by Ron Carter
Phillips shook his head. “We’re wasting time. And we’re forgetting the principles that have been so dearly bought and paid for over the last two hundred years.” He thrust his chin forward, emphasizing every word. “Follow the rules. Dig in. Save our strength. Wait while we build roads that will accommodate our artillery. Bring in our heavy guns. Put the fort under siege and starve the Americans out. I see neither need nor benefit to any other scheme.”
Von Riedesel remained silent. Fraser interlaced his fingers and stared at them while he resolved to say no more. Phillips sat ramrod straight, certain he had delivered the final word.
Burgoyne reached to run a hand lightly over his carefully combed hair. For a time he sat with his hands before him on the table, eyes half closed, while he weighed all that had been said. Then he drew a great breath and spoke.
“We will proceed to prepare for a siege.” He turned to Fraser. “Starting this afternoon, have any of your troops still remaining on boats or bateaux wade ashore. Tomorrow morning, order your Canadians and Indians, with six hundred men of your advanced corps, to move around the American left. Take the sawmill and the garrison at Mount Hope, then the French Lines, and then move on down to the place MacIntosh described, where the Americans have no cannon covering an approach to the fort. Fire two or three volleys, then wait and hold them in place. We will move our heavy artillery in as soon as we can.”
Fraser unwaveringly nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have the orders in writing for you before nightfall.” Burgoyne stood, once again his old engaging self. “Well, then, gentlemen. Thank you all for coming. Your counsel is invaluable to me.”
They all stood and proceeded toward the entrance to the tent. Burgoyne himself held the flap open for them and stood waving as they walked out into the noise and clutter of the camp.
* * * * *
Twenty minutes before the officers were to gather for their evening mess, a young captain cantered his tall sorrel horse to the front of General Fraser’s quarters and dismounted. Responding to the picket’s challenge, the captain showed the sealed document and said, “Sealed orders from General Burgoyne for General Fraser.”
Minutes later, alone inside his tent, Fraser broke the wax seal and spread the beautifully scrolled document on his table. The orders were in strict conformance with the verbal instruction given by Burgoyne at the council. Thoughtfully, Fraser pushed the document to one side, then reached for quill and ink. He opened his daily journal, and under the date of July 1, 1777, slowly began to write.
“Rec’d orders from General Burgoyne to move south from Three Mile tomorrow morning, take the American sawmill, their garrison at Mount Hope, and engage them at the west side of Fort Ticonderoga. It seems clear that if the rebels were to voluntarily evacuate the fort without a battle, the conquest would not be sufficiently brilliant when news of it reached London, since there is little glory in capturing only a large store of supplies and a body of soldiers who would rather be prisoners than fight.”
Fraser read what he had written and wondered if he had been unfairly judgmental of his commanding officer. Gentleman Johnny. Ambitious Johnny. Wants immortality by winning the great battle at Fort Ticonderoga. If St. Clair knows he cannot defend the fort, will he abandon it? And if he tries, will Burgoyne let him go without a battle?
Fraser leaned back in his chair, lost for a time in thought. Finally, he roused himself and stood. We’ll see. We’ll see. Time will tell. He turned and ducked through the tent flap, angling toward the officers’ mess tent.
Notes
Unless otherwise indicated, the following is taken from Ketchum, Saratoga, on the pages identified.
General Burgoyne held a war council prior to proceeding south to begin the shooting war with General St. Clair. The council was held at Three Mile Point, three miles north of Fort Ticonderoga, and attended by generals von Riedesel, Fraser, and Phillips. The use of the British ships Royal George and Inflexible was discussed.
The British had constructed a large boom and floated it south to stop any American vessels from coming north to fire upon the British bateaux. General von Riedesel’s troops were to cross Lake Champlain and proceed south to take Mt. Independence, formerly Rattlesnake Hill. Fraser was to lead a second force south on the west side of the lake to attack the French Lines and drive the Americans from Mt. Hope, back to Fort Ti.
Burgoyne wanted to use a large force of Germans to seize the major road going east from the lake to cut off any incoming reinforcements for the Americans, but General Fraser argued against it, claiming the German soldiers were “a helpless kind of troops in the woods.”
General Phillips proposed a siege of Fort Ti, with the opposing argument from General Fraser that Burgoyne did not have enough troops to conduct a proper siege. Burgoyne decided on a siege, and Fraser wrote in his journal that if the Americans decided to abandon Fort Ti rather than fight, he feared that from Burgoyne’s point of view, “the conquest would not have been sufficiently brilliant by capturing a great number of prisoners or a large quantity of stores.” In short, Fraser was of the opinion that Burgoyne, ever mindful of the politics in London, wanted to capture Fort Ti only after a glorious battle in which he would heroically lead his men on to victory (see pp. 164–65).
The pay by the British for one German soldier for one year’s service was seven pounds, four shillings, and four and one-halfpence, payable whether the soldier was dead or alive at the end of the year (p. 95).
The entire British expedition was ill-suited to John Burgoyne, who was by training and experience a light cavalryman and badly prepared for the daily grind of moving ten thousand people through thick forests, building roads, providing food, handling sickness and enemy harassment (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 176; Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 376).
Mt. Hope, northwest of Fort Ticonderoga
July 2, 1777
CHAPTER XV
* * *
Major General Arthur St. Clair flinched at the sudden, urgent rap at his office door. He quickly glanced at his pocket watch—twenty minutes past seven on a hot, sultry July morning—then called, “Enter.”
Major Isaac Dunn, his aide-de-camp, pushed through the door to stand before his desk in the small, crude, poorly lit office, breathing heavily, eyes alive, beads of sweat on his forehead from his sprint across the parade ground of Fort Ticonderoga. He had left the door flung wide, and sunlight cast an irregular rectangle of light on the rough floor planking. Dunn did not wait for St. Clair to acknowledge him.
“There’s a private on his way over here, says he was on scout up north, just this side of Three Mile. Says he saw Germans coming ashore—a lot of them. Says he’s got to see you. He ran most of the way here and was staggering when they let him through the gates. I had a corporal take him to the enlisted men’s mess to get some water and settle him down before one of them brings him here.”
Seated at his desk, St. Clair stiffened. “Germans coming ashore? When?”
“Daybreak this morning.”
“How many?”
“This man says hundreds, maybe thousands!”
“Is he wounded? Out of his head?”
“Not wounded. Excited. Badly frightened.”
“When is he coming to—”
Footsteps pounded on the wooden walkway outside the office and Dunn stepped aside. Two enlisted men stopped at the open door and came to attention.
St. Clair stood. “Enter.”
The two men took four steps forward and stopped before St. Clair’s desk. One of them spoke. “Sir, I’m Corporal Wylie Pitkin. Major Dunn ordered me to get this man some water and then bring him here.”
Dunn interrupted. “Thank you, Corporal. Wait outside, and close the door.”
Pitkin walked back out into the sunlight and closed the door while St. Clair studied the man for a moment. His plain homespun shirt was sweated out, and his dark cotton trousers were ragged. His square-toed shoes were worn, battered. St.
Clair spoke. “Your name?”
The man’s voice was high, strained, and his words came tumbling in a torrent. “Private Calvin O’Donnell, sir. Pennsylvania Second. I was assigned scout duty along the lake at Three Mile, and this morning when it was still dark I seen these big boats out there and then there was these men getting out—”
St. Clair raised a hand, stopping O’Donnell. “Be calm, Private. Sit down.” The general gestured to one of the plain, rough-cut wooden chairs facing his desk. “Just start at the beginning and tell us about it one step at a time.” St. Clair also sat, leaning forward in his seat, focused, intense.
O’Donnell sat down and took charge of himself. He took a deep breath and wiped at his mouth, then dropped his hand. “Yes, sir. Like I was tellin’, before dawn I seen these two big ships out on the lake under the stars, one near, one far, and then when it got light enough I seen little boats all over. Square, flat bottoms, full of troops, flags flyin’ everywhere, even a band playin’ music. I knew they was Germans because they was dressed in blue and had those tall copper hats. Soon as it got light enough, they started unloadin’ over the sides of those flat boats and walkin’ ashore. There was hundreds, more like thousands. Then after a while I seen some British, redcoats.”
“Did you count the square boats?”
“There was so many they got in each other’s way, and I couldn’t see ’em all. I counted maybe fifty.”
“How many men in each boat?”
“I counted forty got out of one, fifty-five from another. Different amounts.”
“What did they do?”
“Waded ashore and formed up in ranks and then started marchin’ south, and some of ’em east.”
“What did you do?”
“Waited ’til it was certain they figured to stay ashore, and then I come here.”
“Did they see you?”
“No, sir. I was hid in the woods.”
“Was there any fighting? Shooting?”
“None I know of. No one was there but me. I waited ’til I knew they was startin’ their big push south, and then I come here. They’re comin,’ sir. Thousands. They figger to take this fort, sure as sure.”
“Did you see any cannon?”
O’Donnell stopped to search his memory. “No, sir. But that don’t mean they don’t got ’em. When they get here, they’ll have cannon, an’ that’s certain.”
“Did you see their officers?”
“Plenty.”
“German, or British?”
For a moment O’Donnell’s eyes narrowed in thought. “German. Blue coats.”
“Were there any Indians?”
“None got out of the boats.”
St. Clair turned to Dunn. “Anything you want to ask?”
“Where’s the rest of your company?” Dunn asked.
“There was ten of us set up in a line, east to west, maybe five hundred yards apart, watchin’. When I seen the Germans comin’ so thick, I figgered there wasn’t much use in wastin’ time tryin’ to find the rest of the scouts, so I come back to report.”
Dunn fell silent, and St. Clair said, “Take him back out and have Corporal Pitkin get him something to eat from the enlisted men’s mess. Let him stay with Pitkin’s command for further orders. Then come back here.”
Dunn nodded and followed O’Donnell back out the door. After they were gone, St. Clair sat down on his chair, leaned forward, arms on his desk, palms flat, mind racing. Congress and Hancock and Gates—assuring me over and over again that the British are not going to come south on the lakes and the Hudson—going to send their army down the St. Lawrence, then south to New York by boat. Do not concern yourself with extensive defenses—you will not need to defend Ticonderoga against a major force!
St. Clair straightened, eyes flashing. Stupidity! Sheer stupidity! I told them my fears, and I requested men and munitions and supplies to defend this fort against a major force, and they sent almost nothing. They were told that cannon on top of Mt. Defiance could cut this fort to pieces in hours, and yet they did nothing. And now their stupidity has placed me where I must defend this fort with too few men and too little armament and supplies. If Burgoyne discovers he can get cannon to the top of Mt. Defiance . . . He shuddered and stood as Dunn strode back into the room. St. Clair was giving orders before Dunn came to a halt.
“I have no confirmation of O’Donnell’s story, but I can’t take a chance. I must presume it is true. Tell Colonel Pierce Long to take his command down to the Lake George landing and get those provisions and stores hauled back within our lines. Order the bateaumen down there to stand ready to move their crafts on a moment’s notice. Sleep in their boats until this is over, if necessary. If for any reason it appears the British might get those stores, load them into the bateaux at once and move them down to the south end of Lake George, to Fort George. We can’t let the British take them.”
“Yes, sir.” Dunn pivoted and was gone at a trot.
St. Clair smacked one fist into the other palm as he paced, slowing his mind, forcing reason. A large force of Germans coming ashore two miles north—moving this way—Burgoyne wouldn’t send Germans alone—they have to be part of a larger operation—British troops have to be coming with them—with Burgoyne in command there will be troops moving down on us from every quadrant to the north—both sides of the lake, east and west.
He stopped short as his thoughts reached their inevitable conclusion. Mt. Hope! The garrison there—the bridge—sawmill. Are they under attack? Have they fallen? Are the French Lines under attack?
In two great strides, St. Clair was at the door. He threw it open to hurry out into the heat and dust of the parade ground and stand, facing northwest, eyes narrowed, as he searched for signs of telltale smoke that would signal the burning of the Mt. Hope outpost, or the sawmill. There were no dark smudges staining the azure blue sky. He turned his head and closed his eyes, concentrating to hear the distant rattle of muskets or the deep-throated boom of cannon that would tell of a battle at the French Lines. He heard only the sounds of the fort entering another hot, sticky day. He turned and strode quickly back into his office and slammed the door. Time had suddenly become his most precious commodity if he was to make and execute a plan that would save Fort Ticonderoga.
* * * * *
Sergeant Arne Olsen wrinkled his nose in disgust as he picked at his piece of tough, boiled salt fish. “Don’t seem right, servin’ salt fish for breakfast every day.” He thrust the last piece into his mouth, set his heavy pewter plate on top of the breastworks just north of the Mount Hope garrison, and reached for his wooden cup of lukewarm coffee. While drinking, he glanced over the top of the wood and earthen structure for a moment, looking for movement in the distant trees. There was none.
Private Peter Johannesen hunkered down next to him, forked a mouthful of the fish and chewed. “Maybe some day they’ll call us to a breakfast in a big hall somewhere and serve us pink ham and fried eggs and sweet tarts and hot spiced cider.” He reached for his coffee to wash the fish down and cut the thick salt taste from his mouth.
Olsen snorted and shook his head. “Not if the officers hear about it. They hear about it, there won’t be no pink ham or fried eggs or sweet tarts or cider left when we get there. They’ll have it all et.” Olsen reached to set his coffee down, and as he did, he once again studied the distant woods. He suddenly froze, coffee cup poised, eyes narrowed as he concentrated.
Johannesen glanced at him, puzzled. “See something?”
Olsen pointed north, out over the breastworks, and Johannesen rose far enough to peer over the barrier of dirt and logs. For five long seconds the young men stared before Olsen murmured, “What is that in there among the trees? Must be a big herd of deer, but that don’t make sense.”
Suddenly Johannesen’s head jerked forward, and his face blanched. His arm shot up, pointing, and his mouth fell open. “Indians! Hundreds of ’em. And some redcoats with ’em.” Olsen spun to his right and shouted to the next two pickets loung
ing in the shallow trench behind the breastworks, “Do you see ’em?”
The two startled pickets stood and followed his point and then immediately lunged for their muskets.
Olsen’s arm shot up, pointing further west. “Look over there! Must be five hundred redcoats workin’ their way around our left! They’re tryin’ to get around behind us, cut us off. They’re comin’! The whole British army!” He stood bolt upright and shouted up and down the trenched breastwork, “Get back to the garrison! Get back! Get back!”
Within seconds, the fifty men in the breastworks north of the small fortress that dominated a low hill bordering Mt. Hope were sprinting south toward the cover of the fortress walls. They leaped over logs and plunged through the underbrush and lush ferns, shouting to the pickets on the ramparts inside the fortress, “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
The northern gates of the small structure swung wide, and the men streamed through, fighting for breath, sweating, pointing, exclaiming. Up on the ramparts, Lieutenant Ambrose Thurston stood stock-still, steadily sweeping his telescope from right to left, watching everything that moved in the north trees. He was facing due west when he stopped. He jammed his telescope closed and then leaped the nine feet from the rampart to the ground inside the fortress, sprinting for the small office of the commanding officer the moment he hit. The door of the office burst open when Thurston was yet thirty feet distant, and Brigadier General Daniel McPhee strode out, still buttoning his tunic.
“What’s happening?” he demanded.
Thurston stopped, facing him. “Sir, there’s a major force of Indians and British regulars coming from the north and circling around our left. I think they’re trying to cut off our escape route.”
McPhee’s eyes opened wide. “Is this the major assault we’ve been expecting? Are they coming after Fort Ti?”
“My opinion, yes, sir, they are.”
“Give me that telescope.” McPhee grabbed it, ran to the nearest ladder and scrambled up to the wooden walkway that overlooked the northern approach to his garrison. He jerked the telescope full length, then steadied it as he began his sweep, east to west, mumbling numbers as he went.