Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Madison looked into his face. “You will likely be in sight of the British once you are on the St. Lawrence. They control the Great Lakes.”

  “I’ll move mostly at night. Should be no trouble.”

  There was gratitude in Madison’s face as he opened a desk drawer and drew out three sealed documents and handed them to Eli.

  “Two of those bear the names of the generals. The third one has your name. It’s your authorization.” Madison looked up into Eli’s face, aware that while his genius was in the world of matters politic, Eli’s genius was in the secrets of battle and of the forest. Madison went on. “Do you need money? Anything? Can I pay you for your services?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want anyone to accompany you?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything else you need? Want to say?”

  “No. I’m prepared to leave. I can get passage as far as Philadelphia on a schooner sailing this afternoon. I’ll work my way north from there. I’ll have a written report as soon as I can get back.”

  Madison reached to shake his hand. “I hope to find a way to repay you. In the meantime, my thanks and gratitude is all that I can offer.”

  With Madison following, Eli walked to the door and turned the handle. He paused to look down into the earnest face of the little man.

  “With luck I’ll be back before the snow flies. I hope you succeed in all this.”

  Madison bobbed his head once and walked out into the hall with Eli, down to the Executive Mansion foyer, and held the door while Eli strode out into the bright September sunlight with the recently sculpted grounds of flower beds and flowering trees and grass all around.

  He made his way through the afternoon traffic of pedestrians, scurrying preoccupied from one building to another amid the ringing of iron horseshoes on cobblestone streets. He walked four blocks to a tavern with a sign Eagle’s Nest above the door, up to his room on the second floor, where he changed out of his formal clothing into a pair of leather breeches, mocassins, and tunic, and packed his clothing into a battered valise. He checked to be certain he was leaving nothing behind, then walked downstairs to the front desk to count coins to a small man with nervous eyes who was overly impressed with his own importance. He waited while the little man disappeared into a back room, to reappear gingerly carrying a long, fringed, beaded buckskin scabbard with Eli’s Pennsylvania long rifle inside. He handed it to Eli, and Eli walked out the door to a waiting hack. Less than an hour later he was on board a small schooner named Nancy, waiting for her to cast off from the navy yard dock for her trip to the top of Chesapeake Bay, thence northeast up the Delaware River, bound for Philadelphia.

  For three days he suffered the confinement of the little ship, sometimes impatiently pacing the deck as she pushed on up the waterway. Occasionally he stood at the rail to study the small towns and settlements that had sprung up along the shore. The last day he gathered his belongings and walked down the gangplank to the docks on the east side of Philadelphia. He bought passage on a Durham freight boat hauling sixteen tons of iron ore upriver to the Bordentown smelters, and the captain held the boat steady while Eli jumped ashore at Trenton. For more than one hour he walked in the streets of the little village—King Street, Queen Street, Quaker Street—seeing once again in his mind the muzzle flashes and hearing the roar of muskets and cannon of the desperate battle fought in the howling blizzard of December 26, 1776, and hearing once more the cries and moans of men mortally struck. He paused to stare at the wheat field on the east edge of town, near the Assunpink Creek—white, ready for the harvest, still bordered by the peach orchard, heavy with the last of the summer crop. Eli saw it as it had been that December morning, stark and barren in the flying snow, when he and Billy and a sick, starved, shoeless, scarecrow American army under command of General George Washington surrounded nine hundred Hessian soldiers and took them prisoners of war.

  He paid passenger fare to the owner of three freight wagons bound for New York, loaded with wheat and dried fish, tied his bag and rifle on top of the load, and climbed a huge spoked wheel to take his place beside the plump driver of the lead wagon, who spent the next three days in meaningless chatter and laughter, spitting huge jolts of brown tobacco juice and wiping his mouth and beard on a shirt sleeve already stained from elbow to wrist.

  At New York, Eli hauled his valise to the waterfront where he paid to ship it to Billy Weems at Dunson & Weems Shipping Company in Boston. With rifle in hand and his weapons belt buckled around his middle, tomahawk in its place, he bartered money and a hunting knife for a canoe made by the Iroquois and waited for the Atlantic tides to come rolling in. They came, and the Hudson River changed directions, flowing from south to north, upstream, as it had from time immemorial when the tides came in. He placed his rifle in the canoe and pushed off Manhattan Island into the waters of the river to paddle north with the current.

  Late the following day he beached the canoe at Albany, inquired, and walked into the foyer of the military headquarters of General Henry Dearborn. The bald corporal at the desk glanced up, then half stood, wide-eyed, gaping, startled at the old, tall man before him dressed in Iroquois buckskins, carrying a long rifle in a beaded scabbard, with a tomahawk through his belt.

  “Who . . . what is it you want?” he stammered.

  “I’m Eli Stroud. Special messenger sent by President James Madison. I have a sealed message for General Henry Dearborn. Is he here?”

  The corporal’s head jerked forward in disbelief. “President James Madison? You’ve got a message from President James Madison?”

  “I do. Is Dearborn here?”

  The corporal’s arm shot up to point. “He’s right in there, but you’re not going in. Give me the message. I’ll deliver it.”

  Eli shook his head. “Can’t do that. My orders are to deliver it myself and wait for any answer.” He walked to the plain, scarred desk and laid his rifle down, then drew his tomahawk and belt knife and laid them beside the rifle. He stepped back and said quietly, “I suggest you inform Dearborn. Now.”

  The corporal glanced down at the tomahawk, then back at Eli, and strode across the room to knock on a door. A voice from within called, “Enter,” and the corporal pushed on through. One minute later he came back out, stood to one side, and motioned to Eli, who walked into the small, austere office to face an average-sized man with deep-set eyes, a near lipless mouth, and a prominent nose.

  “Yes?” Dearborn said.

  Eli nodded. “I have been sent by President James Madison to deliver a message to you and wait for a reply, if you want to send one.”

  Dearborn stared at his face, then examined him from head to toe with skepticism rampant on his face. “President Madison sent you?”

  “He did. I have his letter giving me commission to carry the message to you.” He drew the document from his shirt and offered it to Dearborn. The general broke the seal, read it, refolded it, and handed it back to Eli.

  “Let me see the message for me.”

  Eli drew the sealed message from his shirt and handed it across the desk to Dearborn and watched as the man broke the seal, read it, then slumped into his chair to read it again.

  “ . . . must assemble your army and march on Montreal earliest . . . coordinate your attack with General Van Rensselaer’s attack on Fort George . . . you are aware of the surrender by General William Hull of Fort Detroit on August 16, 1812 . . . we must—repeat must—have a victory to announce to Congress when it meets in November . . .”

  A sense of indignation swept over Dearborn as he thumped the letter flat on his desk and raised his eyes to Eli. His words came too loud, defensive.

  “Do you know the contents of this document?”

  “No. It was sealed.”

  “Tell President Madison I will follow my orders. Tell him that as soon as my command is prepared, we will proceed to Montreal. Tell him—”

  Eli raised a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, sir. Any response must be in writing wi
th your signature. President Madison has to be certain you received that message.”

  Dearborn rose abruptly. “All right! Take a seat in the foyer. I will call you when I have the message completed.”

  For twenty minutes Eli sat patiently against one wall in the small foyer with the nervous corporal seated behind his desk alternately glancing at the rifle, the tomahawk, and Eli, his discomfort obvious at having what he thought to be an Indian facing him.

  Eli stood when the door opened and Dearborn strode to him to hand him a sealed letter. “There’s my answer. I trust you will deliver it to President Madison.”

  “I will.” Eli took it and thrust it inside his shirt. “If there’s nothing else,” he said, “I’ll be on my way.”

  “There is nothing else,” Dearborn said with finality.

  Eli walked to the corporal’s desk and picked up his tomahawk to thrust it through his belt, then took up his rifle with both the corporal and Dearborn staring as he walked out the door and down to the docks on the Hudson River to his waiting canoe. Dusk found him nine miles upstream, seated beside a small brook and a campfire with an opossum roasting on a spit. He finished his simple supper and for a time sat back against a massive oak, watching the stars appear, and then the rise of a quarter moon. After a time, he heaped dirt on the fire and went to his blanket with his rifle and weapons belt nearby.

  He was back on the water before sunrise, kneeling in the light birchbark canoe, settled into the rhythm of the paddle stroke that drove the canoe steadily north through the mist rising from the river. He paused for a few moments as he passed Saratoga, remembering the cataclysmic collision of the British army commanded by General John Burgoyne with the patched-together American army consisting of regulars, militia, and volunteers who appeared from nowhere in the battle that was turned in favor of the Americans by Benedict Arnold and which resulted in the surrender of more than six thousand British redcoats, including General Burgoyne himself.

  Further north, he slowed to study the walls and gun turrets of five-sided Fort Ticonderoga and to look at Mount Defiance just to the southeast. He remembered the humiliating shock that forced the Americans to abandon the fort without firing a shot when it was discovered that somehow the British had dragged cannon up the back side of Mount Defiance and positioned them on top—guns capable of reducing the fort to rubble while American cannon could not reach them.

  He reached the headwaters of the Hudson, made the eleven-mile portage to the south end of Lake Champlain, and continued north on the lake to the place where it joined the Richelieu River. Then on north to the Saint Lawrence River, where he waited for moonrise before he turned southeast to make the journey in four nights that would take him past the British outposts at Cornwall, Crysler’s Farm, Prescott, and Gananoque before he entered Lake Ontario, where he could hold to the south shore on the American side in daylight. He passed Oswego and Sodus before he made camp, and the following morning stopped for a short time to eat cheese and hardtack near Charlotte, where the Genesee River emptied into the lake.

  The next day, with sunset casting long shadows eastward, he rounded a small, jutting point of land and there in the distance, shining in the yellow glow of a setting sun, was the tiny peninsula on which stood Fort Niagara. He brought the canoe to the docks of the fort, paused to study the British Fort George across the width of the river, and beached his canoe.

  With rifle in hand, he walked the twenty feet to the docks to face a young, slender picket with a long, narrow face, a hunch between his shoulders, and the beginnings of a beard. The picket jerked his musket up and exclaimed, “Halt! Or I’ll shoot! State your name and your business.”

  Eli stifled a smile. “I am Eli Stroud. President James Madison sent me to deliver a message to General Stephen Van Rensselaer. Is he here?

  The picket stared at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. He could not recall ever hearing of a tall white man wearing what was clearly Indian buckskins, carrying a Pennsylvania rifle and a tomahawk, asking for an American general.

  “You want to see the general?” he blurted.

  “I have a message for him. Written. From President James Madison.”

  The picket’s head jerked forward in disbelief, and he exclaimed, “You’re carrying a message from the president? Madison?”

  Eli answered calmly, “Yes. I am. I suggest you take me to the general.”

  For a moment the picket stood in shocked indecision, unable to decide whether he would be a hero or a buffoon if he took this man to the general. Seconds passed before he exclaimed, “Show me the message.”

  Eli drew the sealed document from his shirt and held it up for the picket to see. “It’s been about seventeen days since I left Washington, D.C.,” Eli said quietly. “President Madison wants this in the general’s hands now. I don’t know what will happen to you if you prevent that.”

  The picket recoiled, licked at dry lips, and shifted his feet, struggling. “All right. You move ahead of me on up toward the fort and don’t make a move with that rifle. Or tomahawk.”

  Eli shrugged and strode up path to the gates of Fort Niagara where the picket answered the challenge, the gates swung open, and he followed Eli inside.

  Eli turned. “Where is the general’s office?”

  The picket pointed. “Over there.”

  The picket still had his musket at the ready when Eli pushed through the door and stopped while his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, with the picket right behind him, still clutching his weapon. The corporal behind the desk jerked to his feet at the sight of a white Indian followed by a soldier with a musket and stammered, “Who . . . what . . . who are you?”

  The picket’s answer spilled out. “Says he’s got a message. Written message. From President James Madison in Washington, D.C. He says he has to deliver it to General Van Rensselaer.”

  The corporal gaped, eyes narrowed, forehead furrowed. “A message from whom?”

  Eli held up a warning hand against the picket and spoke to the corporal.

  “I am Eli Stroud. I have a sealed message from President Madison for General Van Rensselaer. Is he here?”

  All three men turned at the sound of the general’s office door opening, and the general, average size, square face, generous mouth, stood in the door frame, surprise showing as he peered at Eli.

  “Did I hear someone mention President Madison?”

  The picket and the corporal burst into a confusion of exclamations at the same moment, and the general raised a hand to stop them. He looked at Eli.

  “Are you the one who spoke of President Madison?”

  Eli was studying the general as he answered. The man was younger than himself and had the feel about him of one whose mental abilities exceeded his maturity to handle them.

  “I am Eli Stroud. I have a written message from President Madison.”

  “May I see it?”

  Eli drew the letter from his shirt, and the general took the parchment from him. Still standing in the doorway, he broke the seal, unfolded it, and quickly examined the signature at the bottom. There was no questioning the small, neat handwriting of President Madison.

  “Leave your weapons here and come inside,” the general said.

  Eli laid his rifle and tomahawk on the corporal’s desk and followed the general into his office where they took seats on opposite sides of the plain desk, with the door closed. For a time the two sat in silence while Van Rensselaer read the document, then read it again.

  “ . . . must prevail on General Alexander Smyth to follow his orders and join with your forces when you make the attack on Fort George . . . critical that you coordinate your attack with the assault of General William Dearborn on Montreal . . . must proceed at once before the winter closes in . . . must have a victory to announce when Congress convenes in November . . .”

  He laid the letter down on his desktop while he leaned back and spoke.

  “You know what’s in that letter?”

  “No. It was sealed.”
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  Van Rensselaer nodded. “Was there anything else? You need food? Rest?”

  “Yes. There is something else.” Eli drew out the document with his own name on it and handed it to the general. “My orders are to remain here for a time and then return with my report and with any letter you wish to send to President Madison.”

  Van Rensselaer accepted the letter and sat upright to read it, then leaned forward, temper beginning to show in his face. “President Madison wants your personal report on matters up here?”

  “Yes.”

  “He doesn’t trust us to tell him?”

  Eli’s face was without emotion. “He did not tell me his reasons. I intend following his orders.”

  Van Rensselaer straightened, then leaned forward. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll tell you what’s happening here. General Smyth—Alexander Smyth—has refused to submit to my orders because he’s regular army and I’m state militia. We’re into October, and snow could shut us down any time. I haven’t heard from Dearborn for weeks, and there’s no time to argue with Smyth now, or to coordinate with Dearborn.”

  He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying was probably meaningless to Eli. “Do you have any idea of the plan Congress came up with to invade Canada? Fort Detroit, Fort George, Montreal?”

  Eli nodded. “I know of it. President Madison took the time to explain it to me. Fort Detroit fell about six weeks ago.”

  Van Rensselaer’s eyes came alive with a fire from within. “I’ve heard. We’re not going to have a repeat of it around here! Not while I’m in command.” He took a deep breath and plowed into it.

  “Let me get to what’s happening. My scouts tell me we outnumber the British at Fort George right now, at least three to one. Twice I ordered Smyth and his command to cross the river here and attack Fort George while I take my command six miles south to cross the river and take Queenston Heights, to protect Smyth’s flank. Smyth refuses. I’m going ahead with my command, independent of him. We make our crossing in two days to take Queenston Heights, then on north to take Fort George without Smyth.”