“The bastard had an unfair advantage of me. This time I will catch him and kill him.” He wheeled on Burgoyne. “Give me half a chance and I will kill them all.”
With that, Tarleton stormed away.
“Your attempt to get them to surrender, Fitzroy, was well done. Futile, and the results unsurprising, but well done,” Burgoyne said. “A shame they didn’t take it, but I don’t blame them and I know you don’t either. On the other hand, you really shouldn’t be so unkind to dear Banastre Tarleton, now should you?”
Burgoyne laughed and walked away, leaving Fitzroy to his own thoughts. They were of the probability of battle in the next few days in which he could be killed or wounded, or worse, maimed.
And, to his surprise and dismay, his thoughts were also of Hannah Van Doorn.
* * *
Braxton’s feelings of disgust increased with each step his feet took into the muck of the swamp. At one time he’d been a commander to contend with, a man whose name and ruined visage inspired fear. Now he was reduced to leading a dozen malcontents through a stinking swamp.
“How much farther?” a very young and junior British officer asked. Ensign Spencer was miserable. His bright red uniform was getting filthy. According to British army regulations, Spencer was in charge of the patrol, but he was terrified of both Braxton and the idea of taking a patrol away from the safety of the camp. Braxton wondered how the pale little boy had made it this far without wetting himself. Perhaps he had. They’d all stumbled and were wet enough to hide that little problem from the others.
“I’ll let you know,” snarled Braxton. Spencer was beginning to realize that signing up to fight for the king might actually mean fighting for the king and possibly even dying. And in a swamp at that.
“And spread out,” Braxton ordered. Like all inexperienced troops, they had a tendency to bunch up in the mistaken perception of mutual security. Of course, this made them marvelous targets. At least they’d gotten rid of all the Indians. Only Brant and a couple others remained out of the hundreds of Iroquois who had begun the march. Screw ’em, he thought.
And screw Benedict Arnold. Nobody wanted to serve under a turncoat, but that’s what Braxton’s world had become. At least checking to see if the swamp was passable by an army made a little bit of sense, even if it was the turncoat Arnold who’d come up with the idea. If the British could swing through it and get in the rebel rear, there would be no need to storm those fortifications. Not that Braxton would have any part of storming the rebel earthworks. That’s what the regular forces were for. The thought of marching straight into enemy guns sickened him. How the devil did the regulars do it?
Of course, they had to make sure that the rebels couldn’t get through into Arnold’s rear either. He laughed to himself. Somebody ought to do something to Arnold’s rear. Or maybe to Ensign Spencer’s plump little rear.
Spencer stumbled and swore petulantly. The water was now up to his knees and the heavy rains were making it worse. Each step was now a major effort. It had rained all day and that was turning everything into mud.
Spencer lurched to his feet. He looked like a drowned little dog. “They tell me the rebels are diverting streams to make this swamp even worse than it is.”
Braxton didn’t answer. He’d heard the same rumors but didn’t think much of them. How could anyone divert streams?
At least the water wasn’t particularly cold. In a perverse way, it was almost refreshing, assuming, that is, that there weren’t any snakes lurking around. He shuddered. He hated snakes.
He stopped and Spencer halted beside him. They were almost a mile into the swamp and the water was now up to his waist. He took a few steps more and the water got deeper. He made a decision. No way in hell that an army was going to come this way, especially not the British army. Not the way they liked to march in neat formations and keep their uniforms bright and red. Nor did he think the rebels would try it either. They just didn’t have the manpower, or so he’d been told.
Braxton froze. Was that motion in a pile of branches and other debris? Logic said the rebels would have their own scouts checking on the swamp. Now it really was time to return.
“Now what?” Spencer asked, his voice trembling. He had picked up on Braxton’s fears.
“It’s time for us to go back and tell Benedict Fucking Arnold that there’s no way an army can get through this shit. Maybe a handful could and they’d be too exhausted to move, but not an army. You agree, don’t you?”
Spencer nodded solemnly, obviously relieved at the thought of returning to camp. “I concur.”
Braxton didn’t care whether Ensign Spencer concurred or not. He just wanted to get back to the camp. All they needed to do was keep a few men a little ways into the swamp to check on possible spies since determined individuals could always make it through. Again Spencer concurred, and this time Braxton laughed in his face.
* * *
Owen and Barley lifted themselves out of the muck of the swamp. The leaves and twigs they’d been hiding under fell away from them. “Think they saw us?” Barley asked.
“I think they did, or at least they suspected something. That’s why they stopped.”
“And that hideous-looking mess was Burned Man Braxton, wasn’t it?”
“Nobody else could be that ugly,” Owen said. “Excepting maybe yourself.”
Owen said it in jest. In truth, he’d been stunned to see Braxton standing just a few feet away. He was the man who had abused both Faith and Sarah and raped poor Winifred Haskill. He could have killed the monster, but that would have alerted the British to the fact that the Americans had crossed the swamp, if only a few. Braxton would wait. Owen would not tell Faith or the others that he’d seen their tormentor.
Barley plucked a twig from his hair. “They’re gone, Owen, and what tales will they take back to tell Arnold?”
“That the swamp is wet and the water is deep and the rain is making it worse.”
Barley chuckled. “Did you see the little ass in the red uniform? Is that really an officer of the crown? He’s just a damned little baby. I wonder if he wears diapers under that uniform. Christ, I thought you were bad enough.”
Owen punched his companion lightly in the arm. “The boy’s probably the youngest son of Lord Fumble-Dumble or maybe his lordship’s illegitimate child born out of a barnyard coupling with a slow-witted milk maid who bent over at just the wrong time. But you’re right, if that’s an officer, I should be a general at least.”
The two men laughed and began to crawl back to their lines. They now knew how deep the swamp was, and they also knew how deep the British thought it was.
Chapter 18
“To arms!” the lookouts hollered and the cry was echoed down the line. Men scrambled to take their positions behind the earthworks as drums added to the din.
A stunned Benjamin Franklin stared at an equally confused John Hancock. Both turned to General Stark. “General,” Franklin said, “what the devil is going on?”
Stark had pulled out a telescope and was watching down the line to his left. “British skirmishers,” he said. “Likely nothing more than a probe.”
“That’s Tarleton’s wing,” Tallmadge added. “He probably wants to see if we’re awake.”
Franklin took a proffered telescope and squinted. A scattered line of Redcoats had emerged from behind the British works and was advancing on the portion of the American lines commanded by General Anthony Wayne.
“Why aren’t we firing?” Franklin asked, his voice quavering. He had never been this close to an actual battle.
Stark’s face twitched in what was almost a smile. “They’re just a little too far away, my dear Doctor.” The distance was about a mile and well beyond rifle or musket range.