Von Blumberg pulled a piece of paper from his jacket. “This is from your king, who is, you will recall, of the Germanic House of Hanover, which he still rules along with reigning in England. He says that I and I alone will determine who is a deserter. You don’t have to be convinced of their guilt, only I do.”
He turned to Burgoyne. “According to my orders you are required to turn those men over to me and I demand it be done immediately. If any of the others your major so foolishly let loose are still around, I wish them taken and hanged as well.”
“They have departed,” Burgoyne said stiffly and glancing at Fitzroy who nodded. If the others hadn’t yet departed, they would soon be far, far away. “As to these four, they are yours. I cannot prevent you from taking them, however much I too doubt their guilt.”
Less than an hour later, the four men were dragged from their prison by von Blumberg’s men. Chains shackled their hands and feet, which made them shuffle rather than walk. They were confused and stared around at the growing crowd. A rough scaffold had been hastily thrown up and they were dragged to it. Nooses were placed around their necks. One man began to scream while another prayed loudly in German when they realized what was going to happen to them. The men were hauled up on barrels and, without ceremony and only a moment later, the barrels were kicked away.
“You didn’t even give them a moment to pray or to see a minister of their faith?” Fitzroy said.
“It wouldn’t matter,” von Blumberg huffed. “They are going to hell regardless.”
The dying men twisted, kicked, and turned while hundreds of soldiers and civilians watched in silence. Their faces were contorted and their bowels and bladders began to release, the stench adding to the abomination.
“At least kill them quickly,” Fitzroy pleaded. It was possible to hasten their end by pulling on their legs and breaking their necks.
“Let them suffer,” von Blumberg said.
“This unnecessarily cruelty will only harden the resolve of those actual Hessian deserters at Fort Washington,” Fitzroy pleaded.
“Do I care what a few dozen wretched deserters think? Let them fear the future.”
“A few dozen?” Fitzroy said incredulously. “Is that all you think there are?”
Von Blumberg looked at him growing surprise. “How many are there? A few score, then?”
Fitzroy laughed harshly. “Hundreds, you fool, perhaps a thousand.”
Von Blumberg paled. “Dear God.”
“And although they said they were already willing to fight to the death to stay free, some must have harbored doubts about committing suicide. Thanks to you, those doubts are all swept away. They will fight like savages to keep from falling into your hands.”
The “deserters” had finally stopped twitching and the spectators melted away. A number of the civilians ostentatiously spat in the general direction of von Blumberg, who ignored the insult.
* * *
If John Hancock was disappointed that no one had asked him to command the American army, he didn’t show it. Instead, he seemed positively relieved that John Stark had taken the burden. Similarly, General Philip Schuyler had decided to swallow whatever thoughts he might have had regarding leading their small army to glory.
If Hancock was annoyed at anything, it was that Stark was being particularly closed-mouthed about his plans. “Will you at least tell me, General Stark, whether or not you intend to take the battle to Burgoyne or do you intend to wait here for the blow to fall on us here?”
“We will strike at him as soon as he leaves his devil’s lair at Detroit,” Stark finally responded. He noted Anthony Wayne leaning forward expectantly and shook his head. “But not with the entire army or even a large portion of it. Colonel Clark’s men will nibble at the British and hurt them.”
“You are certain that they will come from only one direction?” Hancock asked.
“I am. They will come directly from Detroit and take the shortest distance. They will not deviate significantly from the already established trails.”
“Are you concerned that the British might come down the Ohio, march north, and strike at our rear?” Hancock asked.
“To do that,” Stark answered, “they would have to march a couple of hundred miles from Detroit south to the Ohio River, set sail on boats that don’t exist, and then, after the water portion of their travels was over, march several hundred miles north to where we await them. I rather wish they would do that. They would be exhausted and starving by the time they reached us.
“The force they had gathering on the Ohio River at Pitt has made its way almost to Detroit. Thanks to General Tallmadge’s spies, we are now aware that almost all of the scattered British units are at Detroit.”
Will, sitting behind Tallmadge, sensed his pleasure at the compliment. “And when they leave for Fort Washington, we will know quite promptly,” Tallmadge added.
“How?” asked Hancock, “Fires? Smoke signals? Witchcraft?”
Franklin smiled, “Witchcraft most certainly.”
“Speaking of which,” Stark said, ignoring the comment, “how are you coming with your infernal devices?”
Franklin sighed. “I had hoped to use electricity as a weapon that would at least terrify our enemies if not kill them, but I fear our knowledge of it is not advanced enough. Therefore, I am looking to the past to save the future.”
It was Franklin’s turn to be secretive. He had told no one of his plan to turn out breechloading rifles modeled on the Ferguson rifle used by the British at Brandywine and by Ferguson’s Loyalists at Kings Mountain. While it had many flaws, the rate of fire could be an incredible ten shots a minute and by a soldier lying prone, which meant he was a far more difficult target. He’d gotten one of the weapons from a man who’d fought Ferguson, and he was even now tinkering with it. He was going to strengthen the stock and simplify the complicated and fragile mechanism. The squat gun named after him would be but a limited success at best, but a weapon that could fire so many more times a minute would be a feather in his cap.
Franklin didn’t think he could manufacture a thousand of them-a couple of hundred would be more like it, but he thought they would be a most unpleasant surprise for Burgoyne.
“Will you elaborate?” Hancock asked.
Franklin beamed. “No.”
* * *
John Stark, newly appointed Major General Commanding the American Armies walked the low, sloping hill. A chill breeze from the lake a few miles away swept through his cloak and into his thin frame. He willed himself not to shiver. It would show weakness. Generals should never show weakness to their men.
His title, he sniffed, was more imposing than the reality of his command. There were no “armies.” In fact it was difficult to say that the force he commanded was an army at all-just a handful of regiments that might be combined into a few brigades perhaps, but not an army.
By the latest count, he had three thousand men at Fort Washington, or Liberty, as some called it, and another thousand or so under von Steuben a few miles away. Tallmadge insisted that scattered communities like Liberty would also send men when the time arose, but Stark was not a fool. He would not count on people who weren’t there.
For that matter, he wasn’t so confident that those currently present would all stick around when the British arrived. He would not count on dramatically increasing his numbers.
Nor did he have much confidence in Benjamin Franklin’s sometimes crackpot schemes to develop weapons that would turn the tide against an overwhelmingly larger enemy army. John Stark would fight the old-fashioned way. He would plan a killing ground like he had at Bennington and hope he could inflict enough casualties to defeat the British before they overwhelmed his small force. If Franklin and his cohorts actually did create a weapon that worked, then that would be wonderful. Until then, he would trust in the musket, the rifle, the sword, and the bayonet.