Commodore Cornwallis smiled and sipped his brandy. “You will, of course, ignore their message.”
“Actually, I will tell the king and Lord North by my own messenger, who will leave himself in a few weeks that I am attempting to do exactly as they wish.”
William shook his head. “They really have no idea of the conditions in these colonies, do they?”
“Not for one second. Are you aware that I’ve just been informed that there is no longer any significant rebel activity outside Charleston in the Carolinas?”
“I was not and what does it mean?”
“I don’t know. We are sending out patrols to locate the southern rebels, but it will be additional weeks before we find out anything certain. In the meantime, they could have flown elsewhere.”
William Cornwallis looked grim, “Or they are planning to lure us into an ambush.” He paused. “Do you mean elsewhere as in farther north? Are you afraid that they could be heading north to help confront Burgoyne?”
“Of course,” Charles Cornwallis said. He began to pace nervously. “And which southern partisan leaders might be going? However, Burgoyne is well aware of that possibility. We discussed it at length and rather assumed it was likely, even desirable that the rebel forces all converge. If we can kill all the vipers at one sitting, so much the better.”
“Have you sent messages to Burgoyne?”
“Just the same as I will tell Lord North, although with a few changes. In my message to London, I will state my opinion that Burgoyne is in grave danger from the southern rebels heading towards him. He isn’t, of course, and I won’t say a word of that to Burgoyne, but that will be my little revenge on London. Might as well let North have some sleepless nights wondering whether or not Burgoyne has once again been swallowed up by the forests of North America.”
William laughed appreciatively. If they could tweak their unloved masters in London, it was a good day.
Chapter 15
The screams and howls of rage and fury from behind him were Owen’s first and terrible indication that something was horribly wrong. He wheeled and found himself face to face with a horde of Iroquois who’d exploded from the woods to his rear.
He and the others fired the muskets and crossbows they’d just been aiming at a patrol of Redcoats. Indians fell but the press of numbers carried them into the small group of rebels before they could reload. For a moment that seemed an eternity, it was a brawl with musket butts, tomahawks, knives and, ultimately, fists and teeth. Men screamed and fell while others fought desperately.
An Indian grabbed Owen from behind and began to strangle him. With his strong arms, he pried the man’s hands from his throat and smashed his fist into the Indian’s face, blood gushed from the Iroquois’ mouth. Something hard hit him in the back and knocked him to his knees. He couldn’t breathe and the world spun. I’m going to die, he thought, but then his assailant fell beside him, a tomahawk in his skull.
Hands grabbed Owen and pulled him upright. “We’d better run, Lieutenant.”
Owen nodded. The pain from his back was so intense that he could barely inhale. Talking was out of the question. The Indians had also pulled back, leaving several dead and dying on the ground. From the receding screams and pleas it looked like they’d taken prisoners from Owen’s small force.
Despite wanting to rescue his men, Owen had to retreat. The British patrol they’d been stalking was approaching rapidly. His remaining men helped him into the darkening woods as yet another summer rain began to fall. In a matter of moments they were relatively safe, unless they ran into some more of Brant’s Iroquois or Girty’s white savages.
Owen was half carried, half dragged to the rendezvous point where Sergeant Barley waited with the other half of the platoon. He was laid on the ground and covered with a blanket. He was offered water and he gulped it greedily.
“Got yourself into a mess, didn’t you, Owen?”
“Go screw yourself,” Owen managed to rasp. The effort cost him dearly.
Barley laughed and checked Owen’s wound. “Somebody hit you with a tomahawk, but with not enough force to go all the way through your thick skin. In fact, it just glanced off. We’ll sew it and wrap you up since I think some ribs may be broken. Then you’ve got to go back to Fort Washington. You’re useless as tits on a boar with that wound.”
Owen groaned in dismay, but had to agree. In his wounded state he would be a handicap to a force that had to move quickly and lightly through the woods.
Then he saw the bright side. Even the slowest mule would move faster than the British column and he’d be back to spend at least some time with lovely little Faith while he healed.
* * *
To Fitzroy’s disgust and dismay, Burgoyne agreed with Brant and Tarleton-the prisoners belonged to the Indians who had captured them. It was a gesture to keep the Indians more or less happy. They’d suffered heavy casualties and, along with those who had returned home in disgust, now numbered fewer than two hundred. It was apparent by their sullen looks that they were dispirited as well, and Fitzroy thought they were going to leave as soon as they could, no matter what Burgoyne did to placate them.
But first, the prisoners had to be disposed of, and in the traditional Iroquois manner. The two men were only slightly wounded and seemed fully aware of the horrible fate they were about to endure. Seeing the white faces in the crowd, they called out and pleaded for help, proclaiming that they were Christians and white men and didn’t deserve to be slowly destroyed by red savages. Some of the spectators might have agreed, but was to no avail. The prisoners were stripped naked and each was tied to a pair of long poles that had been driven into the ground. With their arms and legs outstretched, every inch of their bodies was now vulnerable.
Girty sidled up beside Fitzroy. “This part they’d normally leave to the squaws, and they are really nasty bitches. The fucking female animals would eat the prisoners alive if the warriors let them. However, since there are no squaws around, the warriors will fill in for them. I hope you enjoy it, Fitzroy.” Girty laughed.
The torture took time. While the Iroquois yelled and taunted their victims, wooden splinters were shoved under fingernails and toenails and then set afire. The prisoners screamed all the while, which further excited and encouraged the Iroquois. When they were done with this, they took burning twigs and poked them into the prisoner’s genitals and under their arms and onto the soles of their feet while the screaming reached new and purely animal crescendos.
“The Indians despise them for howling like that,” Girty said. “They think that only women and cowards scream, so they’re going to make it worse for them. They admire someone who endures in silence and might even finish him off quickly.”
“Could you endure in silence, Girty?” Fitzroy asked.
“Probably not, but if it meant dying sooner, I’d give it a hell of a try.”
Fitzroy found it difficult to speak, and wanted to scream himself. There was vomit rising in his throat. He was disgusted and appalled that Burgoyne had permitted this atrocity. He turned and saw Burgoyne standing a few feet away, his face pale and drawn. Tarleton was behind him and he was grinning broadly. Of course he would enjoy this spectacle. General Grant was nowhere to be seen. Smart man.
Burgoyne stepped forward and whispered to Fitzroy. “I see your dismay, but understand this-if this is what I have to do to keep my army intact and defeat the rebels, then so be it. I will beg God for forgiveness later.”
Fitzroy understood but did not agree. War was brutal and hellish, but this was pure savagery, not war. This might have been done by some barbarian Hun or Mongol, but should never be permitted or condoned by British generals in this, the eighteenth century. As a soldier, he had been trained to kill, not to murder and certainly not to torture for pleasure or to prove a point. He turned away from Burgoyne, not trusting himself to answer.