Tarleton stood up. “I beg for the honor of leading the attack.”
Burgoyne smiled inwardly. Getting the arrogant ass killed might be a good and pleasing thing, but with Tarleton’s luck, he might pull it off and be proclaimed a hero.
“Your courageous offer is duly noted,” Burgoyne said, “but that command will still fall to General Grant. It is a decision based on his seniority, his rank, and his experience. You, however, will use what will remain of your force to protect our flank and harass theirs, as well as being available to support Grant when his phalanx smashes through the rebel lines. Fear not, Banastre, there will be plenty of honor to go around.”
Tarleton appeared to sulk for a moment, but Fitzroy thought he actually looked relieved that his request for glory had been denied. “Has the messenger departed?” Tarleton inquired. “I have some correspondence to send if he hasn’t.”
“No, he has gone. He had orders to leave as soon as I had signed the receipt. He didn’t even have time to wait for a response. Curious though, that he couldn’t even wait for a little while.”
Fitzroy thought briefly about the short but powerfully young Welsh ensign who’d brought the message and departed so quickly. He’d wanted to quiz the messenger about a multitude of things, but the man had pleaded the necessity of duty, jumped back on his horse and ridden away. He’d been in such a devil of a hurry that he hadn’t even waited to be fed. Curious indeed.
* * *
Ephram and four of his cronies quickly overpowered the two men detailed to guard the would-be changelings during the night. They were bound and gagged, but, other than a few bruises, not harmed. Ephram had no urge to kill them. He considered himself a man of peace. He gathered the rest of his men along with the women and children and headed towards the rear of the American defenses.
As hoped, the American sentries were watching the British and not very much caring what was going on behind them. If they heard anything from the fifty-odd people, the soldiers probably thought that a detachment of fellow soldiers was moving around behind them.
Just before they reached the earthworks, they paused. In the night they could hear the sounds of the British pulling and hacking at the thicket that had destroyed the earlier British attack. The British soldiers were lying prone as much as much as they could and hurling grappling hooks into the thicket. Once snagged, the British pulled on them and dragged the abattis apart. He thought it was curious that the rebels weren’t firing on the British workers, but concluded that there were no good targets in the night.
Ephram was pleased. The British efforts meant that they would have that much less distance to run to safety. He had all his people bunch together. The women and boys would hold the youngest children as they dashed towards the British. As a sign of good faith, they were unarmed. Their faith was in British mercy and their god.
“Now!” he ordered and they all rushed over the parapet and out into the no man’s land between the two lines, and headed through the narrow gaps in the abattis he knew existed.
“Save us!” he hollered to the British and ran towards them with his hands in the air. The others picked up the chant and “save us” was chorused by more than two score throats.
Ephram was conscious that the British diggers had abandoned their shovels and were also running towards their lines and it confused him. Why would they do that? Gasping and stumbling, he and his followers continued on.
Then, only a few yards away, they perceived a line of soldiers. They were indeed safe, Ephram thought smugly. A few more strides and they would be behind British lines and with much to tell. Damn the rebels for not releasing them and forcing them to go through with this charade.
A ripple of fire shattered the night as a hundred muskets fired into them. Ephram died immediately, a bullet in his skull. Most of his followers fell to the ground, wounded and screaming, or, like Ephram, dead. Deprived of their leader, the survivors simply milled around in confusion and dismay, howling at the loss of their love ones.
A second volley scythed through them and most of the survivors were killed or wounded. The literal handful who still lived, turned and ran towards the American lines, screaming that the British were murderers. There was no third volley.
Behind the embankment, General Tallmadge watched with General John Stark. “Did you expect that to happen?” Stark inquired angrily.
“No,” Tallmadge said. “I had no idea they would try such a thing.” The slaughter sickened him. “But I cannot say I am disappointed. Such butchery will drive home the fact that the Redcoats are murderers, and that neither they nor their promises can be trusted.”
“What will you do with the survivors?”
“Those who made it back will be allowed to do whatever they wish. They can even leave if they so desire, although I doubt that they will want to go to the British after what has happened to their friends and families. They will stand as living proof of British perfidy. In the morning, we will attempt to see if any remain alive out there and ask for a truce to recover bodies if the British don’t do so first. I would think parading dead children throughout the camp would again be a reminder to our people that the British will show no mercy.”
“You, General Tallmadge, are a devious, conniving bastard,” Stark said with a small smile. “I admire that in a man.”
Tallmadge nodded solemnly. “Which is exactly what you need to stand a chance of winning; thus, I will accept your compliment.”
* * *
Dawn brought another flag of truce and another meeting between Will Drake and James Fitzroy. For his part, the British officer looked shaken, while Will was righteously grim, although sickened by the carnage.
“Major Drake, I want you to know that we had no idea that those people were unarmed civilians. Had we but known, we would never have fired on them. The officers and men who fired on them are stunned by what has happened.”
Will responded solemnly. “If it’s any consolation, we understand fully how it must have looked to your men. In the middle of the night, what looked like a large number of people came out of our lines, yelling and running up to the men who are trying to destroy our defenses. I cannot see how your men could have behaved otherwise. It is a tragedy, Major, and the only ones truly to blame are those foolish, foolish people who ran at you like that.”
“The officer in charge of the guard detail is very distraught,” Fitzroy added. “Several small children were killed and he blames himself for the atrocity.”
“Tell him that neither General Stark, nor, for that matter, the survivors who made it back, hold him responsible. They were under the spell of a messianic leader named Ephram and to the extent that any individual is to blame for that piece of horror, it is Ephram.”
“I will tell Captain Blaylock that, although one wonders how much solace he will get hearing it from his enemy.”
Will considered it ironic that the British were so concerned about the inadvertent killing of people they’d come to destroy in the first place.
“Do you have any survivors on your side?” Will asked.
“Three, and they are badly wounded, although,” Fitzroy added wryly, “don’t worry about them betraying your secrets. I rather doubt that they know anything that we haven’t already learned. On the other hand, I am certain you have figured out that the massacre, however unintended, can be used to your advantage. I rather think that your people consider us vile killers of women and children, and that you will do nothing to change their minds.”