Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

“Stay close to the west side of South Bay. Colonel Baldwin, stay here to help Long. Good luck.”

  Long considered for a moment. “Oh, sir, I haven’t seen anything of de Fermoy’s records and files. Are they lost?”

  Baldwin shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m going back to be certain the regiments are forming to march out as ordered, and I’ll find de Fermoy. I’ll send word about his records.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  St. Clair turned to Dunn. “Find me a horse while I help start forming the column into marching order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dunn left at a trot.

  St. Clair strode through the milling throng of men calling orders to find their regiments, stay calm, keep loading the boats, follow the orders of their officers, get ready to take their place in the column to march south. He turned at the sound of a horse coming in from behind, and in the first deep purple of morning made out the shape of Dunn leading a bay gelding.

  “Your horse, sir.”

  St. Clair took the reins, slipped his left foot into the stirrup, seized the forward fork of the saddletree in his right hand and swung up. The gelding fought the bit, nervous, stuttering its feet in the darkness. St. Clair turned the dancing animal in a tight circle, then held a firm rein while he shouted down at Dunn.

  “Has de Fermoy showed up yet?”

  “No, sir. Francis told me he’s still up there, sitting on his luggage. Most of his men are still with him.”

  “I’m going up to find him. If he’s still there, I’ll have him in irons. You wait here. Long’s waiting for de Fermoy’s regimental records, and you’ll have to take him the message when I find out where Fermoy is. I won’t be—”

  St. Clair never finished his sentence. At that moment, whipped by the fierce wind, flames leaped high on the north face of Mt. Independence, and a column of wind-driven sparks reached five hundred feet into the dark heavens. One second later every tree, bush, rock, man, horse, and wagon on the north half of the mountain was visible in bold relief, along with the docks, boats, piles of supplies, and men desperately loading them. Instantly the howling wind fanned and spread the flames until the Great Bridge, South Bay, and Fort Ticonderoga across the water were visible. For three seconds every American stood stock-still and stared in horror, gaping, unable to believe what was so plainly true. Then their heads turned to stare west, across South Bay, holding their breath while they waited for British General Phillips’s one hundred thirty-eight cannon, together with every gun in the British fleet, to blast them all into oblivion. The British cannoneers could not ask for better targets—men, horses, oxen, wagons, boats, docks—all perfect silhouettes.

  It came to St. Clair—de Fermoy has set fire to his own quarters—he’s insane—if we survive this he’ll face a capital court-martial. Instantly his next thought was his command—got to get them out! He drove his spurs into the flanks of the horse, and it leaped to a gallop, scattering men right and left as St. Clair sprinted to reach the front of the column that had begun to form. He shouted at the militia to hold their places—get their muskets—start marching now—form as you move. Militia who had been sullen, angry, were now terrified in the knowledge they were targets for British cannon, and they pushed past St. Clair, ignored him, shouted back at him as they broke ranks and abandoned everything in their wild plunge onto the road to Hubbardton. St. Clair held his breath, desperately hoping the more seasoned continentals would hold their positions, remain with their regiments. Then one continental followed the panic-driven militia, then another, and then the continental regiments began to disintegrate as others followed.

  St. Clair reached the front of the column and wheeled his horse around, sword drawn, and in the firelight his face was set like granite. “Halt where you are!” he screamed. “I’ll saber the next man who tries to run!”

  The continentals slowed, stopped, and turned back to their regiments.

  “Form into a single file, and follow your officers. Take the Hubbardton road. Do it now! Start! Move!” He slapped the nearest soldiers on the back with the flat of his sword, and they quickly moved out, led by their officers.

  St. Clair stayed for half a minute to be certain the leaders kept moving, then once more drove his spurs home, and his horse lunged back toward the great stacks and piles of crates and barrels and kegs. He reined the animal in, coming to a stiff-legged, skidding stop, facing Udney Hay.

  “Get your papers—they’re critical—and start your men down the Hubbardton road.”

  “But sir, I—”

  St. Clair shouted him down. “Do it now! Forget everything but those papers. Get moving!”

  Hay could not miss the restrained fear and anger in St. Clair’s voice, and he answered, “Yes, sir.” He quickly turned and began bellowing orders to his men, moving among them, jerking them, shoving them into a semblance of a column, and starting them south toward the Hubbardton road, following the continentals already marching out.

  St. Clair licked dry lips and glanced east, where the dark purple was beginning the subtle change to deep gray. He turned his face back to the west. The yellow light of the fire that was burning de Fermoy’s quarters, and the enlisted men’s barracks near by, reflected off the walls of Fort Ti across the narrows of South Bay, and in helpless rage he sat his horse, teeth gritted as his thoughts ran. They’ve seen us by now—why haven’t they opened up with their cannon? They could kill half of us in twenty minutes, bunched the way we are. What’s holding them up? He reached to wipe a hand over his face, digging at the mud caked in the corners of his eyes. No chance to go help those men still holding the French Lines. No chance to send orders. Can only hope the officers over there figure out something went wrong over here—disregard everything I told them—take control—break out of there and come running.

  He cantered his mount onto the docks, now vacant, then looked south down the South Bay where the last of the bateaux and boats were fast disappearing southward, riding the high, white-topped waves, running fast before the wind. He felt a surge of hope. Long got them out—the sick and some of the supplies and guns.

  He turned back to study the Great Bridge, riding out the wrenching and pounding of the gigantic waves thrown up by the wind. It will hold—those men over there can make it if they come now. In the name of the Almighty let them come—let them come.

  Suddenly his head jerked forward, and he narrowed his eyes, straining to see across the stormy waters, and they were there. Black dots coming at a dead run from the woods south of the fort, straight for the Great Bridge, Colonel Francis in the lead, his raised sword glittering in the firelight. St. Clair was unaware that he stood in his stirrups and thrust his fist into the air as a shout welled from his chest, “Come on, you can make it—keep coming, keep coming!”

  The leaders hit the Great Bridge and didn’t slow. The bridge was rising and falling violently with the huge swells, and they kept moving, slipping on the wet planking, recovering, sprinting on. St. Clair was holding his breath, waiting for the first thunderous roar of British cannon blasting grapeshot at the men on the bridge—exposed, defenseless, virtually sitting targets in the firelight.

  Inexplicably the British cannon remained silent. The men kept coming, and with each passing minute St. Clair was shouting encouragement, knowing the wind drowned out his voice, but not caring. Then the rear guard was on the bridge, pausing every twenty paces while men used huge pry-bars to tear up planking and throw it into the black waters to slow any British pursuers, while others knelt with muskets ready to stop anyone following them, but there was no one. They reached the halfway point, and then they burst from the bucking bridge onto the solid ground at the foot of Mt. Independence as St. Clair shouted a cheer and spurred his horse to a gallop to meet them.

  It seemed that every man sensed that their lives hung in the balance. No one understood why British roundshot and grapeshot had not come ripping into them twenty minutes earlier. They only knew the British cannon still remained silent, and every minute, every second, was
an eternity in which they could be blasted dead. St. Clair sat his horse, holding himself in, watching his officers bawl out orders, while the men obeyed instantly in desperate silence, falling into a loose marching order. They abandoned the stacks of goods as they started for the Hubbardton road, and St. Clair watched as a single-file column began taking shape, moving like a great, thin snake in the early gray light of a rapidly approaching dawn.

  They might make it—keep moving, keep moving—they might make it!

  He looked back over his shoulder, beyond the Great Bridge, amazed. The British cannon had still not come alive, nor could he see any red coats and crossed white belts on the far side of South Bay. He turned back to look at his own men.

  Five more minutes—just give us five more minutes. It seemed every man was moving in slow motion. Ten seconds seemed an eternity as he watched the column disappear into the woods, following the narrow trail east toward Hubbardton. Under orders of Colonel Ebenezer Francis, the last four men in the rear guard fell back to the entrance to the Great Bridge and wheeled a cannon around, muzzle facing the bridge. With skilled hands they rammed the swab down the barrel to be sure it was clear, followed by the powder ladle, wadding, then sixteen pounds of grapeshot. One man blew on the linstock until it was glowing, and they all settled into their position behind the heavy gun, out of sight, waiting for the first redcoats to reach the middle of the bridge.

  St. Clair drew his watch from his tunic pocket and for a moment studied the hands. It was five minutes past four o’clock in the morning of July 6, 1777. The lake, Fort Ti, the emerald green woods, were all visible in the shifting gray of approaching dawn.

  It was done.

  Save for the four men left at the cannon to cover the retreat as long as they could before they ran for the woods to catch up, the last American soldier had safely evacuated Fort Ticonderoga. Around him were a hundred tons of abandoned supplies and munitions and an endless scatter of clothing and blankets and equipment. But his men were out, safe. He could think of nothing that had gone as planned by the war council. The best they had in them had failed, but still, the men were out. How? How could it be?

  Then, for just a fleeting moment a sharp memory cut into his brain. He will turn our defeats to victory. In his heart he knew, and was humbled. An unexpected sense of peace settled over him as he raised his horse to a canter following his men.

  * * * * *

  Crouched in the wind by the docks, waiting for the British infantry to come at them from across the bridge, the last four men of the rear guard held their position behind their cannon, watching, tension mounting with each passing moment. One of them wiped the grit from his eyes, blinked, and noticed one of the big wooden chests nearby belonged to an officer. The lid and two sides were splintered, smashed open. Clothing was scattered, some tumbling south with the wind, and in the bottom he saw a small, three-gallon wooden cask marked “Madeira.”

  Wine? he thought. In two strides he was there, scooping up the small keg with one arm then stepping quickly back to the gun. The other three men in the crew glanced back at him, and their eyes widened.

  “Wine?” one asked.

  “Don’t know until I knock the bung out.”

  He used the cannon rammer to drive the bung into the cask, then raised it to his nose. A huge smile spread. “Good Madeira wine.” He raised the cask and drank from the open bung hole, then handed it to the next man.

  Half an hour later, across South Bay, British Captain Henry Ottaman crouched near the entrance to the Great Bridge. Behind him a smooth-faced young lieutenant turned to a bearded, craggy-faced sergeant and ordered him to have the company drop down, out of sight, while the captain extended his telescope. For thirty seconds the captain studied the face of Mt. Independence, then the landing and the docks. Flame and smoke were still rising to stain the dawn sky, but nothing was moving except the litter on the ground, and one lone, confused Indian.

  Suddenly Ottaman stood, drew his saber, shouted, “Follow me!” and sprinted onto the Great Bridge, dodging, slowing with the violent heaving of the structure and the white water that drenched him, leaping the gaps left by the torn up planking. The lieutenant set his jaw, jerked out his own sword, and plunged after the captain, shouting, “Forward, men!” The first company of British infantry rose and charged, starting their run across the Great Bridge, grimly expecting grapeshot to rake them before they reached the halfway mark.

  The American gun remained silent as the British moved forward, slowed by the gaps in the planking. At the three-quarters mark they saw the muzzle of the cannon and hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether they should leap into the water to escape the blasting grapeshot that was certain to come.

  At that moment they saw a lone Indian wander over to the cannon emplacement as though in a daze, reach down, and straighten up with the smoking linstock. The warrior touched the spark to the touchhole in the cannon, and before the British could move, the big gun blasted. The British all flattened on the bridge, expecting to be raked by the grapeshot, but the cannon muzzle had been tilted far too high. The entire load whistled harmlessly forty feet over their heads. They raised up to see the terrified Indian sprinting for the woods.

  Captain Ottaman leaped to his feet, ran forward, cleared the end of the bridge, and with the wind at his back leaped over the low breastworks, into the cannon emplacement, sword high. He had started his downstroke at the first man he saw, when he froze, sword poised, tunic tails whipping in the wind. He gaped in stunned surprise, studying the prostrate man, then the other three, two lying on the ground, the last one slumped over the back of the cannon barrel, causing it to go down, and the muzzle up.

  For a moment he stood without moving, until he understood. He threw back his head in raucous laughter as the lieutenant came pounding up. The lieutenant stopped short in wonderment at his captain, who pointed his sword at the four unmoving Americans.

  “Drunk! Four of the bloody devils left behind to blast us to kingdom come, and they’re all drunk! Well, they’re jolly well in for a surprise when they sober up to find out they’re our prisoners.” He rammed his sword back into its scabbard with the realization they were standing amidst a mountain of abandoned American supplies. He shook his head in astonishment at the great stack of gunpowder kegs, with half a dozen broken open, powder spilled among the other kegs in preparation to blow the lot of them.

  He faced the lieutenant. “They can’t be far ahead. You go back across the bridge and find General Fraser. Tell him there isn’t an American left on Mount Independence or the docks. They’re running east on Hubbardton Road. They’ve abandoned food, luggage, blankets, cannon, muskets, and most of all, fifty or sixty kegs of gunpowder.” He could not suppress a grin. “Left in a hurry, they did. Tell the general I’m after them. Tell him Fort Ticonderoga and all defenses on Mount Independence are ours. General Burgoyne will want to know so he can tell the king.” He shook his head. “He most certainly will!”

  * * * * *

  The clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobblestones rang in the street as the British major galloped his horse through Whitehall in the heart of London. People scattered ahead of him, cursing, shaking their fists in the midmorning sun as he streaked past on his horse, the crimson tails of his tunic flying behind, head low, tricorn pulled down on his head. He pulled the big, lathered mare to a sliding halt at the great palace gates, the iron shoes knocking sparks flying from the hard English stones. Two pickets stepped to face him, muskets at the ready, while he leaped to the ground before them.

  One picket opened his mouth to speak, but the major cut him off, breathless, hardly able to speak.

  “I’m carrying a dispatch from General John Burgoyne. Just arrived from the American colonies. To be delivered to the king instantly. Open the gates!”

  One picket spoke. “Suh, no one enters these grounds without—”

  The panting major’s voice rose. “I know who enters these grounds! I’m telling you there is nothing more critical to the king th
an this dispatch. Do you know where General John Burgoyne is? What he’s doing?”

  “Suh. General Burgoyne is in America disciplining the rebels.”

  “Are you opening these gates, or do I tell the king you personally stopped delivery of this dispatch?”

  For a moment the picket hesitated, then turned and inserted a great, flat key in the lock, turned it, and the gates swung open. The major thrust the reins of the horse into the startled picket’s hand and sprinted up the long, broad, cobblestone approach to the castle doors, where pickets again challenged him. He pushed past them, into the entry room and stopped. He swept his tricorn from his head, awed for a moment by the luxurious splendor of the high ceilings, thick India carpets, the twelve-foot, cut crystal chandelier overhead, six-foot-tall gold and silver candelabra, spotless, shining hardwood floors.

  Instantly an immaculately dressed aide approached him, indignant at the sudden, unexpected outburst. “Sir,” the aide demanded, “Who are you? For what purpose have you come? Do you have leave of the king to be here?”

  The major drew a thick document from his tunic and thrust it forward. “I am under orders to deliver this to the king at the earliest possible moment.”

  “Indeed! From whom?”

  “General John Burgoyne.”

  The aide’s jaw dropped for a moment, and his demeanor changed in an instant. “General Burgoyne? In America?”

  “Precisely.”

  Taking the document, the aide spun and fairly ran down the luxurious hallway. He paused before a doorway long enough to straighten his uniform, then rapped lightly. The door swung open, and the man faced the king.

  The aide bowed, then spoke through the open door, “I humbly beg your pardon for the intrusion, my Liege, but I have taken license to think you would want this document at earliest opportunity.”

  Irritated, frowning, the king growled, “All right, all right, what is it?”

  “A dispatch from General John Burgoyne, my Liege.”

  For a split second the king’s eyes widened, and he did not move. Then he snatched the document, slammed the door, and with trembling fingers ripped open the seal. For four full minutes he stood without moving, save to turn the eight pages, one at a time, while he read feverishly. He finished the document once, read portions again to be certain he had not misunderstood, then shouted, “I did it! I have taken Fort Ticonderoga! The Gibraltar of the American continent—mine, mine, mine! The United States are mine!”