The loss of so many civilians saddened him deeply. Soldiers were supposed to die, but the civilians? “Thank God Stark lives.”
Sarah nodded. “Unhurt, as you are aware, but Wayne and von Steuben are dead and Morgan is wounded. The army is in grievous shape. Dear God, Will, if there’s another battle there’ll be no one left to fight it.”
Hannah van Doorn approached and interrupted. “Then let’s see that there isn’t another battle,” she said grimly. Like the others, she was filthy and exhausted and the once plump woman had lost a considerable amount of weight.
“How do you propose to stop it?” Will asked.
She handed him a folded piece of paper. “When you next see Major Fitzroy, will you give him this? Since his place was with his general, I am presuming that he too lives.”
Will was puzzled. “Just why do you think I am going to see the British again?”
“Because General Tallmadge asked me to find you and bring you to him and General Stark. I can think of no other reason than that you are going to speak again with the British and that likely means Major Fitzroy.”
Despite his exhaustion, Will almost laughed. What kind of world was it coming to when women were part of the military?
* * *
“I have decided to assume direct command of our center as well as the army as a whole,” Burgoyne announced. Night had fallen and only one small and flickering candle lighted the interior of the general’s tent. Arnold and Tarleton simply nodded. Each knew that neither was acceptable in Burgoyne’s eyes as eligible for promotion to Grant’s position. Nor did they think for one second that Burgoyne would divide the army into two divisions instead of three.
“What are our casualties?” Burgoyne asked and winced. He didn’t really want to know the answer to that question.
Fitzroy took a deep breath. He’d been all over the field for as long as daylight lasted, inquiring and compiling the awful numbers.
“I can only give estimates, sir, but we have suffered at least twelve hundred dead and likely twice that many wounded, with many grievously.”
He shuddered, thinking of the long rows of moaning and crying soldiers, some of whom were being cared for by their comrades while others simply lay and waited for someone to help them, or for death to end their pain. The worst ones were those whose wounds were the most terrible and who said nothing, simply awaiting their fate. Even if they lived, many, perhaps most of the wounded would never fight again. So many had lost limbs or eyes, or even both, that a host of smashed and broken men would have to be carted back to Detroit to begin their long arduous trek to England. If they lived, of course. It was understood that many would die en route to New York, and so many others would pass on before ships made it back to England.
There had to be a better way to care for the wounded, he thought ruefully, but could think of nothing. Doctors were not an answer. Few in their right mind would trust anyone’s health to a barber-surgeon who thought it wise to bleed people who had already bled copiously because of their wounds.
Fitzroy continued. “And there are at least two thousand missing, although most of them will doubtless turn up sooner or later when they get tired of running and regain their senses. When all is said and done, I estimate our total casualties will be in excess of four thousand.”
There were gasps. Even the normally unfeeling Tarleton was shocked. Four thousand was about a third of the force they’d committed this day and four thousand was approximately the number of men in the whole American army. This did not include the women and old men among the rebels. Those old men and women had inflicted terrible casualties while sustaining many of their own.
“It is worse than the numbers,” Fitzroy added. “Many of the survivors are the remnants of the regiments that were in the fore of the attack and those units no longer exist as anything more than disorganized clusters of men. I would estimate that our true fighting strength is about half of what it was this time yesterday.”
“Any thoughts on American casualties?” Tarleton asked.
“None whatsoever, except for the obvious. They too must have suffered heavily. I would not be surprised if they lost half their army as well.”
“Then what do we do?” Arnold asked.
“Attack,” Tarleton snapped. “We do what we should have done in the first place. We attack all along the line and overwhelm them. They are too few and cannot be everywhere in strength.”
“With respect, General,” Fitzroy said, “Based on what I’ve seen, it’ll be some time before the army is able to attack. Even so, I doubt there’ll be any enthusiasm for another frontal attack, however overwhelming our numbers might appear. Our men might just refuse to go. It wouldn’t be the first time an army has refused to attack. Besides, we have other problems, ammunition and food, for instance.”
Burgoyne smiled tightly. “You are simply full of good news, Major.”
Fitzroy flushed. “Sorry, sir, but I assumed you wanted the truth.”
“I do, however little I might like it. Continue.”
“Our food supplies might last us a week, sir, but that’s all. We must either withdraw to our closest depot or arrange for supplies to be shipped to us. Either way, our men might be hungry for a day or so before we got there.”
No matter how he’d tried to phrase it, the statement was an implied criticism of Burgoyne. The army had continued to use supplies when it had been expected that they would be on their way back down the trail to the depots with large numbers of prisoners.
Fitzroy continued. “Ammunition is a more severe crisis.” He turned to Arnold. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that our reserve supply is now on the bottom of the St. Joseph River. What ammunition we now have is what our men carried less what was expended today. We were perversely fortunate that General Grant insisted that only his front ranks actually fire their weapons so that the bulk of the army still has what ammunition it started with. However, there is little more. One more battle and we will be using bayonets simply because we are out of powder and lead.”
Burgoyne looked stunned. He stood and the others did as well out of courtesy to his rank. In the dim and flickering light, Burgoyne looked like a confused and wounded animal.
“What now, my dear General? What will you do to save the situation and our hopes?” Tarleton asked sarcastically. Fitzroy wanted to punch the smug bastard in the mouth.
Burgoyne had too much dignity to respond in kind. “We will rest this night. All of us, and that includes every general and private in the army, will rest so we can think clearly and dispassionately. Tomorrow we will have hard decisions to make.”
* * *
Hannah Van Doorn deposited Will with General Stark and departed with a sad smile on her face. The note she’d given him was in his pocket. Stark was in conference with Schuyler and Tallmadge. Both of them were bloodied and worn, but they had survived. Stark, by far the older, looked exhausted. Tallmadge looked up and nodded. Will stepped forward and stood at attention.
“Relax, Drake,” Stark said. “We’ve got more important things to do than stand on useless formality.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you well? You’re not wounded, are you?”
“Only in spirit, sir. This has been a dreadful day.”
Stark continued. “Indeed it has, which is why I wish you to once again be an intermediary for me. We must do whatever we can to end this, once and for all, at least once and for all for this time. I wish you to get a good night’s rest, either alone or with your lovely Sarah. Then I wish you to be dressed in a fine and clean uniform and then to go out and discuss a serious proposition I wish to make to General Burgoyne. As a sign of my good faith, you will also take with you the sword that once belonged to their General Grant and return it. One of our men had liberated it,” he said wryly. The once lucky soldier had doubtless thought it was worth a fortune.