Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

“This young lady is looking for two soldiers—Billy Weems and Eli Stroud. Would you know where they might be?”

  The sergeant peered out from beneath shaggy brows. “Yes. Gone.”

  Mary gasped and recoiled as though struck. She steadied herself before she tried to speak, but her voice was barely audible. “Gone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Up north on the Hudson to fight Burgoyne. Special orders from General Washington.”

  “Not dead?” It was as though her life hung on the answer.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. Didn’t mean to give you a start. I suspect they’ll be back soon as the battle’s finished over there.”

  Hope leaped as Mary’s breath came with a rush. “Do you know them?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Fought alongside ’em from Long Island on.”

  “Are they both all right?”

  “They was fit last time I saw ’em. I wouldn’t worry. They know how to take care of themselves.”

  Mary let out all her breath. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Glad to oblige, ma’am.” The sergeant started to turn back to the officer, then stopped to stare at Mary for a long moment. “Uh, ma’am, not meanin’ to step out of place, but don’t I know you? Have we met before?”

  For the first time Mary focused on the wiry little man. “Something . . . it’s possible. Yes.”

  “Might I know your name, ma’am?”

  “Mary Flint. From New York.”

  The sergeant’s craggy brows lifted as he exclaimed, “New York! Manhattan Island. Last summer did you deliver a load of ammunition with a wagon and team to the magazine there on the west side of the island?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Billy and Eli was there. I was the sergeant. Name’s Turlock. Alvin Turlock.”

  Mary’s hand flew to her mouth in surprise. “Of course! I remember. Sergeant, how good to see you again. Have you been with Billy and Eli since then? Are they all right?”

  Turlock saw the fear in her face and heard it in her voice. “I been with ’em ’cept for some time I spent in a British prison camp. Ma’am, there’s no sense you worryin’ over those two. They’ll be back.”

  For a moment Mary’s chin quivered. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “I’ll tell them you was here. Let me know where you’ll be.” Turlock turned back to the officer. “Anything else, sir?”

  “No. Better return to your men.”

  “Yes, sir.” Turlock turned and marched back to his crew, calling loudly, “All right, you lovelies, put your backs into it. Oat sacks don’t load theirselves. Hear?”

  The officer turned to Mary. “Sorry you were disappointed, ma’am. Are the men family?”

  “No. Friends.” For a moment Mary’s head dropped forward, then she raised it to look directly into his face. “Sir, I need to find employment. Do you have a camp hospital? I’m a trained nurse, and qualified to keep medical records.”

  Notes

  Mary Flint as she appears herein is a fictional character, as are all other persons in this chapter.

  General George Washington did winter his army in Morristown in 1776–77 and left to pursue General Howe in the spring of 1777 (see Ketchum, The Winter Soldiers, pp. 319–31).

  The Raritan River runs near Morristown and served as a waterway for transporting supplies to the American army stationed there (see Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 46).

  Three Mile Point, North of Fort Ticonderoga

  July 1, 1777

  CHAPTER XIV

  * * *

  Good morning, gentlemen.” Resplendent in his fresh uniform, gold lapel piping bright on his crimson tunic, Major General John Burgoyne smiled broadly at the three officers who had just entered the British command tent under orders to assemble for a war council. Each nodded a silent greeting, then waited for Burgoyne’s hand gesture before walking to the upholstered chairs surrounding the polished table in the huge tent that dominated the camp. They remained standing beside their chairs while Burgoyne proceeded to the head of the table.

  Behind Burgoyne was his private rolltop desk and chair. Against one tent wall was a bed, replete with mattress and pillows. A painting of King George III hung on another canvas wall, and the red, white, and blue of the Union Jack on another. Two poles, thirty feet high, supported the massive canvas ceiling. Outside, half a dozen large, colorful pennants fluttered in the morning sun from each of the tent’s two peaks. Another red, white, and blue pennant hung from the place where each of the sixty-four peg-down ropes connected to the tent’s rounded canvas dome. Unloading the tent from the four wagons it took to transport it, erecting it, or striking it to repack in the wagons took an entire company of men half a day each time they made camp.

  Outside the great tent the raucous, boisterous morning business of a bivouacked army of ten thousand human beings pressed on, with officers calling orders and sergeants bellowing their companies into obeying them. Two thousand wives, children, and civilian camp followers noisily carried on the necessary business of washing, ironing, mending, stripping bedding to air on lines strung among the trees, tending fires, cooking, and cleaning up, all amid the unending buzzing of insects, larger and more numerous than any of them had ever seen in Europe. Occasionally the yelp of a surprised soldier, or the shriek of a terrified woman rang throughout the camp as one of them came face to face with an angry rattlesnake or copperhead, coiled and prepared to defend its territory.

  Tall, dark, charismatic, hair pulled back and tied with a small black bow, Gentleman Johnny bowed to his officers with a graceful, theatrical flourish. “Thank you for coming. It is good to be here with you.” To his left was his large, upholstered master chair. Before him several documents lay on the table in two neat stacks

  Baron Frederich Adolph von Riedesel, German general in command of the Hanau-Hessians in Burgoyne’s army, stood at rigid attention beside the chair immediately to Burgoyne’s right. In February of 1776, von Riedesel had marched two thousand, two hundred, and twenty-two Brunswick mercenary troops out of Wolfenbuttel, Germany, lustily singing one of their hymns, bound for America to fight for the British for pay in the amount of seven pounds, four shillings, four and one-half pence each. He was followed to America by his petite, charming, and stunningly beautiful wife, Baroness Frederika Charlotte Louise von Massow, daughter of a Prussian general, now Baroness von Riedesel, with whom von Riedesel was deeply in love, and she with him. With her came their three daughters, the youngest an infant in arms.

  Next to von Riedesel stood British Brigadier General Simon Fraser, youngest in the council. Cool, clear-headed, respected, Fraser was loved by those under his command and favored by his peers. Burgoyne had found in him exactly what he wanted to help lead the expedition. He had entreated the king, then Lord Germain, that he must have Fraser, and they had consented. Fraser had only lately arrived from England.

  Opposite von Riedesel stood Major General William Phillips, reputed to be the toughest artillery officer in the British empire, likely the world, and in whose vocabulary the word “retreat” did not appear. If Phillips was involved in a campaign, the entire British military knew they could depend on spit and polish discipline, military maneuvers by the book, precision in execution of every detail, and the infliction of massive damage on the enemy. Phillips had his jaw set like a bulldog’s while he waited.

  Burgoyne’s eyes flitted from man to man. “I believe we’re all here. Be seated.” He remained standing while his officers took their seats, all eyes turned toward the general. His cordial demeanor changed in an instant. Suddenly he was all business, efficient, decisive. He drew a great breath and began.

  “Gentlemen, for what is to come, I invite you to examine some maps. Since we made our plan at Crown Point and moved on south to where we are today, developments require this meeting. Each of you will be asked for an opinion regarding how we should now proceed, based on the facts now before us, so I request that you give serious consideration to the positions of our forces and theirs, and the geography separating
us.” He picked up the top document from the nearest stack and unfolded it, smoothing it on the tabletop, turning it slightly to lie true with the compass. He reached to tap it with his finger, which he moved as he spoke.

  “As you know, we are now here, three miles north of Fort Ticonderoga. The southern reaches of Lake Champlain are here. Our morning reports show that we have just over seven thousand men fit for duty today. Well armed, well rested. Morale high.” He shifted his finger south a short distance. “General St. Clair commands about twenty-five hundred American militia here at Fort Ticonderoga, three miles south. Reports have it that they are lately suffering from dysentery and measles. Most of their troops are young and have never been under fire. They delude themselves that they can hold Ticonderoga. I believe it is fair to say their morale will plummet soon after our cannon commence. Uniforms are nearly nonexistent among them. They are low on rations, and very poorly armed. Some of their companies carry nothing more than spears and spontoons.” He paused to turn to Phillips. “Not entirely effective against grapeshot, would you say, General?”

  Phillips cracked the slightest vestige of a smile but remained silent while the other two officers moved and chuckled briefly.

  Burgoyne continued. “Between where we are now and Fort Ticonderoga, is Mount Hope, here. The Americans have a small advance post there, and it is garrisoned. Here, just south of the garrison, they have a sawmill, and a bridge that spans a sizable stream. Here, about one mile from the fort, are what are called the French Lines—old breastworks built by the French. The Americans have improved them and have men stationed there.”

  He paused for a moment to let them track with him, then moved his finger east. “Here, across the lake, on the east side, is Rattlesnake Hill, recently renamed Mount Independence. The Americans are constructing some defensive positions there. I believe it is their intent to cross to the east side of the lake in the event they cannot hold the west side.” A smile flashed and was gone. “They renamed it in honor of that document they concocted last year—what was it about?—independence?”

  The other officers quietly snorted and shook their heads. The Declaration of Independence had incited momentous celebration in America, but high hilarity in Whitehall and Buckingham and in the British Parliament in London.

  He glanced at von Riedesel, then moved his finger back to the west side of the lake. “Here is the fort, and here, just south, is Sugar Hill. The rebels now call it Mount Defiance.”

  Burgoyne’s speech slowed, and his voice lowered with new intensity as he continued with the map. He shifted his finger to the east side of the lake once again. “South of Mount Independence, here, is Skenesborough, and to the east is Hubbardton, here. The Americans have built a bridge running generally north and south, across the narrows of the lake, here, from the area of Fort Ticonderoga to the foot of Mount Independence, here. The bridge is wide enough and strong enough to support horses and cannon. Should the Americans retreat from the east side of the lake, it is possible they will do so through either Skenesborough or Hubbardton. If they retreat from the west side, they will likely cross the bridge and follow the same route. However, the bridge is vulnerable to our cannon. I believe we can destroy it quickly if we get guns close enough.”

  He straightened for a moment, then went on. “General von Riedesel and his command have proceeded south on the east side of the lake, here, and are easily within striking distance of Mount Independence.” He moved his finger again. “General Fraser and his command have moved south on the west side of the lake, to here, within one and one-half miles of the outer defenses of Fort Ticonderoga.”

  He shifted his finger to a point in the waters of Lake Champlain, one and one-half miles north of Fort Ticonderoga. “The Royal George is anchored here, the Inflexible, here. Together, they have about forty-five heavy guns. In addition, we have twelve bateaux carrying two or three heavy guns each, spaced between the two heavy gunboats. Between the gunboats and the two lake shores, east and west, is the boom we had constructed of massive logs, chained together, which will prevent any American fire boats from reaching the bateaux.”

  He paused to straighten. “Gentlemen, we have blockaded the lake. We control it. Nothing moves on it without our consent.” The expression on his face was that of a man who had conceived a master plan, acquired the power and the men to put it in place, and executed it perfectly. For a moment his eyes passed from one officer to another, holding each long enough to be certain he understood the genius of what he was explaining, and the source of it all. Satisfied he had made his point, he returned to the map.

  “Thus we have all our forces in place in a line, here, east to west, one and one-half miles north of Fort Ticonderoga. General von Riedesel and his forces on the east side of the lake, the gunboats and bateaux across the lake, and General Fraser and his forces on the west side. We have the advantage of Indian scouts capable of keeping us informed of enemy troop movements almost hourly, and you will recall, I have ordered that while they will be allowed to take various spoils from the fallen enemies on the battlefields, they are absolutely forbidden to engage in scalping and mutilating.”

  He paused to gather his thoughts, and in that moment the officers looked down at the table, or their hands, refusing to meet his eyes. They remembered the great, theatrical speech he had delivered to the bewildered Indians, by which he intended giving them permission to plunder the enemy dead, and at the same time stop them from taking scalps. While none of the officers professed intimate knowledge of the working of the Indian mind, neither did any of them have any illusion that a flamboyant speech impressive to white men would persuade a red one to quit an ancient and sacred right of battle. For Burgoyne to have given them permission to plunder in the same breath he denied them their right to scalp and mutilate was sheer insanity. None of them had talked of the speech openly, but in their hearts, each knew it had been made to provide Burgoyne with a perfect defense in the event he was ever criticized for atrocities committed by Indians under his command. With his speech having been heard by hundreds of Indians and thousands of British soldiers and officers, he could indignantly point out to the king, or his cabinet, or Parliament, that he had ordered them to cease; done all in his power to prevent the butchery.

  Burgoyne drew a great breath. “There is nothing I can see that has the faintest chance of stopping us once we move south against the fort.” Again he straightened and waited while the three officers leaned forward to study the map. Each in turn satisfied their questions, then leaned back in their chairs while they tested the facts before them against all they knew of the accepted, proven, basic principles of successful warfare. Slowly their minds settled. Every element of success was present. Numerical superiority, arms superiority, position superiority, officer superiority, experience, supply lines, morale. The sole question, and the most critical one, remaining unresolved was how they intended using their advantage to take Fort Ticonderoga from the Americans.

  Burgoyne didn’t hesitate. “I would like your opinions on how to take the fort in the least time and with the fewest casualties.”

  He sat down, waiting as silence held. Then Phillips cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him, and with his usual blunt, caustic style he had his say.

  “It’s obvious. The only tactic to reduce Ticonderoga is by siege. Encircle it, put it in a box, cut off all communication and supplies, and place it under constant bombardment. One hundred thirty-eight cannon will convince them soon enough.”

  Burgoyne pursed his mouth and nodded. “That is one method. Any other opinions?”

  Fraser turned to Burgoyne. “Considering the terrain, I doubt we have enough troops to sustain a prolonged siege. We would be spread too thin. A relief column could penetrate our lines easily enough, if they scouted us well and waited for a weakness or an opening. In executing the final infantry charge to finish a siege, there’s the chance they would repel us.”

  Phillips’s nose came up. “Humph. If it is done properly, there would be no
infantry charge. Our infantry would simply walk in.”

  Fraser shook his head. “I doubt cannon will reduce the walls of that fort very rapidly, and perhaps not at all. Some of those walls are sixteen feet thick.”

  Burgoyne interrupted to once again refer to the map, finger pointing. “I have had it in mind to order a corps of Germans across the lake, east into the interior, to cut off any hope of a major relief column reaching the Americans. By taking and holding the great road that reaches from Fort No. Four on the Connecticut River, here, to Mount Independence, here, we will have seriously reduced their chances of getting relief to the fort, overland. They could still come up from the south, but it would have to be on the Hudson, and then on Lake George. That would take too long. They would never arrive in time. As I see it, the great road from the east is critical. We must seize and hold it.”

  Again Fraser shook his head. “The Germans are neither trained to operations in heavily wooded, swampy country, nor are they inclined to it, and the terrain just north of Mount Independence is a morass of forest and swamp. They will have to move sixteen miles north to get around it, and if they do, they will lose both their line of supply and any real hope of reinforcements should they encounter trouble. I would not send Germans, and I doubt if I would send anyone at all. If we take Fort Ti, we must do it quickly enough that the question of a relief column reaching the Americans is never a factor.”

  Burgoyne’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Any other opinions?”

  Fraser went on. “Yes. I would like permission to reconnoiter the ground on the west side of the lake, near the fort. As I recall, Mr. MacIntosh led us to believe there is a weakness in the defenses at a point on the west side of the fort, where the Americans have no cannon. They apparently believe that section of the fort can be defended by infantry behind breastworks alone. I would like to know more about it. It seems to me possible that if we work it to our advantage, we may be able to persuade the Americans to evacuate the fort without a fight.”