Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  It will be remembered that Brigitte Dunson fell in love with a British captain, Richard Arlen Buchanan, and he with her. His letter to her, through her mother, at the time his regiment marched out of Boston, is set forth in full, as is her remembrance of his physical appearance, including the telltale scar in his left eyebrow.

  Smith’s Cove

  Late July–early August 1777

  CHAPTER XXVI

  * * *

  In the glow of two lamps on the table inside his command tent, General George Washington heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair to dig a thumb and forefinger into weary eyes. He glanced at the clock on one corner of the table, and for a moment stared in disbelief, then quietly muttered, “Ten minutes past eleven. Where did I lose three hours?”

  His forehead furrowed as he straightened, then stood to pace, struggling to hold his intense frustration from becoming anger. Where is he? First at the Virginia Capes, then sailing north into the Atlantic, then back down at Sandy Hook, then just sitting there with his army aboard ships lying at anchor for weeks waiting for the tides! Exactly what does he have in mind? It’s obvious to me he wants Philadelphia, but if that’s true, why in the name of heaven doesn’t he just sail his army up the Delaware and take it? Is there any human being alive who knows Howe’s mind? Does Howe know it himself?

  He stopped for a moment to stare at the stack of communications sitting on the left side of his desk.

  I have critical correspondence I must attend to, and all I’m getting done is playing this fool’s game with Howe, following him from one place to another, wasting supplies and manpower because I have no other choice, appearing more and more like an incompetent. Now I find myself here in this gorge called Smith’s Cove—not on any map—waiting for him to make a move on the Hudson. I can’t simply engage him because I haven’t the manpower nor the munitions to win. I have to wait to pick the time and place, and in the meantime, simply continue using up what men and supplies I have, waiting for the right time. The militia up in New Hampshire and Vermont will have to handle Burgoyne.

  He glanced again at the paperwork waiting on his table. Congress, disgruntled officers, angry militia, frightened people, suppliers who haven’t been paid, food shortages, munitions, blankets, medicine—when will it ever end? How do I hold Howe in place, send men to help the militia on the Hudson, and still try to keep everyone satisfied? I have one dollar for every hundred I need, one man for every hundred I need, and only the Almighty knows whether it will ever change.

  He brought his inner rage under control, drew a great breath, and slowly let it out before he returned to the table and sat once again on the chair. He reached for the next document on the stack and quickly read it.

  Schuyler, in the northern theater on the Hudson. Abandoned Fort Ti. Can’t find St. Clair and his command. Congress ready to bring both of them in for an inquiry—probably courts-martial. Needs help to check Burgoyne. John Adams ready to accuse them both of treason. What John Adams needs is six months in the front lines with a musket in his hands and cannonballs whistling. I refuse to judge St. Clair or Schuyler before they’ve been given a fair chance to explain themselves. Henry Knox and Nathanael Green are of the same mind—give them their chance. I know St. Clair—how he fought at Long Island and Trenton and Princeton. If he abandoned Fort Ti, it was for good reason.

  He laid the document down, placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands while he brought his mind to bear.

  I’ve already sent Benedict Arnold and Ben Lincoln up there. Benedict will see that Burgoyne’s greatest enemy isn’t the militia, or our army. It’s that wilderness. Benedict will know how to use it to slow Burgoyne, use up his supplies and men, force Burgoyne to a stand. And when the fight comes, we must win, because we cannot defend ourselves against Burgoyne on the west and Howe on the east, at the same time. We must win! Benedict will know that.

  His thoughts continued. They’ll need more seasoned men for the big battle. Officers who can lead. Benedict will be invaluable, but they’ll need more than just one.

  He leaned back in his chair, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Who do we have? Who can I spare? Thoughtfully he reviewed the officers in his Continental army command, and slowly his mind settled.

  John Glover and his twelve hundred Marbleheaders are back, over at Peekskill, and heaven only knows those men are among the best. Daniel Morgan and his riflemen. Three hundred of the finest shots on this continent. With Benedict there, and Glover and Morgan beside him, they can lead the militia. And if they’ll wait until the wilderness has taken its toll on Burgoyne’s army, and then pick the time and the place for the fight, they’ll win.

  By force of an iron will that had inspired and sustained an entire army through two impossible years, Washington reached for pen and quill to write orders to two men.

  John Glover. Daniel Morgan.

  * * * * *

  “O yezz, O yezz, O yezz! Hear ye one and all. The General Court of the sovereign state of New Hampshire is now in special session. John Langdon, the most reputable and honorable Speaker of the General Court, presiding.”

  The sweating, rotund clerk of the court mopped his brow as he took his seat beside a raw pine table that stood on the podium at the head of the square, plain room. A New Hampshire flag hung on a pole at one end of the table and an American flag at the other. The windows were all open to allow what little breeze there was to come through, and flies and mosquitoes buzzed incessantly. Outside, horses and wagons surrounded the tiny log courthouse and filled the village of Exeter. Men and women in homespun settled onto rough-finished pine benches to sit quietly, the men holding their hats in their hands, sweating in the summer heat of the Connecticut River wilderness, waiting for the court to get on with the business.

  Speaker Langdon wasted no time. He cleared his throat, raised a sheet of paper, glanced over it, and spoke.

  “We’re here in special session at the request of Ira Allen, who represents the state of Vermont. That state has existed for only a few months now, and they have no way to defend themselves against the British army that’s now over threatening the lives of just about everybody with Indians. I think you’ve all heard what they’ve been doing. Murdering, scalping—there’s no end to it. I doubt any of you have forgotten what they did to Jane McCrae.”

  Instant murmuring broke out, rose to a crescendo, and subsided.

  “I thought so. Our neighbors in Vermont are asking for us to help them. The trouble is, with what? Seth Warner’s men were at the Hubbardton battle, and I doubt he has one hundred fifty men left who are fit to fight, and that’s all we have right now standing between us and the British army. If we send them, we’re without a militia to defend our own ground.”

  The room fell into silence as men pondered how to raise an army, and women pondered the fate of their children.

  Landgon waited until every eye was on him before he continued. “If we don’t help our Vermont neighbors, Burgoyne and his Indians can march right in on us here with nobody to stop them.”

  The silence held. Langdon stood.

  “So let me tell you what I think. I have three thousand dollars in hard cash, and I pledge my household plate as security for a loan of another three thousand. I also have seventy hogsheads of good Tobago rum that I’m going to sell. All told, that ought to make about ten thousand dollars, and I’m lending that to a fund to pay an army of militia from New Hampshire, to go to Vermont to check Burgoyne.”

  There were audible gasps, and then a flood of voices.

  I got seventy dollars and a sow and nine suckling pigs I can sell.

  I got two mules that’re for sale as of right now.

  I got sixteen barrels of the best apple cider in New Hampshire—who’ll buy it?

  Why, I’ve got four quilts I been saving, ten thousand hand stitches each—should be worth ten dollars apiece.

  Langdon let it run on for a time before he raised a hand to still the discussion. “The way I see it,” he sai
d, “if the British take New Hampshire, our property won’t be worth anything anyway. And if we win, and they don’t get our property, why, we can make a deal and Vermont can pay us back as time goes by.”

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  “We can raise a brigade, and our friend John Stark can lead it.”

  He was drowned out by a chorus of voices shouting their abundant approval. Nobody had forgotten it was their own John Stark who had fought the French in the Seven Years’ War, then with Abercromby, and finally had joined the rebels to fight the British. It was he who had coolly and heroically led a New Hampshire regiment in the Battle of Bunker Hill, and been a shining hero at the Battle of Trenton, where he and John Glover had sealed up the south end of the town and held it against the frantic Hessians. No man who fought with him would ever forget him standing to his full height, sword in hand, jaw set like granite, leading them straight into the whistling musketballs and cannon and grapeshot. No soldier in New Hampshire was wiser in the ways of war in the American wilderness than John Stark.

  Nor had anyone forgotten how a fickle Continental Congress had passed him over when they considered promotions, granting generalships to French officers whom they had never seen before, rather than Americans who had earned it. The proud John Stark knew that he, and Benedict Arnold, and others, had earned their promotions, and when he discovered what Congress had done to them, he sent Congress a stinging letter of resignation, handed them back his Continental army commission, and marched back to his home in New Hampshire to be with his comely wife, Elizabeth, whom everyone called Molly. At home once again, John and Molly were hailed as leading citizens among their own.

  A citizen stood, and Langdon quieted the room.

  “Mr. Speaker, I figger we ought to make John Stark a general of some sort, but be sure he reports to us here in New Hampshire, and not to those politicians down there in Congress.”

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  Langdon pursed his mouth for a moment, then turned to the other members of the General Court, who were also the New Hampshire Committee of Safety.

  “If I understood that right, we need a motion, and I now make it. I move that John Stark be granted the rank of brigadier general in the New Hampshire militia, to be accountable to this Committee of Safety, and not to the Continental Congress.”

  “I second it.”

  “I call for the vote.”

  “All in favor?”

  The room rang with the word, “Aye!”

  Langdon concluded. “The vote was unanimous. Mr. Secretary, make a record of this for delivery to John Stark, today if possible. And write out the usual commission making him a brigadier general.”

  John Stark accepted the commission on the spot. Six days later, he had assembled twenty-five companies of militia—nearly fifteen hundred men. Most had volunteered the moment they heard that Stark was to be their commander. Some had walked out of church services to join. In one town, more than one-third of the adult men formed a company and marched to Exeter. In the meantime, in short order, Stark gathered food, cook kettles, axes, shovels, gunpowder, musketballs, and medicines and prepared to march, with orders in hand granting him authority to assist the militia in Vermont, or any other state, or the Continental army if in his judgment it would promote the safety of the state of New Hampshire. No militia general had ever been granted such broad authority.

  On August sixth, Stark and his militia passed through Bromley, heading for Vermont. As he approached Manchester, he was informed that General Lincoln of the Continental army had ordered his command to march to Sprouts, where the Mohawk River empties into the Hudson, not far above Albany.

  Stark’s piercing blue eyes clouded. “Where’s Lincoln?”

  He found him, and his eyes drilled holes in him as Stark demanded, “Just what’s going on here?”

  “General Schuyler has ordered your command to—”

  That’s as far as Lincoln got before Stark cut him off. “Thank you, I have my orders from the state of New Hampshire, and I consider myself capable of taking command of my own men. It is my intention to march to Bennington, where I will do what my commission requires of me. Sooner or later the British will have to take Bennington, and I intend to be there to protect the citizens. Here, sir, is a copy of my orders.”

  Stark turned on his heel and returned to his men, marching them to the wilderness community of Bennington, consisting of one church and fourteen homes, perhaps the largest village in the state of Vermont. He did not know, nor did he care, what General Lincoln might tell General Schuyler. With insight born of his experience and knowledge of warfare in the wilderness, he understood one thing only too well.

  Bennington was blessed with many horses and an abundance of grain and food supplies. Sooner or later, Burgoyne would send part of his army there to plunder the village. And when he did, John Stark and fifteen hundred angry New Hampshire rebels would be waiting.

  * * * * *

  Congressman Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts laid the message on his desk, sighed, shook his head in disgust, and turned to the young, peg-legged Gouverneur Morris. “It seems that General Philip Schuyler can’t even find his army, let alone stop Burgoyne. St. Clair’s out there somewhere east of the Hudson, lost in the forest, while Schuyler’s running around trying to save what’s left.”

  The long, sweltering Continental Congress session had adjourned for the day, and most of the congressmen were gathering their papers and coats to leave. They slowed and fell silent to listen as Gerry, dour, cryptic, thinning gray hair, continued.

  “With more than ten thousand soldiers at his command, St. Clair abandoned Fort Ti without firing a shot, retreated to Hubbardton where he lost a battle, retreated to Castle Town and just kept running to only heaven knows where, while Schuyler lost a battle at Fort Anne, then lost everything at Skenesborough, and right now is headed for someplace called Saratoga. I challenge any of you to find it on the map.”

  He rose and began assembling the papers on his desk, still shaking his head, face puckered. “So many unbelievable events have happened over there around Fort Ticonderoga that a committee could make a powerful case for the claim that both Schuyler and St. Clair are in league with the British. Either that or they’re both monumentally incompetent. What’s happened over there is catastrophic.”

  He stopped to face Morris and wag a finger in his face. “Right now it wouldn’t take much to prompt someone to make a motion on the floor to enter a congressional order for both Schuyler and St. Clair to report to us here to account to us for their conduct. Strip them of their commands until we hear what they meant, giving away the linchpin to the defense of the whole western frontier. That’s what they did, you know. Abandoned Fort Ti in the dead of night without firing a shot to defend it.”

  He paused for a moment while a frown crossed his face. “If the facts are as I expect them to be, I can see courts-martial coming to decide whether or not the two of them are guilty of treason. If they are, maybe they ought to be hung.”

  Congressman Morris of New York set his wooden leg thumping on the floor. “Interesting idea, but it leaves a heavy question unanswered. If Schuyler and St. Clair are both stripped of command, who replaces them?”

  Slowly Gerry turned to face the man, eyes narrowed. “I rather think it would be Horatio Gates.”

  Every man who heard it stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed. Granny Gates! The general who had abandoned Washington as they were loading the boats to cross the Delaware last December twenty-fifth, and had then come to Philadelphia to solicit Congress while Washington and his tattered army stormed the streets of Trenton in the blizzard of December twenty-sixth, to take the town and the entire Hessian garrison—achieving the most spectacular victory yet in the ongoing war. It was Gates who had come wheedling to Congress every chance he could find or invent, to plead, cajole, beg, or weep if necessary, in his obsessive passion to persuade Congress that indeed he, Gates, should replace General George Washington.

  Gouverneur Morris, wise in the
ways of men and politics, raised one eyebrow. “Gates, you say? I’m wondering what there is in his past to recommend him for the rather, shall we say, delicate assignment of beating Gentleman Johnny out there in the forest. Oh, I have no doubt Gates would thump him soundly if he could do it from here. Write a flood of orders from here and let his soldiers do the fighting there. Extremely talented, Gates, when it comes to politics and persuasion.”

  “Humph,” Gerry turned from Morris and busied himself with stuffing papers into the drawer of his desk in the square, high-ceilinged Independence Hall.

  Morris thumped him good-naturedly on the back as he turned away. “But then one never knows. If this august body does recall Schuyler and St. Clair, they just might finish botching the job by giving the Northern army to Gates.”

  Notes

  General George Washington was pursuing the very complicated, nonsensical maneuvers of General William Howe on the Atlantic seaboard, when he became aware of the approaching climax to the affairs on the Hudson River. Consequently, with General Benedict Arnold already there, he pondered who he might also be able to spare to assist generals St. Clair and Schuyler. He resolved to send General John Glover and his Marblehead Regiment, and General Daniel Morgan with his incomparable riflemen (Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 255, 279, 338).

  Upon request of Ira Allen, representing the newly independent state of Vermont, the General Court of New Hampshire met in general session to determine how to respond to the plea for help. John Langdon, Speaker of the General Court, and a man of considerable wealth, offered three thousand dollars in cash, another three thousand from a loan, and seventy hogsheads of rum to start a fund to hire an army. Others joined in. Soon they had enough money to approach General John Stark of the New Hampshire militia. John Stark was one of the most rigid, opinionated men in the militia, and also one of the toughest, most fearless fighters in the state. It was he who walked the breastworks at Bunker Hill while British cannonballs and musketfire kicked up dirt all around him, and again at Trenton, when he and John Glover sealed off the south end of town. They approached Stark with their request, he accepted, and within days had gathered fifteen hundred men who would follow him wherever he led. He defied General Lincoln’s orders to follow him, and instead marched his men straight to Bennington, knowing that sooner or later Burgoyne would arrive there to get the horses, grain, and other food stores. He could not have done better (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 285–88).