Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “Sir, I am informed that our bloody Indians have gotten themselves into a drunken stupor, abandoned their assigned position by the sawmill, totally disobeyed all orders of every kind, including the standing order to not consume alcohol, and made their own unauthorized, premature attack on the Americans at the French Lines. To my undying satisfaction, the American cannon and muskets have blasted a great number of them into purgatory, where I dearly hope they will remain throughout eternity. Were I in command, another fifty or so would be introduced into the same place by sunset, swinging at the end of good British ropes.”

  He paused for one moment to catch his breath and order his words. “It is my considered opinion that they have totally destroyed the critically important element of surprise we have so carefully nurtured. It is gone. No one knows how many lives that will cost us, now that the Americans have been given notice we are coming. Without doubt, they will be waiting with grapeshot behind breastworks and stone walls, the taking of which will now cost us dearly in both men and supplies. That being so, it is my firm recommendation that we immediately withdraw from our present positions, conduct a war council, and reform our plan to accommodate the sorry place in which we now find ourselves.”

  He stopped, drew a deep breath, and waited for Fraser to reply.

  For a moment Fraser’s mind was a blank while he fumbled for a way to respond to this icon of British spit and polish. He licked dry lips, stood, and began quietly.

  “General, I couldn’t be more in agreement. I have had reservations about the use of Indians since I arrived from England, and what happened today confirms my worst fears. If we haven’t entirely lost the element of surprise, we’ve lost most of it. All that remains is the fact that the initiative of when, and where, and how we commence our attack on Fort Ti is still in our hands. If we’re patient and clever, isn’t it still possible for us to make a feint with Breymann’s Germans from across the lake, while our own regulars make a massive assault from this side?”

  He paused, intently watching the expression on Phillips’s face. He thought he saw the slightest softening and went on.

  “I just received a written message from my nephew, Captain Alexander Fraser. Here. I would appreciate your reading it, and your opinion.” He offered the message, Phillips took it, and for twenty seconds the room was silent while Phillips read. He handed it back to Fraser without comment or change of expression.

  Fraser gave it his last effort. “General, it seems we owe it to the remainder of this expedition to at least go down there and see what my nephew is talking about. Maybe he’s right. You’d know at a glance. May I have horses saddled for the ride?”

  Forty-five minutes later Fraser pulled his sweated mount to a halt, Phillips beside him. Ahead of them rode a lieutenant with five mounted cavalry, while another five followed behind them. The lieutenant turned in his saddle and pointed ahead. “I believe Captain Fraser’s position is there, sir, dead ahead.”

  “Excellent. Proceed.”

  Five minutes later the small column halted and dismounted. While the escort loosened the saddle girths on all their mounts to get air under the saddles in the oppressive heat, Fraser strode rapidly to his nephew. Captain Alexander Fraser came to a full salute. General Fraser returned it, and then turned to General Phillips.

  “Sir, this is Captain Fraser. Captain, General William Phillips.”

  Alexander snapped his boot heels together and bowed stiffly. “I am deeply honored, sir.”

  Phillips bobbed his head. “My pleasure. Carry on.”

  Fraser spoke to his nephew. “Captain, we have read your letter. Explain to us how you see current conditions here.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned and pointed as he spoke. “We hold the high ground. Fifteen hundred yards down there are the French Lines. They lay generally east and west. From here, we would have the momentum in a charge, and would be coming in from the west end of the lines, which means the Americans beyond the west end would likely be unable to fire either their cannon or muskets at us without involving their own men. From here, we can send down a sizable force with orders to stay to the south of the line of fire while we use our four cannon to lay down a barrage of grapeshot and cannister. When we have substantially reduced the Americans in the trenches, the waiting infantry can storm the French Lines. I believe we can take them with only light losses, while inflicting severe casualties on the Americans.”

  Fraser glanced at Phillips, whose eyes were narrowed as they worked over the terrain. He was totally absorbed as he made his own keen calculations. One full minute later he pursed his mouth and turned to General Fraser decisively.

  “Good. Very good. Excellent. We must hold this position. On command, our cannon can rake the American lines end to end, and then a determined infantry charge should put the finishing touches to it.” Phillips face was aglow as he turned to the Captain. “My compliments, sir. Carry on.”

  General Fraser stifled a grin as he spoke to his nephew. “You have your orders, Captain. Is there anything you need here? Water? Food? Gunpowder?”

  “No, sir. We’re well situated.”

  “Good. We’ll take our leave.”

  The little column was halfway back to Three Mile before Phillips broke the silence. He bobbed his head and spoke, almost as though to himself. “Good man, that Captain Fraser. Good man. I’m going to order the Twentieth Regiment to move up to give him support.”

  The camp drummer had sounded the long drumroll for lights out, and the camp was dark and quiet when the flap to General Fraser’s tent swung open and General Burgoyne entered. Fraser was on his feet instantly.

  Burgoyne’s voice was soft, low. “Sit down, Simon. I heard what you did today. I had to come by personally and give you my thanks.” He reached to warmly shake Fraser’s hand. “Armies stand or fall on the decisions the officers must make totally on their own initiative. Today, with General Phillips, you could not have done better. I was dreading a confrontation with him when I learned of the incident with the Indians and the rum. He’s a magnificent officer, and his anger was justified. Your handling of it was superb. I thank you.”

  Fraser fumbled for something to say. “Thank you, sir. I must say, when General Phillips saw the ground held by my nephew, he rose above himself. He set aside his grievances and saw it for what it was, which is worthy of a gifted officer. It is my great honor to be serving with him.”

  Burgoyne’s eyes glowed with deep sincerity. “It is my honor to be serving with both of you. Good night, Simon.”

  Notes

  Unless otherwise indicated, the following is taken from Ketchum, Saratoga, on the pages indicated.

  American General Arthur St. Clair, commanding Fort Ticonderoga, received reports that Burgoyne was coming ever closer to Fort Ti, and that on the morning of July 2, 1777, British and German soldiers were disembarking from bateaux. To save his supplies, he issued orders to have his own bateaumen prepare to move his stores from the landing, south, down Lake George, to Fort George.

  Even while his men were doing so, the British attacked the small fort at Mt. Hope, just north of Fort Ti, and drove the Americans out. Before leaving, the Americans set the fort, the sawmill, and all other buildings, on fire, then ran south to what were called the French Lines, where more Americans were positioned to resist the British. However, Burgoyne’s Indians had somehow acquired barrels of rum and become drunk, then disobeyed all standing orders and proceeded south to attack the Americans. They did so, but in their drunkenness did it poorly, and the Americans stopped them. The casualty count of Americans is accurate as set forth.

  Hearing of the attack by the drunken Indians, British General Simon Fraser ordered his nephew, Captain Alexander Fraser, with six hundred men to investigate. Captain Fraser did an excellent job, positioned his men and cannon at the west end of the French Lines where the Americans were stationed, and sent word back to General Fraser. General Phillips was incensed at the actions of the Indians and demanded an explanation. General Fraser too
k him to where Captain Fraser was waiting, and General Phillips was much encouraged. That night about ten o’clock General Burgoyne visited General Fraser and highly commended him for his actions of that day and his handling of the hot-tempered, but excellent officer, General Phillips (see pp. 165–68).

  Lake Cayuga

  Early July 1777

  CHAPTER XVI

  * * *

  The small, two-man canoe was running with the slow current along the west shore of Lake Cayuga, toward the place the lake narrows to drain north, forming the Seneca River. From there the Seneca turned east, then back northwest to join the Oswego River in its run to Fort Oswego, on the shores of Lake Ontario. A three-quarter moon, risen in the southeastern sky just before ten o’clock, turned the trees and the granite boulders on the shoreline into silvery sentinels and reflected off the glassy water and the backs of Billy and Eli as they silently dipped their paddles and stroked. The only sounds were the faint dripping of water from their paddles, the unending drone of night insects, and the slapping splash as pike and trout and salmon rose to take the swarming flies and mosquitoes.

  The canoe glided silently past a place where rocks and pine trees jutted sixty feet into the lake, and suddenly it was among half a dozen startled loons that cackled in the moonlight and thrashed their way thirty feet closer to shore. The two men froze and held their breath, listening for the dreaded voices from the trees that would signal they had been discovered by Iroquois scouts. The only sounds were the insects and one last scolding call from a frightened, angry loon. They waited another thirty seconds, then once again began the slow, silent rhythm with their paddles.

  The light birch bark craft left a “V” ripple in its wake as it moved steadily north along the gentle curve of the lake shore. The moon reached the top of its arcing course and began to settle toward the northwestern shore, while the two men continued the measured, steady dip and pull on their paddles. They peered to their right, nerves singing tight, as they studied everything they could see in the distant shadows of the eastern shoreline for any sign that might tell them they had once again found Joseph Brant and his Mohawk warriors.

  Suddenly Eli straightened and raised his arm to point due north. Billy narrowed his eyes and searched for a moment before he caught the faintest gleam of a tiny point of light. Eli signaled to their left, and they cautiously, silently brought the canoe to the western shore, among a ragged heap of rotting, windfall trees. Eli raised his hand for silence, and they sat in the canoe for a time, watching, listening for any sound that was not natural to the night. In the far distance a wolf bayed at the moon; nearer, the quick squeal of something small that had been caught by something larger. Above, nighthawks darted, gathering insects they could sense but not see, while bats performed their impossible aerial maneuvers, plucking flying things from the air. There was no sound that betrayed the presence of man.

  Eli turned and moved back to the cross brace in the canoe to face Billy in the dark. He hunched forward and spoke softly. “The light to the north is the council fire at the village of Cayuga. Maybe ten miles. If Brant was there, we’d see a lot more fires. If he is on the water between us and Cayuga, I think we’d see him in this moonlight.” Billy could hear the frustration in Eli’s voice as he continued laying out his reasoning. “We’ve tracked him for four days, from Unadilla across the Chenango River through the Tuscarora country while he gathered warriors. He had about twenty war canoes waiting at the south end of this lake, and he came north with about two hundred men. I think he’s headed for Onondaga, and on to Ganaghsaraga to get more, but if that’s true, where is he now? Did he beach his canoes on the other shore and go on foot? That doesn’t make sense because it’s two days faster to Onondaga on this lake and the Seneca River. Did he make camp for the night? That doesn’t make sense, either. By keeping on, he could have been in Cayuga by sunset. He wouldn’t make a two-hundred-man camp in the woods with the village that close.”

  He ceased speaking, bowed his head, and closed his eyes, fiercely concentrating, while Billy sat silent, waiting. Suddenly Eli’s head came up and he hissed, “He stopped to meet someone. He’s camped somewhere on the other side of the lake. Who came to meet him, and why, and how many men does he have now? We’ve got to know.”

  He raised a hand to wipe at his mouth. “The only way I can see to do it is cut straight across the lake. We’re going to be out in moonlight for maybe half an hour. We’ll need to keep our faces down so they won’t reflect and hope they don’t see us. If they do, they’ll either come out in canoes to meet us, or they’ll set an ambush for us when we reach shore. If they come in canoes, we turn south and outrun them. If they set an ambush, we find it before they find us.”

  He made gestures as he continued. “When we get to the far shore, we’ll find a place with some old trees sunk in the lake. We’ll tip the canoe over on its side and fill it with water, and then push it down and lock it under one of the trees. That way they can’t find it, but we can if we need it again.”

  Eli stopped, and Billy shifted his weight, waiting. Seconds became half a minute before Eli spoke again. “If they catch us, things could get bad.” In the dim moonlight Billy saw the pain in his face, and heard it in his voice as he went on. “They do things to spies. Fire. Cutting. Hours, maybe days before they die.” His voice thickened. “I’ve seen it. If they take us, I won’t let that happen to you.”

  For a moment Billy puzzled over his meaning, and then it struck him. He gasped and straightened. Eli did not move as he waited for him to respond.

  Billy quietly asked, “Your rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you?”

  “My knife.”

  Billy spoke. “I’ll do the same for you if it goes that way.”

  For a few moments the two men faced each other in the moonlight, not trusting themselves to speak of the thing that had passed between them. They only knew that what tied them to each other had deepened beyond anything they had known.

  Eli resumed his position in the bow of the canoe, picked up his paddle, and turned the craft eastward, while Billy dug his paddle blade deep and pulled hard. The light vessel skimmed forward, cutting through the still water with a whispered hiss. With their faces down, breathing lightly, they watched for any flicker of light, any movement in the distant trees. They passed the center of the lake and moved on slowly, creating as few ripples as they could in the reflected moonlight, watching the far shore for movement of canoes to meet them on the water. There were none. Fifty yards from the rocks and trees, they drew in their paddles and let the canoe drift forward while they searched for a tangle of dead windfall trees sunk on the shoreline. Billy whispered and pointed to their right, and they turned the canoe to glide silently toward the remains of half-submerged tree limbs and massive trunks of forest giants that had fallen into the lake centuries earlier to become gray, rotting, lifeless skeletons. They skirted the sunken snags and came in to the shore amid the frogs and crickets. The croaking quieted, and they sat motionless, waiting until it resumed again.

  With their weapons laid on the bank, the two men silently eased themselves back into the water, teeth set against the cold shock, and once again the throaty call of the bullfrogs silenced. Each man seized one end of the small canoe and heaved it over onto its side and waited while it filled. Full, it settled beneath the black water with only the curl at the bow and stern showing. Eli thrust the bow beneath the surface and forced it beneath the trunk of the nearest sunken tree, while Billy drove the stern forward and down, out of sight, until the craft was locked beneath the great tree trunk. They slowly climbed onto the bank, to stand wet and shivering in the chill night air. With their weapons in hand, Eli pointed east, and five seconds later the two men had disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

  They stopped in the thick foliage, where they stood in tense silence for a full two minutes, waiting, listening, to see if the interruption of the frogs had drawn a Mohawk ambush. The sound of the frogs resumed and held
, and slowly the two men relaxed. Eli turned to Billy, signed a large half-circle with one hand, and Billy nodded.

  Guided by instincts sharpened from earliest memory, Eli led them east more than half a mile, stopping every two minutes to stand silent, listening, before they moved on. Half an hour passed before they hunkered down, heads low, as Eli whispered, “We haven’t cut their trail. If they’re headed for Cayuga, we got ahead of them somehow. I think they went ashore, and we missed their canoes in the dark.” He pointed. “We go south.”

  They worked their way noiselessly through the forest, stopping from time to time to listen to the crickets around them and to the chorus of frogs at the lake six hundred yards to their right. A stir of a breeze arose from the south, soft on their faces, and rustled the leaves over their heads. The trees thinned, and the moonlight filtered through to speckle the forest floor with silver. From far behind came the faint sound of an infant crying, and for a moment they stopped while Eli listened. “Panther,” he said quietly, and they continued south, Billy startled at how a great cat could so perfectly mimic the cry of a baby. The forest opened into a clearing, and Eli stopped, eyes narrowed, doubt showing in his face. “We should have cut their trail by now. We’ve missed something. I don’t . . .”

  The strong, sweet odor of rum tainting the light breeze reached them both at once, and Eli settled to his haunches, Billy beside him. “They’re somewhere up ahead,” he whispered, “and whoever they met brought rum. They’ll take some of it to Cayuga in the morning, and by noon they’ll have about a hundred drunk warriors ready to go on with them. They’ll move on to Onondaga and then Ganaghsaraga and do the same.” He shook his head, and Billy saw the glint in his eye and heard the anger in his voice. “Most Indians can’t resist rum, and white men use it to get them to fight their battles.” He paused for a moment in thought. “The rum had to come in wagons from the north, likely around Fort Oswego, or Fort Brewerton. We need to count those wagons, and the canoes, and get an idea of how big Brant’s camp is now. I doubt they know they’re being followed, and they won’t expect it, this deep in Iroquois territory. With the rum, maybe they won’t have scouts out. Stay close.”