Sarah nodded. “I’m not very religious, but I will pray for a great storm to come and sweep them away.”
Will thought of the terrible funnel-shaped storms the Spanish called tornadoes and considered that this was a wonderful idea.
* * *
General John Burgoyne tried to hide his frustration with the three generals who stood before him. Each was supposed to be subordinate to him, but each was angry with him, although with varying degrees and for different reasons.
In Grant’s case, it was simple frustration with the maddening delays that accompanied the march, while Tarleton and Arnold’s anger grew from a lack of any opportunity for glory and advancement, and their anger bordered on insubordination. Burgoyne could only hope that the rebel generals were as insolent with Stark as his commanders were with him.
Behind the four men, Fitzroy prepared to take notes. He was present as more of a witness than a clerk. The three subordinate generals reminded him of the three witches in Macbeth-or was it Hamlet? — because they were stirring up trouble.
“I say we attack as soon as possible and that means tomorrow,” Tarleton said. “None of this damned fool waiting. One attack in overwhelming force and the rebellion will collapse and we can all go home.”
“Here, here,” said Grant. “I’ve campaigned long enough in this forsaken wilderness. I would like a bed to sleep in, a decent meal to eat, and a white woman to pleasure me. Let’s finish this and get back to New York, which, although it’s a stinkpot of a city, is a thousand times better than continuing in this miserable existence.”
They continued to argue. Tarelton wanted freedom of action, but Burgoyne would not permit it. With ill grace, he had to settle for the right to patrol and probe the American lines. He could even demonstrate his forces, but not launch an attack against the rebel positions which consisted of a dry moat and earthworks behind the moat. An abattis of felled trees and stakes had been built both before the moat and along the earthworks. Tarleton said he wasn’t impressed with rebel efforts and continued to press for the chance to make an immediate attack. He crudely reminded Burgoyne of the need to respond to the most recently received messages from Cornwallis and Lord North in which their lordships from faraway London and New York urged a quick victory and the prompt return of Burgoyne’s army.
Burgoyne fixed him with a glare and reminded Tarleton that Cornwallis wanted the whole army returned and not half of it, which would be the case if they attacked without proper preparations. Tarleton stormed out of the tent and Fitzroy didn’t like the almost feral look in his eyes.
Arnold continued to be indignant. His command would be the British left which butted up against the swampy wetlands. It would consist of Girty’s men, the handful of remaining Indians, and the men he’d brought from Detroit in the sailing barges. It would be fewer than five hundred strong and Arnold was insulted by the paltry number.
Burgoyne, however, was not impressed. “You’ve lost your ships and my guns and you wish a reward? Do you realize the plans I had for those guns? I was going to line them up, wheel to wheel, and pound the rebel position to pieces. And what about the ships that were sunk on your watch? Not only did they contain guns and ammunition, but supplies of food that we will soon need. Moreover, I had given serious thought to loading them up with men and landing them in the American rear while we launched a frontal attack on their defenses. At the very least, they were going to demonstrate that possibility and force the Americans to split their forces to face that contingency.
“Now we have to prepare for the assault in an entirely different way. We have to risk the lives of our soldiers to enemy fire while they fill in the moat and are pulling away the barriers that confront us. Don’t tell me your feelings are hurt, because I won’t hear of it. Or would you prefer to be sent back to Detroit under arrest and awaiting court martial for your monumental stupidity in losing those ships and all they carried? If we lose here, I promise you that your failures will be published and you will be disgraced and become even more of a pariah than you already are.”
Arnold gasped and almost ran from the tent. General Grant shook his head. “I may be the closest you have to a sane subordinate, which means, my dear General, you are in terrible trouble.” He laughed harshly and also departed. Fitzroy looked questioningly at Burgoyne who waved him away.
As he walked away, an angry Colonel von Bamberg of Hess marched up towards the tent. Fitzroy gently but firmly took his arm. “This might not be the best time to disturb the general.”
“More arguments? Dear God, what is it with you British that you can’t get along? Or better yet, why can’t you simply obey the orders of your commander instead of spending so much valuable time squabbling like washerwomen?”
“Just our nature, Colonel. What was it you wished to see the general about? Perhaps I can schedule you later.”
Bamberg calmed visibly. When he wasn’t yelling at his troops or hanging innocent civilians, the little Hessian was really rather decent. Now he even regretted hanging the suspected deserters, although he wouldn’t quite admit that he’d made a mistake.
“The usual problems for me as well, Major. At least four more of my men have deserted and likely gone over to the rebels. I cannot comprehend this. Are they fools? In a few days they’ll all be recaptured and hanged. Only now they will be flogged mercilessly before they are hanged.”
Indeed, thought Fitzroy. What madness compelled the Hessians to desert and the American rebels to wish to die? He shuddered. And these are the people we are going to do battle against? Was everyone mad?
* * *
The next morning brought to the Americans the unpleasant fact that the British had worked through much of the night erecting their own breastworks to prevent the rebels from making surprise attacks on the British camps that sprawled across the front of the American lines.
A little before noon, the sound of drumming was heard. A drummer boy and a British officer carrying a white flag moved cautiously forward.
“Don’t tell me they’re surrendering,” someone said and even General Stark laughed at that one.
“They wish to parley,” General Schuyler announced with a rare smile on his face. “I do believe they think they can talk us into surrendering. Why in God’s name should we surrender when we’ve all been promised a date with the noose? Shall we negotiate with them for new ropes?”
Stark lowered his telescope. “Still, it is a surprising gesture and one which courtesy says we are required to reciprocate. I do not think they are sending anyone of great rank, so we will not either.” His eyes fell on Major Will Drake, who flushed. “Once again, Major, I do believe you can be of service. Take a white flag and meet their representative, but do make certain that he doesn’t come too close to our lines. What he doesn’t see can’t hurt us.”
Will grinned and grabbed a cloth that could have passed for white in a previous life. He tied it to a stick and walked across planks that were quickly laid across the moat, and wound his way through the abattis. He noted that the British officer had halted less than halfway and wondered if the man feared being fired upon. Drake shared his concerns and wondered how many British muskets were aimed at him.
As they approached, Will noted that they were of equal rank. Good, he thought, none of that nonsense about saluting an enemy. He stopped and bowed slightly. “I am Major Will Drake of General Stark’s staff,” he announced, promoting himself to a staff position he didn’t quite have.
“And I am Major James Fitzroy of General Burgoyne’s staff.”
They nodded slightly and each professed to be honored to meet the other, although Will had the nagging feeling that Fitzroy’s name was familiar.