by Ron Carter
MacIntosh’s eyes narrowed in shocked disbelief. His head thrust forward for a moment while he recovered sufficiently to come to full military attention and speak. “Is that you, sir? Colonel Simon Fraser of the Seventy-eighth Foot?”
Fraser looked full into MacIntosh’s face while he studied him for a moment. “Yes. I was with the Seventy-eighth Foot.”
“Sergeant James MacIntosh, sir. With the Seventy-eighth Foot, under your command for four years. I must say, sir, I’m surprised and very much pleased to see you again.”
For a moment Fraser stood silent while he searched his memory. “Sergeant MacIntosh? I believe I do remember a Sergeant MacIntosh. Scotland. Am I correct?”
MacIntosh grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Fraser spontaneously thrust out his hand to the old Scot, and MacIntosh reached to grasp it as the two former comrades in arms shook hands warmly. Then Fraser glanced at Darby.
“What is Sergeant MacIntosh doing here?”
Darby cleared his throat. “Sir, he was brought in by the Mohawk for interrogation.”
Fraser’s eyebrows arched. “A prisoner? Enemy?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only know that General Burgoyne issued orders to have someone brought in who is knowledgeable about Fort Ti.”
Fraser turned back to MacIntosh. “Are you lately with the American forces at Fort Ti?”
MacIntosh shook his head. “I am lately making it my business to live my own life in peace. My place is near the fort, but I take no sides in the trouble between the Americans and British.”
“Would you be willing to answer some questions about Fort Ti?”
MacIntosh shrugged. “Yes, but there’s not much to tell.”
Fraser turned back to Darby. “May I come with you to see General Burgoyne?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Darby rapped on the door, which bore gold, black-edged lettering: MAJOR GENERAL JOHN BURGOYNE. It was immediately opened by an eager young lieutenant who snapped to attention, then stepped aside to allow the three men to enter the small waiting room. “I’ll inform the general you’re here,” he said, turned on his heel, and marched to a door to the left of his desk. He rapped, they heard the word “Enter” from inside, and he disappeared inside the room, to reemerge almost immediately.
“The general will see Major Darby.”
Darby disappeared through the door to reappear in ten seconds. “The general will see us all.”
Fraser led MacIntosh into the moderately-sized room with large French doors in the wall to the left. A colorful mural of a lake filled the wall opposite. A polished desk with delicately styled designs carved into the four legs faced the door. A worktable stood in one corner, covered with folded maps, an inkwell, and quill. As the men entered, General John Burgoyne stood. He wore no wig, but had his dark hair tied neatly behind his head with a black bow. His tailored uniform sparkled. His smile was sincere, and MacIntosh caught the aura of charisma that drew people to the man. It was Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne, the toast of London and Paris, at his best.
“General Fraser,” he said warmly as he came from behind his desk, “how good to see you.” He did not wait for the reply, but turned to Darby and gestured to MacIntosh. “Is this the man of whom you spoke?”
“It is, sir.”
The smile never left Burgoyne’s face as he turned shrewd eyes to the Scot. “I trust you were not mistreated by the Indians.”
“I was treated well.”
“I’m told you are an old acquaintance of General Fraser.”
“I served under him in the Seventy-eighth Foot.”
Burgoyne shook his head. “Remarkable. After all these years.” He turned to Fraser. “Did you remember this soldier?”
“I did, sir.”
“Extraordinary! You asked permission to remain while he and I have a talk?”
“I did, sir.”
“You’re welcome to stay.” He turned to Darby. “Thank you, Major, that will be all.”
As Darby closed the door, Burgoyne gestured to two upholstered chairs facing his desk. “Be seated, gentlemen.”
They sat facing his desk while Burgoyne took a seat in a high-backed, blue velvet upholstered chair. In the back of the chair the golden English lion had been carefully set in tiny needlepoint. Burgoyne sat nonchalantly cocked to one side.
“Mr. MacIntosh, I understand you live near Fort Ticonderoga.”
“For many years.”
“Ever been inside the fort?”
“Many times. I’ve worked on it.”
“Good. I hope you will not be reluctant to talk about it.”
MacIntosh shook his head. “I told General Fraser, I haven’t taken sides in the British and American troubles. I choose to live in peace.”
Burgoyne thrust a finger upward. “Ah! Excellent. Do you need anything? Coffee? Food?”
“I’m all right.”
“May we begin, then?”
“Anytime.”
Burgoyne began. He wanted to know, where are the cannon—what is the condition of the abatis outside the fort—the redoubts, blockhouses, and redans—the trenches, breastworks—how many officers—soldiers—artisans—workmen—wagoneers—the number of boats—ships—gondolas—bateaux—their armament—their stock of food—the position of their powder magazines—are they bombproof—how are they protected—where inside the fort are the officers’ quarters, enlisted quarters, food stores, musket and cannon stores—outside the fort where is the sawmill—hospital?
The answers MacIntosh gave were freely given and genuine. The fort is a wreck—the abatis stripped of all wood—the redoubts and redans totally inoperable—the trenches without breastworks—the total force at the fort, including working civilians, is under four thousand—morale is nonexistent—the navy has but two galleys with twelve, six-pound cannon each, a gondola with two nine-pound guns, a sloop named Betsey with two guns, and seventy bateaux, half of which are unusable because there was no pitch to caulk the hulls—less than eight weeks’ food stores.
A rap at the door interrupted, and on invitation, Darby entered. “Do you wish to take lunch in here, sir?”
Startled, Burgoyne looked at the clock on the corner of his desk. “Lunchtime already? Yes. For three.”
Darby left, and Burgoyne flashed his charming smile as he spoke. “I lost track of time. I apologize. Stand if you wish.” Rising himself, he stretched set muscles, then walked to the windows to peer out at the bright sunshine and the bustle of soldiers and civilians in the streets of St. Johns. He turned back to Fraser and MacIntosh, who had also risen to stretch.
“General, any thoughts on all this?”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a map of the Fort Ticonderoga area?”
“Excellent idea! Of course.” He quickly stepped to the worktable, selected a folded map, and returned to his desk. He was unfolding it when Darby rapped again at the door.
“Lunch, sir.”
Burgoyne set the map aside as Darby placed a large tray on the desk, excused himself, and left the room. The three men ate hot sliced ham, boiled vegetables, boiled apple slices covered with cinnamon, fresh bread, elderberry wine, and plum pudding. Darby reappeared to remove the tray, Burgoyne spread the map, and they took their places again.
Burgoyne spoke to Fraser. “Was there something on the map you had in mind?”
Fraser studied it for a moment, turned it to lay true to the compass, and pointed at the outline of Fort Ticonderoga on the small peninsula where Lake George joined Lake Champlain. He turned to MacIntosh. “Where is your home?”
MacIntosh located the fort, then moved his finger due west. “There.”
“How far from the fort?”
“Maybe four hundred yards.”
“What defenses lie between your home and the fort?”
MacIntosh shook his head. “None. Trenches, but no breastworks. No cannon. The Americans think they can defend that stretch with muskets.”
Burgoyne leaned forward, eyes narrowed, intens
e. “There are no cannon covering the approach from the west?”
“None. Not one.”
Fraser tapped his finger on Mt. Defiance and continued. “Tell me about this mountain. I’ve heard things.”
MacIntosh raised his eyes from the map. “Sugar Hill?”
“I thought they renamed the mountain a year ago.”
“They did. Mount Defiance. I can’t get used to it.” He moved his finger to the east side of the lake, directly opposite Fort Ticonderoga. They also changed the name of this one, from Rattlesnake Hill to Mount Independence.” He shook his head in disgust.
“Did I hear something about getting cannon up onto Mount Defiance?”
“Yes. Last summer. Some engineer—Trumbull, I think—figured cannon on top of Mount Defiance could blow the fort to pieces. Gates didn’t agree, but let him shoot from the fort at the mountaintop. The cannonballs nearly made it to the top. I was there—saw it. If someone gets a few heavy guns up there, the fort can probably be taken without an infantry attack.”
“Didn’t someone take a look to see if guns could be taken up there?”
“Arnold and someone else, maybe Trumbull. They said it can.”
“Do you think it can be done?”
“From the back side. It won’t be easy, but it can be done.”
“You’ve been there?”
“I’ve been all over that country.”
Burgoyne raised startled eyes to Fraser, but remained silent. Fraser went on.
“When reinforcements arrive at the fort, from which direction do they come?”
MacIntosh pondered for a moment. “Depends. Either through the Grants, here, or Skenesborough, here.”
“I see. How many have been coming at any one time?”
“Not enough. Bunches of ten or twenty, mostly. Once in a while maybe a hundred. Never more.”
“Do you think, then, the fort is undermanned?”
“Yes. Bad.”
“If the Americans were forced into a retreat, which way would they go?”
MacIntosh pursed his lips, then moved his finger on the map. “I think, either through Castle Town, or Skenesborough. Probably Skenesborough.”
“Who is in command at the fort now?”
“St. Clair. A general.”
Fraser nodded. “I know him. I think he’s Scot, too.”
“That he is.”
Fraser turned to Burgoyne. “I think that’s all I have.”
Burgoyne straightened. “Mr. MacIntosh, you’ve been most helpful. I thank you. I’ll have Darby find suitable quarters for you for a day or two. Then we’ll find a way to get you back to your home.” He turned and called, “Darby!”
After the door closed behind Darby and MacIntosh, Fraser turned to Burgoyne. “I believe MacIntosh told the truth. May I recommend we have our cartographers make detailed drawings of everything MacIntosh told us, hold a war council and show it to your staff of officers, then make plans to get down there as soon as possible. St. Clair’s a good general. Every day we give him to bring Fort Ti up to readiness will cost us when we make our attack. Get there quick, cut off their supply lines from Castle Town and Skenesborough, hit them where they’re weakest, and take the fort while they’re still in such a deplorable condition. If you can get cannon on top of Mount Defiance, the engagement should be much reduced.”
Burgoyne seized his quill, dipped the tip in the inkwell, and hastily scrawled notes on a piece of paper. “We start today. I’ll have Darby get the cartographers over here the minute he’s back.”
Then Burgoyne sat down in his chair and gestured for Fraser to also sit down. For several seconds Burgoyne stroked his chin in thought while Fraser sat silent, waiting.
“Simon, about these Indians. It’s a thorny thing. They’re unpredictable and often unreliable, but they’re incomparable out there in the forest as eyes and ears, and for mounting bloody, lightning attacks. They strike a particular terror into the hearts of whites, on either side.” A cynical smile flitted across Burgoyne’s face. “Our men are more afraid of our own Indians than of the Americans.” He leaned forward and came to the point. “It strikes me that this element of fear could work to our advantage. I’m thinking of sending a written warning to the Americans on the other side of the lake, telling them that if they do not cooperate with us, we will visit them with our Indians.”
Burgoyne paused to consider what he had said, then asked, “What do you think?”
Fraser leaned back in his chair and for a moment stared at the ceiling, lips rounded, blowing air, quickly calculating the words he would use to tell Burgoyne that his flair for high rhetoric and theatrical dramatics could do more harm than good in such a written document. He leveled his gaze at Burgoyne. “The truth?”
“From you? Always.”
“There’s risk if it’s done wrong.”
“Risk?”
“These New England Yankees are hardheaded, common sense people, and I don’t think they scare very easily. Plain, sensible talk might appeal to them, but I doubt they would be impressed with anything that departs very far from it. Gets too flowery. Maybe it would be better to not call it a warning. Call it an appeal to good sense. Something like that.”
Burgoyne picked up his quill and added to his notes. “Simon, as always I am indebted to you. You handled MacIntosh beautifully. I’ll remember what you said about how to reach the Americans across the lake.”
He stood and hunched his shoulders to relieve tension. “The first of the boats leaves tomorrow for the gathering at Cumberland Head. Some of your command will be with them. Have I taken you away from them too long?”
Fraser spoke as he stood. “No. They have good officers.”
“Go back to your command with my thanks. I’ll start work on a draft of something for the Americans across the lake.” Burgoyne walked him to the door. “If you see Darby, tell him to report to me soon.”
Fraser nodded and walked out the front door, squinting into the late afternoon sunshine, struggling with foreboding thoughts. I failed—I did it wrong—I should have told him to not write a warning to the Americans east of the river—he’ll wax too dramatic—too dramatic.
Inside his office, Burgoyne sat down at his desk and picked up his quill. Deep in thought, he twisted it slowly between his hands, then opened his desk drawer and drew out a leather folder. He opened it on his desk and sorted down through the dozens of pages of meticulous notes he had made as he had pieced his master plan together for the campaign. He paused, then drew out a sheet of paper with his handwriting on both sides, then spoke aloud.
“Ah. Here it is. Stretch. That’s the word. Stretch. I will give stretch to my Indians.” He repeated it to himself thoughtfully, then smiled. “Good. Very good. That sounds entirely civil, but very subtly conveys the thought. Either they cooperate, or my Indians will descend upon them like a river of fiends.”
He laid the leather folder and its precious notes back in the drawer, closed it, and pulled his inkwell and fresh paper into position, eyes glistening with anticipation as he scratched the first lines of the warning that would certainly bring the full cooperation of the Americans across the lake.
Notes
James MacIntosh was taken captive by two Indians, from the shadow of the walls of Fort Ticonderoga where he lived, and transported north to be interrogated by General Burgoyne concerning MacIntosh’s knowledge of the fort. While there, by purest coincidence, he recognized General Simon Fraser, who had been his commanding officer when he served as an enlisted man in the Seventy-eighth Regiment of Foot years earlier. MacIntosh knew most of the intimate details of the Fort Ti and also the defenses on Mt. Independence, their condition, and the men and their condition, and gave a full report to General Burgoyne in a four-hour interview. Based on his information, Fraser had a drawing made of the area and urged an immediate siege (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 143–44).
Fort Ticonderoga
June 26, 1777
CHAPTER X
* * *
They got about a minute to show their colors—then the Indian in the rear goes down. The tall man in the fringed buckskin hunting shirt, leather breeches, and moccasins, shifted his weight in the fork of a great, ancient oak tree, and laid the long barrel of his Pennsylvania rifle over a gnarled limb. He brought the muzzle to bear loosely on the Iroquois war canoe, three hundred fifty yards from the west shore of Lake Champlain, less than two miles north of Fort Ticonderoga. Hidden, he peered intently between the tree leaves at the two men, one in the stern, one in the bow. They were kneeling in the fashion of Indians, throwing their weight into each rhythmic stroke of their paddles, driving the light craft south fast enough to leave a wake forty feet behind. The man in front wore nondescript colonial homespun; the one in the rear was dressed in what was clearly an Iroquois buckskin hunting shirt with beadwork on the breast.
Without conscious thought the hidden rifleman began making calculations of distance, canoe speed, and bullet drop. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, laid his cheek against the smooth, worn stock, and began moving the muzzle, tracking the speeding canoe. Thirty seconds—if they’re ours they know to show it, this close to the fort.
In the canoe, Eli was matching Billy stroke for stroke, Billy digging his paddle in on the left side of the bow, Eli on the right side of the stern, keeping their course in a line parallel with the lake shore. The brilliant early morning sun had risen on a world caught in a hush. The air was dead—not a breath of breeze, not a leaf stirred. By lifelong habit Eli’s head was moving slightly from side to side, with every sense reaching to feel what was around him, on the lake, in the forest. In the moment the hidden rifle muzzle on the west bank came to bear on him, the sun from the east caught the gunmetal, and a flash of reflected light blinked in the shadowed branches of the tree. Instantly Eli turned his head to peer, and he called to Billy, voice low, urgent. “Stop. There’s something in the trees.” Billy lifted his paddle, and the canoe began to slow.
On shore, the hidden rifleman drew back the big hammer clicking on his rifle, refining his bead on the distant figure of Eli as his rifle muzzle continued to swing steadily with the canoe.