Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “At least twelve hundred, maybe more, and they’re circling our left.” He exhaled heavily and his forehead drew down in a frown as he struggled with the decision that all commanding officers dread in the face of a superior force—abandon his post, or fight a hopeless battle? He shouted down to Thurston, who stood waiting on the ground below him.

  “I don’t know if they have cannon, but I must assume they do. Four heavy guns can cut this stockade to pieces in half an hour. We’d be overrun and gone within one hour. I won’t do that. I’ll save these men to help defend Fort Ti before I sacrifice them here.”

  He slammed the telescope closed and barked his orders. “Have fifty men set fire to this place immediately! Tell all the officers to get their men out of here now! Stop for nothing but their muskets and ammunition! Head for the French Lines! We’ll hold there if we can, then fall back to Fort Ti if we have to! Have the same fifty men set fire to the sawmill when we pass it, and then the bridge when we’re all south of it! Do you understand?”

  Thurston bobbed his head emphatically. “Yes, sir.”

  “Move!”

  Thurston turned on his heel and sprinted toward the officers’ quarters, shouting orders as he ran. Two minutes later, flames were rising from the dry, weathered roof shingles on the buildings, and black smoke was billowing into the clear blue sky. The south gates swung open, and the officers led their men through the smoke and fires at a run, down the incline, southeast toward the French Lines. Lieutenant Thurston waited until General McPhee was clear of the gates before he sprinted to the powder magazine, kicked open the door, threw a burning firebrand inside, and ran for his life out the south gate. He had covered one hundred fifty yards before the horrendous blast blew flame and wood two hundred feet into the bright July sky and leveled half the north and east walls. Thurston involuntarily ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, and then, for a moment, the entire American command turned to watch the great column of black smoke boil upward, and the bits and pieces of their fortress, some of them still burning, leaving black smoke trails, drift back to Mother Earth. Then they turned and resumed their headlong run downhill, across the bridge, on to the French Lines.

  The regiment assigned to hold the French Lines was waiting, muskets laid across the breastworks, taking aim as the Americans broke out of the trees and brush into the cleared area between the forest and the fort. The officer in charge turned and shouted to his men, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! They’re ours!”

  Behind the wave of oncoming Americans, the fifty men assigned stopped at the sawmill long enough to set fire to the stacked lumber and the shed covering the huge band saw and the great pile of sawdust, then sprinted over the bridge, and once again paused long enough to set the undergirdings on fire. They arrived at the French Lines fifteen minutes behind the main body, sweated out, fighting for breath. With McPhee’s command from the fortress, the lines were filled, and each man had taken a place, shoulder to shoulder, behind the breastworks. They waited in tense silence for the first of the British, or the Indians, or the Hessians, to make their charge across the open ground between the French Lines and the burning bridge. Minutes became half an hour, then an hour, with the men wiping sweat from their eyes, waiting, nerves fraying, inventing ways to make sunlight filtering through the distant trees into the dreaded Hessians or Indians. The only sounds were the clicking of grasshoppers in flight and the undercurrent of the buzz of unnumbered, swarming insects.

  Brigadier General McPhee wiped his sleeve across his eyes and suddenly stood upright to walk out in front of the lines. “Lieutenant Thurston,” he called out, “take the fifty men who set the fires and proceed north toward the bridge. Take cover and wait there. At first sign of the British coming in force, fire at them, and then conduct an orderly retreat here. We want all the warning we can get.”

  “Yes, sir!” McPhee’s breathing came short as Thurston called out his men, formed them into a skirmish line, and led them forward at a run, hunched low, back to within two hundred yards of the burning bridge. On Thurston’s command they dispersed, disappearing, crouching behind anything they could find for cover and began their vigil, watching everything to the north that moved. McPhee began to breathe again, relieved to know that he had not sent them into an ambush.

  * * * * *

  The distant blast and then the shock wave rolled over General Fraser’s British command tent at Three Mile. He laid down his quill and rose from his desk to walk outside to look south at the black cloud billowing into the clear sky just to the left of Mt. Hope, and at some pieces of the fortress as they began their fall back to earth.

  Our forces got there. He glanced at his pocket watch. Nine o’clock. Right on time. The rebels have set fire to their own fortress and blown the magazine. Our men will have possession of both the fortress—what’s left of it—and the sawmill, and be at the bridge in about four hours. They’ll wait at the bridge for the other regiments to take up their positions, and then move on down to take the French Lines and then Fort Ti. The siege is about to begin.

  He walked back into his tent, resumed his place at his desk, and again picked up his quill to sign his name to the document he had just finished writing. He paused a moment to skim it.

  Commanding Officer at Crown Point—possible we will need reinforcements for operations at Three Mile. Bring one regiment south—join us for further orders should you be needed—your ob’dnt s’rvnt, General Simon Fraser.

  He carefully folded it, melted the tip of a blue wax stick in a candle flame, dropped a tiny mound onto the flap of the document, then pressed his seal into the cooling wax. He leaned back in his chair to compare the plan for the conquest of Fort Ti with the realities of what had happened thus far, and a smile tugged. By the book. General Phillips will be delighted. Delighted? He smiled. Perhaps satisfied, but not delighted. I doubt he knows the meaning of the word delighted. He smiled again as the image of the cold, blue-gray eyes, the square set of the jaw, and the slight upward tilt of the prominent nose went through his mind.

  * * * * *

  From three hundred yards north of the bridge, with the smoldering ruins of the burned sawmill at their backs, Sergeant Sean Devlin looked at Corporal Evan O’Shaughnessy in his red tunic with the white belts crossing on his breast. “Where are our Indians? I haven’t seen the Indians since we took the Mount Hope garrison three hours ago. Where are they?”

  O’Shaughnessy pointed south, toward the bridge. “Half an hour ago they were down there by themselves.”

  Devlin raised up to look. “I can’t see them. What the devil are they up to?”

  O’Shaughnessy shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know the last time I saw them they had two barrels of rum. That was before the rebels blew their magazine and burned everything. We’re supposed to wait here for the other companies to get into position before we move on down over the bridge to take the French Lines, so we can surprise them. Then we move on to Fort Ti. But those Indians are beyond the bridge already. I don’t know what they’re doing, but I’m not going down there to find out.”

  “Why? Afraid?”

  “With good reason. With two barrels of rum in them, I doubt those devils will even notice we’re wearing British uniforms when they take our scalps. No, I’m not going.”

  “I will. Someone’s got to keep watch on them.”

  O’Shaughnessy shook his head violently. “If you go, leave your musket here. Someone might need it when we take Fort Ti.”

  Devlin licked his lips, then wiped them nervously. “Well, someone ought to go see what they’re up to.”

  “Not me. I’d sooner fight the whole American army than mix with that bunch. Go get an officer. Let one of them try it.”

  Devlin shrugged. “I’ll go find Lieutenant Haughton. He’ll know what to do.”

  * * * * *

  Far to the south, just across the bridge, the entire Indian contingent was hidden in the heavy brush and foliage. One empty rum barrel lay smashed to splinters; the other
one was on its side while the Indians dipped the last of the pungent rum with gourds. They were on their knees, trying to raise the filled gourds to their mouths, spilling more down their chins and bare chests and onto their buckskin leggings, than they were drinking. They were painted and feathered for war, with their scalping knives belted around their middles and their iron-headed tomahawks thrust through their belts. Their muskets lay where they had dropped them in their frenzy to get to the rum.

  They finished the second barrel, looked for more, found none, and vented their drunken wrath by smashing the second empty barrel, as they had the first. Lacking something else to destroy, they began arguing among themselves. Heated arguments became deadly threats, and unsteady hands began fumbling for tomahawks. It was then that a wild, young, untried warrior, crazy with drink, grabbed up the nearest musket and fired it randomly into the air. For an instant all heads turned to him, and all motion and sound ceased. Seizing his opportunity to thrust himself forward as a great war leader, the drunken man threw down the smoking musket, jerked his tomahawk from his belt, pointed it south toward the French Lines, threw back his head, and screamed the high, warbling war cry of the Iroquois Wolf Clan. While the echo was still ringing in the woods, he broke into a clumsy run, repeating the blood-chilling cry again and again. With their brains lost in a drunken fog, the entire contingent mindlessly plunged after him, snatching up muskets, or ignoring the muskets altogether as they ran toward the French Lines, four hundred yards to the south.

  At the sound of the single musket shot fired by the drunken young Indian, Lieutenant Thurston and his fifty advance scouts raised up far enough in the thick brush to take a clear view of the bridge. When the swarming Indians burst from the heavy cover less than one hundred yards in front of them, the startled men drew back in amazement, and Thurston shouted his first order.

  “Hold your positions! Hold your positions! Wait! Cock your muskets and pick your targets, but do not fire until I give the order. Wait, wait, wait.” He raised his sword, and the fifty men in his skirmish line brought their cheeks to the stocks of their muskets and sighted down the barrels at the oncoming horde. At eighty yards they could see the feathers. At sixty yards they could see the paint covering the faces and chests—white, blue, black, and the favored vermilion. At forty yards they could see the inhuman expressions on their faces as they came on.

  Suddenly Thurston’s head jerked forward as he watched them come, stumble-footed, some falling to rise and stagger on. “Drunk! They’re drunk!” Still he held his sword high. At twenty-five yards he shouted, “FIRE!” Instantly fifty American muskets blasted, and the heavy musketballs tore smacking into the leaders. In that instant the Americans could see the absolute, wide-eyed surprise on the faces of the Indians as those in front were hurled backward to go down, finished. Those behind stopped, stunned, confused, trying to make their alcohol-fogged brains understand what had happened. The single impression burned into their befuddled brains was that the entire world had erupted in their faces, blasting musketballs from everywhere.

  Thurston stood straight up and shouted his next order. “Fall back! Slow! Reload while you’re moving! Pick a target and fire when reloaded! Do not run! Walk! Keep your wits about you! Slow! Walk!”

  The Americans began a slow, controlled, orderly retreat, while the Indians tried to force their brains to function. The brash young leader, who had led them in their headlong charge, once again waved his tomahawk over his head and ran toward the withdrawing Americans, screaming his war cry. An American went to one knee, sighted down his musket barrel, and triggered his second shot. He heard the whack of the musketball hitting the man in the chest and saw the surprise on the face of the young Indian as he grabbed at the place where the musketball had punched in, went to his knees, then toppled sideways. The American reached for another paper cartridge in the leather case at his side, ripped it open with his teeth, and reloaded as he continued to walk backwards, slowly, controlled.

  Behind Thurston, McPhee stood bolt upright on the French Line breastworks, and for ten seconds studied the battle slowly moving toward him. He turned to the men in the lines and shouted orders: “First one hundred men, follow me!” He jerked his sword from its scabbard, leaped from the breastworks to the ground, and started toward Thurston at a run. The first hundred men stormed over the breastworks and strung out in a line, voices raised in a battle cry as they surged forward. They reached Thurston in twenty seconds, knelt to fire their first volley, then joined him and his men in the slow, controlled retreat back to their lines. Behind them they heard the full-throated roar of the Americans who remained in the French Lines cheering them on. They climbed over their own breastworks and dropped into the shallow trenches, eyes bright with the flush of successful combat. They all reached for fresh cartridges and began to reload, watching the Indians coming on.

  The harsh reality of battle, and of their dead, had pounded some sense of sobriety into the alcohol-muddled brains of the red men. For a moment they stopped, then rallied, then came on, jumping through the brush, bent on avenging their fallen comrades.

  McPhee mounted the breastworks, took one look and shouted, “Cannon first! Fire on my command! Then muskets, on my command!” He waited while the Indians came on with their high, inhuman cries filling the air. He waited until he could see the sweat on their faces, and then cupped his hands to shout, “FIRE!”

  Twelve cannon belched flame and white smoke fifteen feet, hurling more than two hundred pounds of grapeshot into the oncoming tide, ripping into the charge, shredding the brush, raising a dirt cloud twenty feet in the air. The Americans heard the heavy lead balls smack into flesh, and when the smoke cleared, there was a great hole in the center of the Indian line.

  McPhee then shouted, “FIRE,” and muskets all up and down the French Line laid down the first full American volley. The Indians stopped in their tracks, faltered for a moment, then turned and started to run back toward the bridge.

  They rallied and came on once more, and once again the American cannon bucked and roared, and the American muskets blasted. When the smoke cleared the second time, the Indians were in full, headlong retreat, with the shouts of the victorious Americans following them.

  Instantly McPhee turned to his men. “Casualty count,” he ordered, and waited. Ten minutes later Thurston returned. “Sir, we lost six enlisted, one lieutenant, eleven wounded. Downing was hit in the heel, Newport in both knees, and Oxford in the thigh. The Green Mountain Boys reported five dead, seven or eight wounded.”

  McPhee glanced out at the Indian bodies scattered on the battlefield. “Tell the men they did well. Very well. Have them rest and drink water. We want no one weakened by heat exhaustion. We’ll wait for further orders from General St. Clair.”

  * * * * *

  To an experienced career military officer, there is no sound so unmistakable or so provocative as the deep boom of distant cannon. Whose guns, ours or theirs? Solid shot to destroy walls and breastworks, or grapeshot and cannister to shred incoming infantry or cavalry? Our infantry? Our cavalry? Or theirs? Who’s winning? Who’s losing? Invariably, for a moment, the sound provokes a moment of silence while images and remembrances of battles won and battles lost because of cannon flit through their minds and are gone.

  The rolling thunder of McPhee’s cannon an hour earlier had reached Fraser and had brought him up short, one eyebrow raised in question. Cannon? Already? All our regiments aren’t in place yet. No one’s given the order to move south. Who’s firing? At whom?

  He had risen and walked out of his tent into the sun, which was hammering down on the British camp. Nearly everyone in the camp stopped to stare south, wondering. Fraser walked to the nearest officer he could find.

  “Any indication who’s firing the guns?” He gestured south.

  “No, sir. Wondering that myself.”

  “Seen General Burgoyne?”

  “Not lately, sir. He was in his big tent twenty minutes ago.”

  “Thank you.” Fras
er walked back to his tent, unbuttoned his tunic, and left it open in the stifling heat. He paused at a small porcelain washbasin in the corner to splash tepid water on his face, then reached for a towel. Twenty minutes later he heard and felt the drumming of incoming horses’ hooves, and a moment later his tent flap opened.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Watkins just arrived with a written message from your nephew, Captain Alexander Fraser. Says you should read it at once.”

  In one fluid move, Fraser was off his chair and striding quickly to the open tent flap. He took the folded paper instantly. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Please wait outside in the event I need to send a reply.” He unfolded the paper, as the lieutenant backed out the tent flap and forced himself to remain calm as he read the salutation, then the message.

  “Contrary to the standing orders of General Burgoyne, the advance company of Indians acquired liquor from an unknown source, and in their drunkenness attacked the French Lines with disastrous results. The musket- and cannon-fire you surely heard were American, repulsing the Indian attack. Our Indian forces suffered heavy casualties, while the American losses were light. Unfortunate incident, start to finish. My first impression was that we have lost the very valuable element of surprise, however, whether we have or have not, I am now of the opinion that we clearly maintain the superior position and still enjoy the luxury of picking time and place to begin our attack on Fort Ticonderoga. I and my command hold a strong position on our right, fifteen hundred yards from the French Lines. We are poised and anxious to move in toward Fort Ti upon command. We have cannon, and superiority of numbers, and will be coming into the Lines at an angle which will allow my entire command to fire upon them, while only the Americans nearest us can return the fire, since those beyond will be hitting their own men.”

  Relief showed in Fraser’s face as he reread his nephew’s message. He walked to his table and was reaching for quill and paper when the flap to his tent was thrown back roughly, and General William Phillips strode into the sweltering shelter, ramrod straight, chin thrust out, nose high, neck veins extended, face flushed with passionate anger. He paid no attention to protocol.