Robert Conroy - Liberty - 1784

Fitzroy nodded. “And Calais has fallen?”

“Yes and our army has almost all fled to England, in effect leaving France to the French. Lord Jeffrey Amherst has been defeated, which must have been a great shock to him. He had a very high impression of his own abilities. You recall, don’t you, that he declined to command our forces in the colonies? As I recall, he felt that fighting rebels was beneath his dignity. The bumbling French king and his idiot queen Marie Antoinette are now in London.”

“Sir, I’ve read the reports, but I still find it difficult to believe that we were defeated by a French rabble.”

Burgoyne wagged a finger at him, teacher to pupil. “Fitzroy, never forget that it almost happened here a few years back. If the population of the colonies had been larger and more compressed, perhaps they too could have become the brainless hordes like those that simply overwhelmed our army at Calais without any thought of their own casualties. They might have taken New York or Yorktown and chased us out.”

“But we still hold Dunkirk, don’t we, General?”

“For the time being, yes, and for what reason? Oh, I know the rationale will be for us to use it as a base for future operations, but I rather think we’ll soon be walled into the city and port and never be able to break out.”

Burgoyne poured himself a brandy. He gestured for Fitzroy to help himself, which he did. “Our orders have changed, Major, and I need you to go to Tarleton, wherever he is.”

“Yes sir.” Recent messages had General Tarleton shifting forces between Pitt and Detroit in anticipation of Burgoyne’s arrival in the spring.

“This should not surprise you, Fitzroy, but as a result of the defeat at Calais, their lordships in London want most of their army back to defend England. They are terrified that the French might somehow cross the Channel and lay waste to England or worse yet, that the unwashed English multitude will rise up like the French peasants and commence slaughtering country squires. They are particularly fearful it will happen in Ireland, or even Scotland, or dear God, Wales. It appears that nobody likes us all that much. Therefore, I will have one chance and one chance only to win this war. If we falter, then the rebels will be left unmolested at best to form their own country. At worst, they will be inspired to further rebellion, rise again, and attack the cities in the east.”

“Dear God,” Fitzroy muttered.

“Dear God, indeed. And if we do win, or rather, when we do win, the government of the colonies will not be as originally planned with the Loyalists as a privileged group lording it over those who rebelled or simply wavered. Instead, it will be a military government. Thanks to the upheaval in France, London will not tolerate the possibility that there might be another revolution here, so the colonies are to be disarmed and all properties will revert to the king who will decide who will possess them as tenants and not as owners.”

Fitzroy was shocked. “But that effectively makes landless peasants out of even the Loyalists who now believe they own their property.”

“Correct, which means they won’t be able to vote either for local or colony representatives. That also precludes the already remote possibility that someday there might be elections for seats in our Parliament. And your second and unsaid assumption is also correct. The takeover will be perceived as a betrayal by the Loyalists who supported us all these years. The exact details are in a package of documents General Grant brought. It’s called ‘Plans for the Future of the American Colonies,’ and it’s to remain a secret. You will read it of course, so you can understand its importance to me and to Tarleton. You will impress on Tarleton the urgency to be ready for anything and to keep the report as secret as we can for the time being, which means until we’ve destroyed the rebels at this Liberty place. A man like Tarleton usually needs no urging to go out and kill people, but one never knows and I’ve certainly learned not to assume anything.”

Later in the privacy of his quarters, Fitzroy read the fairly lengthy document with both astonishment and dismay. There was good reason for it to remain a secret. It was inflammatory at best. It had the potential to outrage the most loyal of colonists. He finished, and returned it to the chest and locked it.

Fitzroy’s quarters were in a private room above a large and fairly decent tavern, the one recommended by his innkeeper in New York. It had proven a pleasant surprise at many levels. When he returned there in the evening, he always wrote of the day’s events in his journal. He referenced reading the “Plans,” and how they dismayed him, but did not go into detail.

There was a tap on the door and Hannah Doorn, the owner of the tavern, entered. She was a blond widow in her mid-thirties, very attractive although a little plumpish. And better, she liked him, which meant he received far better treatment than an ordinary guest, and the tavern was well appointed in the first place.

Hannah Doorn was a sort of woman he’d never met before. Not only was she quite lovely, but she possessed business acumen and had numerous financial interests in Albany and further west. She was a shapely reminder that the Dutch presence predated the British and, although it had faded in New York, places like Albany still had a number of Dutch families and merchants. Typical Dutchies, he’d concluded on meeting Hannah and others. They made money everywhere, just like the Jews.

At least as surprising, Hannah was an artist. Her drawings and paintings of life in the area were quite exact. She wanted to sketch him, but he’d demurred, at least so far.

Hannah wore a floor-length robe which swirled as she walked across the floor and exposed a length of bare leg. “I think you should go down to dinner before the food is all eaten,” she said.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. Hannah set a good table. Not up to London standards, but damn good and hearty nonetheless. “But must it be right now?” He pulled on the sash that held her robe together and it opened. As expected, she was naked underneath and totally blond. She laughed and they fell jubilantly onto the bed.

She was a wild thing, he thought moments later as she wrapped her legs around him and drew him deep inside her, and she really seemed to like the idea of bedding British nobility. Of course, he’d told her he was the most minor of nobility, but that meant nothing to her. She said he intrigued her.

Their coupling was sweaty and brief, a promise of even more satisfying things to come. “Now you really had get to dinner before your hoggish fellow officers eat everything, especially your friend Danforth. His stomach seems bottomless.”

He grinned happily and concurred. When he was dressed he kissed her fondly on the forehead. She really was a fun creature. Too bad he would have to leave her and head west where he was afraid that the only women would be flat-faced and stupid Indians who likely carried every disease known to man.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” she asked as she stretched out like a yellow-haired cat on his bed, utterly shameless.

“No, I’ve got some errands to attend to.” Like playing cards with Danforth and a couple of others and taking their money. He was always short of money. “May I wake you when I come back?”

She smiled coquettishly, enjoying the fact that she was still naked and that he was staring hungrily at her.

“Of course, my dear Major, you go and I’ll clean up your room. It seems like we’ve made quite a mess of it.”

When he was gone, she dressed quickly, picked up the scattered bedclothes and made the bed. Then she checked the door and bolted it. Fitzroy’s journal was on the table and, as usual, unlocked. She scanned the day’s entry. She was puzzled. What on earth was the “Plan for the Future of the American Colonies,” and why on earth did Fitzroy think it was so awful that it had to be kept secret?