“Time enough for that,” Fitzroy said quietly but firmly. Girty’s eyes glowed with hate. “There is a truce here, and I don’t want it broken.”
Will nodded agreement and Fitzroy continued. “What happened, Girty? You and your men deserted, didn’t you?”
Girty spat on the ground. “You can call it deserting if you want, but I call it retreating to save our skins. But it didn’t work out that way. First we were attacked by the fucking red savages on our way east. Then, when we’d fought our way through them we were attacked by rebels coming east from the bloody damned depot. They captured me and killed the rest of my men. The rebels have taken your depot and all the supplies, and yes, Fitzroy, and don’t look so damned shocked. The Indians have declared for the rebels and there’s another rebel army coming down the road and ready to jump all over your ass.”
Will smiled. “Why not send him on to tell his tale to Burgoyne?”
Fitzroy recovered from his shock and agreed, sending Girty stumbling toward the British lines. “I rather wish you’d kept the pig,” he muttered.
“I like the idea as well, but there would have been a riot. Too many of our people wanted to skin him alive. Now, let me elaborate on what Girty said. There are two American armies in your rear. One consists of a force commanded by Isaac Shelby and has come from the south. They have taken Detroit and are rolling up your precious depots. Detroit fell quite easily, by the way. The defenses were in ruins, the garrison stripped by Burgoyne, and a very discouraged Major De Peyster was found drunk in his bed.
“The second force came from Boston and is commanded by General Edward Hand and, while he isn’t the best and brightest of the litter, he is smart enough to have taken a defenseless Fort Pitt and is moving on your base at Oswego.
“In sum, Cornwallis holds only New York and Boston and may be evacuating Charleston. Further in sum, you and General Burgoyne hold the ground on which you stand and nothing more. Girty will confirm what he has seen and heard and Burgoyne will, of course, send scouts out to confirm it. You have not won anything, although you might yet take some useless ground and cause more deaths. You are surrounded and cut off with any possible reinforcements half a continent and many months away. That is, if Cornwallis sends them at all on something which he might think is a fool’s errand. General Burgoyne is in even worse shape than he was at Saratoga. In effect, the frontier of our new nation has been pushed westward by a good five hundred miles and I cannot imagine Parliament at all enthused by the thought of sending another army to take it all back.”
“I’m sure General Burgoyne will be glad to hear that,” Fitzroy said drily. He dreaded the possibility that Drake’s claims were true. His worst fears would have been realized-his own career would be just as ruined as Burgoyne’s. He would have to leave the army and find another way of supporting himself, which would be more than difficult. He had no family money like Danforth to fall back on. If what Drake said was true, he faced a dismal future.
“Will you convey General Stark’s message?” Will asked.
“Of course. And will you convey my regards to the lovely Hannah?”
Will grinned wickedly. “Surrender and I’ll see to it that you convey them yourself.”
* * *
Burgoyne awoke with a splitting headache. He groaned and swung his legs off his cot and tried to blink away the pain that throbbed behind his eyes. He, Tarleton, and Arnold had waged a long and furious argument while drinking brandies the night before. Tarleton wanted to withdraw and regroup, while Arnold, true to his belligerent nature, wanted to attack and damn the results. This had confirmed Burgoyne’s notion that Tarleton was basically a coward, and that Arnold was an opportunist who was most concerned about his own advancement, no matter how many people were killed in the process.
He groaned again. Where the devil was Grant? Why the devil had the man gotten himself killed? What the hell was he supposed to do now without his right-hand man?
Surrender had not been discussed, other than to be ridiculed. Still, the word and the concept had hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles. Girty had been interviewed and the disgusting man had repeated his original story: a large rebel force under Isaac Shelby was in their rear. Whether they had actually taken Detroit or not wasn’t relevant, although they did believe it was likely. Burgoyne had left Detroit with only a virtual corporal’s guard under De Peyster and taking it would have been no great achievement. So too with Pitt. If the rebel General Hand had conquered Fort Pitt, that too would have been easy.
He sighed. Obviously, he should have left a stronger force behind him. Why had he believed Cornwallis’ vague assurances that the rebel’s strength was concentrated at Liberty and Fort Washington and that any other rebel forces in the colonies could be discounted?
Or had Cornwallis actually said that? He seemed to recall something about rebel activity simmering and the need for the rebel forces to be destroyed, but had there been any mention of other rebel armies? Not that he could recall. He had a terrible thought. Perhaps he was supposed to believe that there were no other rebel forces that could threaten him. Neither the war nor his position as commanding general was popular in England. Had he truly been set up to fail? The thought made him even more ill.
Burgoyne dressed and opened the flap of his tent. As usual, Fitzroy was there, like a faithful dog.
“Some coffee, General?”
“Splendid thought.” Why, he wondered, did Fitzroy look so concerned? “I have made a decision, Major, we shall attack and damn the mud. Arnold shall lead and we shall press them at several points. Please send messengers and call them for a council of war.”
Fitzroy looked stricken. “I can’t, sir.”
“Why not?” Burgoyne asked, confused.
“Sir, I thought you might wish such a council so I set out a while ago to inform the two generals to be prepared.”
“And?”
“They’re gone.”
Burgoyne staggered as if shot. “Gone? Where? How in God’s name can that be?”
“No one seems quite sure, but they departed during the night along with a number of men and several other ranking officers. Apparently they felt that surrender was all too likely and neither man felt they would survive capture and imprisonment because of the crimes they’ve committed against the rebels. Tarleton is a murderer and Arnold is a traitor to the rebels. Joseph Brant and his handful of surviving Iroquois have also fled, as has Girty.”
Burgoyne sat heavily on his camp stool. He began to shake and an unbidden tear fell down his cheek. It couldn’t be happening again, could it? He had spent so much time and political capital recovering from his surrender at Saratoga and now was history going to repeat itself? The gods could not be that cruel, could they?
Of course they could, he thought bitterly. His army was effectively leaderless, low on food and ammunition, and surrounded by an enemy that would only grow stronger as word of his weakness grew. He could march his mauled army to a strong point and fortify, but to what avail? What relief column would be coming to help him? No, they would starve. The rebels ate the fish from the lakes, but he doubted there were enough fish to sustain his mauled army.
Even if Cornwallis were so inclined, he had been left with only a small, defensive force with which to hold New York and a handful of other cities.
Burgoyne pulled himself to his feet. He loved theater and it was time for him to put on a bravura performance. He forced a smile.
“James, my dear cousin, kindly find a drummer and inform General Stark that I would talk with him.”
Epilogue
A few dozen mounted scouts under William Washington rode well ahead of the main body as it entered the city of New York. Behind them came a company of mounted rangers led by Owen Wells.