Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  General Nicholas Herkimer’s eyes narrowed. “What were you doing at Irondequoit?”

  Johann Pedersen, a short, young, wide-eyed American settler, sweaty, dirty, and unshaved from his flight to Fort Dayton, wiped at his mouth. “My cabin’s a mile and a half from Irondequoit, and right up to then the Senecas was on our side. When things got bad with Brant’s warriors sneakin’ around the woods, I figured the best place to be was right there in the village with the friendly Seneca, and I went. I didn’t know Brant and Butler could sway ’em from our side to the British so easy. As soon as I could, I run and come here.”

  “Your wife and family are still at your cabin?”

  The man’s eyes dropped. “Wife’s dead. When the smallpox come through from Onondaga, it took her. Lost our first baby afore that, to the whooping cough.”

  “Brant still at Irondequoit?”

  “No. I heard he left for Unadilla.”

  Herkimer, tall, craggy face, receding brown hair, strongly built, stood behind his desk and called, “Bates!”

  The door into his crude office opened and a colonial dressed in homespun, except for a tunic with a captain’s epaulets on his shoulders, stepped inside. “Yes?”

  “Get this man some food and a bath and a bed. Then report back here.”

  Bates, a shorter man than Herkimer, husky, round-faced, long blond hair tied back, nodded, and gestured to the young man, then followed him out the door, through the tiny anteroom, into the small parade ground of Fort Dayton, toward the first long, low enlisted men’s barracks. Alone, his face clouded, Herkimer slowly settled back onto his chair and pondered and weighed the news.

  Brant’s been agitating among the Iroquois all winter—got them all stirred up—his own Mohawk, and the Cayuga, Onondaga, and Oneida, and now it’s the Seneca—Butler with him.

  He stood and walked to the small window in the east wall of the log building to peer up at the bulging underbelly of thick, purple rain clouds.

  Is this the time we go after him shooting? Start a war here while Burgoyne and St. Clair are getting ready for one over in the Hudson River valley? Can’t start a war here without St. Clair’s consent—St. Clair and Washington. Maybe I should send out six riflemen to find Brant and kill him from ambush? No. Can’t do that—it would unite the Iroquois, and they’d come down on us like fiends from the infernal pit.

  He moved his feet, nervous, not liking the thorny thing that had just been thrust upon him, uninvited.

  What do I do? Forget it? And let them think we’re afraid? Make them bolder? No—must make them understand—it has to stop.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the rough-finished plank floor as his thoughts deepened.

  Shooting is coming—do I let them pick the time and place? No. Can’t let them take control.

  He was seated at his desk before the thought struck him. Parley! Send Brant a messenger. Ask him to meet me on neutral ground and parley. Find out his intentions. He’ll have to come or risk being branded a coward, unfit to lead.

  Bates rapped on his door and entered without invitation. “Reporting back.”

  Herkimer pursed his mouth for a moment. “Get Colonel Brownley and Major Whetten in here as soon as you can.”

  Bates wiped at his mouth. “We’re going to have a cloudburst out there.”

  “They’ve been wet before.”

  Bates shrugged and walked back out the door, peering up at the roiling clouds, gauging the minutes until the storm would break. He broke into a trot down to a second door and rapped sharply.

  “Enter.”

  “General Herkimer wants you in his office as soon as you can.”

  Brownley rose from the table that served as his desk as well as for dining, his face suddenly pensive. “What’s happened?”

  “Looks like Butler and Joseph Brant have gone too far.”

  Brownley reached for his tunic. “I’ll be right there.”

  Bates stepped quickly to the next door, rapped, and repeated his message. Major Whetten followed him out, still working with his tunic, one eye squinting upward at the boiling clouds. Bates was reaching for the latch on the door of Herkimer’s office when a gigantic bolt of lightning turned the purple clouds white, and the first clap of thunder boomed overhead. In that instant the wind swept through, splatting great drops of rain against the door as he slammed it closed.

  Brownley was already seated on a plain wooden chair facing Herkimer’s desk. Herkimer, seated at the desk, gestured, and Whetten sat down in a chair beside Brownley, watching the general for some indication of the extent of the emergency. Bates sat on a stool in the corner.

  Herkimer drew a great breath. “It looks like we’re finally going to have to do something about Brant.”

  At the mention of the name, both Brownley and Whetten stopped moving, and for several seconds the only sound was the rain pelting at the front wall and windows. Herkimer continued.

  “He and Butler were just at Irondequoit. They gave two shiploads of trade goods to the Seneca and served up about thirty barrels of rum. It took them three days, but when they finished, the Seneca had abandoned us and sworn loyalty to the British. Until that moment, the Seneca had been among our best allies.”

  Brownley glanced at Whetten, who was sitting in white-faced silence. Herkimer went on.

  “I don’t have to tell you men, Brant’s been out in those mountains all winter, dividing the Iroquois confederation. For all practical purposes, the Confederation is dead as of right now. Split. Divided. Ready to go to war with each other according to which side they favor, the British or us.”

  He paused to shake his head, and a look of deep sadness came into his eyes. He quietly murmured, “What have we done to them?” He shook off the melancholy moment and went on. “Let me come straight to it. What are we going to do?”

  Brownley tilted his head forward and closed his eyes for a few seconds in deep thought before he spoke. “The whole Hudson Valley and the Adirondacks are an open powder keg waiting for a spark. Hadn’t we better consult with General Washington, or at least Schuyler or St. Clair before we risk setting it all off at the wrong time?”

  “I thought about that. Whetten, what are your thoughts?”

  Whetten reached to scratch under his chin. “It’s going to happen, and probably sooner than later. I don’t know if there’s a right time or a right place. I do know it concerns me if we let Brant go very much farther before we stop him. Maybe it would be enough to make a show of strength, like marching a regiment right through the middle of Iroquois country to Irondequoit, and sending ten men to find him and deliver a written warning.”

  Herkimer shook his head. “I thought about that, too. It’s hard to know what to do.” He leaned forward intently. “It occurs to me there’s a way to check him without shooting.” He paused, and both Brownley and Whetten fell silent, waiting.

  “Invite Brant to parley with us. Meet him face to face. Hear him out. Try to persuade him to stop what he’s doing.” He stopped and waited for a reaction.

  Brownley spoke. “There’s risk. He might become belligerent. Start something. With Indians, you never know.”

  “Take along enough men that he wouldn’t dare,” Herkimer said.

  Whetten cut in. “You think he’d come to a parley with a large force of militia?”

  “Probably. It would likely cause some ridicule from his own warriors if he refuses. He’d lose face. He wouldn’t let that happen if he could avoid it.”

  Whetten fell silent, weighing the proposal against the dangers. “It might work.”

  Herkimer looked at Brownley, waiting, and Brownley spoke.

  “We pick the time, the place, and the conditions. Give him a chance to be heard.” He began a slight nodding of his head. “Probably better than a head-on confrontation. Might work. May be the best we can do for right now.”

  Herkimer spoke. “I’ll send a written message to him to meet us at Unadilla for a peaceful parley. Brownley, do you have three
or four Iroquois scouts you can trust to deliver it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are we agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  Herkimer bobbed his head. “Your two commands together are three hundred eighty men. Have them ready to march out at six o’clock in the morning.” He turned to Bates. “Draft orders for the men to draw rations for fourteen days, and half a pound of gunpowder and thirty rounds of ammunition each. Arrange wagons to carry it. Two, twelve-pound cannon and thirty rounds each, plus two kegs of grapeshot each. I’ll sign the order when you’re finished.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bates led the two officers through the anteroom and opened the outside door. The steady drumming of heavy rain filled a world blurred with a torrential cloudburst. The dirt parade ground was a sea of mud with great raindrops pounding the surface to a froth and rivulets of muddy water running to make small lakes in the low places. Brownley and Whetten both looked sour as they stepped out to make a run for their quarters. They were drenched to the skin and muddy to the knees within the first thirty yards.

  Bates sat at his desk for more than an hour using an eagle feather quill and paper, laboring over the drafting of orders that would provision three hundred eighty men for fourteen days and arm them for a heavy battle should one occur. Finished, he opened the outside door to look. The cloudburst had dwindled to a steady rain, and he closed the door, irritation plain on his round face. He rapped on Herkimer’s door twice, then walked on in.

  “Here’s the orders you wanted.”

  “Good.” Herkimer quickly read the three documents, signed them with a bold flourish, then pushed them back to Bates. “Get those delivered as soon as you can, then come back. I’ll have a rough draft of the message for Brant to meet and parley with us. You’ll finalize it for my signature and get it to Brownley. He’ll know what to do with it.” He glanced at the signed orders. “Don’t get those wet.”

  Bates folded the papers twice, paused in his office to wrap them in oilskin, then opened the outside door. The rain was slacking off, and the first breaks were appearing in the solid bank of blue-black clouds scudding eastward. The parade ground was a swamp of mud, and Bates reached to strip off his shoes and socks and set them on his desk. It was much easier to wash feet than to clean square-toed leather shoes with brass buckles, and knee-length white cotton socks.

  The startled sergeant at the commissary read the food order and stared back at Bates in disbelief. “Supplies for three hundred eighty men by morning? Who lost their mind?” His scraggly, six-days’ stubble of whiskers moved as he spoke.

  “General Herkimer. Read the signature,” Bates growled.

  At the ordnance building, the fat little sergeant gaped. “Thirty rounds of ammunition each for three hundred eighty men, plus officers? By morning? That’s . . uh . . let’s see . . . near twelve thousand rounds.” He set his jaw belligerently. “I’m not going to count out thirty rounds, three hundred eighty times. I’ll just send about twenty kegs of musketballs, and the officers can do their own counting.”

  “General Herkimer signed the order. Suit yourself.”

  “Then let Herkimer count ’em out.”

  Bates shrugged. “Go tell him.”

  “I will!”

  A wry grin crossed Bates’s face as he slogged back to his tiny office. In his mind he was seeing the chubby little ordnance sergeant, hands on his hips, looking upward at the tall, angular Herkimer, loudly telling him to go count the bloody musketballs himself. Inside his office, Bates dipped drinking water from the wooden bucket in the corner and held his feet out the door to rinse them, then walked to the door into Herkimer’s office to stand with water puddling at his feet.

  “You have a rough draft of the invitation for Brant?”

  Herkimer pointed to a paper on the leading edge of his desk, then looked at Bates’s wet, bare feet. “Bad out there?”

  “If the rain holds, we’ll need an ark to get to Irondequoit.”

  Herkimer shook his head. “Just a late spring storm. It’ll be gone within the hour.”

  Bates picked up the document from Herkimer’s desk and walked back out to his desk, mouth moving as he silently read the scratchings and the words that had been crossed out and replaced in the margins. With fresh paper and his quill, he began the painstaking labor of abiding all the frills and requirements of an official military document. Finished, he sighed his relief, then glanced at the small clock on the corner of his desk. Fifteen minutes past five o’clock. He rose, knocked once on Herkimer’s door, and walked in.

  “Ready for your signature.” He sat down while Herkimer read it carefully, nodded approval, and reached for his quill to scratch his signature beneath the “Your obd’t servant” at the foot of the page.

  “Get that to Brownley for delivery to Brant.”

  “Think we can find him?”

  “Brownley’s Iroquois scouts can.”

  “What if he finds us first, and thinks we’ve come to attack him?”

  Herkimer shrugged. “He’ll do whatever he thinks he should, but that’s one Indian who’s smart enough to know he better not launch an attack on a United States column without first talking it over with Butler, and probably Carleton up in Quebec. If he triggered a war before they’re ready, they’d likely haul him in and hang him.”

  “I hope he’s as smart as you think.” Bates jerked a thumb to point over his shoulder. “Nearly time for mess. Want your supper here?”

  “No, I’ll go with the officers.”

  Bates turned and walked back through his office to open the outside door. The rain had stopped, and shafts of golden sunlight reached through the clouds to turn Fort Dayton and the fresh, wet, emerald green of the Adirondacks to a spectacular, shifting kaleidoscope of sun and shadow. He eyed the muddy, steaming morass that lay between himself and the officers’ mess, one hundred fifty yards to the west, and reached to tuck his shoes and socks under his arm. He would arrive at the mess hall barefooted and muddy to his knees, but his shoes and socks would be clean and dry.

  * * * * *

  Soft, warm rain fell for a time in the middle of the night. The trees and shrubs were dripping when the camp drummer pounded out reveille in the gray dawn. At six o’clock General Herkimer mounted his bay horse, looked over his column, called out his orders, and turned his mount due south toward the Mohawk River, a winding, shining ribbon in the morning sun, just south of the fort. They crossed the river in boats, then pushed on through the forest toward the headwaters of the Tienaderha River.

  Strung out in single file for nearly half a mile, the column bore little resemblance to a regimented, disciplined army. Most of the men were barefooted, their shoes and socks, or moccasins, or rarely boots, tied around their necks as they slogged through the fresh, warm mud of the crooked trail that wound like a gigantic snake through the tall pines and maples and the spreading oak trees and thick undergrowth. There was not a uniform among them. Rather, they were dressed in loose homespun shirts and breeches. They carried their muskets and rifles loosely, some over a shoulder, some in their hand, with their powder horn and bullet pouch dangling, one on one side, one on the other. Their bedrolls were slung across their backs by a cord looped over their shoulders. A few wore battered tricornered hats, most had their long hair tied back with a piece of string or buckskin. Altogether the column would have drawn cutting derision and scornful disgust from the uniformed, disciplined, haughty British soldiers.

  But as they moved silently onward, the eyes of every man were constantly moving, peering into the shadows of the forest, identifying everything that moved, danger or no danger, friend or foe. They heard and instantly catalogued every sound, waiting for the slight whisper of ferns on buckskin that warned of an enemy hidden in the shadows. Within seconds of an alarm, not one man would remain exposed on the trail. They would be hidden on either side, crouched, silent, ready, waiting. Only the two wagons with supplies and ammunition, and the two, twelve-pound cannon would remain in sight. In a fight
the men would become shadows in the forest, firing, moving, firing, moving. And they would be silently contemptuous of the British, standing in rank and file like trained animals, wearing red tunics with white belts crossed over their chests—the best targets the Americans had ever seen—fully exposed, shouting obscenities at the cowardly Americans while the Americans chopped down their ranks—officers first—with relentless, hidden gunfire.

  At days’ end they posted pickets and boiled strong coffee and crisped sowbelly over low campfires scattered in the trees, then went to their blankets beneath the black forest canopy overhead, and the stars, to rise at dawn and march out as the first arc of the rising sun broke clear and bright above the eastern rim. The afternoon of the second day they were four miles north of the junction of the Tienaderha River and Butternut Creek when suddenly the two flanker scouts stopped dead, then dropped to disappear in the foliage while they identified three incoming shadows slipping silently through the trees.

  “Ours,” said one of the flankers, and they waited for a moment before they suddenly stood, musket muzzles held loosely on the three Indians coming in. One flanker held his position two hundred yards from the side of the column while the other one led the three Iroquois to the column, calling out “friendly” as they came in. The four of them trotted to the head of the column, where General Herkimer ordered a halt, beckoned to his interpreter, and dismounted.

  The Indians stood facing him and the interpreter, one in front, two behind, hands clasped over the muzzles of their upright muskets, silent, waiting.

  He spoke to the one leading. “Did you find Brant?”

  The interpreter started to translate when the Indian spoke. “Yes.”

  “Did you deliver the paper with the writing?”

  The Indian bobbed his head deeply, once.

  “Did Brant send back a message to me?”

  Again the Indian bobbed his head, then spoke. “Brant say he come Unadilla, two, three day, no musket, no rifle, no cannon.”