Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Instantly Carleton had recognized the implication. If Burgoyne were scheduled to arrive in Quebec, it was the duty of Lord George Germain, and not Burgoyne, to notify Carleton of both the visit, and the purpose. Lord George Germain had been Secretary of State for the American colonies in the cabinet of King George III since November 1775, and Germain, pudgy, thick-lipped, protruding eyes, plagued with a lisp, was nothing if not a master politician, whose well-honed skills included giving and taking rank and status among the high and mighty, both in government and the military, with deadly efficiency.

  Germain had been in office when Carleton had made his heroic stand at the gates of Quebec on December 31, 1775, and defeated Montgomery and his beleaguered American command in a raging blizzard. Germain had participated in the decision that such conspicuous bravery should receive its reward, and shortly after, King George had tapped Carleton on each shoulder with his sword and bestowed the status of Knight of the Realm upon him.

  Then, abruptly, with Germain prominent in the decision, King George had handpicked Major General Sir Guy Carleton to serve as governor of the gigantic, wild, sprawling Dominion of Canada, in command of the ten thousand regulars sent by the king to enforce English rule in what had been a French nation. Knighthood and governor, all within months! The fortunes of Sir Guy Carleton in the British Empire had indeed spiraled upward with dizzying velocity. His second in command was Brigadier General John Burgoyne, who had served as second in command to General Thomas Gage through that humiliating affair at Lexington and Concord, followed by the disaster at Bunker Hill sixty days later. Burgoyne’s transfer to the Northern Army had been instant, where he had received both experience and training in the ways of the Canadian frontier under Carleton’s leadership.

  Carleton drew and slowly released a great breath while he fought to control his growing perception that the colossal breach of protocol by Germain, coupled with the terse notice from Burgoyne that he was coming for reasons not stated, were not merely odd coincidences, but were harbingers that bode ill for Carleton. Perhaps catastrophic.

  The massive door yawed open, and Carleton started, jolted from the black abyss of his fears to the realities of the arrival of the spring ice breakup, and along with it Major General John Burgoyne. Carleton stood, portly, average height, rounded, unremarkable features. He straightened his tunic, waiting while Colonel Bruce Thornton strode to the front of his desk.

  “Suh, Major General John Burgoyne is here for his appointment.”

  Thornton, Carleton’s aide-de-camp, stood straight in his sparkling crimson and white uniform, chin tucked in, his huge, meticulously trimmed mustache bristling. The sunlight through the windows reflected off the shine on his knee-length black boots as he waited for orders.

  Carleton’s voice cracked as he spoke, and he stopped to start again. “Is the general alone?”

  “He is, sir.”

  Carleton felt the grab in the pit of his stomach. Alone! No one to witness. He’s bringing trouble.

  “Show him in.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Carleton glanced at the clock on the heavy mantel above the massive stone fireplace—nine o’clock—and watched Thornton’s ramrod-straight back as he strode to the two, ten-foot-tall oak doors, heels clicking a determined cadence. The colonel pushed one of the massive doors open and disappeared. As it thumped closed, Carleton clamped his jaw closed and braced himself. His thoughts and memories reached back, and for a few moments he let them run unchecked.

  Major General John Burgoyne—Gentleman Johnny, the dashing bon vivant of London and Paris—Burgoyne, the gambler—Burgoyne, the lady’s man—Burgoyne of the Light Horse.

  He heard the steady staccato tapping of two sets of boots approaching in the vacuous waiting room, and his thoughts continued unbridled.

  Rumored to be illegitimate—joined the army at age fifteen—captain at age twenty-two—Burgoyne, the playwright—theatrical Johnny, wrote several successful satires for the stage—married Lady Charlotte, daughter of the Earl of Derby—eloped because the Earl was furious about the match—gambled away everything—defected to France for six years to avoid the mortification of bankruptcy—returned only when the Earl made peace with them and set them up with enough money to once again enter English aristocracy.

  Thornton rapped sharply at the door and Carleton called, “Enter!”

  The door swung open and Carleton held his breath as Thornton paced three steps into the room, halted, turned, and announced, “Suh, Major General John Burgoyne.”

  Without realizing it, Carleton’s back straightened, his shoulders squared, and his heels came together. In that instant, Major General John Burgoyne swept smartly into the room, tall, slender, charismatic, dark-haired and dark-eyed, handsome in his own way, smiling superbly, hat under one arm, and a thin leather folder with his seal stamped in gold clutched in his other hand. His uniform was that of a British major general, with one exception that set Burgoyne apart from any other officer in the British army. He had paid handsomely to have the best tailor in London create his tunic with a tiny gold piping gilding the lapels. A small thing, but one correctly calculated by Burgoyne to catch every eye, to draw glances, and flutters and guarded whispers among the ladies, and envious disgust from his peer officers in high London society.

  Burgoyne strode briskly to the front of Carleton’s desk and thrust his hand forward to the man who had been his superior officer but short months earlier. There was no hint of military protocol, no salute, no compliments, no statement of purpose, no stiff formal bow. Only Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne at his dashing best.

  “General, sir, how good to see you again,” Burgoyne said.

  Carleton shook his hand briefly. “It is my pleasure to welcome you back.” He glanced at the leather folder, then locked eyes with Burgoyne, waiting for the traditional statement by Burgoyne of the purpose of his visit.

  Burgoyne ignored the protocol. “You are looking well. And I have heard nothing but compliments of your conduct from the king and cabinet.”

  King and cabinet! He’s had audience with king and cabinet, who address only matters of international importance. Instantly Carleton recognized the implication and knew that beneath the warm greeting and overpowering smile, he had just heard the opening of a terrifying floodgate.

  Carleton gestured. “Would you care to be seated?”

  Burgoyne drew the leather-bound, straight-backed chair to the front edge of the desk and sat down. “Thank you.”

  Carleton settled onto the leading edge of his chair and waited. Burgoyne plowed straight in.

  “General, I am under orders to deliver this to you. You will note that it bears the seal of Lord George Germain.”

  Germain! He who creates or destroys careers on his own whims! Carleton reached into the core of his being to find the control necessary to maintain a calm, disciplined exterior. He accepted the document.

  “Thank you. Am I to read this immediately?”

  Burgoyne leaned back and for the first time his eyes were direct, his voice paced. “May I explain.” His eyebrows peaked, and an unexpected intensity came into his voice. “General Howe crushed the rebel resistance in and around New York and is now well in control there. He experienced minor setbacks when General Washington’s army recrossed the Delaware and took Trenton, and then Princeton, before going into winter quarters at Morristown.”

  Carleton interrupted. “I learned those facts from a letter I intercepted that was written by Washington to Benedict Arnold, and from a prisoner captured by a scouting party. General Howe has communicated none of that to me, and I am sore pressed to understand why not, since it seems to me I should know these things as commander of the Northern Army.” Carleton dropped his eyes for a moment. “Nonetheless, proceed.”

  Burgoyne leaned forward. “General Howe has full control of the New York entrance to the Hudson River. It is now thought by the king, and by Lord Germain, and the cabinet, that the rebellion can be stopped most expeditiously by sending th
e Northern Army up the Richelieu River to Lake Champlain, then on up Lake George, and down the Hudson River to effect a junction with Howe’s army at Albany. Divide the colonies, north from south, by seizing the Lake Champlain–Hudson Valley waterway. Since the hotbed of the rebellion is in the New England states, once we have restored our control of the waterway, and isolated the north from the south, the rebellion will die.” Burgoyne stopped, eyes narrowed, waiting.

  The two words that had leaped out at Carleton were Northern Army. His army. His command. The king and Germain. They thought. Never a word, never an inquiry, never a letter from any of them seeking his advice about the most critically important assignment the Northern Army would ever have. Why? For what reason had they dealt so deviously with him? He spoke in even, civil tones.

  “May I now read the message from Lord Germain?”

  Burgoyne nodded and leaned back, watching Carleton’s every move, every expression. Carleton leaped past the wordy salutation to the first paragraph.

  “Whenever an army leaves the province in which it has been standing, the governor of the province shall not have the command over it outside his gubernatorial district, even if he had previously commanded the army as commander in chief, but shall surrender its command to the senior general under him.”

  In shock, his mouth slowly fell open, and he raised vacant eyes to Burgoyne. He closed his mouth and swallowed.

  “Who wrote this?”

  Burgoyne answered quietly. “The king.”

  “The king? When?”

  “In the past ninety days.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “Nor had I.”

  “If I interpret this correctly, I am to remain here, and I lose command of the Northern Army to my next senior officer. That would be you, I presume.”

  “So says the king, and Lord Germain.”

  Carleton’s brain went numb with the realization that he had just been delivered the most colossal, unbelievable insult he had ever heard of in the annals of the British military. Deny a major general command of his own army when it leaves the province in which the same major general is also governor? Ridiculous! Utterly insane! For seconds that seemed an eternity, the only sound in the room was the unending roar of the ice in the distant river, while Carleton battled hot rage that welled up inside him. His face reddened, and his mouth narrowed to a slit as he stared into Burgoyne’s eyes. His hands trembled as his thoughts ran wild.

  You saw it coming just as I did—but you were the one that persuaded me to give you permission to return to England to mourn the loss of your wife! And to conduct other business. Other business! You never mentioned that the ‘other business’ was to give you almost exclusive entree to King George through Germain so you could persuade the king that you are the man to lead my army down the Lake Champlain–Hudson River corridor! You! Not me! Five months! December of last year until now! In London, consorting with Germain, gaining audience with the king. What truths did you distort? What lies did you tell? About whom? What papers did you use? What part of my military career have you used against me, to destroy me? How did you persuade Germain to draft this hideous paragraph, and then obtain the king’s signature to it? How? Why?

  Carleton felt tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead, and did not care, as his thoughts continued with a fury of their own. It was I who stood at the gates of Quebec in that blizzard and turned the Americans. It was I who was knighted, and made governor! It was I who achieved what no other could in settling the entire country of Canada, setting up the laws, courts, commerce, settlements, preparing the Canadians to be valuable allies. It was I who remained here, devoted to my duties, while you were in London for five long months, whispering to the king through Germain. And it is I who should now lead my Northern Army down the corridor to meet General Howe! It is MY name that should go down in the annals of history as the one who led the Northern Army in the conquest of the colonies. Carleton. Not Burgoyne.

  Carleton dropped his eyes to the paper, and Burgoyne’s breathing slowed as Carleton read on.

  “I reluctantly recall your supineness in regards the opportunity that fell into your hands last October to attack and invest Fort Ticonderoga following your skirmish with the inferior American fleet on Lake Champlain. You were victorious, and that critically important prize was yours for the taking, yet you turned your back on Fort Ticonderoga and returned to Quebec. I trust you are cognizant that had Fort Ticonderoga been taken, we would have been spared that humiliating affair at Trenton on December twenty-sixth, last.”

  Only his lifelong commitment to unyielding discipline saved Carleton from slamming down the document and shouting his white-hot defiance in Burgoyne’s face. He could no longer remain seated, and he stood, choking on his rage as he spoke.

  “You will excuse me for a few moments while I attempt to grasp this . . . writing.”

  “Of course.” Like a hawk, Burgoyne was watching Carleton’s every move, every expression, knowing exactly what Germain had written, knowing that never had he seen such an outrageous document.

  Shaking, Carleton walked to the lead-paned windows to peer unseeing southward, toward the river.

  How did he do it? How did he convince Germain he was the man to command this campaign, and not me? Did he use that skirmish down in Portugal fifteen years ago? The Valencia de Alcantara business, and then that Villa Velha fuss? They were absolutely of no consequence. Oh, Burgoyne had been brave enough, and had led his three thousand troops well enough, but he was always certain to be spectacular when others were watching. Took some prisoners and some cannon, and the entire affair came to nothing! But not for Burgoyne! Oh, no! He wrote a report of his own, and saw to it that people in high places got it, while one of his well-positioned, politically positioned friends, who owned some tiny boroughs, got him elected to the House of Commons! In absentia, no less! And then he formed his Light Horse command, and saw to it they were the showpiece of the cavalry. Light horse! Wait until he leads his light horse into this wilderness!

  Still trembling, Carleton ground his teeth together and continued to stare out the window with his back to Burgoyne.

  And now I know how he destroyed me. Failure to take Fort Ticonderoga? The fools! The fools! It would have been easy to take the fort, but suicidal to think of wintering there without supplies. I made the right decision—return to Quebec, refit my fleet, provision my army, and take Fort Ti when the spring thaws came. My decision was right! But I was not there in London to defend myself while he destroyed me! For long moments seething rage welled up. His entire body was trembling, and he feared his legs would buckle.

  Behind him, Burgoyne leaned forward, every nerve, every feeling reaching out as he waited to see how Carleton would accept the insult he had received and terrible things that had been done to him. He sensed the white-hot pain that had pierced Carleton’s heart, and he despised Germain for requiring that he hand deliver the evil document to Carleton, when it was clearly the moral and ethical duty of Germain to do his own hatchet work. He had protested, but Germain would have it no other way. To have an inferior officer bear the message to his superior that he was to take his command was inhuman. Burgoyne felt the suffering Carleton was enduring. He watched, and he waited.

  Carleton took a deep breath and reached deep into the wells of discipline and his own innate humanity to take charge of himself. Slowly he straightened and raised his chin, and he shook himself before he turned back to Burgoyne. He walked back to his desk, picked up the document, and read the balance of the terse message.

  Major General John Burgoyne will take command of seven thousand of the regulars of the Northern Army and proceed south, up the Richelieu River, thence to Lake Champlain, on to Lake George, reduce Fort Ticonderoga to British control, then proceed to the Hudson River. Two thousand Canadians will be employed for transportation. One thousand Mohawk Indians will be employed as scouts and advance skirmishers. A second command will be led by Lieutenant Colonel Barry St. Leger, u
nder orders of General Burgoyne, to proceed from Niagara east to take Fort Stanwix on the Mohawk River and then continue east. General William Howe will proceed up the Hudson River, all three commands to meet at Albany, thus taking control of the waterway, isolating the northern colonies, which shall then be reduced to British control. Major General Carleton is to remain in Quebec with a small remainder of the Northern Army, and of course, give all assistance to General Burgoyne.

  A three-pronged campaign. Burgoyne from the north. St. Leger from the west. Howe from the south. Isolate the northern colonies and pick them off one at a time.

  Carleton raised his eyes. He was now under control. He spoke evenly, earnestly. “Would you care for tea? Chocolate?”

  The unbearable crisis was past. Relief surged through Burgoyne as he realized Carleton had risen above the pettiness, the insult, the professional wounds, the destructive machinations of Germain, and had taken the high ground expected of an excellent British major general, and a superior human being.

  “Thank you, no.”

  Carleton drew and released a great breath and settled down. “How may I be of service?”

  Burgoyne opened the scarred leather cover of his folder, picked up the top document, unfolded it, then flattened it on the desktop. It was a map of the northeast section of the continent, nearly four feet square. He scanned it briefly, turned it to lay true with the compass, then selected a sheaf of papers from the folder.

  “Yes, here we are.” He raised his eyes to Carleton. “I thought it wise to review the entire campaign with you in some detail, then seek your advice on some matters. I presume that is agreeable.” It was a statement, not a question. Burgoyne continued with studied deliberation. “As you know, the overall plan was carefully worked out in London between myself and Lord Germain months ago. As you have seen, it now carries his written approval.” He paused for three seconds before adding, “as well as the signature and seal of the king.”