Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “You were.”

  “Gates and some others rejected the idea, but they gave Trumbull permission to fire our cannon toward the top of Mount Defiance to see how far up the balls would strike?”

  “Correct. Permission was granted.”

  “And Trumbull did it. I was told the cannonballs almost reached the top.”

  “Correct.”

  St. Clair shook his head in astonishment. “If a cannon fired upward from here could put a ball nearly at the top of the mountain, a cannon fired from up there would reach us easily, and East Point, too.”

  Baldwin replied, “True, however, General Gates and a few others did not think cannon could be transported to the top of Mount Defiance.”

  St. Clair shook his head. “I was told that General Arnold and Colonel Wayne climbed the mountain and reported they could move cannon up there.”

  “That is correct.”

  St. Clair interlaced his fingers on the desk and leaned forward. He paused before he put the next question to Baldwin.

  “Was anything done to construct defenses on top of Mount Defiance?”

  Baldwin shook his head firmly. “No, sir. No orders were ever given.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, sir. No one ever said.”

  Slowly St. Clair straightened, staring at his interlaced fingers. He sat thus for a long time before he finally raised his eyes to Baldwin, then to Dunn. The room was filled with thick silence as all three men recoiled at the horror of what exploding cannonballs and raining grapeshot would do to the fort, and the American defenders, if heavy cannon commenced a continuous bombardment from above while British regulars and German mercenaries surrounded the fort to shoot those who tried to escape to the woods. The Americans would be caught inside the thick walls like animals in a trap, helpless, unable to either hide or defend themselves. Slaughter of the entire command, and total destruction of the fort would only be a matter of time, probably less than forty-eight hours. They stared at each other, and shuddered.

  And then it hit them. Should the unthinkable happen—should the British get big guns on top of Mt. Defiance—General Arthur St. Clair would find himself in the one decision that is the purgatory waiting for all good men who bear the white heat of combat command. Would he allow the murder of his helpless command to provide the commanding generals and the politicians in Congress with the lie of singing praises and heaping laurels on St. Clair and his dead command for their glorious but vain defense of the fort, to hide their own sin of having failed to occupy Mt. Defiance when it was so clear that their failure, and their failure alone, was the cause? Should the decision be forced on St. Clair, what would his answer be? Would his command become a bloody sacrifice to the stupidity of vain commanding generals and politicians?

  Would it? Would it?

  St. Clair moved and broke the tension. Baldwin wiped at his mouth while Dunn shifted his weight on his chair. When he spoke, St. Clair’s voice sounded too loud in the dead silence.

  “Let’s begin the inspection. Colonel Baldwin, would you lead? Major Dunn, bring writing paper and something to write with, to keep notes.”

  Baldwin led them out of the small office, across the shaded boardwalk, and stepped into the dust of the parade ground. They squinted in the brilliant June sunlight, and for a moment St. Clair was caught up in the wild beauty of the endless forest. The deep emerald blue-green of the towering pines caught the sunlight, and the air was sparkling fresh with the scent of green growing things. St. Clair marveled, but he had not forgotten the first rule of this primeval country, learned from hard experience when he passed through it going to Quebec, and returning. With all its breathtaking grandeur, this wilderness knew a thousand ways to kill a man, or an army, as though they were nothing.

  “Sir, what is your wish? What do you want to see first?”

  “Where do you keep your ordnance?”

  “This way.” Baldwin strode out with the energy of a man who was never still, always active, in both mind and body. He led the small group across the parade ground, with soldiers in unkempt uniforms pausing at a distance to watch them pass. The troops wore no hats, some wore no shoes, many wore their hair loose, tangled, most had untrimmed beards. They did not come to attention, nor salute as the small group passed them. Baldwin stopped at a heavy oak door in the north wall with a faded wooden sign nailed to it declaring their weaponry was stored inside. He unlocked the big lock, opened the hasp, and pushed the door open. Sunlight from the door partially illuminated the large, dank room, and the men entered.

  St. Clair walked slowly down the center aisle, expertly scanning the muskets, bayonets, swords, pikes, spontoons, and stores of musketballs, cannonballs, and spare parts. He stopped at the far end of the armory and made some mental calculations, then turned to Baldwin.

  “There aren’t enough muskets for the troops.”

  The answer was immediate. “No, sir. We lost some muskets when a boat bringing them in capsized and sank. Tories have also stolen many. One-third of our fighting force must carry pikes and spontoons and spears. We have only enough bayonets for one fifth of our serviceable muskets. Many muskets here are unusable because we have no spare parts for repairs.”

  St. Clair’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Dunn to be certain he was taking notes.

  “Where’s your gunpowder stored?”

  They stepped out of the armory, Baldwin locked the door, and led them to the east corner of the north wall, where he unlocked and opened a door bearing a large sign, GUNPOWDER—NO ENTRY. Inside the small room, St. Clair quickly counted the kegs and turned to Dunn, who had finished his count and recorded the figures. St. Clair spoke to Baldwin.

  “It seems raw in here. Too damp for gunpowder.”

  “It is, sir. After five weeks in here, we have to crack open each keg and take the gunpowder out to dry it.”

  “You must have more gunpowder buried somewhere. There’s hardly enough here to fire the cannon more than once each.”

  “We have about ten tons buried just outside the wall. There is a tunnel leading to it.”

  “Is the buried powder serviceable?”

  “It appears so, sir. We check it twice a month.”

  “Where’s your equipment storage room?”

  Again Baldwin led them out into the parade ground, to the east wall, where he unlocked a pair of double doors into a huge room with a low ceiling. And again St. Clair walked through it, stopping from time to time to inspect tools and equipment. He silently gestured to Dunn to record the number of bins that were empty, and the number of tools that were broken, rusted, neglected, out of repair and out of use. He turned to Baldwin.

  “You don’t have half enough shovels, picks, and axes, and half of the store is not fit for use. Awls, drills, saws, and you’re nearly out of nails, bolts, screws. Who’s responsible for this?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ve requested more of everything in writing every month since February, and nothing’s happened. The generals or the Congress seem to consider other places more important than this one.”

  “Your infirmary? Where is it?”

  “Follow me.”

  The stench hit them twenty feet before they reached the double doors in the west wall, and they began to breathe shallow. Baldwin stopped them just inside the room. Every cot was filled. Blankets had been spread on the floor beneath the cots, and men lay on them. The smell of carbolics and alcohol made them blink their eyes, and the moans of the men were a constant undercurrent throughout the room.

  “Sir, I think you can see what you wish from here. I highly recommend you not go in. We have measles and dysentery.”

  “How many men are in here?”

  “Nearly three hundred fifty.”

  “The design was for how many?”

  “One hundred fifty.”

  St. Clair’s face clouded. “Vermin?”

  “Pervasive. Lice everywhere.”

  “May I see the enlisted men’s mess, and then the officers’
mess?”

  The kitchens smelled of mold and filth, with rat droppings in the corners and along the walls. In the cavernous mess halls, the rough-hewn tables showed unwashed spills from the breakfast and midday meals, and bits of dried food and black coffee stains soiled every table.

  “Uniforms? Tents?” St. Clair waited.

  “There’s a storage room, sir, but there’s nearly nothing in it. We’ve been asking for uniforms for months with no results. Same with tents. Every tent we have is in use, ragged, torn. If it rains, every soldier and blanket in a tent gets soaked.”

  “What is the status of your stores of food?”

  “Follow me, sir.”

  The commissary was nearly empty. There were limp, wilted carrots and soft potatoes with four-inch sprouts growing from the eyes from winter storage, fourteen barrels of dried beans, twelve barrels of rice, fifteen barrels of flour shot through with weevil, and eighteen barrels of salted beef.

  “You’ve got salted meat for about fifty days, and enough of the rest of it for less than a month. There’s weevil, and mold.”

  “We’ll lose a lot of what’s left, sir. The men bring in deer and fish for fresh meat when they can.”

  “Your latrines?”

  “Against the south wall, sir. In poor condition, I’m afraid. Flies, stench.”

  St. Clair drew a deep, troubled breath. “I need to see your defensive works outside the fort.”

  “I’ve asked to have saddled horses waiting.”

  The ponderous gates in the west wall swung open, and the three men cantered their mounts out toward the distant tree line. The gap between the fort and the forest was filled with the stumps of trees taken to build the fort, and for fuel.

  “Where are your abatis?”

  Baldwin led, and St. Clair and Dunn followed. St. Clair pulled his horse to a halt in disbelief as the first abatis came into sight. It was one hundred yards from the southwest corner of the fort, facing south. Designed to have sixty sharpened pine logs embedded in rock and dirt, and pointed outward to impale invaders, it was nothing more than a neglected pile of stones and dirt. Not one log remained.

  St. Clair pointed and demanded, “What happened?”

  “The soldiers cut the logs for fuel last winter.”

  They moved on to the nearest redoubt, with its breastworks and cannon emplacement. The breastworks were sagging, and the wooden ramp on which the cannon was wheeled into place was largely missing; what was left was broken, splintered, useless. The rusted cannon was on its carriage, but the carriage wheels were no longer in their grooves.

  Gesturing to the crumbling structure, St. Clair demanded, “Are the other redoubts in similar condition?”

  “Yes. The ramps were pulled up for fuel. The cannon were neglected during the winter.”

  “On all the redoubts?”

  “All of them, sir.”

  St. Clair thrust his chin forward. “You mean there are no functional outer defenses for this fort?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Where’s your woodyard? Don’t you have two months supply of wood cut and stacked?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too far to go to get the wood. The timber next to the lake shore has been cut for three miles in both directions.”

  St. Clair sat his horse in silence for a time, studying the exterior of the fort, working to accept the harsh truth that it was an old, decaying, dilapidated ruin that had outlived its time. He reined his horse around, and Baldwin came in on his left side, Dunn on his right. St. Clair spoke to Baldwin without turning his head.

  “In what condition are the timbers supporting the barracks, the mess halls, the offices?”

  “Not good. Termites. Dry rot.”

  St. Clair fell silent for a moment, then continued. “I’ve heard no laughter, not one argument, not even one word of loud talk among the troops since I got here. How would you describe morale? Both officers and enlisted?”

  “Nonexistent. The men haven’t seen mail from home in months. We’re isolated out here. No visitors, no travelers. These men don’t know if we’re winning or losing the war, or even whether their families are alive. We have no more powdered ink or paper to spare for them to write home. Every man here is concerned about hearth and home, and their worries are reaching proportions that are beginning to cripple the entire command with melancholy and homesickness.”

  “I was told you’ve done some construction since your return. I need to see it.”

  “On the south side of the fort, sir. I’ll show you.” Baldwin spurred his horse to a gentle lope and rounded the southeast corner of the fort before he reined it in. St. Clair pulled his mount up beside him, Dunn beside St. Clair. Baldwin pointed as he spoke.

  “A big storehouse over there for supplies we hope to get, and a bakery over there. Two guardhouses further, over there by the wall. The larger building beyond the guardhouses is the new hospital, nearly finished. It will relieve conditions at the infirmary inside the fort.”

  He tapped spur to his horse and turned left, toward the lake. “We’ve built a wharf at the lake to make handling boats easier.” He paused to point. “And there, we’ve built a bridge across the narrows to the other side of the lake. We call it our ‘Great Bridge.’”

  St. Clair’s eyes widened. A bridge more than twelve feet wide—wide enough to accommodate wagons and cannon, as well as horses—reached from shore to shore. He turned to Baldwin. “How did you do it?”

  “Built twenty-two caissons twenty-four feet square and thirty feet high and filled them with rock. Skidded them out onto the ice and spaced them in a line, then cut the ice from under them and they sank. Then we set those floats you see—fifty feet long and twelve feet wide—between the caissons to connect them. We tied it all together with heavy chains and bolts and rivets. Crossing the lake is simple, and we can keep a constant communication with our forces over there. We expect it will also slow down any British ships that try to get past.”

  St. Clair looked Baldwin in the face. “Remarkable.” He gestured back toward the hospital and other buildings newly built. “You’ve done some good things in the past four months.”

  The late afternoon sun was beginning to cast shadows eastward when they dismounted their horses in front of St. Clair’s office and handed the reins to the waiting stable sergeant. He led their mounts away as the three men pushed through the door, and St. Clair hung his hat back on its peg. He sat down behind his desk while Baldwin and Dunn took their places opposite him. St. Clair sighed, ran his hand over his head to smooth his hair, and faced Baldwin.

  “Thank you for your assistance. I have to write all this up in a report. When I’m finished, I would like you to read it to make necessary corrections before I send it back to General Schuyler.”

  He turned to Dunn. “Leave your notes here on my desk. I’ll start on that report now. Is there anything else?”

  Dunn raised one hand. “Do you wish to take dinner with your staff of officers at their mess, or here?”

  St. Clair pursed his mouth for a moment while he reflected. “Tonight, probably here. I’ll take my meals with them tomorrow.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll bring your supper here.”

  St. Clair bobbed his head and stood. “If that’s all, then, you’re both excused for now, with my thanks.”

  With the closing of the door, St. Clair reached for Dunn’s notes, then writing paper and his inkwell and quill.

  At ten minutes past six o’clock, Dunn interrupted to leave a tray of boiled salt beef, rice, boiled carrots, scalding coffee, and brown bread. At six-thirty St. Clair lighted the lamps on his desk, then picked up his quill and continued writing, slowly, selecting his words with great care. At seven o’clock he paused to listen to the long drumroll as a patrol of six soldiers retired the colors from the flagpole. At seven-thirty, Dunn interrupted again to remove the tray and utensils. At ten minutes past eight, Dunn again rapped on the door with an unusual insiste
nce. St. Clair raised his head in the lamplight.

  “Come.”

  Dunn stepped inside. “Sir, something unusual. Two men have arrived, claiming to be American soldiers with orders from George Washington to report to you. They brought two other men with them at rifle point, under suspicion of being British agents.”

  St. Clair laid his quill on the paperwork. “What? What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Is it an emergency? Are we under threat of attack?”

  “No, sir. No one suggested that.”

  “Did they give names?”

  “The Americans did. Corporal Billy Weems and Private Eli Stroud.”

  “Recognize them? Or their names?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any reason this won’t wait until morning?”

  “None that I know of, sir.”

  “Tell them I’m unable to see them tonight, unless it’s a dire emergency. If they’re hungry, get them something from the enlisted men’s kitchen, and bed them for the night. I’ll see them in the morning.”

  “Very good, sir.” Dunn turned on his heel and closed the door as he left. For a moment St. Clair sat still, puzzled, then continued with the careful drafting of his lengthy report. At half past nine he drew a great breath, let it out slowly, and rose to stretch cramping muscles. He walked to the door and out into the warm, starry night. A light breeze brought in the smell of the lake, and from a long distance to the west a wolf pointed its nose at the newly risen half-moon and sent its haunting call floating through the night. At ten o’clock the drummer rattled taps, and the lights in the tents and sleeping quarters winked out. At eleven-thirty St. Clair buried his face in his hands for a moment, then stretched. At ten minutes before one o’clock he jerked awake and raised his head from his arm, folded on his desk, unable to remember where he was.

  He could no longer order his thoughts, and with a weariness that touched every fiber of his being, he pulled off his boots, removed his tunic, and laid down on the cot against the south wall. The tension began to drain, and five seconds later he was breathing slowly and deeply in an exhausted, dreamless sleep.