Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “I understand. I have prepared to garrison Fort Ti.”

  Carleton fell silent for a time, studying the map, before he once again raised his face to Burgoyne. His expression changed. A smile slowly spread, and the flat look left his eyes.

  “I’m afraid I’ve disappointed your expectations by my rather gloomy observations and opinions. May I remind you, you’re leading one of the finest armies on the continent. Your troops admire you, as well they should. Your staff of officers is exceptional. You have an enviable array of artillery, and you will be traveling in the best season of the year. If you are prudent and cautious, I can see no real reason you cannot avoid all the calamities I have pointed out. You should enjoy resounding success in this vital effort.”

  Burgoyne visibly brightened as Carleton finished.

  “I offer you the fullest cooperation of my office to assist you in your preparations and departure, General Burgoyne. You have but to ask, and I shall do all possible.”

  Visibly moved, Burgoyne slowly rose from the chair. He thrust out his hand and shook that of Carleton warmly. “I thank you for your candid advice, sir. I could not ask more from you. Rest assured, your demeanor today will be in my first report to Germain.”

  Carleton bowed slightly. “If there is nothing else today, may I invite you to remain for a refreshment? Lunch?”

  “Would that I could.” Burgoyne quickly gathered his papers and placed them inside his leather folder. “There is simply too much to be done. But I assure you, we shall talk again, and we shall dine together before I leave, you and I, at which time I shall consider it a privilege to express my appreciation for all you have done.”

  Carleton came from behind his desk and called, “Aide.” The door opened immediately and Thornton stepped into the room, a model of military perfection.

  “Yes, suh.”

  “Colonel Thornton, would you show General Burgoyne to his carriage? And should you receive any message from him, at any time, would you see to it that it is delivered to me at once, day or night?”

  Thornton saluted smartly. “Yes, suh.”

  Burgoyne nodded to Carleton and turned on his heel. Carleton watched as the heavy door closed behind him and listened until the echo of the clicking heels had quieted. Then he turned back to his desk and settled onto his chair, his forehead drawn in deep reflection. He sat thus for a long time, with the constant roar of the distant river sounding loud in the great, austere, stone-walled room.

  In the late twilight of that same beautiful spring day, Carleton made his way from his quarters back to his office, and once again sat unmoving, heedless of the unending sound from the river. Dusk settled, and Thornton rapped, then entered the room. Without a word he lighted the six large candles on the desk, turned on his heel, and marched out.

  Minutes passed before Carleton reached for his inkwell and his quill. Thoughtfully he began making notes, the scratch of the pen lost in the roar of the river.

  Lord Germain—I herewith tender my resignation as governor of the Province of Canada—for reasons unknown to me you have treated me with slight, disregard, and censure—it has disabled me from further functioning effectively as governor—having been apprised of the plan for conquest of the colonies I can only render my humble opinion—it is the highest folly to think Canadians will respond to bear the burden of transport—the hope of employing Indians is ludicrous—that you have failed to consult me in these matters—failed to afford me my right to respond and defend myself—is an offense that I will not endure. I retain my military rank of major general and my command of whatever minuscule portion of my Northern Army that will remain here with me in Quebec. I have afforded and will continue to afford Major General John Burgoyne every possible assistance in his campaign.

  Carleton stopped and carefully laid his quill back on its tray. He read his notes, then leaned back to stare at the steadily burning wick on the nearest candle. He started when the large clock on the mantel sounded its gong, and he counted nine as it continued to toll the hour.

  He stared at the clock for a moment, in deep thought. I cannot endure what Germain has done. I must resign as governor. I will remain faithful to my military duties, but I will not accept his unforgivable treatment of me as governor. I will compose the letter tomorrow morning, and it will go out on the first ship bound for England. A brief, ironic smile flickered for a moment. Perhaps on the Apollo—the ship that brought Burgoyne here today. How appropriate.

  In the west wing of the castle, in his own private office, Major General John Burgoyne sat at the elaborately carved desk in one corner of the large room. A fire danced in the fireplace, and two candles in engraved silver candlesticks gave light to the desk. Burgoyne plucked his quill from its tray, dipped its point in the inkwell, and began scratching notes.

  Delivered the sealed letter to Carleton—seriously affronted—recovered immediately—received me and the orders I brought in a manner that, in my opinion, does infinite honour to his public and private character—the soul of cooperation—I believe he shall be of immeasurable assistance.

  He read what he had written, then dated the notes and closed them inside the blank pages of a bound book in which he intended keeping memoirs of his entire campaign. Perhaps he would share the notes with others at the appropriate time. He put the book to one side, then reached for his leather folder, drew out the map, and was soon lost in the endless details that are the plague of every military commander.

  It was well past one o’clock in the morning when he blew out the candles and wearily sought the comfort of his bed.

  Notes

  The Iroquois longhouses are well described in Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution, p. 9.

  General Carleton’s description of the changeable, undependable, rather child-like nature of the Iroquois is somewhat explained in Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution, pp. 17–37. This is consistent with General Burgoyne’s opinion of the Indians (see Ketchum, Saratoga, p. 230). For an excellent explanation of the vast difference between the world of the Iroquois and that of the white men, see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 95–96. For a description of how the Europeans were frightened by the Indians, see pp. 98–99. Many, perhaps most of the Indians who came to support General Burgoyne, came for scalps and booty or plunder (see pp. 111, 144).

  Unless otherwise indicated, references hereunder are taken from Ketchum, Saratoga, and identified by page number only.

  Burgoyne’s history as a soldier is chronicled, as well as his five-month visit to London, where he persuaded Lord Germain that he, Burgoyne, and not Carleton, was the proper general to lead the expeditionary force south from Quebec to take the Hudson River valley and meet General Howe in Albany. He bolstered his petition by reminding Germain of Carleton’s decision the previous summer to return to Quebec without taking Fort Ticonderoga. Carleton turned back due to the lateness of the season and his belief that he did not have sufficient men to hold the fort through the winter (pp. 41–42, 64, 72–79).

  Major General Sir Guy Carleton was knighted, serving as governor of Canada, and commander of the Northern Army stationed at Quebec at the time General John Burgoyne arrived May 6, 1777, aboard the Apollo. The ice on the St. Lawrence River was breaking up in thunderous clashes, and it was the first day navigation on the river was possible. General Burgoyne was given the extraordinarily distasteful assignment of delivering the letter from Lord Germain to General Carleton, informing him that he, General Burgoyne, was to take about two-thirds of Carleton’s command and lead the expeditionary force south. It was an almost unheard of insult to General Carleton. It was only because of General Carleton’s extraordinary character that he did not lash out at Burgoyne and Germain on the spot. Rather, he cooperated with General Burgoyne to the fullest extent possible. However, he promptly wrote a stinging letter to Lord Germain, resigning his position as governor, while roundly criticizing Germain for thinking they could rely on Canadians, Indians, and Tories to support General Burgoyne. General Carleton
did not resign his commission as major general but remained commander of what was left of the British army in Quebec. Part of the language used in this chapter in the letter of resignation by Carleton is quoted from historical documents (pp. 41, 87–88, 101–3).

  The letter written by Lord Germain, explaining to General Carleton the new policy which supported General Burgoyne taking two-thirds of General Carleton’s command, is quoted verbatim in this chapter. In said letter, Germain reasoned that Carleton’s refusal to capture Fort Ticonderoga was part of the cause of the catastrophic defeats of the British forces at Trenton and Princeton. Lord Germain’s letter and reasoning were seen by all who knew about it as “hogwash” (p. 103).

  Neither Lord Germain nor General William Howe had informed General Carleton of events in London or in and about New York. General Carleton learned of the defeat of the Americans in and around Long Island and the subsequent events at Trenton and Princeton through a letter he intercepted from a prisoner (pp. 103–4).

  The plan proposed by General Burgoyne, and approved by Lord Germain and the king himself, provided that the eight-thousand-man army under command of General Burgoyne was to be divided into two sections. Colonel Barry St. Leger would take one force west to Oswego, capture Fort Stanwix, then come east down the Mohawk River Valley to Albany, to meet General Burgoyne. General Burgoyne would take the second section and proceed south on Lake Champlain, capture Fort Ticonderoga, then continue south on the Hudson River, to meet with Colonel St. Leger at Albany. General William Howe was to move from the New York area up the Hudson and rendezvous with Colonel St. Leger and General Burgoyne at Albany, where the three forces combined would proceed to cut off the New England states and defeat them (pp. 82–85, 102–5).

  Through a monumental lack of communication between Lord Germain, General William Howe, and General John Burgoyne, General Howe never did commit to join General Burgoyne in Albany; rather, he devoted his attentions to taking Philadelphia and left General Burgoyne without his support. General Carleton received but a single letter from General Howe in which Howe mentioned the Hudson River valley campaign, and in said letter, Howe only briefly alluded to “a diversion occasionally up Hudson’s River” (pp. 103–5).

  British General Clinton is described (p. 82).

  The ongoing, volcanic rivalry between American generals Philip Schuyler and Horatio Gates, which played a critical part in the Saratoga campaign, is very well described, as are the generals (pp. 52–55).

  The peculiar geological phenomenon of lakes George and Champlain draining to the north, into the St. Lawrence River, while twelve miles to the south of the two lakes, the Hudson River drains south, is explained. It resulted when great continental plates far below the surface shifted and a gigantic block of bedrock dropped into place (pp. 24–26).

  The naming, and subsequent renaming, of Fort Ticonderoga is explained. Ticonderoga is an Iroquois word meaning “Between two great waters”—in this case, Lake George and Lake Champlain. Lake George drains into Lake Champlain through a narrow, three-and-a-half-mile-long gorge called “the chute.” Lake George is two hundred feet higher in elevation than Lake Champlain. The chute has several waterfalls and required that the bateaux be portaged around the falls and rapids. The flat-bottomed bateaux are described. Fort Ticonderoga was built by the French on a peninsula in the 1750s, between the two lakes, George and Champlain. It was five hundred fifty feet in width, with walls sixteen feet thick. It was considered the “jewel” of the forts in the Hudson River valley, capable of controlling all who passed on the great river, hence, of highest strategic importance. In the Seven Years’ War, British General Abercromby attempted to storm it with eleven thousand ground troops, unsupported by cannon. The French, with only three thousand five hundred troops inside the fort, stopped him with tremendous losses to the British. When American Colonel Anthony Wayne saw the fort in 1776, he reported it to be in deplorable condition, with the soldiers using the skulls and shinbones of Abercromby’s troops, long dead, for drinking cups and tent pegs (pp. 28–29).

  General Carleton’s attempt to explain to General Burgoyne the tremendous problems related to moving an army through the American forest is detailed (pp. 106–8).

  The American scouts, called long hunters were noted as being among the best frontiersmen. One of their leaders, Benjamin Whitcomb, shot British General Patrick Gordon from ambush. Upon hearing of it, General Carleton issued a reward of twenty-five guineas for the capture of Whitcomb, dead or alive. It was the same Benjamin Whitcomb who suddenly appeared in the center of a German camp. The Germans were terrified at how he had reached the heart of their camp with five men, without being detected by anyone (pp. 161–62).

  General Burgoyne’s staff officers were General Fraser, close confidant and friend, General William Phillips, excellent gunnery officer, and General Baron Frederich Adolph von Riedesel, in command of all German forces. The number of men they commanded was three thousand nine hundred eighty-one British troops and three thousand one hundred sixteen German troops. The fleet of ships Burgoyne had on the lakes consisted of the Royal George, Thunderer, Inflexible, Maria, Carleton, Loyal Convert, Washington, Lee, Jersey, and more than two hundred bateaux (pp. 127–37).

  In general support of the above, see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 175–79; Mackesy, The War for America 1775–1783, pp. 130–31; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 367–77.

  Boston

  May 30, 1777

  CHAPTER IV

  * * *

  Spring had once again wakened the world from its chill, gray, winter sleep. The warm sun had reached its zenith and was settling toward the western rim of the world, across the Boston back bay. On the mainland, the rolling hills of the Lachmere farms were a checkerboard of orderly fruit orchards, spectacular with white blossoms smothering green trees while bees swarmed. On the Boston peninsula, the faint, sweet scent of flowers rode gentle in the streets and homes and shops. Renewal was in the air—a lift in spirits, a spring in the step, people calling greetings across the cobblestones, laughing, waving.

  On the docks, sailmakers and riggers wore their knit caps far back on their heads and had the sleeves of their ancient, worn sweaters pushed above their elbows as they worked on the mountains of canvas that must be mended and remounted on the yards and spars of the forest of masts undulating in the harbor. Grinning longshoremen lustily cursed all officers of all ships of all flags as they loaded and unloaded the freight that was the lifeblood of the world. Sweating blacksmiths pounded orange-hot iron into the fittings that held ships together.

  Near the Charlestown ferry landing, bearded men in gum rubber boots slowed, and their eyes narrowed at the sight of a handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired, well-dressed young woman picking her way through the barrels and crates, piled canvas, coiled hawsers, and fish-cleaning tables on the great, black timbers that formed the waterfront docks. An old sailmaker sitting on a bench, legs covered with layers of sail canvas, raised startled eyes and shifted his ancient pipe in his yellowed teeth, then squinted at the sun. She better be thinkin’ of goin’ home. He drove his large sailmaker’s needle through the double-layered canvas, pulled it through, set the head of the needle against the thick leather pad tied to his right palm, and drove the point through again. Lookin’ like that, she better be careful. He eyed her as, shoulders squared, chin up, she approached the first ship’s officer she saw.

  “Sir, I’m Mary Flint. I was told by the harbormaster that I could find these two offices on the docks, close by the Charlestown ferry landing. Could you help me, please?” She coughed as she held out a folded piece of paper.

  First mate Nels Dahlgren, round-shouldered, his beard white from thirty-four years at sea, took the paper while he studied Mary. Her skin was sallow, eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, and he had heard the rattle in her quick, hacking cough. He read the two written lines, then spoke with a heavy Swedish accent as he turned to point at two weathered, brown brick buildings.

  “The office of
Hamburton Company is there, and the office of the Tordenskjold Company is further, over there.” Watching Mary intently, he handed the paper back to her.

  “Thank you, sir.” She bowed slightly and turned toward the building with a sign above the door that once read “Hamburton & Company” but which years of salt air and weather had reduced to an unreadable series of peeling, faded marks.

  Dahlgren spoke and she stopped. “Ma’am, you should leave the docks before dark. Things happen. You do not look or sound well.”

  She nodded. “I understand. I will leave as soon as my business here is finished. I do thank you for your concern.”

  Dahlgren touched the bill of his leather officer’s cap and nodded to her as she walked to the door of the Hamburton office and entered. Inside the small, plain office, a short, plump, balding man in a rumpled white shirt was seated behind a battered desk, poring over columns of entries and figures in a large, scarred, leather-bound ledger. His sagging jowls jiggled as he raised puzzled eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Ma’am, you have business here?”

  “Yes. I was told by the harbormaster that occasionally you have ships coming here to Boston from New York City.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her, aware of the thick fabric purse that dangled from her right hand on two embroidered straps. He shook his head. “We’re not taking passengers right now.”

  “Oh, I am not seeking passage. I believe you were taking passengers in December of last year, and January of this year.”

  He nodded, suspicious, noncommittal. “Maybe. Who are you? Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m Mary Flint, from New York. My father told me he intended moving his residence to Boston, and that he would leave information at the Boston mayor’s office as to where I could find him when I came to join him. The Boston mayor’s office knows of no such message but said some companies have ships sailing here from New York. The harbormaster gave me the name of this company. Did you have ships arrive here from New York last January?”