Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Burgoyne raised his face and locked eyes with Carleton to be certain Carleton had clearly understood. The plan was Burgoyne’s and carried the force of the king’s seal. It was the sacred instrument by which Burgoyne would loose the lightning bolt that would defeat the colonists and put an end to the American rebellion. But infinitely transcending the subjection of the rebellious Americans, the plan would enshrine the name Burgoyne through all time as one of the brightest shining stars in the history of the British military.

  Carleton understood perfectly.

  Burgoyne lowered his eyes to the map and tapped it with a forefinger. “We are here, at Quebec.” His finger moved as he spoke. “I shall proceed southwest, up the St. Lawrence River from here, past Trois-Rivieres to Sorel, here. There we turn due south, up the Richelieu River. We continue to St. Johns, here, then move on south on the west side of Lake Champlain, past Ile aux Noix, Ile la Motte, Cumberland Head, past the Bouquet River, Crown Point, Mount Hope, to Ticonderoga, here.”

  He stopped as a look of overpowering anticipation crept into his face. He continued. “The plan has two objectives. First, seize Fort Ticonderoga.”

  Fort Ticonderoga! A Mohawk word meaning “Between two great waters”—Lake George and Lake Champlain. Five hundred thirty feet in width, built by the French in the 1750s to stop the British in their push to the north. First named Fort Carillon after a French fur trader, Philippe de Carrion du Fresnoy. The French pronunciation of Carrion became Carillon in English, and it was he who had established the strategically important fur trading center on a tiny peninsula that juts into Lake Champlain, at the place where a narrow, three-and-one-half-mile chute descends two hundred feet, draining Lake George into the south end of Lake Champlain. All nations intimate with the vast, primitive North American continent held the opinion that the interior could be reached most easily by the great St. Lawrence—Lake Champlain— Lake George—Hudson River corridor, and that the cannon of Fort Ticonderoga controlled the great water highway. Whoever held Fort Ticonderoga, held the key to the continent.

  Burgoyne nodded his head in silent approval as he went on. “Second, proceed with my forces south, down the Hudson River valley to meet an army led by General Howe, here.”

  Oddly, in the dawn of time, the continental plates deep beneath the surface of the northeastern section of the country had shifted, causing a rise on an east-west line, creating a watershed. The lakes drained to the north, while the Hudson River, located but a short distance from Lake George, drained south. Burgoyne’s finger traced the course of the Hudson, past a mountain named Sugar Hill, then Lake George, Fort George, Fort Edward, Fort Miller, Saratoga, Stillwater, and Half Moon, all on the west bank of the Hudson River. His finger stopped at the word Albany.

  Established by the French fur trappers as they worked the lakes and rivers south from Canada, Albany had become a major trade center where Canadian furs were exchanged for traps, muskets, knives, axes, lead, gunpowder, trinkets, sugar, rum. Strategically located on the Hudson, it was the southern anchor for the great north-south waterway, stretching between Albany and Montreal, two hundred miles north.

  Burgoyne continued. “General Howe will leave from Manhattan Island at New York, here,” he pointed, “and proceed up the Hudson by boat to effect a junction of our forces. With that accomplished, we will have cut off the entire northern half of the American colonies. We can do with them as we will.”

  He tapped his finger on the long, slender strip of island that divided the Hudson River from the East River. Manhattan—a name derived from Manahata, an Indian word meaning “The place encircled by many swift tides and joyous, sparkling waters”—on which New York harbor had grown to become the busiest seaport on the New England coast, and the most strategic harbor in the British effort to subdue the fledgling United States.

  Burgoyne moved his finger to the easternmost of the Great Lakes. “The third prong of our campaign will originate here on Lake Ontario.” His finger moved as he spoke. “A force of our Mohawk Indian allies gathered by Chief Joseph Brant will assemble with a contingent of our forces—British and German—under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Barry St. Leger, at the Niagara River on the west end of the lake, and then move east to here—Oswego. From Oswego they shall travel inland, take Fort Stanwix, here, and continue east along the Mohawk River past Oriskany, here. Then, on to the confluence of the Mohawk and the Hudson rivers, here, just below Half Moon, a few miles north of Albany, and then south to join us.”

  Burgoyne’s eyes were narrowed, alive, glittering. In his mind he was seeing the simple, brilliant campaign unfold with cold British precision. Take the Lake Champlain–Hudson River corridor; remove Fort Stanwix from the west; meet St. Leger’s forces and Howe’s command at Albany; then, with the combined, irresistible power of the three armies, crush the states, one at a time. Simple. Straightforward. Quick. Conclusive. How many of the states would fall before the remainder understood their ridiculous rebellion was finished, beaten, crushed? Two? Three? Five? No matter. With the northern half of the colonies cut off from the southern half, it would only be a question of how many men the Americans would be willing to sacrifice before coming to their senses.

  Burgoyne straightened and for a moment looked at Carleton, who silently raised his eyes from the map as Burgoyne continued.

  “To accomplish these objectives, I will have just under four thousand British regulars, and just over three thousand Germans from Brunswick and Hesse-Hanau under my direct command. Chief Joseph Brant, also under my command, will provide about one thousand Mohawk Indians to help take Fort Stanwix and then serve as guides and a small advance group for fighting. With wives, children, and camp followers, there will be about ten thousand in my column.”

  Carleton’s eyes rounded, and he blew air, choosing to hold his thoughts in silence while Burgoyne continued.

  “Major General William Phillips will be artillery commander, and my second in command.”

  Carleton’s eyebrows arched. Phillips, a member of the House of Commons with Burgoyne, was widely recognized as probably the best commander of cannon in the entire British army. Big, strong, fiery-tempered, proud, fearless, it was said of Phillips that the word failure was not in his vocabulary. Artillery officers and engineers, usually far removed from the fierce heat of head-on battle, were held in low regard by the line officers, upon whose shoulders fell the wrenching duty of ordering men to march into musket and cannon fire, there to see them maimed and killed. The standing rule in the British army was that artillery officers and engineers were not to be given command of rank and file infantry. That Burgoyne had been able to coax reluctant and temporary approval from the king’s cabinet for Phillips to receive such a commission was an indication of the high regard in which Phillips was held by the entire army.

  “In command of the British regulars will be Brigadier General Simon Fraser. Major General Baron Frederich Adolph von Riedesel will command the Germans.”

  Burgoyne paused to collect his thoughts, then once again placed his forefinger on the map. “I plan to move my command south by sending designated companies from here on daily intervals, so that each night, the next company will use the campground of those who went before. Those in the lead will bivouac and wait here, at Cumberland Head, below St. Johns, until all companies are reassembled. At that time, we will continue south as one command, on up Lake Champlain. We will travel by water, using the fleet now in place, some of which is the result of your foresight following the battle on Lake Champlain with Arnold’s and Schuyler’s fleet last October.”

  Burgoyne picked a sheet of paper from his leather flat. “Yes, here it is. At present the fleet consists of the Royal George, Thunderer, Inflexible, Maria, Carleton, Loyal Convert, Washington, Lee, and Jersey. About ninety guns among them. In addition, there are several hundred bateaux. From all reports, the Americans have no vessels on the lake to oppose us.”

  Burgoyne stopped, waiting for comment from Carleton, who again chose to remain silent. After
a moment, Burgoyne moved on.

  “I am advised that the colonials surrounding the lakes and along the Hudson are loyal to the Crown, and that I can count on them for assistance—food, lodging, and when necessary, information.”

  Again Burgoyne paused, waiting for Carleton to comment. Again, Carleton deferred.

  “I plan to begin the movement south as soon as the spring runoff has finished, probably early in June. I expect to be in Albany the last week in August.”

  Burgoyne selected another document from his leather folder. “Standard military procedures indicate there are three ways to take a fort such as Ticonderoga: tunnel underneath and set mines, breach the walls with heavy artillery, or place it under siege. Considering the time element, I do not consider a siege to be practical.” He glanced at the document he was holding. “General Phillips will command one hundred thirty-eight artillery pieces, ranging from twenty-four-pounders down to 4.4-inch mortars. I am told his artillery train is probably the best of its kind ever allotted to support an army. I am not going to repeat the Abercromby disaster.”

  Burgoyne was remembering the assault made by British General James Abercromby with fifteen thousand regulars on Fort Ti in 1758, when he attempted to take it from thirty-five hundred French defenders, without waiting for his artillery to arrive. Attacking with only infantry and small arms, Abercromby watched wave after wave of his men cut down by the French from behind the thick walls in what was one of the most horrendous British disasters of the Seven Years’ War. For years afterward, the soldiers who garrisoned Fort Ti used the skulls of Abercromby’s dead for drinking cups, and their shinbones for tent pegs.

  For a moment Burgoyne’s eyes glittered with anticipation. In his mind he was seeing the glorious sight of Fort Ticonderoga surrounded by his army, splendid in their crimson and white uniforms, and he was hearing the continuous thunder of his artillery systematically blasting the fort to rubble.

  He studied the map for a moment longer, then straightened. “I think I’ve covered the fundamentals. I believe the plan is consistent with those of a soldier of sanguine temper and whose personal interest and fame depend upon a timely departure.” He raised his eyes to Carleton. “I would value any advice you might care to give.”

  Carleton’s eyes dropped to the map for a few seconds while he weighed his thoughts. Personal interest and fame! This man is lost in himself! What do I tell him? What he wants to hear? Or the truth?

  Carleton made his decision. He locked eyes with Burgoyne, and his voice was unemotional, steady.

  “General, the fundamental plan to take Fort Ti, and establish dominance of the waterway from Montreal to New York is sound.” He began shaking his head slowly. “But the detail of what you have just told me is shot through with dangers that could defeat the plan entirely.”

  Burgoyne slowly straightened, his eyes flat, dead, as he stared.

  Carleton did not wait for him to speak. “To take a command of ten thousand from Montreal to Albany will require a secure supply line that can provide a prodigious amount of food, medicine, blankets, munitions. And you must remember, the supply line on which you are totally dependent is not two hundred miles long; it is three thousand two hundred miles long. It runs from England across the Atlantic, to this wilderness. Do you have any idea what a horrendous logistics problem that is going to be? If for any reason that supply line fails, there is absolutely no way you can live off the land. Your days would be numbered.”

  Carleton paused. Burgoyne’s face was a mask. Carleton continued.

  “To my recollection, you have been down the waterway, but you have had almost no exposure to the forests on both sides of the lakes, and along the Hudson River. Believe me, they are nearly impenetrable. No roads. Rivers, streams, gorges, swamps, snakes, insects, animals—there are places a column cannot go. There are places where you will be fortunate to make one mile in one day, with every available man in your command sweating to cut a roadway. There are places you will have to build causeways, bridges—up to one mile in length, in stagnant water swarming with every conceivable insect. You can presume you will be moving through country the like of which you have never seen before, and which can beat you without you ever firing a shot.”

  Burgoyne swallowed.

  “You mentioned two thousand Canadians to assist with transporting your wagon train. You will be fortunate indeed to get one thousand. Maybe five hundred. These Canadians are good in the wilderness, but are not as warm toward England as you may have been led to believe. They might help with the wagons, and the ships and bateau, but they will not fight. They will leave first.”

  Carleton paused to order his thoughts. “You mentioned one thousand Indians. At this moment, here where we are, I doubt you can get half that number. And if you proceed south without Indians to serve as your eyes and ears, expecting them to be an advance strike force, you will be in fatal trouble almost from the day you leave.”

  Burgoyne slowly sat down.

  “You must understand that the basic nature of most Indians is a mystery to almost all whites. They fight for two things: plunder, and scalps. They will remain with you as long as they believe they will gain plunder, and be allowed to massacre and scalp. But if they once believe you are going to lose the battle, they will leave. If they obtain liquor, they lose all sense of civilization, and will butcher and scalp your soldiers as quickly as they will the enemy. Lose control of them, and they can become the worst devils you will ever know. I need not remind you what they did at Deerfield, and Albany, and during the raids on Schenectady and Saratoga years ago.”

  Burgoyne dropped his eyes, probing his memory. Deerfield, Massachusetts. Burned to the ground. Men, women, children, all dead, scalped, mutilated. Albany. Burned, all dead. Schenectady and Saratoga. Burned. Nearly all dead.

  Carleton gestured to his desk drawer. “I have a letter from General Howe, written sixty days ago. In it he states his intention to take Philadelphia during the 1777 campaign. To do so, he intends being in Pennsylvania about the time you will be arriving in Albany. He briefly mentions a ‘diversion’ up the Hudson, but not one word about joining you to complete the conquest of the waterway. The word Albany is conspicuously absent. Certainly he mentions nothing to compare with the plan you have laid before me. In my opinion it is utter nonsense for General Howe to think he can take Philadelphia at the same time he is meeting you in Albany. I have no idea why this was all determined without a word from either Germain or Howe to me, nor is that for me to ponder. I only know that as of this minute, it is my opinion that General Howe has no intention of meeting you at Albany. I leave that matter to yourself, and Germain, and Howe.”

  Burgoyne licked dry lips, and Carleton didn’t stop.

  “Apparently, you have been led to believe the regions bordering the waterway are filled with colonials loyal to the Crown, who will rally to support you. May I remind you, it was rebels from this very region who gathered to humiliate generals Gage and Howe at the Battle of Bunker Hill and to drive them out of Boston to New York. And do not forget, those men dress in buckskins and carry the deadliest rifles on the continent. They learned their forest skills, and fighting style, from the Indians. Among them are men called the Long Hunters, who can disappear into the forest today, strike with deadly effect eighty miles from here tomorrow, and be back the next day. They can live off the land indefinitely. They move like shadows. They terrified one company of Germans by suddenly appearing in the middle of their camp without a single German picket or soldier having seen them. Last year, one of them, Benjamin Whitcomb, shot and killed Brigadier General Patrick Gordon from ambush near Chambly. I have offered a reward of fifty guineas for Whitcomb, dead or alive, and I would much prefer him alive since nothing would be more satisfying than to hang him publicly. But we will never catch him.”

  Burgoyne sat silent, unmoving, as Carleton went on.

  “To move a column of ten thousand to Albany will require more than a thousand horses or oxen. They will not be able to forage in t
he forests. You will have to carry their fodder. That alone will require hundreds of wagons. If for any reason the animals or wagons break down, your column will be absolutely stopped in its tracks.”

  Carleton cleared his throat before continuing.

  “Your fighting force will be about evenly divided, British and German. Do the Germans speak English?”

  Burgoyne broke his silence. “No. Only one or two officers can speak it, and then only a very few words.”

  “How do you communicate with them?”

  “Their officers speak French, as do I and a few of my officers.”

  “Do you all speak it fluently?”

  “No. Limited.”

  “English and German officers intend communicating in broken French?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you see the latent problems that could develop?”

  “I believe we can handle it.”

  “What if the Germans are required to communicate with the colonial loyalists, who speak neither German or French?”

  “We will have to provide an interpreter.”

  Carleton nodded before he went on. “You surely recognize that once you start down the waterway, the colonial rebel militia will come to meet you, and when they do, they will do all they can to harass you. Run off your stock, block your path with trees, shoot your officers over long distances with those accursed rifles, burn your wagons, cut your supply line, capture your messengers, give you no sleep, no rest. Their concept of war in this wilderness is altogether different from anything you have ever known.”

  Burgoyne interrupted the flow. “I believe I have studied their style of warfare enough to understand it. With Indians to assist, I believe we can withstand them.”

  Carleton moved on. “You must also remember, if you take Fort Ti, you will have to leave close to one thousand of your regulars there to garrison it. That will reduce your fighting capabilities as you move further south. And I tell you frankly, every fort on the waterway—Ti, Edward, George, Miller—has been essentially abandoned for years. They’re in deplorable condition. My decision last October to return to Quebec after defeating General Arnold on Lake Champlain was based in part on the fact that if we did take Fort Ticonderoga that late in the season, trying to keep it supplied and garrisoned through the winter would be a nearly impossible task.”