Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  The general stopped and straightened in his chair while he brought his anger and passion under control. “I’ll inform General Dearborn as soon as possible, under the circumstances. I’ll also give you a written report signed by me for President Madison.”

  He leaned forward and his words came spaced, loud. “After I’ve taken Fort George!”

  Eli paused for a moment. “You intend attacking Queenston Heights?”

  “I do.”

  “You have a plan to scale those cliffs? They’re nearly two hundred fifty feet high—almost a sheer drop to the river.”

  “We know.”

  “How do you plan to scale them?”

  Van Rensselaer avoided the question. “That’s a problem for my officers. We’ll manage.” He stood, and it was clear he was finished with Eli. “You need a bed for the night? Supper?”

  “I could use a warm meal. I prefer to sleep in the woods.”

  Van Rensselaer walked to the door and followed Eli into the foyer, where Eli gathered his rifle and tomahawk while the general said, “Tell the mess sergeant you’re to have mess privileges as long as you’re here, on my orders.”

  Eli nodded. “Thank you.” The corporal was still staring at the tomahawk in Eli’s weapons belt as Eli walked out into the sunset and the general closed the door.

  The boiled fish and cabbage was too salty, and there was mold on the hard, black bread. With dusk coming on, Eli delivered the wooden plate and cup to the cleanup detail and walked out of the enlisted mess hall into a fort shutting down for the night. He stood to listen to the drum pound out taps as the flag was lowered, then walked out of the fort and into the nearby woods to the banks of a small stream that fed into the immensity of Lake Ontario. He leaned his rifle against a tree, unbuckled his weapons belt and laid it on his spread blanket, and sat down with his back against a ninety-foot pine tree and his knees drawn up. He let his thoughts run.

  A divided command at odds with each other. . . . those cliffs at Queenston Heights . . . no plan to scale them . . . taking Fort George . . . too fragile . . . too fragile . . . one thing goes wrong, it could bring down all of it. . . . another disaster . . . like Fort Detroit . . .

  The moon was risen when he pulled his blanket to his chin and rested his head on his arm and drifted into the sleep of a weary man.

  With the incomparable colors of sunrise in the October forest all around, Eli knelt beside the small stream and dipped with his hand to drink, aware of the stiffness and the tinges of pain in his joints. He wiped his dripping chin on the sleeve of his buckskin shirt, then raised it to shade his eyes against the brightness of the morning sun while he studied the knot of men gathering at the dock, pointing, gesturing wildly, voices raised in hot argument. He could hear the clamor but could not make out the words. He rolled and tied his blanket and fastened it over his shoulder, then gathered his rifle and weapons belt and tomahawk and walked the forest path down to the dock to stand to one side, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

  A young lieutenant was gesturing wildly, pointing out into the lake, face red with anger, voice raised to a shout as he berated a white-faced sergeant.

  “Who did it? Someone had to see! Who was it?”

  The befuddled sergeant stammered, “I don’t know, sir. I don’t know. It happened in the night. Ask the officer in charge of the docks.”

  “Fine,” the lieutenant blustered. “Which one?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t come on duty until four o’clock.”

  The lieutenant paced for a moment, furious, then stopped, and his voice rang. “All right! I’ll find out which officer is responsible! You and your squad stay right here until I return. Whoever’s responsible will be tried by court’s martial, and I’ll see to it they’re hanged!”

  Eli watched the lieutenant trot up the trail to the fort, muttering to himself, then walked over to the sergeant.

  “Something wrong?”

  The sergeant’s eyes popped wide at the sight of an aging white man in Indian garb, carrying a rifle and tomahawk. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Eli Stroud. Here under command of General Van Rensselaer. What’s gone wrong?”

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head. “I’ve never seen you around here before. You sure you didn’t have something to do with this?

  “With what?” Eli asked.

  “The oars! We were supposed to move up the river tomorrow morning to cross the river for the attack on Queenston Heights. Most of the boats are already up at Lewiston right now. The oars were loaded into eight of them. A messenger showed up this morning before sunrise to tell us the eight boats with the oars are gone! Disappeared! We can’t cross the river! We can’t make the attack! No one knows who took them or where they are!”

  Eli stood still, incredulous, appalled at the near total breakdown at Fort Niagara of every military principle he had ever learned, starting with the shambles that Smyth and Van Rensselaer had made of unity of command, and now ending with soldiers who could let someone steal eight longboats filled with oars, without which the entire fighting force of Van Rensselaer was landlocked, crippled, unable to make the attack that had been ordered by the president of the United States!

  Eli closed his eyes and bowed his head, unable to make his brain accept the stupidity and the paralyzing dysfunction that had seized the entire American fighting force at Fort Niagara. The sergeant sputtered and fumed, cursing the corporals and privates who had been on picket duty during the night and who had failed to see eight longboats stolen from the Lewiston docks and brought past the Fort Niagara dock undetected, and cursing the company of men six miles upstream who allowed someone to steal the boats less than forty feet away. The corporals and privates stood silent, afraid to interrupt, not knowing how to respond to the hysteria of their sergeant.

  One thing was clear to Eli. The sergeant and his squad were terrified of what could become of them should a court-martial find them guilty of dereliction of duty. Because the assault had been ordered by Congress and the president, this was no minor blunder. If they were found guilty, it was entirely possible they could spend life in prison or be hanged or shot!

  Without another word, Eli walked up the path to the fort to learn what Van Rensselaer was going to do. The answer came quickly. Inside the fort, officers of the rank of lieutenant colonel and above were emerging from command headquarters at a trot, while civilians stopped in wonder and enlisted men stared in bewilderment, unable to remember when so many of their superiors were moving so fast at the same time.

  Eli was near enough to hear a captain shout to a sergeant under his command, “Down to the dock! Every man in your platoon! Take two longboats and move out onto the lake! Search for eight of our boats that were stolen from Queenston Heights in the night!”

  The startled sergeant stammered, “Now, sir? We were assigned—”

  The captain cut him off. “Forget that! Move!”

  “Yes, sir!” The sergeant bellowed orders, and his twelve-man platoon dropped everything and followed him at a run, through the gates and down to the docks.

  A lieutenant colonel shouted to four majors to come at once, and waited, pacing, until they were facing him.

  “You have new orders. Stop everything your men are doing and order them to get tools and start making oars. Longboat oars. Two hundred forty of them. From any lumber they can find.”

  One astonished major asked, “Oars, sir?”

  “Oars!” the colonel bellowed.

  “The oars are all upriver, sir, for the attack tomorrow. May I inquire what’s happened?”

  The colonel hesitated, undecided for a moment if he should give the answer, then realized the news would be rampant throughout the entire command within minutes.

  “Someone stole them all!” he exclaimed. “Eight boatloads, overnight. The attack planned for tomorrow is delayed. We must have oars before we can cross the river. Now do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

&nb
sp; Eli watched the majors trot to their commands to bark orders and make explanations that drew stunned silence, followed by a torrent of exclamations as sergeants and corporals scattered to assemble their men and lead them to the carpenter’s shop for tools.

  Thoughts came to Eli as he watched. Van Rensselaer sent men onto the lake to search for the boats, and he’s making more oars, but he didn’t send a detail south to find out what happened at Lewiston or give them new orders.

  Quietly Eli left the fort, shaking his head as he walked down to the dock to watch the two longboats push off out into Lake Erie, searching for eight longboats they would never find. Minutes later he quietly disappeared into the forest and turned south, silently passing through the dense woods, pausing from time to time to listen for any break in the sounds of the birds and the chatter of the long-haired squirrels and chipmunks that would tell him someone or something not of the forest was near. He did not want some frightened, lost American picket from the Lewiston camp to fire on him first and challenge him after.

  The sun was directly overhead when he dropped to his haunches on the east bank of the Niagara to study the sheer granite cliffs on the west side of the river, rising two hundred forty feet straight up with the small village of Queenston Heights on top. He watched the flow of the river where the channel narrowed between Queenston Heights and Lewiston to force a fast, heavy current with half a dozen swirling eddies. A British flag flew over the distant camp, and he could see movement, but not the detail.

  How many, he wondered, and who are they? Redcoats or Canadians or Indians? Or all three? Who’s in command over there?

  He peered upriver, then down, but there was no sign of either a British or an American patrol or boat.

  Where are the American pickets? I should have seen a picket or a patrol long before now. He pushed on south, every nerve, every sense alive, searching for any sign of the Americans who were assigned to guard the boats for the river crossing to attack Queenston Heights. He had covered three hundred yards before he heard the bickering voices of Americans, and then he saw their camp, fifty yards ahead through the trees and foliage. He stopped to study the woods between himself and the arguing Americans, and it was then he saw the picket leaned against a pine tree, nearly hidden, dozing in the shade. Without a sound he came in from the side of the tree and reached to seize the musket held loosely by the sleeping hands. The picket’s head came up and his eyes opened as he came back to the world, and he lunged for his musket as he exclaimed, “Halt or I’ll shoot!”

  Eli quietly said, “Stand easy. I’m friend, not foe.”

  “You got no right . . .” The picket caught himself as he came fully awake and realized he had been asleep. The penalty could be hanging. He wiped at his mouth and tried to arrange his thoughts.

  “You ought not to have come in like that. I could have shot you.”

  Eli let it pass. “I’ve just come from Fort Niagara. We were told someone stole eight boats loaded with oars from here last night. Know anything about it?”

  The picket bobbed his head, fearful of being reported for sleeping on picket duty. “Yes, oh yes!” he exclaimed. “Some officer. Stole them all!”

  “What officer? What name?”

  The picket shook his head. “No one knows. All our officers were here this morning. We thought they might have caught them at Fort Niagara when they tried to pass the docks down there.”

  “They didn’t see them in the night.”

  “Well,” the picket blurted, “neither did we! I been up since four o’clock this morning, watching. Nothing happened until you came. Are they still planning an attack for tomorrow?”

  Eli grunted a laugh. “Not likely. They’re making oars. You should be getting orders soon.” He handed the musket back to the picket. “You better watch for a messenger from the fort.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, I will, sir.”

  Eli started on south, toward the camp when the picket called after him, “You’re not . . . are you going to report that I was asleep?”

  Eli paused and turned to look back at the man, pleading in his eyes.

  “No. Stay awake.”

  He walked on south, into the camp, where a dozen men stopped to stare at him. A paunchy captain emerged from the cluster of soldiers to face him.

  “Who are you?”

  “Eli Stroud. From Fort Niagara. We got your message about the stolen oars. I thought I’d come see what happened. Could I know your name?”

  Instantly the captain became defensive. “Captain Jacob McCown,” he said. “General Van Rensselaer send you?”

  “No. President Madison. Would you care to see his letter of commission?”

  The captain’s face drained of blood. “President Madison?”

  Eli remained silent.

  The captain took a breath, and his words came as though they had been carefully selected and memorized. “I don’t . . . we don’t know what happened. All we know is that we had double pickets out all night to protect the boats and the oars, and with daylight eight boats and all the oars for tomorrow’s attack were gone. No one heard a thing and no one saw it. We can’t find a sign of who did it. Maybe one of our own officers, maybe the British, maybe Indians. We thought it might have been an officer from the fort, but we don’t know. We just don’t know.”

  “Are the rest of the boats still here? Ready to cross the river?”

  “Yes. We’ve tripled the pickets.”

  Eli thought about the picket he had found sleeping and understood how such a thing could happen, right under their noses. “Are your men ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Eli looked about at the faces of those who had gathered. There was a mix of fear of what their loss of the boats and oars would bring down on their heads, and of anxiety over what Van Rensselaer planned to do about the attack still scheduled for the next morning.

  Eli spoke to the captain. “I better get back to the fort. Anything you want me to take back? Any message?”

  The captain struggled for a few moments. “Tell the general—”

  Eli cut him off. “In writing. Put it in writing.”

  The captain shook his head. “I’ll make a full written report shortly.”

  Eli turned, and a path opened through the crowded men, and he walked into the woods moving north. He was within the walls of Fort Niagara to share evening mess with the enlisted, and moonrise found him at his small campsite wrapped in his blanket with his rifle and weapons belt at hand.

  A touch of frost came in the night, and morning broke clear with a cloudless sky. At the fort, the stack of newly crafted oars grew throughout the day, with men working feverishly, waiting for orders they knew had to come, setting a new day for the attack. In late afternoon the general officers were summoned to headquarters for half an hour, and when they emerged, each went directly to their command to assemble their men and read from the written orders of General Van Rensselaer. Eli stood quietly on one side of a regiment of militia, listening carefully.

  “The oars will be loaded onto longboats and moved up the Niagara River to Lewiston tonight at nine o’clock pm. At one o’clock am all commands heretofore ordered to participate in the attack on Queenston Heights will march to Lewiston where they will board the longboats and cross the river under command of Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer. They will make the assault on the Heights at first light tomorrow morning, October 13, 1812. Following the occupation of the Heights, they will proceed north to Fort George where they will launch a second assault and reduce Fort George to American occupation.”

  Caught by surprise, Eli pondered the questions. Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer in command of the assault? Not General Stephen Van Rensselaer? Is the general incompetent? Afraid? Or is it that his kinsman is battle trained and the general is not?

  There was no answer.

  The troops were dismissed for evening mess, and Eli sat quietly with the enlisted men, listening, watching, studying their expressions as they ate. He saw in them the rising dre
ad of knowing that they might not survive the next twenty-four hours, or worse, that they could be maimed and crippled for the rest of their lives, and he remembered the many times the same sick feeling had risen in his breast on the eve of battle.

  He finished his supper, delivered his utensils to the cleanup detail, and walked across the parade ground to the headquarters of General Van Rensselaer in the long shadows of sunset. The corporal gave him entrance, and Eli walked into the private office of the general, seated behind his desk, his face a mask of determination.

  “Yes?” the general said.

  Eli remained standing. “I wondered if you sent word south to the camp at Lewiston. Do they know about your latest orders? For an attack tomorrow morning?”

  Van Rensselaer tried to cover his error. “They’ll know soon enough. This command will begin arriving there in the next eight or ten hours.”

  “The captain down there—McCown—has some pretty jumpy men. Might be a good thing to let them get ready for what’s coming.”

  Van Rensselaer started. “You know Captain McCown?”

  “I was there yesterday.”

  Van Rensselaer came to his feet. “You what?”

  “I was there yesterday.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Not much of anything.”

  “Did he send any message back with you?”

  “No. I told him he’d have to do it in writing. He said he’d file his report later.”

  The general sat back down, face drawn in thought. “Is there anything else?”

  “No.”

  Van Rensselaer’s words came sharp, with a cutting edge. “Mister Stroud, I do not want you interfering in the affairs of this fort again. Am I clear?”

  Eli looked steadily into his face. “I’ll try to not interfere, but I intend completing what President Madison sent me here to do. Am I clear?”

  The general’s face went blank. Eli waited for one moment before he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, across the foyer, and out into the parade ground. He stopped at the sound of the drum sounding taps and watched the two soldiers lower the flag. He was walking toward the fort gates when the corporal from the foyer came trotting from behind.