Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Eli caught the movement. “There!” Eli’s arm shot up to point. “In that oak tree!” He dropped his paddle and seized his rifle to bring it above his head, arms stretched high, hands spread wide apart, grasping the rifle near each end. He turned broadside to the shore and continued to hold the weapon high, while Billy grasped his musket in a similar fashion and hoisted it above his head.

  The canoe slowed, then stopped, then began to drift slowly backward in the current created as the waters from Lake George drained thundering through the Chute into the southern tip of Lake Champlain. The two men continued to hold their weapons high, permitting the canoe to drift.

  On shore, the hidden rifleman raised his head from the rifle stock, startled when the Indian in the rear of the canoe suddenly pointed directly at him, then instantly raised his rifle over his head—the universal sign of peace. A second later, the man in the bow of the canoe also had his weapon above his head, and the canoe was slowing to a dead stop in the water. Then it began drifting backward with the current.

  Quickly the sentinel eased the rifle hammer forward, drew his rifle back, and waited in silence for any sign, any sound, that other eyes might have seen his movements or heard the click of the cocking of his rifle hammer. There was nothing, and he remained still, silent, watching for a silent shadow slipping through the forest, listening for anything that might betray a Mohawk patrol passing. There was only the quiet buzzing of the insects.

  “Keep your musket high,” Eli said to Billy. He laid his rifle back in the canoe, took up his paddle, and began stroking again, dragging his paddle for a moment after each third stroke to keep the canoe on course. One mile from the fort they turned to within one hundred yards of the shoreline, and a four-man patrol stepped from the forest into the sunlight on the shore to study them, then wave, and half a mile from the fort another patrol hailed them. Eli brought the canoe into Baldwin’s newly finished wharf, jutting into the dark waters. Billy stepped out of the canoe onto the pale, rough-finished split-log planks, tied up the craft, and the two men, weapons held loosely in their right hands, walked toward the dozen men gathering on shore.

  A captain met them, eyes narrowed in question as they approached and stopped. Billy saluted and spoke. “Corporal Billy Weems and Private Eli Stroud returning from scout to report to General St. Clair.”

  The captain eyed them both for a moment, then turned. “I’ll take you in. Hand me your weapons.”

  Crews of men stripped to the waist, digging a trench in the rocky soil, paused to watch them pass, and carpenters working with saws and hammers on the walls of a crumbling abatis raised their heads to look as the knot of men walked through the heavy gates into the parade ground of the fort. They stopped before the door into St. Clair’s office, the picket nodded, the captain knocked, and Major Isaac Dunn opened the door.

  “Captain Arnold Telford, sir. These two men docked in an Iroquois war canoe and claim to be scouts coming back to report to General St. Clair.”

  Looking past Telford at Eli and Billy, a look of relief crossed Dunn’s face. “Thank you, Captain. I recognize them. Return their weapons and let them pass.” Billy and Eli followed Dunn into the office, feeling confined in the smallness of the room after spending thirteen days with the heavens for a ceiling and the endless wilderness for walls.

  Dunn spoke. “The general’s with Colonel Baldwin right now, inspecting progress on the northeast blockhouse. Should be back momentarily. Stand your weapons in the corner and take a seat.” In the poor light from the two small windows on either side of the door, he watched them put their weapons in the corner, then lay the two telescopes on the general’s desk. It was then he noticed three slender sticks thrust through Eli’s weapon belt. Puzzled, he asked, “What are the sticks?”

  Eli glanced down, then spoke. “Didn’t have a pencil or paper. Kept the count on the sticks.”

  “Count of what?”

  “Their troops, cannon, horses.”

  Dunn passed it off. “Are you both all right? Any trouble?”

  Eli shook his head while Billy answered, “No real trouble.”

  “What do you mean, real trouble?”

  “They had patrols and scouts out everywhere up there. We had to stay hidden. Ran into one patrol near Valcour Island. They left.”

  “What are you not telling me?” Dunn pressed.

  “We had trouble with two Indians in that patrol. It was them or us. We hid the bodies.”

  Dunn studied the look in Billy’s eyes as he spoke and read the sense of regret that they had to kill two more men. He saw in the young man’s face the sadness, the anger, that people were unable to rise above the horrors of war to settle their differences. For a moment Dunn stared at the floor in somber reflection.

  Boots sounded on the board walkway in front of the building, and the door opened. A shaft of sunlight flooded the room as General Arthur St. Clair strode in, removing his hat, eyes opened wide in the shadowy room, seeing only silhouettes for a moment.

  Billy and Eli stood as Dunn came to attention. “Sir, scouts Weems and Stroud have returned.”

  St. Clair stopped for a moment, then hung his hat on its peg. “Glad you’re back alive. I was getting worried. Are you all right?” He walked to his side of the scarred old desk.

  “Yes, sir,” Billy said.

  “Good. Be seated. Do you need anything? Food? Medicine? Rest?”

  “No, sir. We’re fine.”

  “Any reason I can’t take your verbal report now?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Major Dunn, stay with us.” He turned to face Billy. “All right. First things first. General Schuyler got my report, and eight days ago he came up from Albany for an inspection. He was appalled. He held an officers’ council and left. I don’t know what he intends to do, but now he knows what we’re facing.”

  He paused for a moment, and his demeanor sharpened. “Let’s move on to the critical question. Are the British gathering a major force up there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Many of them gathered at St. Johns, then moved on down to Cumberland Bay to meet more. The entire force sailed out of Cumberland Bay in the morning, two days ago, coming south.”

  “How many total?”

  Billy turned to Eli, who drew one of the wooden sticks from his belt, followed by his knife. On the stick were a series of consecutive notches. Eli ran his knife blade down the notches, counting the clicks. There were ten, and Eli answered.

  “Counting British, Germans, Indians, Canadians, camp followers, close to ten thousand.”

  St. Clair reared up in his chair. “Ten thousand! How many British regulars and Germans?”

  Eli turned the stick to fresh notches and again ran his knife blade down the stick. There were four clicks, followed by three more, then one. “About four thousand British, and three thousand, one hundred Germans.”

  “Over seven thousand troops?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Counted them.”

  “From where? How close?”

  “From the top of a tree about two hundred yards from their camp, with the telescopes.” He pointed at the desk where the two borrowed telescopes lay in their scarred, stiff leather cases.

  St. Clair’s jaw dropped for a moment in astonishment. “You were that close? Right in among them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? One of our best scouts, Sergeant Heath from Whitcomb’s Rangers—the Long Hunters—reported that Indians are so thick in the woods up there they can’t get within six miles of the main camp. If he couldn’t get in, how did you?”

  Billy turned to Eli, who answered. “Waited for a rainy night. Came in through one of the horse herds. The horses and rain took care of our tracks. Not many think to look up eighty feet at the tops of the trees without a reason.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “Stayed in the tree all day, counting. About two the next morning, we went out in
the dark through the same horse herd. Stopped only long enough to stampede ’em.”

  “Stampede them? How?”

  Billy answered. “When we were right in among them, Eli started barking like a fox. The pickets thought it was real. Scattered the horses all through camp. They spent the rest of the night gathering them. When they finished, no one was thinking about looking for our tracks, and if they had, I doubt they could have found them after the horses and half their camp had run over them.”

  “How many horses do they have?”

  Eli drew out the next stick and once more ran his knife blade downward, counting the clicks. “About fifteen hundred.”

  “Oxen?”

  More clicks. “Eight hundred.”

  St. Clair exclaimed, “What! Twenty-three hundred draft animals? How many wagons and carts?”

  Eli drew the last stick and counted the clicks. “Thirteen hundred.”

  St. Clair was incredulous. “Is Burgoyne insane? Trying to move thirteen hundred wagons through this wilderness?”

  Eli remained calm. “Looks that way.”

  St. Clair brought his racing thoughts under control and asked the single question that weighed heaviest. “How many cannon?”

  Eli turned the stick and ran his knife blade one more time, counting. “One hundred thirty-eight.”

  Silence gripped the room for a full five seconds while St. Clair’s mind reeled and Dunn sat transfixed. St. Clair licked dry lips and asked, “You’re sure? You counted?”

  Billy answered. “We both counted. Twice. One hundred thirty-eight.”

  “What size?”

  Billy answered. “A lot of big ones I estimate to be twenty-four- pounders. From there on down to some mortars, maybe four or six inchers.”

  St. Clair clasped his hands on his desktop and studied them for a time, then spoke quietly, as though to himself. “Enough guns to put us under siege.” He raised his eyes. “You say you saw this army moving south? They’re coming here?”

  Billy nodded. “Yes, sir. We tracked them from St. Johns on down to Cumberland Bay. You should have seen it. Like something out of a storybook. They sailed out of the bay and turned south in the early morning, the Green Mountains to the east, the Adirondacks to the west, all in shadows. About twenty Indian war canoes led, with as many as forty warriors each, all painted and feathered and dressed for war. Behind came heavier ships and boats, then bateaux, all filled with British in red and white and Germans in blue, sails up, the Union Jack and regimental flags flying—I never saw anything like it.”

  St. Clair shook his head. “John Burgoyne. Had to stage it like a great drama in a London theater. When did you last see them?”

  “Two days ago when they sailed. We got ahead of them and came here as fast as we could.”

  “Any idea how close they are?”

  “No. Would you like us to go back up and find out?”

  St. Clair set his jaw and shook his head. “No. I have heavier work than that for you. But first, is there anything else you have to report?”

  Eli answered. “Yes. I’m sure I saw St. Luc and Langlade in their camp up there. Know who they are?”

  “By reputation only.”

  “Two of the bloodiest cutthroats in the northeast. Things could get bad if they lead those Indians on a few raids down here.”

  “Anything else?”

  Billy pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt. “General Burgoyne had a lot of these handed out to the Americans on the east side of the lake. Might want to read it.”

  St. Clair’s face clouded in puzzlement as he took the crumpled paper, smoothed it on his desk, and read it. His eyes began to widen as he went on.

  “A PROCLAMATION to the harden’d Enemies of Great Britain. We offer open arms, restoration of their rights, and security to loyal subjects of the king, however, to those harden’d criminals who have inflicted grievous and arbitrary imprisonment upon the loyalists, confiscation of their property, persecution, and unspeakable tortures, we give solemn warning. To consummate these shocking proceedings, the profanation of Religion is added to the most profligate prostitution of common reason, the consciences of Men are set at naught, and multitudes are compelled not only to bear Arms, but also to swear subjection to an usurpation they abhor. In consciousness of Christianity, my Royal Master’s clemency, and the honor of Soldiership, I have but to give stretch to the Indian Forces under my direction, and they amount to Thousands, and the king’s enemies could then expect to meet the messengers of justice and of wrath, devastation, famine, and every concommitant horror. Signed, Major General John Burgoyne.”

  In silence St. Clair lowered the paper, struggling to believe a British major general of the stature of John Burgoyne had drafted such a thing. Playwright or not, theatrically talented or not, writing the costly and complex The Maid of the Oaks play for his nephew’s London wedding, or the well-received farce Blockade of Boston, ridiculing the American rebels was one thing. Writing the sophisticated, lofty language in the proclamation before him, with the bald-faced threat of turning his Indians loose to wreak “wrath, devastation, famine and every concommitant horror” on the tough, no-nonsense American Yankees across the lake, was altogether another.

  He spoke quietly to Billy. “Where did you get this?”

  “From a settler east of the lake.”

  “What did he think of it?”

  “The same as most of the others who got it. Anger at the British. He was ready to fight.”

  St. Clair shook his head. “I think Burgoyne’s made a mistake. Maybe a bad one. Time will tell.”

  Eli broke in. “Was there something else you wanted us to do?”

  St. Clair drew in a great draught of air and exhaled it slowly, foreboding surrounding him like a pall. “Yes. I put it to you not as an order, but as a request. If you go, it will be as volunteers.”

  Billy settled back in his chair. Volunteers! He doubts we’ll return. Billy said nothing and waited in silence.

  St. Clair addressed Eli. “I’ll have to give you some background. You mentioned seeing St. Luc and Langlade. I think they’re up here because Burgoyne’s Indians have been coming closer to the fort every day. Nine days ago, two of our men named Whiting and Batty left the fort to go to the sawmill. We found them killed and scalped and mutilated by Indians within sight of the fort. Since then the woods to the north have been so full of Indians close to the fort that we’ve stopped sending out small parties. We’ve got three of Whitcomb’s best rangers out right now, two days overdue. I have a premonition that St. Luc or Langlade’s Indians got them. It confirms what you said about them.”

  He paused to order his thoughts. “You recall the two men you brought in just before you left? Amsbury and Adams?”

  Both Billy and Eli nodded.

  A hard, flat look came into St. Clair’s eyes. “You knew I sent them on down to General Schuyler in Albany for full interrogation. He sent me a detailed message by special messenger.”

  St. Clair slowed, and a sense of tension came creeping.

  “They found a note on Amsbury written by one of Burgoyne’s brigade majors declaring Amsbury was on secret service for Burgoyne and stating he was not to be searched or interfered with. His canteen had a false bottom, and in it was a letter written by a New Hampshire Tory named Peter Livius, who is right now the Chief Justice of the Canadian courts. The letter was for General John Sullivan, begging Sullivan to recant his loyalty to the American cause and exert himself for king and crown.”

  Billy gaped. “John Sullivan? You mean our General John Sullivan, the one who had a command at Trenton and Princeton?”

  “Yes. Our General John Sullivan.”

  Billy slowly shook his head as St. Clair continued.

  “Amsbury told us that Sir John Johnson was leading a command of Iroquois Indians from Oswego to meet Burgoyne at Albany. Remember? What he didn’t tell us, but did tell Schuyler, was that the regulars and Germans are led by British Lieutenant Colonel Barry St. Leger, and that
the Indians are being led by Joseph Brant. St. Leger has about two hundred British regulars, one hundred Hesse-Hanau mercenaries, some Canadians, and loyalists. Brant has nearly a thousand Indians. About two thousand troops, all told.”

  St. Clair paused to watch the blank expression come into the faces of both Billy and Eli before he continued. His voice was soft, acrid. “And he didn’t tell us that St. Leger and Brant are under orders to wipe out Fort Stanwix on the way.”

  Billy sucked air sharply. Eli started, straightened on his chair, and then leaned back, wide-eyed. There it is. Brant’s going to close off the western side of the lakes.

  St. Clair plowed on. “Amsbury also said Burgoyne had ordered hundreds of new carts and all the horses he could get to move his army down the west side of the lake. He intends cutting off our communications with just about everybody, isolate us, and take the fort with his cannon. He has about eight thousand troops to our four thousand. The report you made today confirms it all. Then he’s moving on down to Albany to meet General William Howe coming from the east—New York—and St. Leger and Brant coming from the west. Those three combined forces intend cutting off all the New England states and taking them one at a time.”

  For a few seconds the only sound in the room was the spring flies buzzing at the windows. St. Clair continued, “Congress and most of the country believe this fort is the key to the western defense. What they’ve never been told is that if the British get their big guns up on top of Mount Defiance, this fort and most of the men in it will be gone in less than two days.”

  He paused, and his eyes took on a flinty look. “Fate has given me the choice of two ways to destroy myself: sacrifice four thousand men to hold a fort that cannot be held, and enter history as a butcher; or, abandon Fort Ti, and enter history as a coward.”

  He looked down, and Billy and Eli saw the man writhing within as he contemplated the terrible choice. “I can only hope that decision never has to be made.”

  For a time the four men sat in silence, struggling to grasp the enormity of what was happening, hating the white heat of the decision St. Clair might have to make. Billy broke the silence.

  “Do your men know what’s coming down on them?”