Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  The night was a confusion of big guns blasting, cannonballs slamming harmlessly into the thick, dirt-filled walls of the fort, nervous men jerking awake again and again, mumbling curses at the flashes of light and the thunder overhead as their own guns answered. Sometime after two o’clock in the morning, Gansevoort passed an order: “We must save gunpowder. Fire one salvo for every four of theirs.”

  Dawn came beneath purple clouds, and after morning mess the first rain came slanting into the parade grounds. The British elevated their guns, and a few cannonballs cleared the walls, to whistle overhead into the forest on the far side of the fort. By noon the British had brought two mortars into action and were dropping shells into the dirt of the parade ground, digging harmless holes. The gunners on the wall located the mortars, aligned their cannon barrels, raised the muzzle elevation slightly, and fired twelve rounds. The mortars stopped.

  The routines of the day became a fixed labor of monotony. Men soon learned to sleep fitfully through the unending cannonades of nighttime. Twice the big guns fell silent, and in the peculiar sound of stillness, St. Leger raised a flag of truce to send Butler and two men to offer terms of surrender. Gansevoort listened, asked for the terms in writing, then sent a stinging reply. His orders were to defend Fort Stanwix, and that is precisely what he intended to do, to the last extremity. The guns resumed their incessant pounding.

  At dawn, the pickets on the wall suddenly leaned forward, pointed, and leaped down the wooden stairs calling to their commanding officers. “They’ve moved! Their breastworks are closer! They’re tightening their circle!”

  The news was brought instantly to Gansevoort, who nodded. “Of course. That is the nature of a siege. In time, they’ll be one hundred yards outside our walls, and then they’ll break out of their breastworks and try to take us by storm. That is when we will need our gunpowder. Keep firing one salvo to each four of theirs.”

  Each day became like the last and the next, and a sense of gray futility began to creep into the men. Gansevoort called a council of his officers, and they ordered the regimental cooks to prepare a ham and apple strudel supper, followed by a ration of one pint of rum for each man. Spirits lifted for a day, then settled once again into the grinding world of unending cannon fire, day and night, and six hundred fifty men confined inside the walls of Fort Stanwix. The British cannon emplacements were moving ever closer to the fort—seven hundred yards, six hundred, five hundred, and the war of nerves ate into the men. On what day will they be close enough to come out of the breastworks to storm the fort? How many will there be? Can we hold? Can we? Can we?

  Then, at dawn, a man was found hunkered down outside the east gate. He was dirty, unshaven, wearing homespun and a battered tricorn. He carried a long Pennsylvania rifle and had the rangy look of a man born to the wilderness. The pickets blindfolded him, and a sergeant and two privates brought him to Gansevoort at bayonet point. Gansevoort sent for Billy and Eli.

  Motioning for the blindfold to be removed, Gansevoort demanded, “Who are you?” His steel-blue eyes bored into the man.

  “Corbin MacPherson.”

  “From where?”

  “I had a farm over by Germany Flats, until I moved my family east to get away from all this. I come back to join the militia. I was sent to tell you, General Washington sent Benedict Arnold to help Schuyler, and Schuyler sent him on to you. He came in yesterday morning.” He flinched at the sound of cannonballs tearing into the fort walls and of the blasts rolling past. “Looks like you might need a little help.”

  Every man in the room started at the name “Arnold.”

  “General Arnold? How many men with him?”

  “None. Gen’l Washington ordered him to take command of all the Continental soldiers he could find, and as many militia as could be spared. He hopes he can get enough to help here at Stanwix.”

  Gansevoort’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How did you get through the British lines?”

  “Walked up a creek right past ’em. They wasn’t expecting me.”

  “What does General Arnold want me to do?”

  “Nothing. He’s getting ready to come here. He wanted you to know so you wouldn’t take any notions about surrender.”

  Gansevoort bristled. “Surrender! If we were going to surrender, we’d have done it long ago. We’re here to stay. What did General Arnold have to say about matters on the Hudson, or at New York?”

  “Burgoyne’s got an army over on the Hudson, moving south, and they need all the men they can get over there to fight him. Herkimer lost half his command at Oriskany, and we need every man we can get to hold things at Germany Flats. Schuyler’s sure he can’t fight Burgoyne and St. Leger at the same time, which is why he sent Arnold over here to see to it this fort doesn’t fall. He says we’ve got to hold this fort.”

  Gansevoort fell silent for a moment, weighing the message, judging whether it was a British trick to create a feeling of safety, only to discover too late it was an illusion.

  Eli asked, “Could I talk to this man for a minute?”

  Gansevoort nodded.

  “You saw Herkimer’s men come back from the battle?”

  “Some of them.”

  “What condition?”

  “Bad. Terrible.”

  “Herkimer?”

  The man’s eyes fell. “Dead.”

  Everyone felt the jolt, and for a moment the room was seized by silence before Eli continued. “How?”

  “Got his leg—left leg—broke bad at the ambush. He hung on for a few days but they had to take it off. It killed him.”

  “Did Ebenezer Cox tell you what happened at the ravine?”

  “Cox was killed at the ravine. And good riddance.”

  Eli turned back to Gansevoort. “I trust him.”

  “Very well. Mr. MacPherson, report to the enlisted barracks to get cleaned up and take mess. When you’re rested, you’re free to stay here, or go.”

  They watched the sergeant escort the man out the door, into the rosy glow of sunrise on the parade ground. Gansevoort leaned back in his chair, hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. “So Benedict Arnold’s coming here with some men.” He stood. “That will be good. You men go back to your posts. I’ll make the announcement about General Arnold at the appropriate time.”

  Eli pondered for a moment before he spoke. “I have a notion Billy and I should go on over to Germany Flats. Arnold doesn’t know we’re under siege here, and he might need someone to guide him in. I’d hate to see him walk into another of Brant’s ambushes.”

  Gansevoort considered. “I doubt he would, but then I didn’t believe Herkimer would, either. Give him a message. Tell him we’re under siege and that the British guns are less than three hundred yards from the fort walls. I think we can hold out, but it will be a close thing.”

  Both Billy and Eli nodded.

  “When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as we get our weapons and a little cheese and hardtack. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes later the south gate to the fort opened far enough for Billy and Eli to slip through. Three minutes later they had disappeared into the swamp, working their way in a circle to the east. They ignored the smell of stagnant decay and the swarming mosquitoes and brulies while their eyes never stopped moving, waiting for the first sign of a water moccasin, copperhead, flash of red in the trees, or movement that might be an Indian waiting in ambush.

  By ten o’clock the swamp was half a mile behind them, and they were standing up to their thighs in a clear, running stream, cleaning the slime and muck from their clothing. One hour later they slowed as they came to the flat land at the head of the ravine where Brant had caught Herkimer’s column in the ambush, and in silence they moved through the bodies, down the slope, picking their way. The dead were all American, left behind when Herkimer retreated to save his wounded. The British and Indians had taken all their dead and wounded with them and left the corpses of the rebels to rot. The two men breathed shallow in the s
tench and continued on.

  With the sun directly overhead they paused to wolf down cheese and chew hardtack, drink long from their canteens, grab up their weapons, and continue on east through the withering heat and humidity of the forest. They passed the settlement of Oriskany in the afternoon sun, and stopped in full darkness to make a cold camp. They finished the cheese and hardtack, drank, and lay on the forest floor to sleep. The morning star found them pushing on eastward, following the Mohawk River. The morning sun was one hour above the eastern horizon when they saw Arnold’s camp, one-half mile from the junction of the Mohawk River and the West Canada Creek. They walked in with their weapons high, calling out, “Friendly,” to the picket who came to meet them with lowered bayonet.

  “Who are you?”

  Billy answered, “Corporal Weems and Private Eli Stroud. Your man MacPherson got through to Fort Stanwix yesterday. Colonel Gansevoort sent us with a message for General Arnold.”

  Relief showed in the picket’s face. “MacPherson got through? He’s all right?”

  “Tired. He’ll be back in a day or two.”

  Eli broke in. “We need to see General Arnold, if he’s here.”

  The picket raised his bayonet and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Over there. I’ll take you.”

  They followed the picket through the familiar clutter of an army camp, surprised as they estimated more than six hundred men, armed and ready to march. Halfway through the camp they passed the roped-off enclosure encircled with pickets, where more than sixty prisoners and enemy wounded were being held—sullen, dull-eyed, defeated. One prisoner was dressed in a heavy, tattered winter coat. His hair was long and tangled, trousers ragged, shoes falling to pieces, face and hands streaked with dirt and grime. Bits and pieces of food clung to his beard. He sat on the ground near the ropes and pickets, rocking back and forth, humming softly, holding something in one hand, stroking it gently with the other. Eli slowed as he passed, and the man looked up, face glowing, smiling, staring with the vacant eyes of one whose mind is of another world. He thrust his hand up at Eli, proudly showing his treasure, and in that instant Eli recognized that the man clutched a dead mouse.

  The picket led them past the prisoners, to a plain canvas tent toward the east end of the camp. He spoke to the picket at the tent flap, who disappeared into the tent for a moment, then returned.

  “General Arnold says to come on in.”

  They ducked through the tent flap, the private saluted, and Arnold waited.

  “Sir, these two scouts was sent from Fort Stanwix. They say they’ve got a message from Colonel Gansevoort.”

  Arnold was dressed in a rumpled uniform with epaulets showing his commission of brigadier general. His command tent was unpretentious, uncomplicated, plain. His long hair was pulled back and tied with a piece of leather. His sword was lying on a table in the corner in a scarred scabbard. Thick-shouldered, square-faced, slightly hawk nosed, and thin-lipped, his entire demeanor bespoke a man who was direct, outspoken, and who had little truck with show, political nuance, or nonsense.

  “When did you leave Stanwix?”

  Billy answered. “Yesterday.”

  “MacPherson got through?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s all right.”

  “What message from Gansevoort?”

  “They’re under siege. The British cannon are three hundred yards from the walls, and they’re moving closer. He thinks he can hold the fort, but it will be close.”

  “You know about General Herkimer?”

  Eli answered. “We were there.”

  Arnold’s eyes dropped for a moment. “How long does Gansevoort have? Any idea?”

  “Not much time.”

  “I’ve got six hundred forty men here, and more coming. I’ll have about fifteen hundred when we’re ready to march, but from what you’re saying, that may be too late. I’ll have to go on with what I have now, and let the rest catch up.”

  “That might be risky,” Eli said. “If you come with six hundred forty, Brant will come back to meet you in the forest like he did Herkimer. If he does, I don’t know how many of your men will reach Stanwix. Brant doesn’t have enough men left to ambush a full fifteen hundred, so it might be better if you wait.”

  “We’ll have to take that risk.”

  Eli shrugged and remained silent. Arnold turned to his desk. “I’ll be ready to march by tomorrow at noon. How long will it take to reach the fort?”

  Billy pondered. “With six hundred men, about three days.”

  “Can Gansevoort hold out that long?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  Eli interrupted. “There might be another way.”

  Arnold turned, eyes narrowed in question, waiting.

  “You’ve got a prisoner out there who’s mind doesn’t work right. Is he insane?”

  Arnold shook his head. “That’s Han Yost. Not insane. Slow. Strange.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “No. Nearly harmless.”

  “What’s going to become of him?”

  “He thinks we’re going to hang him. We’re not. We’ll hold him until we’re finished here, then let him go. As long as someone watches over him to tell him what to do, he gets by.”

  “Does he understand what’s going on around him? Can he follow orders?”

  “Generally, yes.”

  Eli paused to put his thoughts in order. “Let me explain something. The Iroquois believe such a man has been touched by the Great Spirit. They look at them as special, like a medicine man or a prophet. Most often they believe whatever such people say.”

  Arnold’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “How do you know all this?”

  “I was raised by the Iroquois.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Make an agreement with Yost. If he’ll go to St. Leger’s camp and tell them you’re right behind him with a force big enough to wipe them out in half a day, there’s a chance the Indians will leave. If they do, St. Leger won’t have half enough men to finish the siege. It will all be over.”

  Arnold was incredulous. “You mean that poor soul out there could do such a thing?”

  “He might. It’s worth a try. Let’s bring him in here and talk to him.”

  Arnold spoke to the private standing behind Billy and Eli. “Bring Han Yost here. You know the one?”

  “Yes, sir.” The private disappeared out the tent flap to return minutes later, Han Yost in front of him. Yost still wore the vacant smile as he slouched in, hand thrust into the large pocket of the ragged, winter coat. He waited for Arnold to speak.

  “Han, you know who I am?”

  Yost nodded his head and laughed abruptly. “You’re the one that hangs people. You’re going to hang me.”

  Arnold assumed a stern look. “Yes, I am—unless you do what I tell you.”

  A second abrupt burst of laughter filled the tent for a moment. “You already told me. You’re going to hang me.”

  Arnold raised a warning finger. “Do you want me to hang you?”

  Still smiling broadly, Yost shook his head vigorously. “If you do, no one will take care of Jacob. I got to take care of Jacob.” He jerked his hand out of his coat pocket and thrust it toward Arnold, palm open. Arnold stared for a moment at the dead mouse.

  “Do you want to take care of Jacob?”

  “He’s my friend. We talk.”

  “Do you want to take care of him?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you do what I say, you can take care of Jacob for a long time. Do you understand?”

  Yost stroked the mouse for a moment, then carefully put his hand back in his pocket. “Yes.”

  “You know how many soldiers I have here?”

  “Yes.” A look of pride stole over Yost’s face as he invented his answer. “Like the leaves on the trees.”

  “Yes. As many as the leaves on the trees. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to go to a man named Colonel St. Leger and tell h
im.”

  “Where is he?”

  “A long walk from here. I will send someone to help you find him.”

  “Who?”

  “A friendly Indian. He knows the forest, and he knows St. Leger. He will help you.”

  A look of deep concern came into Yost’s face. “I can’t go. I can’t leave my mother.”

  “She wants you to go. I will bring her here, and she can tell you.” Arnold turned to the private once more. “Do you know his mother? She’s among the prisoners.”

  Five minutes later a wrinkled, disheveled, round-shouldered, gray-haired woman in a long, dark skirt with a torn shawl about her shoulders was standing before Arnold. She was trembling, eyes filled with terror as she glanced repeatedly at her son.

  Arnold spoke in a firm, matter-of-fact voice. “Mrs. Yost, I want to make a bargain with you. I will spare both you and your son if he will carry a message to Colonel St. Leger, who is now at Fort Stanwix. St. Leger is British. Your son wants your permission to go. I will send a friendly Indian to guide him. He will not be harmed. Will you agree?”

  The woman gasped, “You won’t hang him?”

  “Not if you agree, and if he goes.”

  “Will you set us free?”

  “Yes, when he returns, if he has done what I ask.”

  She turned to her son. “Do as this man says. He will let you go free, and you can take care of Jacob.” Her eyes were pleading.

  Yost rubbed a filthy sleeve across his mouth, then nodded. “If I can go free with Jacob.”

  She turned back to Arnold. “He’ll go. He’s a good boy. I do not know why God sent him this way.”

  “Thank you. Private, take her back.” He turned back to Eli. “Is there anything else I should know about this . . . scheme?”

  “Do you have some Oneida in camp that you can trust?”

  “Several. One is named Ponsee. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “Broken.”

  “Bring him. I can tell him what to do. And one more thing. Yost has to make them believe he escaped. To do that, while I’m talking to the Indian, have some men take that coat of Yost’s and shoot a few holes in it.”