Impressive, too, had been the sailing qualities of the barges. They had performed well as their untrained crews learned to sail them without sinking them. As a result, forty-eight of the fifty boats that comprised the hodge-podge fleet had arrived at the fort that controlled the Straits of Mackinac far more quickly than anyone had thought possible. One had sunk, the result of bad construction, and one had simply disappeared during a sudden squall. Still, forty-eight out of fifty was an impressive performance.
“Halfway there, eh Danforth?”
Danforth nodded. Captain Thomas Rudyard was the second in command of the garrison of Fort Mackinac. Like Danforth, he bemoaned the fact that they were both stuck in this military backwater while real glory was to be had in Europe. Rudyard reminded Danforth of his friend Fitzroy in that the man had no money to speak of and would need glory on the battlefield in order to rise above his current rank. Rudyard, however, was likely already too old for promotion. He was almost forty and took out his frustrations by getting drunk each evening after his duties were completed.
Still, Rudyard was a likeable sort of sot. “Halfway there, Thomas, although far less than halfway home.”
“I can hardly wait,” said Rudyard. “I hate this place.”
Danforth was sympathetic. Only at Mackinac for a couple of days, he found it beyond boring. Other than staring at the trees, which never moved, or the vast lakes, which sometimes did, there was absolutely nothing to do. Even the Indians seemed relatively docile and unthreatening and unwilling to repeat their warfare against the British only a few decades past. That last Indian war, under the loose leadership of Pontiac, had resulted in the massacre of the British garrison of Fort Michilimackinac, whose ruins were barely visible across the straits. The old fort had been abandoned as indefensible and the new one built on the island.
The French had maintained a presence in the lakes for almost two centuries before surrendering control to the British. Danforth wondered how their soldiers had coped with being out of contact with civilization and Europe for years on end. He wondered if some of the French soldiers in the garrison had gone mad, and then wondered the same about the British garrison. He couldn’t imagine anyone actually liking it in the wilderness.
But then, some people did live there. A village of sorts had grown up along the shore and beneath the fort. It included the usual shabby taverns and these featured local women working as prostitutes. Some of those of partial French ancestry looked attractive enough and Danforth commented on it.
“Stay here long enough and they’ll look even better. If you do choose one of them, keep an eye on your purse and wear a condom.”
“I wouldn’t think of not wearing one,” Danforth sniffed. “I brought a half dozen lambskin ones in case I run into an opportunity in this miserable place.”
Rudyard laughed ruefully. “If you think it’s miserable out here now, just wait until winter.”
“I have no plans to be here this winter,” he said and shuddered at the thought.
“Well, I hope your plans never change. The weather’s not bad now, but just wait. There’ll be snow three times taller than your arse and the wind will blow you right down. Then it’ll get so cold that the lake will entirely freeze over and you can walk right across to that disgusting village of Mackinac on the mainland, or you could go north to that equally desolate city of St. Ignace. Of course, bears and wolves can walk across as well and pay us a visit, and sometimes they do which makes life interesting. Imagine opening your cabin door so you can go out and take a piss, and seeing a bear staring you in the face and trying to decide whether or not to eat you. Once the freeze happened, we’d get fresh meat by killing the deer that would come close because they were starving to death and willing to take chances for food.”
“Good lord, Rudyard, how on earth did you survive your time here?”
Rudyard grunted. “I’m not too sure I did. Actually, we drank even more than we do in the summer. Officers, of course, can take one of those part French doxies in for company. Thank God I’m leaving here when you people depart.”
Benedict Arnold had decided to take two companies of the garrison’s British infantry with him. The fort’s commandant had protested furiously but Arnold had prevailed. Actually it made sense. It was obvious that the flotilla had made such good time that it was going to arrive well ahead of the main army and would need soldiers to protect it from possible rebel attacks. Arnold had decided it would be imprudent to stay at anchor in the lake and had planned to seek shelter up the St. Joseph River; thus, the infantry was needed to provide security from the landward side.
Of course, Arnold could have decided that they wait a couple of weeks to ensure a more coordinated arrival, but the former rebel general was anxious to the point of being impetuous. He wanted to get moving. He wanted to be first to the rebel stronghold. Perhaps he could win a skirmish or even a small battle and gather some glory to himself.
“They know we’re coming, don’t they?” Rudyard asked.
Danforth answered by telling him of the spies in residence at Detroit. “They watched us build these craft and then they watched them depart. I rather think there are people across the straits looking at us and just waiting for us to set sail. Then they will sneak past us and be at the rebel lair well before we arrive.”
Rudyard grunted, “I hate when there are no secrets.”
* * *
After washing himself, Will succumbed to exhaustion and slept the sleep of the dead on a cot in Benjamin Franklin’s office. When he finally awoke, it was the middle of the next day and he only vaguely recalled climbing into the cot before collapsing.
The office door opened and Sarah entered, smiling. “Awake at last, I see. You slept so long it reminded me of an old German or Dutch folk tale about a man who sleeps for twenty years and finally awakens to find the world a changed place.”
“In which case, please tell me that we’ve won the war and I can go home with you and live in peace.”
She shook her head sadly. “If only we could be so lucky. No, the British are still coming, although slowly, and we are still working devilishly hard to prepare for them.” She held out her hands. They were calloused and hard. There was dirt ingrained in them. She was barefoot like so many women and a number of men. Shoes, moccasins, boots, were in short supply and would be hoarded for bad weather or the coming battle when mobility would be essential.
“Once I was a delicate young maiden whose hands were soft as cream,” she smiled and sighed mockingly. “Look at me now.”
Will swung out of bed and wrapped the blanket around him while he looked for his clothes. He was wearing his shirt, which went almost to his knees, but felt awkward without his pants.
He tried not to laugh at Sarah’s comments even though he knew she was teasing him. A delicate young maiden? Her? While slender and lithe, there was nothing delicate about her. She was not a fragile flower like the women of the eastern cities who seemed to imitate what they thought were how British and French ladies behaved. No, she was a new woman, an American.
As he was thinking, Faith burst into the room. “Where’s Owen and how is he?” Then she realized that Will wasn’t quite dressed. “Lord, you’ve got skinny legs. Not at all strong and powerful like my Owen’s, and much too hairy.”
Sarah professed mock shock. “And how would you know about Owen’s legs and, I’ll have you know, Will’s legs are perfectly fine. I think they are slender and elegant, thank you.”