Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Arnold bowed his head and for a moment his shoulders shook in a silent chuckle. “This is how we fight wars now?”

  Forty-five minutes later the small group stood clustered outside the command tent while Eli gave the Oneida warrior Ponsee his final words in Iroquois.

  “Don’t go to St. Leger. Go to Brant’s Indians. They’ll be in a separate camp near St. Leger’s men. When they see Yost, they’ll listen. It’s all up to you two to make them believe. If they don’t, things could go bad for you.”

  Ponsee nodded solemn agreement and turned to Arnold, waiting.

  “Go.” For a moment he hesitated, then added, “Good luck.” Oddly, he thrust out his hand to the startled Ponsee, who shook it. Billy and Eli walked the two men out of camp and watched them disappear, moving west in the forest. They waited until all was silent before they returned to Arnold, waiting at his command tent.

  Doubt was plain as the general spoke to Eli. “Think there’s a chance this will work?”

  Eli pursed his mouth for a moment. “It could. I trust Ponsee, but who knows what Yost will say with four hundred painted warriors around him?”

  Arnold, practical, hardheaded, continued. “What are you two going to do?”

  “Give those two about ten more minutes, and follow them.”

  “Concerned they won’t get there?”

  “Ponsee knows the way. I want to see what happens after Yost tells his story.”

  Arnold considered, then concluded. “I’ll be marching tomorrow. With fifteen hundred men it will take two full days, maybe three, depending on the weather. Never saw a summer with so much rain. If you see Colonel Gansevoort, tell him we’re on the way.”

  “We will.”

  “Stop at the commissary and get some food. Tell the captain in charge that I sent you.”

  The two men each drew a ration of dried fish, shriveled, raw potatoes with every eye sprouted, a handful of dried apple slices, and half a loaf of black bread from a skeptical commissary captain. They wrapped the items in cloth, filled their scarred wooden canteens with fresh water, and quietly left camp. Half an hour later Eli raised a hand in caution. Yost and Ponsee were three hundred yards ahead, moving steadily west through the trees and brush, Ponsee leading. Throughout the day Billy and Eli held their distance, moving only when they could not be seen or heard. In deep dusk they stopped four hundred yards from the tiny glow of a small Indian campfire, where Ponsee and Yost were seated. They chewed on the hard, tasteless, dried fish, ate slices of raw potato and dried apple, followed by a few chunks of the hard black bread. They drank long from their canteens, and settled in to take turns on watch.

  The glow of the campfire dimmed and died at midnight. In the gray of dawn they saw movement ahead, and with the birds setting up their raucous, squawking protest, moved on westward, carefully keeping Yost and Ponsee within sight. A startled doe bounded away with her spotted fawn beside her as though her thoughts, her actions, were also his. Small things peered from hidden places at the passing of the men. A copperhead snake, more afraid of the men than they were of it, silently sought the safety of a groundhog burrow.

  At midmorning Billy and Eli worked their way slightly south to avoid the settlement of Oriskany, then angled back north, once again near the Mohawk River. With the sun just past its zenith they turned directly north, following the river to where it narrowed near its headwaters. In the far distance they could see the tops of the walls of Fort Stanwix, with the flag blowing in the breeze, red and white bars, blue field of stars. They heard the timed thump of the distant cannon ringing in the forest, and they knew. The fort was still under siege. True to his word, Gansevoort had stubbornly refused to surrender.

  Shortly after two o’clock Billy and Eli stopped, and Eli spoke softly. “We’re going to work our way around and come in from the northeast. I don’t think they’ll expect it. Yost and Ponsee are going straight on in from here.” He paused for a moment in thoughtful reflection. “If Yost does his job, this could be over by sunset. If he doesn’t . . .”

  For a moment Billy was caught up in the singular absurdity of sending a retarded fool into the camp of the most feared Iroquois Indian in the northeast to persuade him and four hundred hardened warriors to run from a siege that was all but completed. A wave of doubt rose inside, and he pushed it away. This was not the time to raise a protest.

  Eli continued. “If this fails, there’s nothing we can do for Yost and Ponsee. We go due north to the headwaters of the river, then cut a big circle to the west, and come into the fort from the south side, through the swamp. If anything happens to one of us, the other one has to get back to tell Gansevoort that Arnold’s on the way.”

  Billy nodded understanding, and they moved on.

  In the sweltering heat of mid-afternoon, Ponsee stood bolt upright and steadily walked the last five hundred yards to the fringes of Brant’s camp, his demented companion following behind. He was aware that a hundred set of black eyes were watching, judging, while tomahawks began to appear. Painted warriors moved in behind the two, forming a phalanx from which there would be no escape. Ponsee did not look right or left as a path opened before him into the heart of the camp. He stopped twenty feet from the great firepit and waited.

  An Indian with two blond scalps dangling from his belt walked to face him, and spoke in Iroquois. “Who are you?”

  “Oneida. Ponsee. I bring a messenger.”

  The fierce black eyes never blinked. “He is special?”

  “Yes. Taronhiawagon has touched him. He is special.”

  The warriors closest to them moved back from Yost, then stared at him. Open suspicion showed as the Indian continued. “Why have we not seen you before? Are you in league with the rebellious Americans?”

  Ponsee could not miss seeing the Indian’s hand, fingering the handle of his dangling tomahawk. “I am not with the rebels. I was in Oswego when the white British general came. I was told to gather at Oriskany to fight the rebels. I went to Ganaghsaraga to gather with warriors there. We went to Oriskany to fight, but we were too late. The white soldiers had already been trapped and slaughtered at a place to the west. We saw the defeated rebels come back toward Oriskany. There was nothing we could do. I came back to fight at the great fort. I found this man lost, seeking Joseph Brant. He is special. He says he has a message.”

  “What message?”

  “I do not know. He will not tell me. He will tell only Joseph Brant.”

  For a time the Indian stared into Ponsee’s eyes, testing, waiting for his instincts to tell him if he had heard the truth. Nagging suspicion was rising when suddenly Yost stepped forward, jerked his hand from his coat pocket, thrust it within four feet of the Indian’s startled face, and opened his fingers. He was grinning his witless grin, eyes wide, proud to show them his friend, Jacob.

  At the sight of the dead mouse, the Indian recoiled as though he had been struck in the face. The single word, “Oonah,” quickly ran through the crowded warriors, and they retreated two steps to stop, unnerved, uncertain what to do next. The startled Indian facing Ponsee stepped back, his eyes never leaving the dead mouse as he gave orders. “Bring Joseph Brant.”

  At that moment Brant broke into the circle and stopped. His eyes took in everything in an instant. He stepped to face Ponsee, face a blank. “I heard you come into camp. Do you wish to see me?” He looked past Ponsee to Yost.

  “I have brought this man. He is a messenger.”

  “He is special?”

  “Touched by Taronhiawagon.”

  Yost brought his cupped hand from his pocket, shoulders hunched, and reached in to gently stroke Jacob. Brant stared, unable to see the dead mouse.

  “What is in his hand?”

  “His totem.”

  Brant took one step forward and Yost grinned at him, then thrust his hand forward as he opened his fingers. Only lifelong, disciplined restraint saved Brant from recoiling. The single changes in his expression were a tightening of the lines about his mouth and a momentar
y narrowing of his eyes.

  Brant turned back to Ponsee. “What is his message?”

  “I do not know. He will speak it only to you.”

  Brant braced himself, took one step toward Yost, and spoke in perfect English. “You are a white man. Are you with the American rebels?”

  Yost grinned as he remembered what came next. “No. I was a prisoner, but I escaped.” He reached to pull up the tails of his coat, and poked a finger through the six bullet holes, then jabbed his finger into the hole in his left sleeve, and finally the hole in the coat collar. “The Great Spirit protected me.”

  Brant eyed the eight bullet holes suspiciously. “What is your message?”

  Yost stroked Jacob for a moment, mouth pursed in thought as he tried to remember the words. Ponsee did not move, while his eyes flitted, searching for the place with the fewest warriors. In his unexpected arrival, the Indians had not taken his knife and tomahawk as they usually did, and in his mind he went over the plan. If Yost failed, he was to instantly kill him with his knife to save him from being roasted alive and eaten, and then either break through the wall of Indians before they could move, or kill himself with the same knife. He made his calculations and waited for Yost to answer.

  Yost raised his smiling eyes from Jacob to Brant and slowly recited the words. “The Great Spirit told me I must find you.” He gestured broadly toward the blue sky with his free hand. “He gave me a message.” He paused for a moment, his face sober as he searched for the next words. He brightened, and continued. “There is a mighty force of rebellious Americans coming here. They seek . . . revenge.” He smiled at having remembered the word revenge.

  Brant was standing like a statue, watching every expression, listening to every word. Yost continued.

  “Your warriors killed many of them. Now they come to kill many of you.”

  Yost stopped, his bearded face a study in concentration as he went over his speech until he was certain he had remembered it all, and he burst into a relieved smile.

  Brant felt rising concern and the beginnings of fear. “When will they come?”

  “Before the sun sets tomorrow.”

  Two hundred of Brant’s warriors were within earshot, and not one of them dared breathe as Brant asked the question on which it all hung.

  “How many?”

  The mindless smile burst onto Yost’s face once more. He said nothing, but slowly tipped his head back until he was staring upward into the tops of the countless trees. Then he turned his head, his eyes moving from tree to tree, as though he were examining each of them. He raised his free hand and slowly swung it in an arc, gesturing to the millions of leaves. Triumphantly he lowered his arm and brought his grinning face back to stare at Brant.

  Instantly an outcry arose among the warriors. “As many as the leaves in the trees! We cannot fight so many. Taronhiawagon has warned us. It is useless to remain. Oonah! Oonah!”

  Brant turned and raised both hands, and the outcry slowed and stopped. “We do not know if this man speaks the truth. We must find it out for ourselves. I will take this message to our leader, St. Leger, and we will make a plan to see how many of the rebellious Americans are coming.”

  Murmuring broke out among the warriors. It was only their near-worship of Brant that held them. Slowly they agreed.

  Brant spoke once more. “Return to your duties. I shall talk with St. Leger now. We will make a plan. I will tell you of it at first light of the morning.” He waited until the jittery warriors dispersed before he turned back to Ponsee.

  “I want to hear you speak. Do you know of yourself these things are true?”

  Ponsee told the truth. “I do not know it all. I do know that the tall one with the hooked nose, named Herkimer, is dead from his wounds. Dark Horse was gathering a great force at the place they call Germany Flats.” He had used the Mohawk name for General Benedict Arnold, whom they called “Dark Horse” because his skin was slightly darker than the average white man’s. Ponsee continued. “Dark Horse is a great warrior. Many rose to follow him to avenge the killing of Herkimer and the slaughter of their companions at the ravine. They have more than we have here. I know they are marching this way, now. I know he means to overrun this camp, and the British. I believe he can do it. This I know because I saw it.”

  Ponsee met Brant’s flinty stare, knowing that he could be dead within seconds if Brant did not believe him.

  Despite his training in the schools of white men, his vast experience moving about in their society, learning their ways and customs, learning to speak in French and English, and his extended visit to London and the king of England, at the bottom of his soul Brant remained a Mohawk Indian. While his head told him Yost was but a demented white man, and Ponsee was part of a monstrous lie, his Indian heart screamed, “The strange one is special! Touched by the Great Spirit. Taronhiawagon has sent him with a message, which we must receive and believe, or be slaughtered by the white men who are surely coming.” Brant held little fear of white men in the forest, but a message sent by Taronhiawagon struck fear into his very being! If Taronhiawagon said it, it would come to pass!

  Divided against himself, Brant turned away from Ponsee and gave orders. Two of his warriors came to lead Yost and Ponsee away, to be held until it could be determined if they had told the truth. He watched as they were marched away, then turned west and strode rapidly to the British camp, to the command tent of St. Leger. One hour later St. Leger, with Brant, two officers, and and six armed regulars marched back to the Indian camp, where Brant called his men together. St. Leger waited until they quieted before he raised his voice, and Brant translated.

  “I have heard that the rebellious Americans are coming. We do not know if it is true, and I myself do not believe it. I promise you, with the dawn I myself will lead an expedition to the east with the great Joseph Brant, and we shall find out if the weak-minded man who came with this message is truly a messenger from the Great Spirit, or if he and his friend were sent by the Americans to trick us. I ask you now, wait until my return before you decide.”

  Rumblings of rebellion passed through the Indians before they settled. Reluctantly they agreed, and a fragile, nervous mood settled over their camp as St. Leger marched back to his own tent.

  True to his word, he marched out of camp half an hour before sunrise, Joseph Brant and two war chiefs beside him, leading a column of one hundred armed regulars. They moved east, along the banks of the Mohawk River, with but two purposes in mind: To determine if a column of Americans was coming west, and if it was, to find a place to lay an ambush.

  Those left behind at the camp watched them go, nerves raw from the unending cannonade of the siege, jumpy in the absence of both commanders—St. Leger and Brant. They glanced from time to time at the place where four Indians were holding Yost and Ponsee. They ate their tasteless oatmeal and drank their black coffee and were moving to their duty posts for the day when an uproar erupted on the east side of the Indian camp.

  Two warriors brought an Indian to the council firepit, and the ranking chief confronted him.

  “Who are you?”

  “Desentant.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came to join you. I am followed by many enemy soldiers.”

  “How many?”

  “Many more than I see here.”

  Forty minutes later, three more Indians entered camp. “There are many coming,” they said. “They will be here today. The great general on the Hudson—Burgoyne—has surrendered.”

  One hour later St. Leger returned, his men sweated out from marching double time to get back to camp. It took less than one minute for both St. Leger and Brant to know something was terribly wrong.

  “What’s happened?” St. Leger demanded.

  “Others have come with the same message we received from the special one. It is true. We are going to be overrun.”

  St. Leger exploded. “Nonsense! We have just come from the east. There is no one coming. It is a great trick of the Amer
ican rebels! Gather the war chiefs this moment. I will wait here. We are going to settle this matter right now.”

  Reluctantly, refusing to look St. Leger in the face, the war chiefs gathered at the firepit and waited silently for St. Leger to rip into them.

  “What has happened to the mighty Mohawk? General Burgoyne has not surrendered. He controls the entire Hudson River! I myself have been east of this camp, and I tell you there is no one coming. The Americans were defeated at the ravine. Herkimer is dead! We have nothing to fear! We will assault Fort Stanwix within two days and win a complete victory!”

  One chief raised his head and pointed west. St. Leger stopped and turned to Brant. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Brant’s reply was soft, steady. “Two hundred warriors have just left. They are going back to Oswego.”

  St. Leger gaped. “Deserted?”

  “Not in their eyes. They came to take Fort Stanwix. They did not come to fight an army from the east.”

  “There is no army from the east!” St. Leger fairly shouted.

  “They believe there is.”

  “Are the rest of the Indians going to desert with them?”

  “They are talking about it.”

  “Stop them!”

  “They believe they have been warned by Taronhiawagon. I have no authority over him. I will talk with them.”

  Brant raised his hands for silence. For ten minutes he spoke to his people, listening, gesturing, exchanging hot words. Then he turned back to St. Leger.

  “They want to go back to Oswego and get more heavy cannon. More men. Many more men. Then they will come back and fight.”

  “There is no other way?”

  “None. If you do not agree they will leave now.”

  Desperately St. Leger looked the direction of Fort Stanwix. His cannon were a scant two hundred yards from the wall. They would be in a position to assault the fort within the next thirty-six hours. It tore his heart to be so near his tremendous victory, only to be abandoned by the very men he had to have to complete it. He closed his eyes and for long seconds battled to take control of the anger raging inside.