Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  With his command once again under control, he ordered one company to mount their bayonets and proceed up Mt. Defiance to the plateau where General de Fermoy and his command had been. If any rebels remained, destroy or capture them, raise the British Union Jack on the American flagpole, and remain there. He turned to the nearest officer.

  “Get back to General Burgoyne. Tell him the rebels are in full retreat east. I’m going to follow them as long as it seems prudent to do so.” Then he turned to Billingsley. “Find me a horse.”

  The officer left at a trot in one direction while Billingsley sprinted the other. Fraser paused for a time, setting his thoughts in order, making instant decisions while a feeling of wild exuberance rose in his breast. We succeeded! St. Clair abandoned everything. He’s running. If we catch him before he has time to set up breastworks and defenses we’ve got him. When we meet General Howe and Colonel St. Leger in Albany, we can move on George Washington in force. We could end the revolution before fall!

  He turned to his officers, and they caught the excited urgency in his shouted orders. “Form ranks immediately. We march in five minutes to catch the rebels.”

  The officers wiped at mouths and eyes covered with dust from the hot wind that was sucking the moisture out of the men. “Sir, may the men fill their canteens first? Perhaps get some rations?”

  Fraser’s answer was blunt. “No time. We’ve got to catch the rebels before they can throw up breastworks. We leave in five minutes.”

  The red-coated regulars set their jaws in determination and fell into their ranks. Billingsley led a black gelding to Fraser, who mounted and walked the horse to the place where the first tree stumps cluttered the entrance to the narrow trail to Hubbardton and Castle Town. He paused to peer ahead for any signs of ambush, then turned the horse and shouted, “Forward. Follow me. Keep a sharp eye for an ambush.”

  As the march continued, the wind died, and the narrow trail became a stifling oven. The sun turned the woolen uniforms into instruments of torture. When the trail narrowed, the column reformed into single file. Sweating men clutched their muskets at the ready, watching the felled trees and stacks of cut branches on both sides of the trail for the first movement that would tell of a rebel ambush. Mosquitoes swarmed in clouds, and insects never seen before by British soldiers came buzzing, stinging. Tiny brulies worked into their sleeves and the legs of their breeches, itching, biting. Strong men shuddered as rattlesnakes and copperheads slithered through the grass, across the trail, to coil defensively, waiting for the first unwary regular to come within striking distance. They came to rebels left behind, seated in the trail, heads down, sick, invalid, or sweating out too much alcohol, and they passed them by, left them for those who were to come behind.

  Keep moving—don’t stop—share canteens—chew salt beef if you have it—watch that rattler—keep your musket up—watch sharp for ambush—keep moving—keep moving—forget the sun—how far have we come?—it doesn’t matter how far we’ve come, we keep moving until the general says stop—watch the tree roots—keep moving—I’m having sunstroke—pour water over your head and keep moving—did you hear that?—hear what?—Captain Ottaman came back with his men—says there’s a clearing up ahead—some rebels there sick—the general says we stop there in five minutes—blessed stop—blessed shade.

  In a small clearing with a stream meandering through, Fraser turned his lathered horse and raised his hand to the officers. “Stop the men here. Let them fill their canteens and rest for twenty minutes. Get them into some shade. We’ve covered nine miles, and I think we’re coming up on the rebels fast. The men’ll need rest if we go into battle.”

  Fraser called for Ottaman. “You said there are some rebels here?”

  Ottaman pointed to the far side of the clearing. “There, sir. Under those trees. Something’s wrong with them, but I got your orders to return before I got close enough to find out what it is.”

  One hundred forty yards across the clearing, twenty rebels lay in the grass or sat on logs in the shade of two giant oak trees. They were hunched forward, heads down, not knowing nor caring that the British were coming through, just one hundred forty yards distant.

  Fraser raised a hand. “Hold your fire. Something’s not right.”

  Cautiously he looked about, waiting for sound or movement of an ambush that never came. He tapped spur to his horse and moved forward, raising it to a gentle lope as he came into the huddled Americans. They raised their heads, then lowered them again, indifferent to his approach.

  He reined in facing them. “Who are you?”

  A bearded man with a pasty white face spoke without raising his head. “We was with the Massachusetts militia, but not no more.”

  “Where are your weapons?”

  “Militia took ’em.”

  “Where are they?”

  The man raised tortured eyes and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, but said nothing.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  The man only shook his head. None of the others said a word.

  A laugh welled out of Fraser’s chest. “You’re drunk! That, or getting over being drunk. No wonder they left you. I’m General Fraser, with the army of General John Burgoyne. You are now our prisoners. Stay right where you are. A force is coming up the trail to take you into custody. If you try to run we’ll send Indians after you with orders to kill and scalp.”

  The man only shook his head while he fought the demons inside his throbbing skull.

  Fraser loped his horse back to his men, still chuckling. His story brought guffaws from those around him, while he glanced about to be certain his men were getting water and shade. Some of them were in the stream up to their knees, bowed forward, soaking their uniforms, splashing water in their faces, and pouring it over their heads. Fraser turned to his aide, Billingsley.

  “Did you happen to bring quill and paper?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Pausing only to frame his thoughts, Fraser struck off a message to Burgoyne: “Have occupied Fort Ticonderoga and Mt. Independence. Am pursuing the retreating rebels and believe I am close behind them. Will continue pursuit and engage any of them I encounter. Send remainder of my command to catch up with me, earliest, with other reinforcements if available. Send British troops if possible.”

  He sealed the report and handed it to Billingsley. “When we march out, see to it Captain Campbell delivers that to General Burgoyne. Let him rest until then.”

  * * * * *

  General Burgoyne buttoned his tunic as he quickly moved from his command tent into the clearing, eyes wide at what appeared to be Mt. Independence on fire. He saw the silhouetted rebel army in a desperate scramble as he slowed, then stopped. He turned to Fort Ticonderoga, then down to the docks, then across South Bay to the landing and the docks at the foot of Mt. Independence. For five full seconds his mind refused the only conclusion he could reach, and then the reality flooded through him like fire in his veins.

  They saw the guns on Mt. Defiance! They’re abandoning everything! We’ve got them! We’ve got them!

  He spun on his heel and shouted to his aide, “Get generals Phillips and Fraser to my command tent!”

  Ten minutes later, properly dressed in full uniform, chin thrust up and forward, General William Phillips stood rigidly at attention before Burgoyne’s desk.

  Burgoyne spoke to his aide. “General Fraser?”

  “I could not find him, sir. He’s—”

  At that instant the picket at Burgoyne’s tent flap interrupted. “Sir, there’s an officer from General Fraser. Says he has an urgent message.”

  Burgoyne stood. “Send him in.”

  The breathless lieutenant came to rigid attention, perspiring from his run. “Sir, General Fraser sends his compliments. Fort Ti appears to be abandoned. He has taken part of his command across the Great Bridge. He sent me to tell you he intends pursuing the rebels as long as it seems prudent.”

  For a moment Burgoyne’s forehead creased in concern
. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.” His eyes glowed, mind leaping forward making decisions to complete his conquest of the rebels, intoxicated with the realization Fort Ticonderoga had been delivered to him without the loss of a single British soldier in an all-out attack. It ran through his brain like a chant, We’ve got them, we’ve got them! He seized a scrolled map and with trembling hands anchored it on his worktable with small leather pouches of sand, then motioned General Phillips to come to the table. He moved his finger on the map as he spoke.

  “General, Fort Ti is ours. The rebels have abandoned it and all their defenses on Mount Independence—everything—and they’re running.” He tapped the Mt. Independence docks and landing. “They had about two hundred bateaux anchored here, and they’re gone. That isn’t enough to transport their whole force, so they’ve divided into two groups. One group is in the bateaux with but one place to go—Skenesborough—where they have more bateaux.” He tapped the map. “The other group is apparently headed east towards Hubbardton, here.” He tapped the map again. “General Fraser is in pursuit of that group right now.”

  He paused, his mind working furiously. “If I’m right, then it’s nearly certain the group headed for Hubbardton intends turning back west at some point, to arrive at Skenesborough to meet group one. The rebels have perhaps two or three hundred more empty bateaux anchored there. Group one will load into the extra bateaux and the entire force will move on south to either Fort George, here at the southern tip of the lake, or Fort Edward, here, just a short march further south.”

  He raised his eyes to Phillips. “What are your thoughts?”

  Prim, proper, Phillips leaned stiffly forward, quickly appraising Burgoyne’s analysis. “The good sense of it is obvious. I concur.”

  Burgoyne thumped the table with his fist. “Then I propose the following: I will order our fleet to move south, here, through the narrows, past the Great Bridge, where you and I and most of our force will board our ships and bateaux, headed south to Skenesborough.” He shifted his finger. “Fraser, over here, will likely need reinforcements. I’ll send General von Riedesel with his command, along with the men in General Breymann’s command, to support Fraser. When he joins Fraser, von Riedesel will take command of the entire force since he will be the ranking officer. I doubt Fraser will appreciate that, but he does understand military protocol. Von Riedesel will take over.”

  He moved his hand back to Mt. Independence. “The Sixty-second Regiment will occupy and hold Mount Independence, and the Prinz Friedrich troops will occupy and hold Fort Ticonderoga.” He paused for five seconds to be certain he had covered all necessary elements of the plan. Satisfied, struggling to contain his wild excitement, he again spoke to Phillips.

  “Sick and wounded men can’t march, so it’s certain St. Clair put most of them in the bateaux, along with his money chest and records, and maybe some guns. If I’m right, those bateaux and everyone and everything on board are ours for the taking. If we get to Skenesborough before that second bunch of rebels arrive from their overland march, we can lay an ambush for the group as they come in. That could be the blow that brings down the entire rebel army. As of this moment, fate has probably delivered to us the key to ending this war. We have no time to waste.”

  Phillips narrowed shrewd eyes. “Possibly. However, there are a few things. If you leave the Sixty-second Regiment and the Prinz Friedrich company to occupy Mount Independence and the fort, you will have about a thousand fewer men for combat when you move south.” Phillips stopped and fixed Burgoyne with a stiff stare.

  “I anticipated that. I will draft a letter to General Carleton in Quebec requesting twelve hundred troops to relieve our men. They can join us as soon as Carleton sends the replacements.”

  “And if Carleton refuses?”

  Burgoyne shook his head. “He won’t. With the entire expedition depending on those replacements, he won’t refuse.”

  Phillips remained cool. “How do you plan to get past the Great Bridge, built as it is?”

  “Cannon. Blast it open, enough for our fleet to pass through. The Thunderer has the guns to do it.”

  “Destroy it? It might be very useful in the future.”

  “If we need it later, we’ll repair it. We don’t have time now for our engineers to dismantle enough of it to let our ships through.”

  Phillips remained stoic. “Until we have victory in our hands, it behooves us to move cautiously. Whatever their shortcomings, these rebels fight well in the woods, and our soldiers do not, and they seem to have a peculiar ability to produce surprises when forced into a corner. I am remembering Trenton, and Princeton.”

  Burgoyne settled down. “Well said. Do you agree with the plan I have outlined?”

  “It appears to be complete, and feasible. Under present circumstances, yes, I do.”

  “Good. I will issue written orders to all officers at once. I recommend you get your luggage packed immediately. We leave here the moment we can.”

  * * * * *

  Colonel Ebenezer Francis drained the last of the tepid coffee from his cup, then turned to his close friend and fellow officer, Captain Moses Greenleaf. “Going to be another hot one.”

  Greenleaf glanced eastward where the first arc of the rising sun cut into the clear, blue sky. Already the dead air was gathering heat. Sucker Creek ran along the west side of the campsite, with trees lining the high grass in the clearing. He nodded his head and placed his cup on the log they shared next to the small fire on which they had cooked strips of sowbelly and boiled water for their chocolate.

  Francis stood and drew out his watch. Six-fifty a.m. He glanced down at Greenleaf and grunted a choppy laugh. “It’s ten minutes before seven, but I can’t remember what day it is.”

  Greenleaf smiled as he pondered. “Must be Monday. July seventh, I think. Yes, July seventh.”

  “I have to go meet Warner at seven. Would you parade the men and get them ready to march? I’m nervous about being here too long.”

  Greenleaf looked west, the direction from which the British would be coming. “So am I. Things have been too quiet. You go ahead. I’ll get the men going.” He rose to his feet and brushed at the seat of his breeches while Francis walked across the clearing to the Selleck house, where Warner was waiting. The door was open, and Francis walked in.

  Warner pointed. “Take a seat.”

  With the table between them, Warner leaned forward on his elbows. “I’m uneasy about staying here longer. Are your men able to march in the next thirty minutes?”

  Francis nodded. “Greenleaf’s parading them right now. I’m nervous, too. So’s Greenleaf.”

  “I’ll give orders—”

  The sounds of an incoming horse pounding across the clearing brought both men to their feet, and they strode quickly out the door, blinking in the brilliant sunlight. A sweating man pulled a lathered mare to a halt and remained in the saddle. He was breathless from a hard ride, agitated, unable to remain still. The mare was throwing her head, fighting the bit.

  Francis and Warner both stood in silence, waiting, with a rising premonition that something was violently wrong.

  “Sir,” the man blurted before Warner could speak, “General St. Clair sent me back to tell you. He expected you to be just west of Castle Town, but you weren’t there. He wanted you to help drive out the British, but he couldn’t find you, so he sent me.”

  Warner felt the cut, the sting. St. Clair had been clear in his orders, and Warner had exercised his own judgment in disobeying them. He dropped his face for a moment as the messenger continued.

  “So General St. Clair cleared the British out of Castle Town with his own men. There were only fifty of them, not five hundred as reported.” He stopped long enough to arrange the remainder of his words, which he spoke slowly so they could not be misunderstood. “He also ordered me to tell you that General Burgoyne blasted his way through the Great Bridge. The British fleet has sailed up South Bay to Skenesborough, and they have captured all our bateaux, all our
baggage, and taken General Long and his entire command prisoner.”

  Both Warner and Francis gaped while the man continued.

  “With the British in control of Skenesborough, and Long captured, the general has changed the plan. He now orders you to follow him to Rutland. From there he’ll work out a plan to move south, then back west, and meet General Schuyler on the Hudson, somewhere south of Skenesborough, then move on down the river, probably to Fort Edward.”

  The man paused and dropped his eyes for a moment to be certain he had said it all, and said it correctly. Then he raised his eyes back to Warner, waiting.

  Warner slowly wiped his hand across his mouth, face drawn down as he labored to judge how serious the consequences were of his failure to follow St. Clair’s orders, and the shock of having lost Skenesborough, General Long, and the entire American fleet of bateaux. He raised his face. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Instantly Francis turned to Warner, who lived in the area. “Where’s Rutland?”

  “Southeast of here. West of Castle Town. Almost nothing there. My command is ready to march. I’ll leave now.”

  Francis said, “Head down the Castle Town road for a few miles, then turn east. I’ll bring the rest of the men and catch you, or send a guide.” He turned back to the messenger. “Water and rest that horse for a few minutes, then go back to St. Clair. Tell him we’re coming as fast as we can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Francis turned on his heel and strode through the high grass and the clouds of mosquitoes to his own command and there found Greenleaf.

  “We’re marching for Rutland. I’ll explain later. Get the men moving.”

  Greenleaf recoiled for a moment, then turned to his command, already assembled in rank and file. “We’re marching,” he called. “Move. Move.”

  Startled, concerned, feeling the beginnings of fear, the officers shouted the column into motion, moving toward the Castle Town road. The men had not gone fifteen feet when a high, shrill voice behind them came piercing the morning air.