, Van Doorn.”
Franklin understood the implication. Thanks to Goldman and Van Doorn, Schuyler would be free to lead the army in battle if named to command. He wanted it. He wanted to be vindicated. It wouldn’t happen.
“Tallmadge,” Franklin continued. “You have never led an army. Do you wish to start now?”
“Good God, no,” Tallmadge said with enough emphasis to make the others laugh.
“Nor do I,” said Brigadier General John Glover.
Franklin smiled. He appreciated their candor. “I didn’t think so. So that leaves General Wayne and General Morgan, unless you wish me to promote von Steuben.”
“That would be a disaster,” said Schuyler. “He is a fraud, has no command experience, and barely speaks English.”
“But he is such a genial fraud,” Franklin said. Franklin had given the rank of general to that genial fraud because he’d been convinced that Steuben could be of great use to the army, and that confidence had been proven correct many times over.
Franklin turned to Anthony Wayne. “But you are right. Von Steuben the German could never command an army of Americans.” He turned to Wayne. “Do you think you are ready for the honor, General Wayne?”
Wayne paled. He was ambitious and skilled, but inexperienced. He knew that his relative youth-he was under forty-was also against him. That and many considered his tendency to impetuousness to count against him.
“If offered, I would accept,” he said softly. “And I would do my best.”
“Thank you, and no man could ask for more than that,” Franklin said. “And you, General Morgan?”
Morgan, the gruff Old Wagoneer and veteran of numerous battles and campaigns, snorted, “I’d take it in a heartbeat if I were younger and in better health. And then I’d kick Burgoyne’s ass all the way back to London.”
He could have done it, too, thought Franklin. But Morgan’s health was against him. Although only a decade older than Wayne, the harsh and rugged life he’d led now conspired to keep him largely immobile. He’d had to be carried in a litter on many occasions because of the crippling aches in his bones.
Morgan shook his head sadly. “I could fight a battle, Benjamin, but I could not fight a campaign.”
Again Franklin smiled. Morgan understood exactly. There would likely be a campaign against the British, not just a climactic battle. He wondered if Schuyler and Wayne understood that.