Still farther beyond the salt lake were great mountains that, if crossed, would send travelers into the land bordering the Pacific Ocean. This land was rumored to be fertile enough, but, unfortunately, it was also occupied, or at least claimed.
“Indians are there, of course, but there are supposed to be Russians to the north and Spanish to the south. That reminds me,” Clark added, “anybody who does go west will quickly find that they’re in territory claimed by Spain and they don’t take too kindly to strangers, especially non-Catholic strangers, coming into their land. We’d probably have to fight them as well as the British and the Indians.”
Benjamin Franklin stood. “Let me ask you a few questions, General Clark.” Clark nodded assent. “First, since grass grows on the prairie, why can’t we plant wheat?”
Clark grinned. “Well, you could. But then you’d have to fence in the planted area to protect it from buffalo and other wild animals that would either eat it or trample it, and I don’t know of any fence that could keep out a herd of ten thousand hungry buffalo.”
“Are the herds really that large?” Franklin asked. Almost everyone had seen buffalo, but only in much smaller numbers.
“The herds are that large and larger. There may be millions of them roaming over the plains and they’re all always looking for food. It’s an incredible sight to see a herd on the move, especially when they’re running, and they’re terrifying when they stampede. The sound is almost deafening. In order to protect our crops, we’d have to kill off all the buffalo and that ain’t gonna happen ’cause there’s too many buffalo to kill off. Besides, if we did, there’d go our primary source of meat.”
He was handed a mug and he took a swig. It was clearly not water. “Nah, if we went out there we’d have to become small groups of nomads just like the savages.”
“But can’t the buffalo be domesticated, tamed?” Franklin inquired genially.
Clark guffawed. “You’d stand a better chance of taming a bear.”
“And the Indians are truly that dangerous?”
“Everything is dangerous out there, Doctor Franklin, the Indians, the animals, and the weather. Look, I went out with thirty men and came back with eighteen. The others are dead, and they were all well-armed and trained soldiers and woodsmen. Life is worse than hard out there. How the hell do you think a bunch of pilgrims would do?”
Clark smiled wickedly at Franklin. “I got one question of my own, Doctor Franklin. Were you cold this past winter?”
Franklin returned the smile. “I was miserable as you and everyone around here knows. My old bones nearly froze.”
Clark nodded. “Then don’t go west. The winds are ten times wickeder than they are here and the temperature’s so cold it freezes piss before it hits the ground. We saw buffalo freeze to death and they got real thick skin and fur.”
Franklin appeared to shudder. “Thank you General Clark.”
There was polite applause. Clark had answered the question of continued flight; it wasn’t feasible for the community of Fort Washington. Individuals could make it into exile, but not the several thousand people in the area. They would have to stand and fight.
Sarah held tight to Will’s arm as they exited the barn. The press of bodies inside had caused the barn to be awfully warm. Will thought that some of his personal warmth might have been due to the fact that Sarah had stood directly in front of him and her back and bottom had been pressed against his body. He hadn’t minded a bit.
“I’m cold,” she said and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, “And afraid.”
* * *
Lieutenant General John Burgoyne was more than a little drunk, which wasn’t unusual for those in the encampments that surrounded what was left of Detroit. It was presumed that the garrisons at Oswego, Albany, and Pitt were also drinking away the winter as they awaited the campaign that would begin in spring and commence fully in summer. There was no fear of a surprise attack from the rebels. Scouts were watching the trails and reported nothing.
“Gates, Arnold, Morgan, and Stark,” Burgoyne muttered. “The four of them conspired to beat me at Saratoga. That cannot happen again. I will not permit it.”
“It can’t happen again,” Fitzroy said. His voice was a little slurred. He’d been helping his commanding officer and distant cousin while away the evening. “I mean, at least not that way. Gates is disgraced and in prison, and Arnold is on our side.”
Burgoyne snorted. “Gates was a fool. He commanded the rebel army but did nothing. Arnold, Morgan, and Stark won the battles and he got the credit. There was no justice.”
Fitzroy settled back. It was going to be a long evening. “And Morgan shouldn’t be a factor, either,” he said. “I understand the man’s crippled and needed to be carried on a litter for his last battle.”
“During which he annihilated a force led by Tarleton, who was on horseback and didn’t need a litter,” Burgoyne responded. “Yes, he’s crippled, but he’s still a viper with venom. He will command one of their wings and he will do so with skill, just like he did at Freeman’s farm where he stopped my advance.”
Burgoyne took another long swallow. “Anthony Wayne played a subordinate role at Saratoga, so that only leaves Stark among the ones who defeated me. He destroyed my Hessian wing at Bennington when I sent them out to forage for supplies. Where the devil is John Stark?”
Fitzroy shrugged. “Probably in prison. Either that or hiding out on some mountain in Vermont. Maybe he’s even dead.”
“I hope so,” Burgoyne said. “I fervently hope so. The man’s a demon.”
Commanding only local, raw militia, Stark’s skillfully led soldiers had wiped out the Hessian force at Bennington. The Hessians had gone for food and one result of their defeat was that Burgoyne’s army went hungry.
Fitzroy tried to lighten the mood. “Perhaps Schuyler will lead them? You defeated him handily, didn’t you?”
“For which he was court-martialed and acquitted with honor. Nobody could have won anything with the disgraceful force he had at his disposal at that time. However, the rebels won’t let him lead them anyhow because of the taint of defeat that surrounds him.”
“Are you that concerned we won’t win, General?” Fitzroy asked.
Burgoyne unsuccessfully stifled a belch and glared at him. “Of course I’m concerned. I’d be a bloody fool if I wasn’t. A battle never goes as planned.” He finished his drink and lurched to his feet. “And now I’m off to bed.”
Fitzroy left and walked on unsteady legs to his tent. The air was more bracing than cold and hinted at spring. Good, he thought, enough of this waiting. Were the rebels drinking themselves through the winter at Fort Washington? He hoped so.
And what was Hannah doing? How was she spending the cold winter days and nights? Had she found another lover? He hated the thought.
Danforth was sitting on his bunk and polishing his boots. This was another sign of their dismal state. No servants. And no reason to polish boots except that it killed time. Worse, they had to mend their own uniforms, and those were starting to look very ragged.
“How is his generalship?” Danforth asked.
“Having another bout of nightmares filled with monsters and goblins. He sees outstanding rebel generals everywhere and it doesn’t help that some of those who were at Saratoga are at Fort Washington. He’s afraid of failure, and why not. Another defeat and he’d be a laughingstock.”
“So would you, James,” Danforth said softly. “You’re both his cousin and his aide and I know you have no money or position to fall back on. I would survive because I’m just an ordinary officer and because my family does have enough funds to buy me another commission, or even a seat in Parliament. That and I’m confident Cornwallis would welcome me back with open arms. But you? You’d be associated by default with Burgoyne’s mess and become a military pariah. You’d be lucky to get a job in India sorting elephant dung into piles according to size and stench.”