Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

The roll of the reveille drum jolted him and he jerked, then opened his eyes to stare for a moment at the aging wall, struggling to recognize where he was. It came to him at first in bits and pieces, then in a rush. He rolled over, swung his legs off the cot, and sat for a moment while he rubbed bloodshot eyes and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. On his feet, he glanced down at his badly rumpled breeches and shirt, then walked to his desk and sat down to gather his nine-page report for review.

  Fort oriented south, not north—in deplorable condition—exterior defenses worthless—weapons in poor repair—one-third of what is needed—gunpowder damp and in critically short supply—rations rotting and nearly gone—sanitation terrible—disease rampant—uniforms and tents in tatters—melancholy and homesickness destroying morale—Baldwin exerting heroic effort to rebuild, restore—has built new hospital, bakery, dock, storage building, excellent bridge spanning lake, large enough for wagons—restored sawmill, workshop—if we are to survive we must absolutely have more troops, weapons, gunpowder, food, uniforms, tools of every kind, regular mail service—detailed list attached.

  He pushed the paperwork away, then padded softly in his stockinged feet across the floor to draw aside the curtain and peer out at the parade ground, bright now in the golden glow of a sun half risen, where the cooks in rumpled uniforms were crossing to the mess hall to prepare oats and boil weak coffee for morning mess.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, silently watching the fort come to life. The drums sounded assembly, the regulars fell into rank and file around the flagpole, the long drumroll began, and two soldiers set the hooks through the brass-studded eyes of the American colors to slowly raise them, shining brilliant in the sunlight. For a time St. Clair studied the flag through narrowed eyes, recalling the peculiar, soul-stirring emotion that arose when he had stood at attention beneath those colors on July 18, 1776, and with tears running down his cheeks had listened with the entire Continental army in New York to the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Standing now in Fort Ticonderoga, remembering, it seemed only a lingering memory of a time long, long ago. As he peered upward, remembering, the thought came to him.

  How long will it wave?—can we win?—can we?

  He turned back to his desk as a rap came at the door.

  “Major Dunn?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Enter.”

  Major Dunn entered, carrying a pewter tray draped with a linen cloth. “Breakfast, sir.”

  St. Clair gestured to his desk, and Dunn set the tray down, then turned to the general. “Sir, there’s the matter of those two scouts and the two men they brought in last night. You wanted to see them early this morning.”

  For a moment St. Clair struggled to remember. Six hours of sleep in two days had dulled him. “Yes. Take them to the enlisted men’s mess for breakfast, then have them here in half an hour. I have to wash and change.”

  St. Clair wolfed down his coffee, brown bread, and fried mush, wiped his mouth on the plain cotton napkin, and strode to his chambers. He washed and shaved in cold water, donned a fresh uniform, then paced back to his office. Two minutes later Dunn returned.

  “The four men are here, sir.”

  “What are their names again?”

  “The Americans are Private Stroud and Corporal Weems. The other two are Amsbury and Adams, as I recall.”

  “You say that Stroud and Weems claim to be sent by General Washington?”

  “They do, sir. They’re suspicious the other two men are British agents.”

  St. Clair pondered for a moment. “Bring Stroud and Weems in first, together.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dunn turned on his heel and returned in a moment, Billy following, Eli behind.

  “Sir, Corporal Billy Weems and Private Eli Stroud.” Billy stood at rigid attention, Eli straight, but loose and easy. Dunn stepped aside, and St. Clair’s eyes narrowed slightly as he carefully studied them. Neither man was armed, nor did they change expression under St. Clair’s withering stare.

  St. Clair spoke. “Major Dunn, that will be all for now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dunn stepped out, and the door thumped shut. St. Clair gestured. “Be seated.”

  The two men sat down on the two rough-finished chairs facing the desk and remained silent, waiting.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you last night. Too much to do since I arrived.” His eyes never stopped probing. “Did I understand you to say you were sent by General George Washington?”

  Billy answered. “Yes, sir.”

  “I presume you have written orders.”

  “Yes, sir.” Billy drew the document from inside his shirt and laid it on the old desk. St. Clair unfolded it and settled back in his chair while he studied the even, disciplined penmanship, and the signature. His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “This appears to be the handwriting and signature of General Washington. How did you get it?”

  Billy glanced at Eli, then back at St. Clair. “General Washington gave that to us the day we left and said to deliver it to the commander of this fort. He said that would be either General Schuyler or General Gates.”

  St. Clair lowered his face for a moment to cover a cryptic smile that flickered. Schuyler or Gates. The two generals who have been in a fools’ battle over command of the entire western army for a year. He raised his head to continue. “This fort is under command of General Schuyler. I am his second in command. I’m here, he’s in Albany, with General Gates.” He stopped to stare intensely at the signature on Washington’s written orders.

  Eli leaned back in his chair. He isn’t sure—thinks maybe we’re spies. Eli spoke, “I remember your command and your cannon at Trenton. Billy and I were with Glover’s regiment when you demanded the surrender of that last bunch of Hessians down by Assunpink Creek. You told that officer that if he didn’t surrender right then, you’d blow them all to pieces.”

  Eli paused, and St. Clair leaned back, startled, intensely focused, silently waiting for Eli to finish.

  “I’ve always wondered. If they hadn’t surrendered, would you have done it?”

  St. Clair leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped, chin set like a bulldog. “Right where they stood!”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The concern that had clouded St. Clair’s face vanished, and he spoke eagerly. “Were you at Princeton?”

  Billy replied, “Yes, sir. We were with Hand’s command when they slowed down Cornwallis the night we marched out, and we were there at the end when Captain Alexander and Captain Moulder opened up Nassau Hall with their cannon.”

  Suddenly St. Clair thrust his head forward. “Wait a moment. Were you the two that went in the front doors of that building after the cannon blew them open?”

  Billy’s expression did not change. “Yes, sir.”

  “Alone?”

  Eli glanced at Billy. “Billy charged right on in and started throwing redcoats around like sacks of oats. I followed to try to get him out before he got himself killed.”

  Startled, Billy turned questioning eyes to Eli as a deep laugh rolled out of St. Clair, and then Eli began chuckling and Billy grinned.

  St. Clair broke in, his voice rising, excited as he spoke to Eli. “I heard something about a tomahawk. Frightened some of our men, but terrified the British. Was that you?”

  Eli nodded.

  St. Clair leaned back, shaking his head slightly. “So you’re the ones.” He sobered and took charge of himself.

  “General Washington says you are to have a free hand. Move about pretty much as you see fit.” He looked at Eli, dressed in buckskins with beadwork on the breast of his hunting shirt and on his moccasins. “I presume you’re the one who has had experience in the forest?”

  Eli nodded. “Seventeen years. I was taken by the Iroquois when I was two and left them when I was nineteen. I fought on their side with the English in a lot of battles against the French. Speak their language, know their habits, their trails, and I’ve been in the forest.”r />
  “Taken when you were two? From whom?”

  “My family. They were white. Mother and father killed, sister disappeared.”

  “You’re white then? Not a half-blood?”

  “White.”

  “You know the British are using Indians against us?”

  “Yes. I expect Joseph Brant is among them, and maybe Cornplanter and Red Jacket. If they are, this army has trouble. Maybe I can find a way to avoid some of it.”

  St. Clair settled back in his chair, hands across his midsection, fingers entwined. For a time he studied Eli while his thoughts ran, and then he leaned forward once more. “If it’s Brant, what do you propose doing?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I think I’ll have to talk with him.”

  Incredulous, St. Clair straightened. “Talk with Brant? Where? How?”

  “Probably in his camp.”

  “You two intend walking into his camp alone?”

  Eli shrugged. “Maybe.”

  St. Clair pulled his thoughts together. “I leave that to you. You brought in two men you suspect of being connected with the British?”

  Billy answered. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  Eli spoke. “On the Onion River, near a settlement. Colchester.”

  “What makes you think they’re with the British?”

  Billy cut in. “They have British passes, and a lot of gold and silver, and Continental paper money. The bigger one is carrying several letters from Canadians to Americans.”

  St. Clair’s eyebrows arched. “What are their names?”

  “One says he’s Amsbury, the other Adams.”

  “Did they say what they were doing out in the wilderness, alone?”

  “Not yet.”

  St. Clair pursed his mouth. “It’s time I talked with them. I want you two present.” He pointed to the bench. “Sit over there and listen.”

  Billy and Eli moved, and St. Clair called, “Major Dunn.”

  The door opened and Dunn stood at attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring in the two prisoners.”

  Dunn stepped back out the door, gestured, and two men dressed in worn colonial homespun entered the room, each carrying a wide-brimmed, brown felt hat, their faces noncommittal, eyes darting everywhere. One was short, thin, bearded, with hands that were constantly working with his hat. The other was taller, well-built, square-faced, clean-shaven, clearly the leader of the two. They stopped, and the two armed guards stepped behind them, muskets at the ready. The two prisoners faced St. Clair in silence, waiting for his orders.

  “Thank you, Major Dunn. That will be all.”

  Dunn bobbed his head, motioned to the guards, and the three men withdrew. When the door closed, St. Clair pointed. “Be seated,” and the two sat on the chairs facing his desk. The larger one turned to study Billy and Eli for a moment, the question plain on his face as to why they were there. Seated opposite them, St. Clair ignored it. The men remained silent as he spoke. His words were measured, precise, his voice quiet, intense.

  “I am Major General Arthur St. Clair of the American Continental army. I am commander of this fort. You are here under suspicion of being agents for the British army. Do you understand?”

  The smaller man swallowed and blanched. The larger one spoke evenly. “Yes.”

  St. Clair leaned slightly forward, blue-gray eyes narrowed, cutting into the two men. “What are your names?”

  The larger glanced at the smaller before he spoke. “I’m Kevin Amsbury. He’s Franklin Adams.”

  St. Clair fixed his stare on the smaller man. “Adams, do you speak?”

  The man’s voice cracked as he tried to answer. He cleared his throat, then stammered, “Yes, sir.”

  St. Clair shifted back to Amsbury. “You were found near Colchester. What was your business there?”

  “Visiting relatives.”

  “Their names?”

  “DeVere Amsbury. My uncle. Three miles from Colchester.”

  St. Clair straightened for a moment, then leaned forward intently. “With British passes?”

  Amsbury hesitated for a split second, and St. Clair, Eli, and Billy all caught it before Amsbury replied, “Yes.”

  St. Clair paused for a moment, and his next question was flat, harsh. “Why?”

  Amsbury swallowed. “I was sent to Montreal to claim some family money held in the Bank of Montreal. We had to have British passes to go in and come out. I was to deliver the money to DeVere, my uncle. Up in Montreal, the authorities asked me to carry some family letters back down, from Canadians who have relatives down here. I agreed.”

  “Why did you need Adams along?”

  “Safer for two traveling than one.”

  “In what currency did the Bank of Montreal deliver the money?”

  “Gold. Silver. I requested it. Took two days to get it.”

  “Then why were you carrying a large amount of Continental paper currency?”

  “I exchanged for some of it.”

  St. Clair’s hand dropped slapping to his desk top. “What!” he exclaimed. “Exchanged gold and silver for Continental paper? Gold and silver have value, Continental paper very nearly does not.” He recovered, and his eyes bored into Amsbury. “You said you were visiting relatives near Colchester. Where do you live?”

  “Belleville.”

  “Where is Belleville?”

  “New Hampshire, north of the Connecticut River.”

  St. Clair turned to Eli. “You familiar with that country?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever hear of Belleville?”

  Eli shook his head. “No.”

  Tension was beginning to fill the room like something tangible as St. Clair continued, his voice controlled, intense.

  “Where are the letters they asked you to carry?”

  “With my things. Your soldiers took them,” Amsbury answered.

  “Any to your family?”

  “No. I don’t know the families the letters are for. Some in Boston. I did it because it’s hard to get mail from the British down to here, and it seemed a good thing to do for the American families who hadn’t heard from their people in Canada.”

  St. Clair moved on. “What route did you take going north, and then coming south?”

  “West to St. Johns, then north down the Richelieu River. Came back the same way.”

  “Tell me, what did you see when you passed through British-held territory, and what did you hear in your two days at Montreal?” He did not move as he waited.

  Amsbury reached to wipe at his mouth, and for the first time St. Clair saw the slightest tremble in his hand before he leaned forward and spoke, wide-eyed, too loud.

  “There’s a British general named Burgoyne up there. He’s got most of Carleton’s soldiers, and a lot of others, gathered into a big army at St. Johns. We saw it. We heard Burgoyne figures to put that army on ships and come on up Lake Champlain and take this fort. Maybe go on further south. Already got some soldiers as far as Pointe au Fer.”

  Startled, St. Clair straightened, and his breathing came short for a moment. “Did you see ships up there?”

  Amsbury nodded vigorously. “Many.”

  St. Clair brought his racing thoughts under control. “What else did you hear or see?”

  Amsbury’s forehead wrinkled in an attitude of remembering. “They’re sending someone named Johnson—Sir John Johnson—that’s it—east from Oswego with a bunch of Iroquois Indians to meet Burgoyne at Albany. From there I think they’re all coming south, right on down the Hudson.”

  “Who said all this?”

  Amsbury shrugged. “Soldiers at the inn. People in the pubs, the bank. The bankers. It’s no secret up there.”

  Billy was watching Amsbury, listening to the inflection of his voice, watching his gestures, mannerisms, as he spoke. Too smooth. Too practiced.

  Eli was scarcely breathing as he studied Amsbury, every inner sense singing tight, probing. He’s holding back—something’s
wrong.

  St. Clair straightened in his chair and placed both palms flat on his desktop. For long moments he sat thus, eyes boring into Amsbury. Too coherent—professional. He broke off and said, “Thank you. That will be all for now.” He called, “Major!”

  The door opened immediately, and Dunn stepped into the room, eyes sweeping everyone in an instant before he relaxed. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take these men back to their confinement until further notice.”

  Amsbury and Adams stood, Adams’s moves quick, jerky, nervous, Amsbury wiping at his mouth as he covertly watched St. Clair’s face, looking for anything that would tell him St. Clair’s thoughts. There was nothing. Dunn took each man by an arm and walked them out of the room to the waiting guards. St. Clair waited until the sounds of their boots on the boardwalk planking ended, then turned to Billy and Eli.

  “Sit over here.”

  The two moved to the chairs in front of the desk and sat, silent, waiting.

  St. Clair looked at Billy. “Was he telling the truth?”

  Billy shook his head. “I doubt it. Too smooth.”

  St. Clair shifted his gaze to Eli. “The truth?”

  “Only part. He’s holding back.”

  “I agree. I think his story was rehearsed. I think he’s probably a spy.”

  Billy and Eli neither moved nor responded.

  “I don’t know what their mission is, but I have a suspicion they wanted to be caught. And if that’s true, the question is, why? The only thing I can think of is so they could get a good look at this fort, inside and out, and report its condition to Burgoyne. If Burgoyne finds out the shape this fort is in, he won’t hesitate. He’ll be here as fast as he can move, and I doubt we’ll have a chance. Especially if he realizes he can get cannon to the top of Mount Defiance.”

  Eli and Billy both started, then settled back.

  St. Clair stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace, his boot heels sounding hollow on the floor. “The last spy they brought in here escaped. The officer responsible was court-martialed but acquitted. I don’t intend that happening again, and I don’t intend risking either of these men escaping to get back to Burgoyne with a report about our condition.” He walked back to his chair, speaking as he sat down.