“What happened after the British retreated from Salem?” Will asked.
“There was a triumphant feeling of defiance among the people, townsmen and farmers alike,” Nathaniel said. “One man bared his chest despite the harsh wintry day and dared the Regulars to use their gleaming bayonets. A woman shouted from the second story window of her home for the soldiers to return to Boston and tell General Gage he had broken the Sabbath.” Will could not tell whether Nathaniel’ blue eyes glowed from the fire or the recollection of these exhilarating moments several months ago.
“Was anyone killed,” Will asked, a bit too eagerly, as if the story would be better for him if blood had been shed.
“No, Will. There were at least one thousand of us, armed and ready. It would have been a massacre. The British Colonel was on a fool’s errand but he was no fool.”
He leaned closer to Will. “You should know there is a religious agenda for all these British machinations.” Nat lowered his voice. “They are secret Papists. This General Gage has brought Catholic troops to Boston. Irish they are and they celebrate Christmas by getting drunk and engaging in lewd dancing. North of here, across the border, there are the French, who the British let keep their vile religion. They will come down on all of us as the heathen Saracens on Jerusalem. They intend to convert us all and murder or exile those who refuse to kiss the Papal ring.”
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Will did not understand the part about the Saracens. And what did French Catholics have to do with Jerusalem where, he knew, Jesus had been crucified? He accepted it without understanding because Nathaniel had said it.
There were many other questions he wanted to ask Nat. Were all the British soldiers Catholic? If not, why were the Protestant ones breaking God’s commandments? If the Catholics took over, what would happen to the British Protestant soldiers? He kept quiet, afraid of appearing ignorant to Nathaniel who seemed so experienced and well informed. Instead, Will thought of Nathaniel and his brother, Johan, meeting in Boston by accident in some prosperous merchant’s brick warehouse or on a wharf where some valuable cargo was being unloaded. In his imagination, Johan and Nathaniel became friends and took him everywhere with them.
“After the Red Jackets were frustrated at Salem, they remained in Boston and took their wrath out on the city.” Nathaniel continued. “They ransacked stores, looting and taking what they wanted and destroying everything else. Why Colonel Knox’s own bookstore has been turned into rubble, the windows smashed and books scattered or used for fuel. Boston is a sad shadow of its old self, I tell you. Surrounded by the British navy, no food for its citizens, homes shuttered and abandoned or plundered or simply requisitioned to house their officers. These cannons we are bringing to General Washington will drive the cowardly lobstah coats out.”
Will hesitated, confused. “What is it you mean by ‘lobster coats’?” he asked.
Nathaniel smiled. “That is what we sometimes call the British soldiers. Lobstah because of their red uniforms.”
“And what is a lobstah,” Will asked again, attempting to imitate Nathaniel’s pronunciation.
“Ah, so there is the problem. You have never seen a lobstah. Of course, how could you, so far from the ocean. The fault is mine for not explaining things in a better fashion,” he apologized, putting his arm around Will’s shoulder. “Permit me to clarify. A lobstah is a shellfish from the sea. All along the Massachusetts coast, we boil and eat them. Their flesh is good, sweet with a salty taste from the ocean.”
Will pictured a river trout with a turtle shell around it. They must look peculiar, he concluded with both legs and fins.
“When they are boiled,” Nathaniel continued, “they turn bright red, like the color of the British soldiers’ woolen coats.”
Will stared at the flames wondering whether these lobsters tasted like the turtle meat he had once eaten- fatty and greasy with not much flavor.
“Tell me, Nat about the big battle in April. It was not until the summer when the Albany papers arrived in Schoharie. Were you at Lexington or Concord? Did you kill any British soldiers?” Will asked excitedly.
Nat smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I was at sea. Cod fishing at the time. Unfortunately,” Nat continued, “General Gage did not include me in his secret plans to seize the cannon and powder at Concord. Therefore, as was true of most of the men in the Marblehead Mariners, we were rowing our dories in the Atlantic. Otherwise, we would have been on land to do our part to protect our homes and rights as Englishmen.”
Nat noticed the disappointment on Will’s face. “I know people who were there, Will,” he said quickly. “With the militia on the Lexington Green and along the road down which the Redcoats retreated from Concord. As our train of artillery progresses into Massachusetts and closer to Boston you will hear firsthand from those who were there. Why there are even some at General Washington’s camp in Cambridge.”
“My father has signed us on only to the Massachusetts border,” Will replied. “Not for beyond. I will be back at our farm by the time you reach Cambridge.” He got up and walked over to Big Red, burying his face in the horse’s neck to conceal his tears of frustration and rage. When he returned to the fire, Nat was silent for a time.
“Sometimes, Providence intervenes on one’s behalf for unknown reasons. I feel it in my marrow that you and I together will see the British driven out from Boston.” Will shook his head, unconvinced.
“Now,” he said cheerily, “what are we going to do for warmth on this bitter cold night?” He moved closer to the fire and wrapped his cloak tighter around him. “There is nothing for it but the bags on the sled. Shall we curl up together amongst the sacks?” Will didn’t answer.
“No need to worry. I am not going to bung you. I am a Presbyterian,” he said indignantly.
Will had no idea what bunging meant and didn’t want to offend Nat. Besides, he reasoned, Nat did not do it, whatever it was. That night, with the sacks of oats in front of him, Nat’s shorter frame warming his back and Nat’s heavy woolen cloak covering both of them, Will dreamt of he, Nat and Johan, standing on a cliff as the British fleet sailed off toward the horizon, the Union Jack drooping limply from their stern flagstaffs.
Chapter 2 - The Road to Albany On the first day of the new year of 1776, the train was just south of Stillwater, the wagoners suffering from their heavy drinking the night before. Nevertheless they made good time that day and the next, and early on January 3rd they reached Lansing’s Ferry at Half Moon on the Mohawk River. There they discovered the rest of the wagons and sleds. The drivers had been ordered by Colonel Knox to wait for the entire train and to travel together to Albany. The Colonel had concluded, given the poor conditions of the roads and the heavy snowfalls they had encountered, it was better to have “all hands on deck,” as Nat explained, with every teamster able to help the others in case of difficulties.
William Knox, the Colonel’s brother, was at the Ferry to direct the crossing over the icy river. Nat went to confer with him. Will, who had avoided his father as much as possible on the journey, now found himself feeding his father’s team of eight, as well as Big Red and the mare, while George Stoner partook of the cheap rum and fireside warmth at the Ferry’s low roofed, stone tavern.
Colonel Knox had hurried sleds of hay from Albany north to Lansing’s Ferry, and Will was kept busy distributing the bales among the wagoners’ teams. The hay, together with plenty of water, would aid their digestion. Will had worried that Big Red and the grey would bind up from their steady diet of oats. The horses needed roughage and there had not been any available since Great Falls. By mid-day, Will was in the covered shed behind the tavern rubbing Big Red and the grey down, when Nat rushed in.
“We are moving the heavier cannons across first,” he said excitedly, brushing snow from his dark blue cape. “The ice appears thick enough. You and I will go together on your sled with my block and tackle, assess the condition of the ice and survey the far shore. Then, return for the eighteen and twenty-four pounder
s.”
Will hesitated, unsure whether to enter the tavern and tell his father he was leaving. He feared he would either say no or be angry for being disturbed in his drinking, or both. Besides, he concluded he was following orders, though he realized that might not be a defense later against his father’s harsh words or blows.
Will urged Big Red and the grey down to the shoreline. The heavy wooden blocks and thick braided ropes on the sled were already covered with a light dusting of snow. The horses stepped gingerly on to the ice and plodded forward at a slow deliberate pace. The Mohawk was no more than 200 feet wide at the point Nathaniel had chosen. The granulated snow crunched under the horses’ hooves. Will pulled the blanket closer around his throat and shifted his body so his left shoulder bore the brunt of the strong wind coming down river. He wore the red scarf around his head under his slouch hat to protect his ears. On the far shore, the horses’ hooves broke the thin ice at the rivers edge. Nat chose a flat place just below the tree line. Together they cleared it of snow and left the block and tackle there.
When they returned to the near side, Nathaniel jumped off Will’s sled and went to talk to a teamster standing beside the large wooden sled with four horses in tandem and the one-ton eighteen pounder securely lashed down. He motioned Will over.
“Master Lemuel Hutchinson, this is Master Will Stoner,” Nat said, introducing them. Will recognized the wagoner who had made the coffee at the campfire near Bloody Pond. Hutchinson was short, with black unkempt hair sticking out from under a dirty brown, smallbrimmed hat and a dark stubble visible on his face. He had narrow eyes, almost closed in a squint even though the day was cloudy and grey. He was older than Nathaniel, but listened intently to his instructions for the crossing.
“This ship’s rope is good cordage from Boston. The best,” he
added although Lemuel had said nothing to doubt it. “I will fasten it to the wooden bar below the rear traces of the last team,” he explained to the teamster. “The other end will be tied to the tongue of the sled. You will lead your team of four across and the rope will play out. I will walk with you. Will here will be alongside this lovely cannon.”
Nathaniel put his arm around William’s shoulder. “You are to have your hatchet ready. If the sled cracks the ice, chop the rope to save the horses. It is thick. It will take strength to cut through. Do it quickly. You understand.” Will nodded, proud to be given this responsibility by Nathaniel. “And jump clear of the sled if it goes down,” Nat cautioned.
“Do not lose my horses, lad,” Lemuel growled. “And what if the cannon falls through the ice?” he asked Nat.
“If the water is not too deep, we can raise it with block and tackle,” Nathaniel replied confidently. “If Providence is with us, we will get the heaviest cannons across today.”
Will waited by the sled as Nat and Lemuel started out. They were about thirty feet ahead when the slack of the rope played out. Will stationed himself on the front left side of the sled. He could see the four horses plodding on, the ropes taut over the frozen river like straight brown lines pointing back toward him and the cannon. It had begun to sleet, a bad sign, Will thought. He hoped the warmer air temperatures had not thawed the ice beneath his feet. He held his hatchet tightly in his right hand, walking alongside listening for any cracking sound. If the ice cracked, it would happen next to him. The eighteen pounder, like all of the guns, was lashed down with the muzzle pointing backwards, the touch hole as well as the trunnions on the underside. The greatest weight, where the cannon was the thickest at the breech, was at the front of the sled, near the tongue where Nathaniel had tied the rope.
They were more than halfway across now. The branches of the evergreens bent over with the earlier snow beckoned as welcoming shelter from the sleet. Lemuel’s team was closer to the shoreline than the length of the rope behind them when Will heard a sharp crack. He had expected a warning, a groaning of the ice before the break. The rope sprang taut, the little slack there had been abruptly taken out by the 2,000 pounds of the cannon. The ice broke behind the tongue of the sled. A jagged hole opened and the sled began to slide forward into the dark water. Will jumped over the edge of the hole and chopped vigorously at the rope, surprised at how thick it was. He ignored the cracks spreading toward his feet and hacked at the rope several times, getting halfway through before the weight of the cannon finished his work by tearing the weakened rope apart.
Will was too close to the gaping hole. He felt the ice breaking beneath him. He threw himself forward on his stomach, spreading his weight. The ice was cold and wet through his coat. He crawled forward, around the ever widening jagged hole and the dark water flowing below the frozen surface. He grabbed the frayed end of the rope attached to Lemuel’s team. Then he stood up and waved, Lemuel urged his horses forward and Will exuberantly ice-skied on the soles of his worn shoes to the shore, grasping the rope around his forearm and holding on to his hat with his other hand, the sleet stinging his face.
“Well done, Will,” Nathaniel said, putting his arm around him. “Now we must raise the cannon.” He pointed to a stand of spruce on the hill sloping down to the shore near his block and tackle. “Start cutting those trees down,” he said. “We will need poles at least eight feet tall to hold the block and tackle. I am going back across and will return with a work party.”
Will, alone in the soft snowy quiet on the far side of the Mohawk, climbed the gentle slope and selected a slender straight tree. He shook it vigorously to get the snow off, trimmed the lower branches and piled them away from the spruce. He had trimmed four trees with his hatchet by the time Nathaniel returned with Lemuel and a dozen teamsters with axes. Close to shore, Will saw a wooden barrel bobbing in the icy water, marking where the eighteen pounder had gone down.
Under Nathaniel’s direction the men worked quickly, taking down the trees and lashing them together into two towers, each with a double block and gun tackle suspended from the middle. Will had traded his hatchet for an axe. After stomping down the snow around the base of a tree to make for surer footing, he swung in a steady warming rhythm to the intermittent strokes of the wagoner on the tree’s other side.
By the time enough trees had been felled and trimmed, Nathaniel had managed to fasten ropes around the front runners on both sides of the sunken sled. When he was satisfied they were secure, he divided the men into two groups, one at each of the makeshift towers.
“Hurry, men,” Nathaniel said to the tired teamsters. “We need to raise the cannon before dark.”
On Nathaniel’s command they began hoisting on the ropes. Will strained, his hands wrapped in his scarf to give him a better grip. Nathaniel shouted encouragement as the front of the sled rose out of the water and stuck on the lip of the broken ice.
“Hold your position, men” Nat cried. “Do not give any slack. Will, come with me.” The man next to him tightened his hold and nodded as Will let go and ran forward with Nat, who was carrying two stripped limbs.
“Get on the other side and see if you can lever the sled over this ice,” Nat cried, giving Will one of the poles. Will forced the limb under the runner and leaned down on it. The green supple wood bent under his weight. He hoped the ice wouldn’t crack again.
“Pull,” Nat shouted as the men at each tower groaned in unison. Slowly, the sled edged up onto the jagged rim of the ice. “Back now and help,” Nat yelled, and he and Will raced to the towers to join the teamsters at the ropes. The sled, with its cannon, emerged reluctantly from the water like a sea creature unaccustomed to land. The ice held as the men laboriously tugged the sled toward shore, each foot gained ensuring the cannon would be safely reclaimed. When the sled reached the shore, the men retreated to the warmth of the fire in the shelter of the slope. Will wrapped his scarf around his neck to keep the sleet from falling behind his collar. Several of the teamsters passed a crock of ‘flip’ around, getting progressively boisterous as the cheap rum took effect.
“Ensign Holmes,” came a bellow from the river. Will look
ed through the wind blown sleet. Colonel Knox, on a big-boned, massive New England white saddle horse, was crossing the Mohawk accompanied by his brother William.
“We better get the block and tackle out again,” one of the teamsters said, standing up by the fire. “The Colonel and his horse weigh more than this cannon we hoisted out of the ice.”
“The Colonel himself weighs more than the cannon,” another added to an appreciative roar of laughter.
“Well, he will lose weight here on our rations,” someone else said.
Nathaniel ignored their comments and walked down toward the shore. Will followed him.
Knox maneuvered his surefooted mount over the rocky shore and dismounted nimbly for a man of his bulk. He was almost six and a half feet tall, Will guessed, gauging his size against the withers of the tall white horse, and weighed at least 250 pounds. He had a prominent, almost bulbous nose, full ruddy cheeks, and a thick lower lip that made his chin appear smaller. A shock of thick black curly hair on the back of his neck showed between the high collar of his cape and the bottom of his tri-corn. His fleshy face was stern, his grey eyes under thick full brows fixed on Nathaniel as he strode toward him.
“What is this I hear you have drowned my prize cannon, Ensign Holmes?” Knox yelled as he came up. “You should have been more careful.” His deep booming voice echoed along the shore.
“It was drowned but has been retrieved, Sir,” Nathaniel replied, pointing to the sled with the eighteen pounder beyond the fire. Knox walked to the sled, examined the cannon and tested the ice-shrouded ropes that held it down. He approached the fire, stamped the snow off of his black riding boots and removed his gloves to warm his hands.
Cannons for the Cause Page 4