Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “Colonel St. Leger and Joseph Brant placed Fort Stanwix under siege. General Nicholas Herkimer came from Oriskany to give support to Colonel Gansevoort at the fort. He was ambushed by Brant and Sir John Johnson, and the militia took heavy casualties. They retreated back to the settlement. Herkimer died of his wounds. Brant and Johnson went back to the siege. Then General Benedict Arnold arrived with a column of militia and continentals. Eli and General Arnold tricked Brant and St. Leger, and two weeks ago, St. Leger lifted the siege, then went back to Oswego to get more men and heavier guns. On the way, Brant’s Mohawk went wild and murdered some of St. Leger’s regulars. Eli and I followed St. Leger and Brant to Oswego. St. Leger and his army left for Montreal, and they’re not coming back. Eli parlayed with Joseph Brant and his warriors to persuade them to quit the British. Most of Brant’s men left him to go home. Brant gathered up what Indians he had left and came this way to get more as he came down the Mohawk Valley. Most of his men have left the British, and it looks like Brant is going to leave, too. All that comes down to the fact that almost none of the men Burgoyne expected to get from the west will be coming to join him.”

  Gates reached to tug at his long nose and pursed his mouth for a moment before he spoke. “Where’s Arnold now?”

  Billy glanced at Eli, puzzled. When one general referred to another in the presence of enlisted men, the protocol was to use the term “General.” Gates had not.

  “He went on to Fort Stanwix, then left to return here. He’s leading a column of men. Should be here any day.”

  Gates brushed flies from his face. “You say he tricked Brant?” Amusement filled Gates’s face. “What trick?”

  Eli answered. “Sent a demented man with a message.”

  Gates looked at Eli. “A demented man?” He chuckled. “Well, we’ve got enough of those around. Why a demented man?”

  “Indians think they’re special—touched by Taronhiawagon.”

  Gates eyebrows arched. “Who’s this Taron person?”

  “The Great Spirit.”

  “What was the message?”

  “That Dark Eagle was coming with a great army.”

  “Who’s Dark Eagle?”

  “Arnold. The Indians call him that.”

  Gates brows dropped. “And the Indians believed this demented person?”

  “Yes. They were running west within an hour.”

  “Who told Arnold about this ‘trick,’ as you call it?”

  “Me.”

  Gates ran his eyes over Eli’s buckskin hunting shirt and breeches, and his eyes came back to the tomahawk and knife in his weapons belt, then his long rifle. “How did you know about it?”

  “Raised Iroquois.”

  Gates quickly covered his surprise. “I see.” He turned back to Billy. “Is there anything else, Corporal?”

  For a moment Billy stood in silence, startled that Gates had asked not one word about conditions at Fort Stanwix, Colonel Gansevoort, his men, Oriskany, Herkimer’s death, his men, or even the route by which the two of them had returned. “No, sir, not unless you have some questions.”

  Gates shrugged. “I have no questions. You are dismissed.”

  Billy blinked in surprise. “Uh, sir, do you have further orders? What regiment should we report to?”

  A look of irritation flitted over Gates’s face. “To the regiment you left.”

  “That was with General Washington.”

  “Then find my aide, Major James Wilkinson. Tell him I said to assign you wherever he sees fit.”

  “Sir, is that the Major Wilkinson that was at Trenton and Princeton?”

  “Yes. It is.” Suddenly Gates realized the implication, and instantly he became focused. “Were you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both Billy and Eli saw the defensive flash in the general’s eyes as he drew in his chin and thrust his chest out slightly. “Then you know Major Wilkinson. Report to him. That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

  Billy saluted, and the two had reached the door before Gates’s voice stopped them. “I might mention, it is customary for enlisted personnel to salute an officer when making such a report. One of you failed to do so.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. “I trust that will be corrected in the future. That’s all.” He waved a hand and turned his attention to paperwork on his desk.

  In the split second it took Eli to understand what Gates had said, Billy grasped his elbow and steered him out the door, closed it, and walked him splashing through the muddy water into the streets of the tiny hamlet. He kept his iron grip on Eli’s elbow and didn’t slow until they had covered ten yards. He looked at Eli’s face and could see ridges along his jawline and lightning in his eyes.

  “Let it go,” he said. “The man has too much on his shoulders.”

  Billy felt Eli’s arm slowly relax, and he watched the fire leave his eyes as he regained control of his anger. Eli said nothing as they continued walking through the muddy street, looking for an officer. To their left, a captain and a lieutenant ducked through the flap of a tent to stride toward Gates’s office, eyes downcast as they picked their way through the muddy puddles.

  Billy raised a hand. “Sir, General Gates ordered us to find Major James Wilkinson. Could you direct us?”

  The captain peered at the two men for a moment, searching for recognition that would not come. “What regiment are you with?”

  “Massachusetts.”

  The captain slowed. “There is no Massachusetts regiment here.”

  “Is Major Wilkinson nearby?”

  The captain pointed. “At the quartermaster’s tent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The two men angled northward, toward a large tent with two posts driven in the ground near the entrance. A tall, black gelding was tied to one, two brown mares to the other, standing hip-shot in the mud. The mares moved as Billy and Eli approached, and the picket at the entrance flap stopped the two men.

  “What’s your business here?”

  “Is this the quartermaster’s tent?”

  “Yes. Do you have orders—”

  The sounds of distant voices came from their right, north of the camp, and the clamor grew with each passing moment. Every eye in camp turned to look. Within seconds militiamen came running from the forest, past the trading post and houses and tents, into the clearing. They held their muskets high, shouting as they ran into the crooked streets, mud flying.

  “Gen’l Arnold’s comin’ in, leading a relief column! Hundreds! Thousands!”

  Billy and Eli broke to their right, trotting toward the influx of jubilant militiamen. They slowed to a walk, peering into the forest north of the clearing. Minutes later they heard the first sounds of a large body of men working through the trees, and then they saw the first flashes of movement. Within seconds they made out the shape of four horsemen coming on the crooked trail, and behind them, a single file of soldiers with muskets slung, striding through the trees. Eli and Billy slowed and stopped, watching as the horsemen broke out into the sunlight, and they recognized the stocky man in the lead.

  Brigadier General Benedict Arnold, riding a showy, high-blooded sorrel gelding with four stockinged feet. He held a tight rein, and the horse arched its neck against the pressure of the bit. A rousing shout erupted from hundreds of voices as Arnold paced his horse through the scattered buildings and tents into the clearing, with his aide and two officers on horseback beside him. He stopped, reined the horse around, and as his column came in, he pointed and called orders. The different companies went to the right, or the left, according to his point, stopped, and waited while the others came in, with the militiamen and a few families crowding around, gesturing, pointing, exclaiming. With his command assembled in the small hamlet, Arnold dismounted as Major James Wilkinson strode up to salute smartly.

  “General Arnold! May I bid you welcome. I am Major James Wilkinson, aide to General Gates. He’s in command here.”

  Arnold returned the salute, eyes wide in surprise.
“General Gates? What happened to General Schuyler?”

  “Very unfortunate, sir. Generals Schuyler and St. Clair have been ordered to report to Congress. Something about the Fort Ticonderoga incident.” He turned and pointed to Gates’s building. “I’m certain the general would welcome a call from you.”

  “Wait a moment,” Arnold exclaimed. “I’m just coming in from Fort Stanwix. What happened at Fort Ti?”

  “You haven’t heard? General St. Clair abandoned it to the British. The entire Northern army is scattered. General Gates was sent to gather it again, and to prepare to meet Burgoyne.”

  Arnold was incredulous. “Abandoned it? Why?”

  “His letters state the British positioned cannon on top of Mount Defiance. With their guns up there, St. Clair claimed they could reduce Fort Ti to rubble within two days, and that he abandoned it to save his men.”

  Arnold bit down on himself to cover the flare of anger. Schuyler and Gates had both been at the council within the walls of Fort Ticonderoga one year ago, when engineer John Trumbull warned that guns on top of Mt. Defiance could reach both Fort Ticonderoga and Mt. Independence. They both knew Arnold and Wayne had scaled the back side of the mountain to prove guns could be moved to the top. He gritted his teeth, said nothing of the tragic failure of the American generals, and nodded to Wilkinson.

  “I would appreciate visiting General Gates.”

  Wilkinson bowed, Arnold gave orders to his officers, handed the reins of his horse to his aide, and fell in beside Wilkinson to walk to Gates’s office. Wilkinson rapped on the door, waited for the invitation, then opened it and entered while Arnold waited outside.

  “Sir, General Arnold just arrived with a column of men. I suggested it would be appropriate if he made a call on you.”

  Gates hoisted his bulk out of his chair to stand behind his desk for a moment, face a blank. “General Benedict Arnold?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For an instant an unsettling feeling surged through Gates, and he fumbled for words. He steadied his thoughts and said, “By all means, bring the general in.”

  Wilkinson walked out the door to return instantly. “Sir, I believe you are acquainted with General Arnold.”

  Gates smiled warmly as Arnold saluted him. Gates returned the salute and spoke. “General! What an unexpected pleasure.” He gestured to a chair.

  Arnold bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine, sir. I trust I find you in good health.”

  “Excellent. And you?”

  “Doing well, thank you.”

  Gates looked at Wilkinson. “Thank you, Major. You may carry on with your other duties.”

  For a moment, disappointment showed in Wilkinson’s face. He had learned the value of knowing everything that was going on, especially between officers of the rank of colonel or above. He had risen to the highly prized position of aide to General Gates by quickly learning the art of listening to everything, and adroitly using what he learned to skewer one officer, or patronize another. One never knew what choice tidbit could be casually dropped at the right moment to get ahead in the infighting by which too many incompetents rose to the top at the expense of their betters, who refused to play the game. This conversation between these two generals promised to be a gold mine of darts and arrows, and Wilkinson would have given a month’s pay to quietly remain and absorb it all.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned on his heel to walk smartly out and close the door.

  Arnold sat down facing Gates’s desk. Arnold saw no need for further banter. His voice was casual, his manner amiable. “I was ordered by General Schuyler to gather what men I could between here and Fort Stanwix and go help Colonel Gansevoort. I was just told generals Schuyler and St. Clair were relieved of duty here and you are in command. I’m glad you’re here, sir. I’ve come to report and receive any orders you might have.”

  In the year since he had dealt with Arnold, Gates had forgotten that the art of overpowering a man with the politics of warmth, smiles, graciousness, and subtle compliments was totally lost on Arnold. The man was impervious to such blandishments. Gates, the paper shuffler, the major general who had not gone to the field of battle to command men for years, knew more keenly than any other man alive that Arnold was as far from him as a man could get. Arnold the pure warrior; Gates the pure politician.

  Gates masked his thoughts with a smile. “Delighted to have you here. Are your men cared for?”

  “Outside. My officers will see to it.”

  “How many men?”

  “Twelve hundred.”

  Gates eyes widened. “You brought in twelve hundred men?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remarkable.” He paused for a moment. “Less than an hour ago two men reported to me. Said their names are Billy Weems and Eli Stroud. They claimed to have had dealings with you at Stanwix. They said a battle was fought at Oriskany and that General Herkimer died of wounds. St. Leger’s men and Brant’s Indians were tricked into leaving for Oswego, and the whole British force has gone.” He stopped to look Arnold squarely in the eye. “How much of that is true?”

  Arnold’s response was instant. “All of it. St. Leger and Brant won’t be coming here. Brant might show up with a few Indians, but not enough to make a difference.”

  Gates pursed his mouth for a moment, brow pulled down in deep thought. Arnold waited in silence until Gates spoke again, smiling, congenial.

  “We have a lot to talk about. Why don’t you get yourself and your men settled in and take a night’s rest. Then report back here. I need your talents.”

  * * * * *

  The large, two-storied, ornately designed home of William Duer stood like a castle among the lesser homes that were scattered outside the walls of Fort Edward. To the west was the Hudson River; to the east a beautifully wooded hill. Fraser had set up his quarters and office inside the home when the British occupied the Fort, but the moment Gentleman Johnny saw the lush pavilions surrounding the structure, and inspected the rich interior, Fraser had deferred, and the Duer home had become Burgoyne’s headquarters. The oak-paneled library, dominated by a one-ton maple wood desk and massive upholstered chair, with a monstrous fireplace on one wall, shelves on another, and grand murals on another, had become his personal office.

  Simon Fraser dismounted his bay gelding, tied the reins to a stone hitching post, and walked onto the broad porch. The picket at the door nodded recognition, stepped aside, and twisted the large, polished brass door handle. The door swung inward, and Fraser entered the spacious parlor, boot heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor.

  “Sir, may I help you?”

  Fraser nodded to the captain behind the desk. “I need to see General Burgoyne. Urgent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two minutes later the captain held the door while Fraser walked into Burgoyne’s office. Burgoyne glanced up, then stood. “Simon. Good to see you.” He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes before eight, and a look of puzzlement crossed his face. “What brings you here so early?”

  Fraser took a deep breath. “Sir, I have disturbing news.” He paused, then came straight to it. “Brant and his Indians are gone. All of them.”

  A blank look crossed Burgoyne’s face, and for a moment it was as though he did not understand. Then his eyes became large, intense, and he leaned forward on stiff arms, palms planted flat on his desk top. “Repeat that.”

  General Simon Fraser cleared his throat. “Sir, you know Joseph Brant arrived two days ago with a handful of his Mohawk Indians, maybe eighty or a hundred. They’re gone. I don’t think we have an Indian left in this command.”

  Burgoyne’s face flushed, and then he exploded. He raised one hand to slam it down on the desk, voice strained, raised too high. “When did they leave? Can we catch them? I’ll have the lot of them shot for desertion.”

  Fraser shook his head. “They left in the night—no one knows when. And it’s certain we aren’t going to catch them in the forest.”

  With clenched fist
s Burgoyne strode from behind his desk, halfway to the door, then back again. The veins in his neck were extended, his chest heaving as he battled to bring his raging emotions under control. He stopped beside the large, leather-covered chair behind his desk, paced away, and whirled, jaw clamped closed, eyes blazing.

  “All right! So be it! Better we find out now that the great Joseph Brant and his Mohawk are deserters, than during battle! If any of them show up, arrest them on the spot. There’ll be a wholesale hanging!”

  Fraser remained silent, unmoving, watching Burgoyne. Gradually he stopped pacing, his breathing slowed, and the red flush left his face. He slumped into his chair, shoulders sagging, head down, arms hanging loose. For a time he sat without moving, then raised his hands onto his desk and spoke. His voice was subdued, thoughtful.

  “Our destination is Albany, forty-five miles south of here. Halfway there are two settlements, Saratoga and Stillwater. That’s where the rebels are starting to gather. To reach Albany, we’ll have to either go through them, or around them. To do either one, I need Indians more than ever before. Without Indian eyes and ears out in those woods to tell us where the rebels are, we’re marching blind. All we’ve been through could be lost.”

  He stopped for a moment. “You already know that St. Leger has taken his command to Montreal. I have received a second letter from Carleton in Quebec. For a second time he’s refused to send any men to replace those I had to leave at Fort Ti. Nearly one thousand of my fighting force is tied up back there, useless when I need them most. And now Brant and his Indians are gone.”

  Fraser started. “I didn’t know about Carleton.” He stopped for a moment, searching his memory. “Isn’t Clinton just south of us? Doesn’t he have men he can send to help? What about Howe?”

  Burgoyne slowly shook his head. “I got a letter from Clinton. He said he knows Howe is intent on taking Philadelphia this season, and doubts Howe ever intends coming to meet us at Albany. I haven’t heard from Howe since the seventeenth day of July. I have no idea where he is. Clinton’s been ordered to occupy and hold the highlands north and west of New York to support Howe. He hasn’t got a man to spare at this moment, but there’s a chance he will have in time. I’ll send him another request.”