“The second group, the smaller one, will have the pleasure of mucking through the swamp and making sure that the British don’t attempt an attack through that miserable body of water that extends to our rear.”
Clark glanced at Owen. “Since you’ve been through the swamp a number of times, Wells, you will lead that group. If they start to come through in force you are to retreat and make sure that we are informed, although I have to admit I have no idea where we’ll find reinforcements for you. You are not to stand and fight and be overwhelmed without us knowing that the devils are coming.”
Owen was aware of the number of eyes staring at him. He would not make a mistake if he could possibly avoid it. But something bothered him and Clark picked up on it.
“You have a problem, Wells?”
“Not really, General. I understand fully that we are to withdraw and not fight a superior force, but what about an inferior force? What if we see that we can defeat a small force and get into their rear and raise holy hell with them?”
There were chuckles and Clark smiled. “If you think you can destroy the British army by attacking like that, then go ahead. However, I don’t think the Redcoats will be so cooperative, even if it is Benedict Arnold commanding that flank. However, don’t hesitate if the British offer up themselves as a sacrifice.”
The meeting broke up and Owen returned to where Barley and the rest of his men awaited. Along with the twenty men in his command, another sixty would be attached to him and he’d be given the temporary rank of captain. Not bad for an enlisted deserter from the Royal Navy.
“So what do we do?” Barley asked.
“Very simple,” Owen said. “We get wet and dirty while watching and waiting, and, if the gods and the British cooperate, we get to raise holy hell with them.”
Barley nodded. “Sounds good to me. Just one thing, Acting Captain Wells, there’s only one God so don’t say gods. Don’t tempt the Lord by blaspheming. Like a lot of us, Owen, I’ve been thinking about death and God and we’re in enough trouble without getting Him mad at us too.”
* * *
Drums rattled and thundered, with fifes piercing the din, as thousands of men marched to their places and their destiny.
Fitzroy thought it was an impressive, even awesome, sight even though the numbers were far less than some of the great and epic battles the British Army had fought. When victory came, and the histories written, this battle would be its own epic.
The men had been fed and almost all looked rested. Some looked confident, while others showed fear and concern on their faces. At least they felt that all their efforts, for good and ill, would come to fruition this day. And, as they looked around, they openly wondered just what if anything could stand before the mighty host of which they were a part.
Frequently, a unit would break into spontaneous cheers if they saw a particular general, like Grant or Burgoyne, or sometimes just for the sheer devil of it.
Burgoyne grinned. “With men like this, just how can we lose?”
Fitzroy agreed.
* * *
Banastre Tarleton watched the display of bravado with contempt. In his opinion, Grant was an obese pig and should not be in command of the main attack force, although Tarleton had to admit that Grant had once been a very good and brave general. He also had to admit that Grant had lost a considerable amount of weight on the march, although he still had a ways to go before anyone would consider him trim.
Tarleton’s anger, however, was directed more at Burgoyne than Grant, who was simply following orders. That Burgoyne had more confidence in the sixty-four-year-old Grant than in the younger Tarleton was simply beyond his comprehension. An attack like this would require bravery and strength and, while Tarleton acknowledged Grant’s fundamental bravery, he doubted that the old man had the strength to follow through. No, he fumed; command of the main assault should have been his.
Nor was Tarleton pleased that Arnold held the left flank which abutted the stinking swamp. At least there was the remote possibility that some of the rebels would come sneaking through, but nothing like that was even remotely possible where he commanded the two regiments that were all that Burgoyne had left him.
Skirmish with the rebels, he’d been told, but don’t hazard an attack of your own. Burgoyne had left Tarleton with no doubts as to what would happen if he disobeyed and again went off on his own.
Still, one could hope. In his fantasy, he had terrible things befalling Grant and the attack, and Burgoyne calling on him in desperation to save the day. Were that to occur, he wondered if he would even honor Burgoyne’s request. Let Grant and Burgoyne be defeated. Then, the next day, he would assume command and a new attack would succeed.
Or perhaps he should wait until the last bloody damn minute before sending his troops to help pull Grant’s chestnuts out of the fire?
Tarleton sighed. He knew his fate. Grant’s attack would succeed for the simple reason that he was too strong to fail. Tarleton’s men would be permitted to follow and help clean up the debris of what had been an American army.
Still, his first version of the future was the one he liked best.
* * *
On the other British flank, Benedict Arnold was equally glum as he contemplated his lost reputation and fortune. His beautiful wife Peggy would be so disappointed in him. She had such expensive tastes.
There would be no glory in holding a flanking position that would protect Grant’s enormous and illustrious phalanx and, at the same time, keep an eye on anything that might happen in the swamp.
Like Tarleton, he too had only a pair of regiments and only one consisted of British regulars. The other was made up of the remnants of Joseph Brant’s command mingled with Simon Girty’s animals. What a comedown for a man who had commanded armies to victory! Not that he envied Grant in his position. Arnold was convinced that the attack was going to be bloodier and far more difficult than anyone envisaged. Still, it would succeed and all the glory would be Grant’s. Damn it to hell, he thought.
He paced angrily. He was a man of nervous action and standing by doing nothing was not something he did well He turned to where the swamp would be if he could see it. A low mound obscured his view and he knew that Burgoyne could not see it either. He didn’t like that, although earlier patrols had proven that a large detachment could not get through the swamp to his rear. However, what about a small one? A handful of rebel irregulars could play holy hell with the British rear.
Arnold smiled. He could actually do something while getting rid of Girty’s swine who would be of no use at all in the coming fight. He called over an aide.
“Ensign Spencer, go to Mr. Girty and direct him to send Braxton’s men into the swamp where they are to watch out for any rebels attempting to get into our rear. You will command them as you did previously. This time, however, please let them know that you are truly in charge and please act like it.”
Spencer paled. Going back into the swamp was the last thing he wanted to do, especially with Braxton the monster. Arnold smiled inwardly. Spencer was the type of person he both hated and admired. Spencer was skinny, spoiled, whiny, and totally unworthy of being an officer in any army. However, he was also rich, titled and descended from Normans who had landed in England seven hundred or so years earlier. This made him privileged, while Arnold was not. So damn him. Arnold also thought that Spencer’s Norman ancestors had likely been made up of stronger and sterner stuff.