Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Burgoyne swallowed. “Let me be clear on this. I can expect less than half the Indians called for, and only three hundred of the two thousand loyalist Canadians who are needed?”

  Carleton’s words were conclusive. “From all appearances, that is true.”

  For a moment Burgoyne pursed his mouth, then asked the heavy question. “As Governor of Canada, is there any power you have to force them?”

  Carleton studied him. He’s asking me to declare martial law, so that he can take what he wants at bayonet point. I will not do it. He shook his head emphatically. “Canada is under no immediate threat of attack, and in my judgment there is absolutely nothing to justify declaring martial law. Quite the contrary, it is we who are attacking them.” Carleton paused and his voice lost its brittleness. “I have done all I can. I invoked a corvée, which is tantamount to forcing them into slave labor. They deserted about as fast as I conscripted them. I refuse to hunt them down and throw them in prison, or worse, have them shot.”

  Burgoyne compressed his lips for a moment, and his eyes narrowed as he accepted Carleton’s reply. He won’t declare martial law. All right, so be it.

  Without warning, high winds came whistling, moaning at the windows, and seconds later the torrential rains of a spring cloudburst passed over the great castle, driving giant hailstones pounding at the windows, bending the trees to the northeast, tearing at the new leaves, ripping small branches to send them flying. Hailstones quickly piled on the windowsills and against the west wall of the old stone building, and in minutes turned the ground white as far as the eye could see. A lightning flash suddenly illuminated the castle, and an instant later a thunderclap shook the room. For a time, the men sat still, silent, humbled, caught up in the realization of how diminished men and their dreams are in the face of the unfathomable power of nature.

  The storm front passed on down the river, and the wind and driving rain and hail dwindled and died as quickly as they had come. The flashes of lightning and the booming of thunder became more distant, and then golden shafts of sunlight pierced the purple clouds overhead. Full sunshine followed, flooding the white, rain-drenched world strewn with shredded tree branches and leaves in brilliant light.

  Burgoyne continued. “I’m in desperate need of uniforms. The men have had to cut the tails from their tunics to make patches. Their breeches are badly worn, as are their shoes.”

  Carleton replied, “A few months ago an American privateer intercepted one of our supply ships. We lost sixteen thousand uniforms and thirty thousand shirts, pairs of shoes, and socks. There’s little we can do about it, other than make do as best we can. I thought you knew.”

  Carleton studied Burgoyne, who shifted in his chair and hesitated for a moment, and in that instant Carleton knew. He’s sparring—hasn’t yet stated his greatest reason for coming.

  Burgoyne spoke with studied casualness. “I find I will need more transport and more draft animals.”

  There it is—that’s what brought him here! Carleton remained calm. “Specifically?”

  “Four hundred more horses or oxen for General Phillips’s cannon, and five hundred more carts with teams for hauling supplies.”

  Carleton’s expression did not change. “You’re leaving when?”

  “We’ll leave in stages, beginning about June thirteenth. We rendezvous at St. Johns and leave from there in total force on June twentieth.”

  Carleton’s eyes dropped to his desk for a moment while he made calculations. “I believe we can provide both the draft animals and the carts, but you must understand a few things. On this short notice, the carts will be made of green, uncured wood. They will be the standard Canadian two-wheeled affairs, because the four-wheeled wagons you are used to will not survive on the forest roads you will have to travel. Many of the wheels will not have iron rims. You will be fortunate indeed if they remain in service for the entire campaign.”

  Burgoyne licked dry lips before he spoke. “I rather expected you would have anticipated the need for more carts months ago.”

  Carleton’s expression remained controlled, masked. “The question came into my mind, but you will remember, I was not informed of the facts of this campaign until you arrived here May sixth, thirty-one days ago. Lord Germain sought my advice on absolutely nothing, nor did anyone else in London. It is difficult for me to prepare for such an expedition without being privy to the hard facts. Lacking any intelligence to the contrary, I assumed you intended making the journey by water. I’m sure you understand.”

  The barbed statement cut into Burgoyne, and he started to speak when Carleton cut him off. Carleton’s expression was still unchanged, conversational, congenial as he continued. “May I ask, are the extra carts needed to transport the . . . uh . . . rather sizable stock of champagne and clothing and food delicacies I have heard about? How many cases of champagne was it? One hundred fifty? And how many carts filled with clothing? Forty? How many of the carts are needed for the campfollowers and wives and civilians? How many such persons are there going to be? Two thousand? Three? With your regulars, that exceeds ten thousand souls, and more than two thousand draft animals. Sustaining such a command in that wilderness will be a monumental task.” Carleton’s expression remained cordial, but there was no mistaking the intent of his words. They called into question Burgoyne’s competence and his ability as a commander, and they cut deep.

  For one instant Burgoyne’s face flushed while he battled with an overwhelming need to slam his fist on the desk and rip into Carleton. Only the fact that Carleton had spoken the embarrassing truth restrained him. After a struggle, he brought himself under control, and his charming smile once more crossed his face. He was once again the dashing, enigmatic Gentleman Johnny, spectacular, captivating.

  Burgoyne’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “I did not anticipate that so many men, or so many officers, were going to bring their wives. General Von Riedesel is expecting his wife, Frederika, from Germany, along with three small children and a staff of servants, not to mention trunks of clothing and food. Major Acland will bring his wife, as well as two servants and their dog. Major Harnage is also bringing his wife. A great many other officers and enlisted men are doing the same. There is no way I know to avoid it. We have to provide for them.”

  Carleton smiled back. “I understand.” He fell silent, waiting to see if Burgoyne had completed what he came to say and do.

  Burgoyne stood. “Well, thank you for your advice, and your cooperation. I trust the carts and draft animals will be timely available.”

  Carleton nodded. “I’m certain that can be arranged.”

  Burgoyne started for the door. “If the storm’s passed, I’ll be on my way.”

  Carleton walked with him to the tall, black double doors. Major Thornton was on his feet to meet them as they walked out, Carleton nodding to Burgoyne and Burgoyne flashing his most devastating smile.

  Back at his desk, Carleton slumped into his chair, fingers interlaced across his paunch, lost in thought.

  I am unable to make him understand anything that might detract from his vision of a quick, easy campaign, and instant glory. He has no comprehension of how to handle Indians, nor of what will happen when he fails to control them. He does not see that the failure of the Canadians to turn out in force to help him is a clear signal there is little support in the civilian populace for him. He intends taking more than two thousand women and camp followers, and now, may the Almighty help them, servants and children. Gentleman Johnny. Commander of the Light Horse. One quick cavalry charge, cut down the enemy, and retire from the field in bright, eternal glory. I cannot convince him otherwise. May the Almighty provide that learning his lesson will not kill him.

  Carleton drew a great breath and released it slowly. Vanity. His vanity will be his undoing.

  He stepped to the windows on the east side of the room and looked out at the dark, heavy storm clouds on the horizon, watching the lightning bolts flash and listening to the grumbling thunder as the storm passed o
n eastward. He looked at the full sunlight, dazzling on the piled hailstones, and at the leaves and branches strewn about in the brilliant, newly washed world.

  The storm came, fierce, and it did its work, but it changed nothing. We’re still here. New leaves and branches will come on the trees. The hail will melt. The crops and the grass and the forests will grow. Tomorrow, we’ll hardly remember any of its fury.

  For a time he stood at the window, watching the people continue the business of living. He clasped his hands behind his back and once more cast thoughtful eyes out at the world.

  Burgoyne will sweep down the lakes, toward Albany, and it will be spectacular. But when it is over, and he has finished, will anything be changed? Will it?

  Outside, picking his way through the piled hailstones as he walked down the stone walkway to his waiting carriage, Burgoyne also cast an eye into the bright blue, sun-washed heavens and grinned his infectious grin.

  Unbelievable country, this. Big. Strong. Powerful. Invigorating. Beautiful.

  His aide held the door while he climbed into the carriage and slammed the door. He stared outside as the driver clucked the wet, steaming horses to a trot, and the carriage swayed on its way back to his officers’ quarters for a conference. A smile remained as he worked with his thoughts.

  So the Americans are terrified of the Indians. Excellent. Their fear will become one of my greatest weapons. An open letter will do it. Hundreds of copies, distributed to all the villages and settlements on the east side of the lakes as we move south. How best to word it? Stretch. That might do it. If they don’t cooperate with us, I’ll give “stretch” to my Indians, who will inflict depredations and horrors on them as never before. Let them see a few of those half-naked savages decked out in their feathers and paint, carrying tomahawks and scalping knives, and the letter will just about finish any thoughts of resistance. It will work. It will work.

  He craned his head out the window to gaze once more at the sparkling, clean world.

  Beautiful country, this. Marvelous.

  Notes

  Unless otherwise indicated, the following facts are from Ketchum, Saratoga, on the pages indicated.

  On June 7, 1777, General Burgoyne complained to General Carleton that he had not received the horses and oxen, carts, wagons, tents, uniforms, food, equipment, and additional troops he needed and expected. Neither Carleton nor Burgoyne had paid proper attention to the shortage of animals and carts, perhaps thinking the expedition to the south would be conducted mostly on water—on the lakes and Hudson River. They enlisted the aid of John Peters and Ebenzer Jessup, two Canadians, to enlist men. To enlist one thousand Indians, they turned to Chevalier St. Luc de la Corne and Charles Langlade, two of the worst cutthroats on the frontier. Peters and Jessup got less than half the requested number of Canadians, and St. Luc and Langlade raised only five hundred of the desired one thousand Indians. The histories and general character of Peters, Jessup, St. Luc, and Langlade are defined. Burgoyne requested five hundred more two-wheeled Canadian carts with teams to pull them and four hundred more oxen and horses for pulling other wagons. Unfortunately the carts were built of green, uncured lumber, without iron rims for the wheels (pp. 105–12).

  Burgoyne suggested Carleton could raise the desired number of Canadian troops by declaring martial law, which Carleton refused. He had previously attempted the use of a corvée, a form of forced labor, which failed among the Canadians (p. 108).

  Carleton was short of uniforms, shoes, socks, and shirts for his men because months earlier an American privateer had seized a ship with uniforms for sixteen thousand men, plus thirty thousand shirts, and thirty thousand pairs of shoes and socks (p. 131).

  Burgoyne wrote a proclamation, or document, to be delivered to Americans on the east side of the lakes and Hudson river, advising that their cooperation would be rewarded, but their refusal to cooperate would be punished by Burgoyne giving “stretch” to his Indians, who would bring “devastation, famine, and every concomitant horror” down upon them. The document was intended to frighten the Americans into submission; however, it provoked the exact opposite reaction (pp. 141–42; see also Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 378).

  Most of the German soldiers under Burgoyne’s command could not speak English, although officers on both sides had a vague working knowledge of French. The result was the British and German officers spoke in a sort of pidgin French (p. 137).

  Burgoyne had personal baggage, including uniforms and champagne, to fill at least thirty carts and was known to have a relationship with the wife of one of his commissaries during the Saratoga campaign (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 376; Marvin L. Brown, ed., Baroness von Riedesel and the American Revolution, pp. 55–56; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 188).

  In addition to his force of about eight thousand soldiers, Burgoyne brought along nearly two thousand women and children, with their baggage, which created an enormous need for wagons and horses (p. 108).

  Burgoyne had made his reputation as leader of a light cavalry regiment, and the American forest was no place for a light cavalryman (see Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 176).

  Southern Tip of Lake George

  June 7, 1777

  CHAPTER VI

  * * *

  Eli dug the pit in the gray light of daybreak and set lengths of dry logs in it, then rocks on top, before setting fire to the wood. While the rocks were heating, Eli swung his tomahawk to cut small stripling pines. He sank the larger ends of the slender trees in the ground in a six-foot-wide circle around the pit, then pulled their limber tops together and lashed them to form a crude, round, domed framework. While Eli worked, Billy gathered branches and heavy undergrowth into a pile, patiently working with his right hand, stopping occasionally to adjust the deer hide straps that held his left arm and hand tightly against his body. The eighteen stitches in his left shoulder were holding, and the flesh was knitting, but it was still too pink, too tender. He could not risk reopening the long, deep wound.

  With the afternoon sun still three hours high, Eli nodded to Billy. “It will do.”

  The small, round, domed sweat lodge was covered with eighteen inches of pine and maple boughs, mixed with large lily pads and heavy ferns to hold the heat in and the cool air out. The opening, large enough to crawl through, was draped with a blanket to close it. Inside the lodge, the rocks in the pit were hot enough that a few were beginning to split, while beneath the rocks, the logs still smoldered, as they would for another day. Two short logs provided a place to sit next to the fire. The crude structure was shielded on three sides by gigantic formations of granite rock and could only be seen from the south. A clear, cold stream, twenty feet to the west, wound its way to Lake George, three hundred yards to the north.

  Eli wiped the sweat from his face, then picked up his rifle. “I’ll be back about sunset.”

  “See something?”

  Eli shook his head. “Going to make a big circle to be sure we’re alone.”

  Billy nodded and again marveled at how quickly Eli could soundlessly disappear in the forest. He picked up both canteens and walked to the stream to sink them and watch the bubbles cascade out, then stop. He poured enough from each to accommodate the stoppers, then smacked them in with the palm of his hand. He returned to the sweat lodge, dropped the canteens near his musket and pouches and their bedrolls, and sat down on a large, smooth rock twenty feet away. Cautiously, he worked his left arm against the leather thongs, gently working muscles that had been too long unused. For a few moments he watched the sun as it reached for the trees on its downward path on the distant rim.

  Sunset, maybe three hours.

  He glanced at the sweat lodge, then lowered his eyes as thoughts came in random disorder.

  After the fight he was unsettled—not like himself. Found tracks of two more Mohawk scouting parties—both came from the north, both returned to the north. Something big going on up there. Probably Burgoyne’s army gatheri
ng. How many? Where will they strike?

  A long-tailed, beautifully marked black and white magpie set up a raucous scolding from a gnarled oak tree, and Billy smiled back.

  You think I don’t belong here. You’re probably right. I’ll be gone soon. Forgive me this time, and I’ll try not to bother you again.

  The magpie shifted to a lower branch and kept up its complaint. Billy watched for a moment, then ignored the impertinent bird. He glanced at his bullet pouch, where he kept the letters he had written to Brigitte, and for a moment he saw her face, her brown hair, hazel eyes, and felt the rise in his breast.

  Brigitte. I wonder if she will ever see those letters. I wonder if anyone will. Things happen so fast in this forest—one second they weren’t there, and the next second we had killed four of them. It could have been me instead of them. He shook his head in thoughtful regret. For one thing to live, another must die. But that ought not be the rule between men. Men can rise above that. It can be done. I’ve killed men, and it’s a sad thing. Will the Almighty punish me for it? When is killing justified? Is it justified when one man tries to rob another of his liberty? Is it? It must be. It has to be. It is in a man to be free, and it is the Almighty who put that determination there. It has to be right.