Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “All right. We will go back to Oswego. We will find more men, and we will get more heavy cannon. Then we will come back, and we will take Fort Stanwix. Do I have the solemn word of Joseph Brant and all his men on this agreement?”

  Brant nodded. “If you have told the truth, you have our word.”

  St. Leger turned to his officers and gave orders. “Prepare the sick and wounded for evacuation. They will leave under cover of dark tonight. Have the men strike camp today, load everything into the wagons, and be ready to march out at dawn tomorrow. Each man is to have twenty rounds of ammunition and—”

  An outcry at the north end of camp became an uproar, and St. Leger stood with his feet spread, waiting for an explanation. A warrior came sprinting to stop before Brant, fighting for breath as he gasped out, “Our scout came in—a great force of Americans is two miles from the landing on the river!”

  St. Leger raised a hand and shouted, “We were there one hour ago. There is no force!”

  The scout had lied on purpose. St. Leger was right, but the truth made no difference. The Indians nearest the council firepit shouted St. Leger down, and within seconds the camp was filled with the deafening roar of four hundred Indians chanting, “Oonah, Oonah!” as they ran to snatch up their weapons and blankets and sprint for the forest—a disorganized mob whose sole thought was to flee. The mindless panic swept also into the British camp. The officers and regulars alike ran to their tents to grab up their weapons, ammunition, canteens, and what little food they could find, and also run. The cannon instantly fell silent as the cannoneers watched their army in a wild, mad stampede to the west, and without a word they leaped from the breastworks and sprinted back toward camp to follow. They did not know what had caused the panic; they only knew a demented man had appeared yesterday to prophesy disaster, their leaders had been gone since daybreak, and now both camps were little more than two terrified mobs in full flight.

  One mile north of the fort, crouched behind a giant fir that had fallen a hundred years earlier, Eli suddenly raised a hand to Billy. Both men closed their eyes and listened intently for half a minute before Eli spoke softly. “The cannon have stopped. Something’s happened.” For a time they remained crouched behind the massive, decaying tree trunk, listening. The sounds of the insects and the birds held, then began to fade as the faint sounds of an army in full, panic-driven retreat reached them over a great distance.

  “It sounds like they’re moving west, towards Wood Creek.” Eli rose, Billy following, and set off through the woods at a run, over logs and rocks, knocking foliage aside as they moved west. Half an hour later the sounds were clear, distinct. Eli adjusted his direction to the north, and broke into a full run. Twenty minutes later he paused, sweating, while they battled for breath.

  “They’re going to hit Wood Creek in about half an hour. If we get there first, we can get a clear look at them when they ford the creek. Maybe get a count. You ready?”

  Twenty minutes later, hair awry, sweat running, panting, they settled flat on their bellies atop a granite ledge, with Wood Creek thirty feet directly below them. Their view of the creek was unobstructed for three hundred yards to the north, four hundred to the south. They had been there for five minutes when the first of the Indians broke clear of the forest two hundred yards south, to plunge into the cold, clear water of the shallow creek, clamber up the west bank, and disappear into the forest.

  In near disbelief the two men lay motionless, counting. Minutes became half an hour, then an hour, as Indians and red-coated regulars kept coming. The desperate men looked neither right nor left as they leaped into the creek, intent only on pushing their way across as fast as they could, to continue their stampede west. Among the last to cross, were both Joseph Brant and Barry St. Leger. Eli and Billy waited for ten more minutes while the stream cleared itself of the mud that had been stirred up, and then Eli turned to Billy.

  “I counted close to a thousand of them, Indians and redcoats. Officers and all.”

  “A little over a thousand.”

  “That’s St. Leger’s whole army.”

  Billy nodded.

  “They’ve abandoned their camps. They left their cannon, their tents, wagons, food, medicine—everything.”

  “I never saw anything like it.”

  “Those men are headed for Oswego. I think Han Yost and Ponsee succeeded.”

  “Whatever happened, they’re gone.”

  Eli spoke with an intensity Billy had seldom heard. “Do you have the wampum belt?”

  Billy patted his shirt. “Yes.”

  “Now is the time.”

  Bewilderment was plain on Billy’s face as he replied. “Now? They’re in full retreat. You think now’s the time?”

  “Yes. The best time is when they’re losing. While they’re winning, their confidence is up. All they can see is victory. They won’t listen to someone who walks in to tell them they’re going to lose. Right now, they’re running away. They’re scared—lost their nerve, their courage. Our best chance is to get there now, before they have time to gather themselves again. When they stop, I think we go in.”

  Billy remained silent, and Eli continued.

  “Now listen close. I’ll go in first with the wampum belt. You come behind with your musket and my rifle held high. Brant will honor the belt, and so will most of the lesser chiefs, but maybe not some of the rest. Some of them will call things at you, maybe try to touch you, or throw something, or spit on you. They’ll want you to make the first move for a fight, so don’t look right or left, and don’t stop walking. A warrior may challenge you to a duel with tomahawks or knives. If that happens, I’ll handle it. You stay close to me but don’t say a word while I’m talking to Brant. I’ll talk in Mohawk so the rest can understand. When I finish I’ll turn and walk back out of camp the same way we came in. Some may follow us and make threats. Ignore it. Just follow me. Can you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. “One more thing. This could all go wrong. If it does, there’s no chance we’ll come out of their camp alive. The only thing we can do is be sure they don’t get the chance to torture us.” He waited for a moment, pain in his eyes. “Do you understand?”

  Billy nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The fleeing army had left a trail of trampled brush and foliage four hundred yards wide through the forest. The two men followed, crouched low, moving cautiously. They had gone eight hundred yards before they came across the first body of a British regular. He had been tomahawked, scalped, stripped, and mutilated. Twenty yards farther on they found another, and then another, and then six in a tiny clearing.

  Billy stopped, sickened. “Brant’s Indians did this to their own army?”

  “They don’t see it that way. They believe they were betrayed—that the British brought them along only to do the worst of the fighting and then lied to them about Arnold’s column coming in from Germany Flats. They might be right.”

  Cautiously they followed the trail through the forest and paused to read the tracks showing the British had now separated from the Indians. The Indians were moving slightly south, toward Lake Oneida, while the British were angling north in a direct line toward Oswego. The two men held to the left, following Brant and his Indians. Half an hour later, Eli went to one knee to study the tracks.

  “They’ve slowed. They’ll stop soon—probably on the shore of Lake Oneida, and Brant will call a council where they’ll all have their say and make a plan. That’s when we have to be there.”

  The sun was still three hours high when they saw the waters of the lake glittering four hundred yards ahead. The faint sound of human voices came through the trees, and they both peered west but could see nothing but the forest. Staying low, they moved to the sounds, and ten minutes later they saw the first movement through the trees ahead, on the shores of the lake. Eli gave a hand signal, and Billy passed him the wampum belt. For a moment Eli ran his fingers over the seashells, then raised troubled eyes to Billy, who saw his do
ubts, his feeling of inadequacy.

  Billy smiled as he spoke. “You’ll do it right. Let’s go.”

  Eli held the belt at full arm’s length, shoulder-high, and started through the trees toward the gathering on the lake shore. Billy raised both weapons above his head and followed. They were still fifty feet inside the tree line when the first sweating, painted warrior saw them. Instantly he raised his tomahawk and called a challenge, and within seconds the two men were surrounded by an angry mob, tomahawks and scalping knives in their hands. The warriors saw the wampum belt and grudgingly opened a path, threatening, shouting, crowding. Their blood lust was still running high and wild, but they would not dishonor the ancient tradition of respect for a wampum belt. Eli held a steady pace, and Billy kept his eyes riveted between Eli’s shoulder blades, both weapons high over his head. They cleared the trees and moved into a small clearing deep with grass and brush, yards from the lake. Joseph Brant walked to meet them, and they stopped six feet apart.

  Recognition of Eli flashed in Brant’s eyes as he spoke in English. “I have seen you.”

  Eli answered in Iroquois, and the startled Indians quieted. “At Three Rivers, in the storm.”

  Brant replied in Iroquois. “You are white?”

  “White, raised Iroquois.”

  Brant’s face remained a blank. “You could have killed me that night but you did not. What was your reason?”

  “You are the Great Joseph Brant. Taronhiawagon has sent you to lead your people. It would have offended Taronhiawagon if I had killed you without strong reason.”

  For an instant Eli saw astonishment in Brant’s eyes. It passed, and Brant asked, “What is your name?”

  “Eli Stroud. I am called Skuhnaksu in your tongue.”

  Brant nodded. “The Fox.”

  “Yes.”

  “You come under the protection of a wampum belt. What is it you want?”

  Eli extended the belt to Brant with outstretched arms, and Brant accepted it. Quickly he examined it, studied the design and craftsmanship, and raised approving eyes. “What is the message in the belt?”

  Eli took a moment to order his thoughts, then he said, “Joseph Brant will remember the prophecy uttered long ago in a battle far to the south. French and Iroquois ambushed the British. They killed the great British general, Braddock. Does Brant remember?”

  Brant’s expression did not change as he nodded, and Eli went on.

  “Then Brant will remember that a young officer rode to Braddock when he took his mortal wounds. The Indian war chief saw the brave act and ordered his warriors to shoot the young officer. Eight of them got very close and shot. Their bullets struck his coat and his hat, but they could not hit him. They felt a power that shielded the officer. They returned and told their war chief, and he said he had watched.”

  Eli paused. Every warrior within hearing distance was listening in silence. Brant gestured, and Eli continued.

  “The war chief raised his hand and made a prophecy.”

  The only sounds were those of the forest. Not an Indian moved or uttered a sound. Billy’s eyes swept the circle, then returned to Eli.

  “He said the Great Spirit had told him. The young officer who took Braddock away and led the British from the ambush could not be killed by a bullet or a cannon. He could not be killed in battle. He would live to lead a great and mighty army. He would become the father of a great and powerful nation. The prophecy spread through the land. I am certain Brant knows of it.”

  Brant nodded.

  “I have come to tell you. The young officer was named George Washington. He lived to become commander of the army of the Americans. He leads them now. He does not wish to fight. He would treaty with the British, if they would come to the council fire, but they will not. They send many men and ships to grind the Americans under their heel. They sent Burgoyne to drive the Americans out of the great valley of the Hudson River. Burgoyne waits now for Brant and St. Leger to bring their men to help him.”

  For the first time, Brant narrowed his eyes, sensing Eli was approaching the heart of his message.

  Eli spoke his next statement firmly. “I have fought with General Washington against the British and the Mohawk.”

  Tomahawks were raised as a hundred voices rose in protest. Brant raised his hand and the outburst quieted.

  “I was at a place called Trenton with him. I saw him at a bridge waiting for his men to cross. Bullets and cannonballs struck all around him. Two bullets pierced his coat, but none hit him. He did not move until his men were safe. I was at a place called Princeton when he rode alone between his army and the British. He led his men very close to the British. They fired, and again bullets were all around him, but none hit him.”

  Billy understood none of the Iroquois words, but at that moment he was aware that an unexpected feeling was rising in his heart. In this endless wilderness, surrounded by painted warriors who would kill him if they could, a quiet sureness was crowding out all else. This war was in the hands of the Almighty. It didn’t matter that he and Eli might be killed. It only mattered that they were fighting for freedom. Liberty. The right to stand as free men, to worship the Almighty according to their own consciences, to stand accountable before Him, and Him alone. He glanced at the Indians, and it was clear the same Spirit was reaching out to them.

  “I have come to tell you. The prophecy of the ancient war chief is true. You cannot kill Washington. If you fight him you will lose. He will drive out the British. If you are with them, he will drive you out, too. He will form a new government. He will become the father of a great and mighty people. If the mighty Mohawk wish to see their children and their grandchildren live in freedom and peace, then they must leave the British. Do not fight the Americans. It is for Brant to lead the Mohawk away.”

  Eli ceased speaking. For a moment no one moved, and then Eli finished.

  “I have said what the Great Spirit led me to say. I have no more words. I am going to leave, and the Mohawk will not harm me or my friend, because Brant is a man of honor and will not allow such shame to come on his people.”

  For a few moments time stood still while Eli and Brant each stared into the soul of the other. Then Eli turned without another word and walked to Billy, who handed him his rifle, and shoulder to shoulder they walked out of the circle of quiet Mohawk, into the forest.

  The sun had set and deep dusk had settled over the wilderness before they stopped at a small stream, and Billy spoke. “Will Brant quit the war?”

  Thoughtfully Eli answered. “Time will tell. We will remain here to see.”

  Billy cleared his throat. “Something . . . special happened back there. Did you feel it?”

  Slowly Eli nodded his head. “I felt it.” He raised his eyes to Billy’s. “The words were not mine. My thoughts were led. It is in the hands of the Almighty.”

  They drank deeply from the stream, filled their canteens, and started a circle to the northwest, where they could find a place to hide and wait to see if Brant and his Mohawk warriors would quit the British and leave. They slowed for a moment and raised their eyes to peer westward, where the evening star was shining strong and bright above the horizon.

  Notes

  On 6 August 1777, following the battle with Herkimer’s forces, now called the Battle of Oriskany, St. Leger began the siege of Fort Stanwix. It went on for days with the incessant cannon fire and the British lines slowly moving forward to tighten the grip on the fort.

  It was then learned that General Schuyler had sent General Benedict Arnold to try to raise what Continental soldiers he could, and proceed to help Colonel Gansevoort defend the fort. While raising an army in and around Fort Dayton, Arnold was informed by someone unknown that the Americans were holding a prisoner named Han Yost Schuyler and his mother. For purposes of this book, to avoid confusing Han Yost Schuyler with General Philip Schuyler (the two were cousins) the author has used only part of the name, Han Yost. Yost was mentally slow and strange. Iroquois held such persons to be sp
ecial, endowed with gifts from Taronhiawagon, their highest god. Arnold struck a bargain with Yost. If Yost would go to Joseph Brant and persuade him that a great American army was following and would destroy all of St. Leger’s men, Arnold would let Yost and his mother go free. Yost, and his mother, agreed. They shot holes in Yost’s coat to support his story that he had escaped under fire, selected a trustworthy Indian named Ponsee, and sent the two of them to catch Brant and deliver the message.

  They succeeded. When questioned by Brant, Yost informed the Indian leader of the pursuing American army. When asked how many soldiers were coming, Yost tipped his head back and, while rolling his eyes, turned his head to take in most of the trees nearby. Instantly the Indians concluded he meant the Americans were as numerous as the leaves on the trees, and they fled. They could not be stopped. St. Leger had to end the siege of Fort Stanwix to go back to Oswego for more men.

  For reasons unknown, it was at this point that Joseph Brant decided to abandon the British. He did travel back to report to General Burgoyne on the Hudson River; however, he refused to stay, and from that point on, the Iroquois Indians began to leave Burgoyne, and very soon were all gone. While no one knows what caused Brant to change his mind so radically about supporting the British, for purposes of this book the author has used Eli and Billy and their wampum belt for an explanation (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 334–35; see also Graymont, The Iroquois in the American Revolution, pp. 144–45).

  The Iroquois named Benedict Arnold “Dark Eagle,” based on his somewhat swarthy complexion (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 394).

  The prophecy of the old Indian chief regarding George Washington’s invincibility is recorded in Parry and Allison, The Real George Washington, pp. 48–49.

  Bennington

  August 16, 1777

  CHAPTER XXIX

  * * *

  Hidden in thick oaks, the tall, dour, steely-eyed General John Stark silently pointed north toward the Walloomsac River. He spoke softly to his officers crouched around him. “The Tories have a redoubt there, just this side of the river. See it?”