by Ron Carter
Taking his place in the center of the arbor, Burgoyne waited while St. Luc turned to give a hand signal. The eldest chief among the Indians majestically walked forward to face Burgoyne, then thrust out his hand to abide the white man’s strange custom of shaking hands. Immediately the Indians in the lines produced their pipes and began the necessary smoking before anything else was said or done.
Fraser sat quietly, watching the ancient custom with great interest. Finished, the Indians knocked the burning tobacco to the ground and a moment later the long-stemmed stone pipes had disappeared. The old chief, stoop-shouldered, face lined with the weight of eighty summers and winters once again faced Burgoyne. His aged voice was high, shrill, fragile.
“When the snows of winter melted, we heard the voice of the Great General of the North, in Quebec, even General Carleton. Our great and good Father across the mighty waters said he had need for his obedient red children. He asked us to forsake wives, children, our lodges and our lands, and possessions to come to this place. He asked us to help bring his rebellious children back to his family. We did as he asked. We have walked three thousand miles to come here to join with our friends and allies who are now all of one mouth, one language, one mind, and that is to serve our king, the Great Father beyond the big water.”
The old man turned to gesture grandly to his warriors. “You see us all here in front of you. Say what is your will. Speak, and we shall obey.”
St. Luc was to the left of the old chief, listening intently to be certain his aging mind had not forgotten what he must say. St. Luc sighed in relief as the old man finished and stood as erect as he could before Burgoyne.
Burgoyne rose to his full height, and for a moment held a severe face as he looked up and down the two rows of painted red men, some with blankets, most with their weapons clutched at their side. He turned to St. Luc and spoke in French while St. Luc translated.
“I am Burgoyne. I am the chief chosen by King George, your good Father across the great water. He has sent me here to greet you. He sends his gratitude for all you have done—for leaving your wives, your children, your lodges and your lands, to come serve him. He will not forget your generosity.”
He paused, and there was a murmur up and down the lines. It quieted, and he went on.
“The Father loves all his children. But he has many who have gone astray. They are disobedient and disloyal to all the good things the Father has done for them. They have chosen a path from which they must return. He has sent me here to bring them back. He now wishes you to help him bring these disobedient, monstrous children back to obedience.”
Again he paused and waited for the murmuring to stop.
“To do this, the Father has given me permission to give you the following instructions.”
The two lines of Indians became deathly quiet as they waited to learn how far Burgoyne was willing to go in removing all restraints. The only sound was the birds in the distance, and the occasional drip of rainwater working its way downward through the leaves and needles of the trees.
“His orders are these. You are to chastise his disloyal and unfaithful children. You are not to destroy them.”
He stopped. The Indians looked at each other through narrowed eyes, struggling to understand.
“You may scalp those killed in battle.”
Instantly the air was filled with the buzz of talk amid the smiles and gestures of the warriors.
“You may not scalp prisoners, or wounded, or women, children, or old people.”
Again buzzing broke out among the Indians, and Fraser watched their faces while his heart sank. They do not know the meaning of chastise. All they heard was that they could take scalps. May heaven help us when they go into the countryside.
Burgoyne waited until all talk had ceased and every eye was once again on him.
“The Father has promised you a bonus—a great gift—for every prisoner you bring back to camp. If you bring back his disloyal children, they can be made to return to their rightful place among his loyal subjects.”
Burgoyne stopped, then turned to St. Luc and nodded, and St. Luc nodded in return. His Indians had understood. They would obey. Then St. Luc handed his rifle to the man next to him and strode quickly to the open space between the lines, faced Burgoyne, and suddenly he began the high, warbling war song of the Mohawk. His body bent forward from the waist until he was staring at the ground, and he began to dance, slowly at first, then faster as he sang. One minute later the Indians in the lines began to join him, coming in order of rank, until they were all caught up in the dancing. Their singing drowned out all other sounds as their feet rhythmically pounded the wet, spongy floor of the forest. Within minutes every Indian had joined in, voices raised in sounds that only occasionally struck a harmonious unity.
General Phillips, brow drawn down, jaw thrust out in disgust, watched through slitted eyes. Wolves! This pack of heathens sounds like wolves and mad dogs.
Burgoyne gave a hand signal, and within minutes three barrels of rum were produced and the tops knocked out with tomahawks. Five minutes later what had been an Indian ceremony became a drunken, falling-down frenzy. Again Burgoyne signaled, and the Ninth Regiment marched forward to escort him and all their officers safely through the writhing, painted chaos to their carriages, and escort them back to the mansion house. The last company of men had their muskets unslung, primed, and cocked, and never quit looking back over their shoulders at the orgy behind them until they were clear of it.
All day the British and German soldiers went about their duties, packing and preparing for the oncoming day when they would march out of Skenesborough, moving south to Fort Edward. At no time did they cease listening to the inhuman shrieks and the occasional crack of a musket in the forest where the Indians continued to drink themselves senseless. As dusk settled, the soldiers doubled their pickets, with orders to use their bayonets if a drunken red man threatened them. The howling continued through the night, quieting with the approach of dawn, then stopping altogether with the rising of the sun. A company of regulars marched to the forest with their bayonets mounted and their muskets unslung, to stand in revolted silence at what was before them.
Not one red man was conscious, or standing. They were on the ground, or in the brush, or on top of each other, wherever they fell when their brains could take no more alcohol. The rum barrels were empty, smashed into splinters. Muskets, blankets, tomahawks, and knives lay where they had been dropped. Vomit spotted the ground and bodies were everywhere, mingled with the discharge of their own bowels. The soldiers breathed shallow to avoid the stench that rose to turn their stomachs. Flies and mosquitoes and insects swarmed everywhere. A few of the inert men groaned. The British looked, and then they turned to march to their own camp. They did not look back.
With St. Luc leading them, the Indians began to drift back to their camp in twos and threes throughout the day, heads bowed, moaning, dragging their muskets, not caring that they were covered with dirt and their own vomit and feces. St. Luc led them to the wharves where he forced them into the chill waters to strip, wash their clothing and their bodies before he let them come ashore to sit, dripping, heads down, eyes clenched against the hammers pounding in their heads and the thirst burning in their throats.
The Indian campfires glowed through the night as they sipped at broth and waited for the demons to work themselves out of their systems. By morning some of them were able to eat pork belly and hardtack, and walk. St. Luc declared them fit for duty, gathered them together, and with his rifle in one hand and his tomahawk in the other, gave his orders. While they had understood little of what Burgoyne had said, there was nothing in St. Luc’s orders to misunderstand. They had their muskets and tomahawks, and the white rebels were all around them, waiting to be “chastised.” Black eyes glittering, they disappeared into the forest.
With storm clouds gathering in the sweltering midday heat, British and Germans alike raised their heads at the sound of distant muskets. A few scattered shot
s from far away, then many, then silence. Four hours later all activity at Skenesborough stopped as the soldiers stared at St. Luc leading in a large company of his Mohawk. In their midst was an American militia captain with nineteen of his men, hands tied behind their backs, with a long rope reaching from one right ankle to that of the man behind. Blood covered their heads, and their faces were swollen, eyes closing from beatings.
St. Luc marched them to the mansion house and pounded on the door. While he waited, all four British and German generals came trotting, with the surgeon Julius Friedrich Wasmus among them. They slowed and stopped as the big double doors swung open and Burgoyne walked out into the sunlight on the porch. Burgoyne studied St. Luc and his painted Indians for a moment before he spoke.
“You have prisoners. That is good.”
“A captain and nineteen militia.”
“We’ll take them now. I’ll see to it the promised rewards are delivered to your men today. How many of your men were involved?”
“Forty-three. The rebels killed two of them in the fight.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” He turned to Fraser. “Would you take charge of these prisoners?” He spoke to Wasmus. “Surgeon, will you tend their wounds?”
Both men started to move when St. Luc raised a hand to stop them. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “My men want three of these prisoners.”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed in surprise as he waited. Here it comes.
Burgoyne licked suddenly dry lips. “They’re prisoners of war. Why do your men want three of them?”
St. Luc’s expression did not change. “They want to roast two of them and eat them while the third one watches. Then they’ll turn the third one loose and let him go back to tell his people what happens if they fight.”
Burgoyne froze. Fraser gaped. Wasmus turned white as a sheet and for a moment choked as his gorge rose.
Stunned, then infuriated, Burgoyne’s voice rang high and loud. “Their request is denied. Do not ever say such a thing to me again.” He motioned to Fraser. “Get enough men to take charge of these prisoners instantly and see to it they’re guarded against all possibilities.” He swung around to Wasmus. “You do all in your power to treat their wounds.” He turned back to St. Luc. “I will deliver the rewards to you for distribution to your men before nightfall. Tomorrow we march out for Fort Anne. In the meantime, you will keep your men under control or I shall do it myself. Am I clear?”
A cynical, evil smile slid across St. Luc’s face. He hasn’t the stomach for it. He thinks he will conquer this wilderness without brutality. Well, he’ll learn, or he’ll lose. He nodded, and without a word he turned on his heel, barked guttural commands to his men, and strode away toward his own camp while they fell in loosely behind him.
Burgoyne watched them disappear, then turned to his own officers.
“Tomorrow morning we strike camp and leave for Fort Anne. From there, we proceed to Fort Edward. Prepare your men.”
Rain fell at dusk, heavy at first, then lighter, and held until four o’clock in the morning when the clouds lifted and were gone. By ten o’clock a.m. the army was in rank and file, ready to march. In a humid, soggy world, Burgoyne tapped spur to his gray horse and, resplendent in a fresh uniform, led his army south from Skenesborough toward the wreckage of Fort Anne. From there, he calculated less than a two-day march near Wood Creek to Fort Edward, where St. Leger was to meet him with his army. Burgoyne’s spirits were high with the thought that St. Leger should be arriving soon.
The heavy rains of July had turned the wilderness into a huge, steaming bog that made the march a nightmare of wading through streams that were not on the maps and clearing away windfallen trees that blocked their crooked, narrow, winding trail. They reached the clearing where the charred remains of Fort Anne littered the ground. Mixed in were the bodies of the dead that had been left behind during the running battle, and the stench of the rotting bodies was overpowering. The burial detail gritted their teeth and breathed shallow as they threw dirt and leaves over the corpses and moved away as quickly as they could.
They made camp in the forest at the edge of the clearing, with Burgoyne and his officers enjoying a table beneath a huge maple, set with linen, silver, crystal, wine, champagne, meats, and vegetables. The tinkle of goblets raised to toast the king and the Duke of Brunswick, went on into the night to finally end with Burgoyne seeking the company of the wife of one of his officers. No one dared speak of it, not even the officer whose fickle wife enjoyed the champagne and the attention of a British lieutenant general more than she valued her marriage vows and the company of her husband.
Dawn broke clear and calm, with the British camp bustling to their business of the day, repairing equipment damaged in their two-day march through the wilderness, resting when they could, bracing for the last leg of their march to Fort Edward. They were aware when St. Luc and Langlade led their Indians out into the forest, but paid little attention once they disappeared. Then, during the day, prisoners began arriving, along with terrified people who drifted into camp, wide-eyed in shock, sometimes incoherent, rattling on and on with stories of horror.
I was there at a breastwork one mile this side of Fort Edward when they come, hundreds of them, mostly Indians, painted, and they killed a lieutenant and nine privates. We run and got help and come back and drove them off and when we got to the breastworks our boys was there. Naked. Scalped. Hands and noses cut off, bodies all hacked up by tomahawks and knives.
Heard about the Allens? They was harvesting the wheat at John Allen’s place and they come into the house for dinner at noon and the Indians burst in and killed ’em all with hatchets and knives. Scalped ’em all and cut ’em bad. I couldn’t figure out what was keeping them, so I left the field to go to the house to see and they was all there, dead, cut up, house all tore up. Terrible. Terrible.
Do you know about young Van Vechten? Lieutenant in the Albany County militia. Led a patrol out to find out what’s going on out there in the forest. That Indian who killed the whole Allen family while they was harvesting their wheat—called Le Loup by some, Wyandot Panther by others—he set an ambush for Van Vechten and he got him. Killed him and two sergeants and two privates. Scalped ’em all and cut off their hands, and cut up their bodies. Never seen the like. The devil couldn’t of done worse.
By late afternoon a morbid silence had seized the entire British camp. Soldiers worked at their assigned duties mechanically, edgy, jumping at every sudden sound. With the sun still high, they slowed to watch a group of Indians move into camp, two of them in a hot contest over something one had and the other wanted. As they moved into camp, British and German soldiers, including officers, stopped to stare and shudder as some of the Indians triumphantly waved fresh scalps on their way through to their own camp.
Evening mess was finished, and the sun was settling when the Indians once again ventured into the British camp. This time they paraded into the open ground around the burned flagpole to break into their war chant and begin their dance while waving their scalp sticks overhead. The regulars gasped as they recognized the raw scalps taken that day, and understood they were being proudly displayed as trophies of war.
A blocky sergeant with a bristle mustache watched the grisly sight with narrowed eyes, then shook his head. He started to turn away when the young soldier next to him suddenly gasped and lunged forward. The sergeant grasped his arm and jerked him back.
“Here, Davey, you stay away from those Indians.”
Wildly the boy struck out at the sergeant while he wrenched and twisted with all his strength to be free. The sergeant held firm, taking the slamming blows before he caught both arms and pinned them, looking into the young face. The eyes were wide, wild, insane, the face contorted like that of a maniac. An inhuman whine welled out of the boy’s chest, and he threw himself back with a strength of an animal while the sergeant clung to him.
“Davey, what’s happened to you, boy?” the sergeant shouted. “What’s—”
/> The boy wrenched loose and barged in among the Indians, knocking them aside until he reached the one with a raw scalp of reddish hair that was fully five feet in length. He smashed into the Indian and siezed the stick. His scream could be heard throughout the camp and into the forest as he went to his knees, clutching at the scalp, holding the long, flowing, reddish hair to his breast.
Half a dozen men from his company ran to his side, but he would not release his deathhold on the scalp. They picked him up, but his legs would not work, and they carried him away to one side, where they sat him on the ground. His sobs tore their hearts, and they recoiled as they looked into his face. They thought he had gone mad. British and German soldiers gathered around, and officers came running. Von Riedesel ordered St. Luc to get his Indians back to their own camp while other officers knelt beside the boy, trying to console him, comfort him, but they could not. The old sergeant settled to one knee beside the boy and circled his arm about his shoulder.
“Davey, it’s me. Sergeant Caswell. Can you hear me?”
Slowly the boy responded. He raised his anguished face to Caswell’s and nodded.
“What’s happened, son?”
With tears streaming down his face, his voice cracking with unspeakable horror, the boy blurted, “It’s Jane. They’ve killed Jane.” He slowly raised the raw scalp with the long, flowing hair to the sergeant. “This was Jane’s.”
Pain struck into the sergeant’s heart as he asked, “Your sister?”
The boy shook his head and choked out, “We were to be married.”
Strong men who thought they had seen every atrocity war could present stared at the ground for a time, battling anger beyond anything they had ever felt. Caswell lowered his face and closed his eyes for a moment, then tenderly patted the boy’s head. “Come on, Davey. Let’s get you back to your tent. We’ll find out about this.”