Robert Conroy - Liberty - 1784

“We can’t help them,” her uncle said sadly, but firmly. “It might not be very Christian to ignore them, but we don’t want anyone to see us or the same thing might happen to us. If we stay south of Pittsburgh, we might avoid British patrols. I understand there’s a mighty river that flows westward to the Mississippi. We make it to the river perhaps we can get a boat to take us farther west.”

Sarah thought her uncle was grasping at straws, but said nothing. In truth, she had nothing to add because there were no other options. She wondered what would happen to the surviving travelers. Would they be allowed to continue their journey, naked and abused, or would they be killed? Or arrested? Sarah shuddered. Could have been us, she kept repeating to herself. Clearly this Tarleton was as bad as Sheriff Braxton.

They had to get past the British patrols before they could be safe. Her knowledge of the area’s geography was scant, but, like her uncle, she did recall hearing of several rivers that met at Pitt and at least one of them then flowed west. She thought it was the Ohio. Of course they couldn’t get a boat at Pittsburgh, but perhaps he was right. Maybe they could find something.

A keening wail from one of the abused travelers cut like a knife and drew them back to the tragic scene less than a hundred yards away. She parted the bushes to see better. The dragoons had mounted their horses and were riding off slowly, while the travellers, now only half dressed and trying to repair the torn clothes that had been ripped from their bodies, were gathered over the man who’d been lying on the ground.

“We can help them now,” she said.

“A penny says that man is dead and we can’t help at all,” said cousin Faith, who had quietly joined them.

As the travellers moved the pale body Sarah could see that the man’s head was bloodied and smashed. Worse, his limbs were totally limp. Even at a distance, they judged the situation as hopeless. What made it worse was the commonly held knowledge that Tarleton’s green-coated dragoons were likely all Tories, men who also called the colonies their home. Sarah wondered how they could commit such crimes against people who were their neighbors. Of course, she thought ruefully, there was the little matter of a war that had raged for six years and, in many ways, was a civil war pitting brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. That she and her family were heading west was proof that vengeance was the rule of the day. She wondered just how she would have behaved towards the Tories if the revolution had succeeded.

Silently, they led their horses away. In a bit, they mounted. The tragic scene reinforced their hatred for the British and the correctness of their decision to head west.

Sarah thought that the only good thing to come from their journey was the irony that they were all healthier and stronger than when they’d lived in Pemberton. Sarah felt that she was stronger mentally and physically. She had lost weight, and little plump Faith looked like she’d gained confidence as she shed pounds. So far, they’d had little trouble finding berries and vegetables to eat, and there was fresh water in abundance. An occasional fish, or a trapped rabbit or squirrel, had rounded out their diet.

Of course, all the health in the world would mean nothing if Tarleton’s horsemen caught up to them.

* * *

Will and Owen lay on the ground and stared intently at the half dozen armed men who rested on the small hill a couple of hundred yards in front of them. The men just stood there, nonchalantly holding their muskets, while their unfettered horses grazed contentedly. Behind them was yet another stand of thick forest, which puzzled Will. If the men wanted to be unseen, all they had to do was move a few feet into the woods and they’d be invisible. Also, if it wasn’t for the weapons, they could have passed for workmen taking their ease while the boss was away. They exchanged food and drank from canteens as the two men watched. The group exuded quiet confidence which further concerned Will. They acted as if they owned the forest.

The riders had been easy to spot. Owen and Will had crept as far as they could through the forest and into the brushes without being seen by the armed men. Perhaps, Will thought, the riders had been too easy to spot.

There was no real trail or path as they headed west, but there were places where the presence of previous travelers could be discerned and this was one of them. When paths were obvious, the two men didn’t follow them. Instead, they worked their way parallel to them, hoping that they would not run into an ambush. The sight of the armed men in front of them confirmed their choice.

“Who do you think they are?” Owen asked.

Will didn’t respond. The answer to the question was crucial. They were far enough west, they hoped, for the band of armed men to possibly be American rebels. Still, there was no guarantee of anything. They could be Tarleton’s men, or outlaws like the men who had seized Owen. Hell, he thought, they could be that same group with a couple of more men added to it. They had a major decision to make. Should they try to evade them or go up to them? The wrong step could prove fatal.

“I wish I had a telescope,” Will muttered.

“I wish I could fly,” Owen chuckled.

“We can go around them. It’d mean a big detour, but it may be the best way.”

Owen was about to say he agreed when several more horsemen joined the group and they all spread out. “Shit,” he said. “Now we’ll have to wait forever.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said a deep voice from their rear. “Now get up slowly and raise your hands above your heads and don’t even think of trying for your weapons.”

Owen and Will did as they were told. When they turned around, a group of five men had muskets leveled at them. They wore no uniform, except for a patch of blue cloth sewn to their chests. One large man with a reddish beard and a ruddy complexion wore the insignia of a sergeant and was their leader. He also had been branded on the cheek with the letter “R.” Will saw that a couple of the others bore the same scar.

The sergeant spoke. “Now, just who the hell are you and what are you doing so far west?”

The scars meant that the men were American soldiers. Or at least they had been at one time. Who knew what they were this day? “We’re trying to get to Fort Washington,” Will said. “Or Liberty. Either will do.”

“So is everybody, or at least that’s what they say” the sergeant responded. “Now answer my question, who are you?”

Will stood tall and allowed his arms to slowly drop to his side. The soldiers didn’t seem to mind, even seemed slightly amused by his small act of defiance. “I am Captain Will Drake of the Continental Army, and this is Owen Wells, late of His Majesty’s Navy. We are traveling together.”

“I hope you’re not together for security’s sake, considering how easily we caught you,” the sergeant said.

Will winced as the others guffawed at their expense. They had fallen for an old trick. They’d been gulled into believing that the men in plain sight were dangerous when the real threat was creeping up on them while they were transfixed. The trick may have been as old as the hills, but it had been skillfully done.

“I told you who I was, now, who are you?” Will asked.

The big sergeant straightened slightly. “Sergeant William Barley, Second Regiment, New Continental Army.”

Will nearly gasped with relief. Assuming the armed men were telling the truth, they had finally found the rebel forces.

“If you’re not lying about yourselves, you’ll be welcomed,” Barley continued. “Of course, if you’re lying, we’ll hang your asses. A lot of British have tried to get into Liberty and Fort Washington and maybe some have succeeded, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let in everybody who walks up and knocks. Is there anyone who’ll vouch for you at Fort Washington so you can vouch for the squatty little Brit?”