Robert Conroy - Liberty - 1784

“Up your ass,” snarled Owen and the troopers laughed.

Barley laughed too, but kept his musket aimed squarely at Owen’s stomach. “You look like a Brit, you sound like a Brit, and you say you were a Brit, so why shouldn’t I think you’re a Brit spy. Anybody can claim they’ve deserted now can’t they? Helluva thing to prove, though. I guess we could turn you back to the Redcoats, and if they hang you, then it would prove you were telling the truth.”

“Watch,” Owen said. He carefully removed his jacket and then his shirt. He turned and showed the Americans his back. It was covered with scars and welts. “Now ask me how much I love fucking King George and his goddamned Royal Navy.”

“Jesus,” said Barley, fingering the branding scar on his own cheek. “You pass, little man, at least for the moment. Put your shirt back on.” He turned to Will. “Now you, Captain. I don’t doubt that you have a brand scar on your leg, along with other marks, but those will get you only so far. So, who’ll vouch for you?”

“Who’s at Fort Washington?” Will asked.

“General Greene knows you?”

Will thought quickly. He’d seen Nathanael Greene on a number of occasions, but doubted that the general who’d been Washington’s second in command would recall him from Adam. Still, it was a comfort that a general of Greene’s stature was at Fort Washington.

“Probably not.”

“Then how about Wayne or von Steuben?”

“I doubt it. What about Alexander Hamilton?”

Barley shook his head. “He’s rotting away in a prison in Jamaica, and, if you’re a spy, you’d have known that.”

“We could guess all day, Sergeant Barley, and maybe not find a match. Why don’t you take me in and then sort it out?”

Barley nodded. “Makes sense. We’ll have to treat you as prisoners until we can turn you over to General Tallmadge.”

Will felt like laughing in relief. “Is General Tallmadge’s first name Benjamin?”

Barley relaxed slightly. “It is. Will he vouch for you?”

Will couldn’t stop grinning. “Yes he will.”

* * *

Major Fitzroy sat behind a small table in the tent that served as Burgoyne’s headquarters near Albany. The air in the tent was stuffy and he was sweating like a pig, but decorum would not let him remove any of his uniform while interviewing colonials. Had to impress them, he thought, and then wondered if they were at all impressed by the idiocy of wearing a heavy wool uniform in the middle of summer. He decided he didn’t want to know.

“Next,” he called.

A large man entered and stood before him. Fitzroy almost choked. The man was a thing, an apparition, an escapee from hell. His eyebrows were gone and his nose little more than two holes in the raw, red skin of what passed for his face. There was next to nothing in the way of lips, exposing broken and rotting teeth, and the man’s ears were equally raw lumps with holes in them.

But the apparition was real and could speak and his eyes showed fury and hatred. “You can stare if you like, Major. Everyone else does. I know what I am and it doesn’t bother me anymore. The Indians and many of those who know me call me the Burned Man.”

“You surprised me, that’s all.” Fitzroy was also surprised that the creature spoke English instead of the language of Satan but did not say so.

“Indeed. Regardless, I am here to volunteer.”

“In what capacity?” Fitzroy asked as he tried to gain control of the situation. Perhaps the creature wanted to be their resident bogeyman.

“I wish to be a militia officer. I’ve brought a band of fifty men who feel like I do towards the rebels, and who want me to lead them, and I’m certain I can get more to join me. We want to kill rebels.”

“Did the rebels do that to you?”

Something ghastly that might have been a grin flickered across the man’s ruined face. “You are quite perceptive.”

Fitzroy caught the sarcasm and flushed. “What happened?”

The man shrugged. “The vicious and cowardly bastards set a trap for me while I was trying to enforce the king’s law, and I fell for it. There was an explosion and I was covered with burning oil. My friends put out the fire by dousing me with water and covering me with dirt. There are more scars on my arms and chest if you wish to see.”

“No thank you,” Fitzroy said, controlling a shudder.

Fitzroy noted that one of Burned Man’s hands was missing two fingers and the other more resembled a claw then something human. Some of the wounds were so raw that he wondered if the man shouldn’t be in bed recuperating.

“You’re right, Major, it didn’t happen all that long ago and everyone thought I was going to die, including my whore of a wife who ran off with another man while I lay in agony. But I didn’t die and I won’t die until I’ve had a good measure of revenge. I caught my slut of a wife and her bastard lover and killed both of them. I let her watch while I cut off his head, and then I chopped off hers and put it on a fence post beside his. But there’s still the rebels who did this to me and I want them dead as well. I know I should still be resting and regaining my strength, but that doesn’t help me kill rebels, now does it?”

“I suppose not,” Fitzroy said.

“And I want to destroy the particular group of damned rebels who did this to me,” he snarled. “That is one way I will become stronger. Hate will keep me going. I trust you won’t stand in my way when I find them?”

Fitzroy thought quickly. The decision was easy. The Burned Man said he had brought fifty men and, if they were anything like their horribly mutilated leader, they would be useful and highly motivated. He had a disquieting thought that the Burned Man’s band would be very difficult to control and discipline, but he reasoned that many terrible things would happen to both sides in the course of the campaign. He put aside his doubts. He had an army to help form and a war to win.

Fitzroy stood up. He did not extend his hand to shake. The thought of touching the Burned Man’s mutilated skin was too repugnant. “As long as you and your men obey orders, they are welcome. And those orders might mean deferring your vengeance for the common good. Is that acceptable?”

“It is as long as it’s not forever.”

“Good. Welcome to General Burgoyne’s army, and I’ll have the papers made up to confirm your rank of militia captain.”

“Excellent.”

“Of course, I will need your real name. Burned Man might do to identify you to the red savages, and even better if you were one, but you aren’t an Indian, are you?”

Burned Man laughed harshly and Fitzroy nearly recoiled at the stench coming from his mouth. “Isn’t my skin red enough for you? But you’re right. My name is Charles Braxton.”

* * *

Tallmadge greeted Will warmly. He rose from behind his desk of raw planks and the two men shook hands. “God, it’s good to see your smiling face, Captain.”

“Good to see yours, too, Major.” Will winced. He’d used Tallmadge’s old rank.

“Correction, Will, I am now a brigadier general.”

“Congratulations, sir.” It did not escape Will that Tallmadge was, at most, only a couple of years older than he, and like so many American leaders, quite young for their rank. And inexperienced as well, he thought. To the best of Will’s now incomplete knowledge, Tallmadge had never commanded men in battle. He’d always been a staff officer. Had things changed?

“I wonder about any congratulations,” Tallmadge said. “I often think I hold this rank because there’s no one else around to give it to. We’ve got a number of soldiers, but damned few real generals to command them, and even fewer lower-ranking officers to lead them. The British managed to capture so many of us after they promised amnesty and then broke their promise.”