by Ron Carter
Von Barner shrugged, and Baum spoke. “We are entitled to believe the British who made the maps were competent, which they obviously were not. There is little we can do now except send officers to witness the truth about East Creek, make an official document recording our findings to show Herr General Burgoyne, and then cross the bog despite their failure. It appears that once again we must show the British something about how soldiers function.”
The disgust in Breymann’s face was apparent as he gave his orders. “You two accompany the lieutenant back to his command. If he is correct, advise Captain Strauss that the British maps are in error and inform them we must correct their incompetence. He is to cross the bog in any way he deems best, but it must be done at once. Remind him we are German soldiers—we will meet the schedule as ordered. I am angry for the trouble the British have caused him. Am I clear?”
“Ja, Herr Colonel.” Von Barner and Baum trotted to their horses, tightened the girths, mounted, and followed the young lieutenant east at a lope. They slowed as they entered the forest, working their way through on a crooked foot trail, pushing aside branches, watching as their horses stepped over and around rocks and rotting logs. Within minutes the ground became spongy and then the horses were kicking mud with every step. Five minutes later their mounts were in muck to their knees, throwing their heads, fighting the bits, battling to move ahead.
The lieutenant raised his arm to point. “My regiment is there.”
The three mounted officers turned to study the swampy marsh in all directions as they slogged their way to the waiting Hessians. Mosquitoes rose in swarms to torment the nostrils and eyes of the horses. Tiny brulies formed into clouds, attracted to the scent of both the men and the horses, to attack and sting. Thousands of dragonflies, three inches long, darted and flitted, pausing to hang suspended as their four wings fanned the air in perfect synchronization. Tens of thousands of swamp insects never seen by Europeans buzzed and swarmed, stinging. Some soldiers had unbuttoned their tunics to draw them over their heads against the merciless onslaught. The tired troops were splattered with black mud to their waists, and spots and flecks showed on their tunics.
As the three officers approached the captain, he rose from the log on which he was sitting and saluted. Baum gaped. The headless bodies of four rattlesnakes and two copperheads lay draped over the log next to the captain, who came to rigid attention as he spoke. “I am Captain Gottfried Strauss. I am awaiting further orders from the colonel.”
Von Barner answered. “He sent us.” The major shook his head. “I believe you understated your report of this place. We are to make our appraisal of conditions, return, and make a written statement to be presented to Herr General Burgoyne.” He cast his eyes over the terrain. “The British maps have led you into this impossible mess, but we are to remind you that we are German soldiers. Despite the inexcusable British blunder, you will cross this bog and continue to your objective, Mount Independence. Our forces are landed south of us on schedule and will be moving toward us, expecting us to move toward them with the mountain between us. We will take the Americans and their fortifications, on schedule. Herr Colonel Breymann instructed us to inform you that he is angry with the British incompetence that has led you into this morass. Do you understand?”
“Very good.”
The captain saluted, and von Barner and Baum returned it, then turned their horses and started west, back through the thick, black ooze that sucked at their horses’ legs at every stride.
* * * * *
General St. Clair started at the insistent rap on his door, and his aide-de-camp, Major Isaac Dunn, barged in before he could rise or speak. Dunn’s tunic was open at the top, and sweat was running. He left the door standing open to cast bright July sunlight on the floor as he pointed east, across the lake.
“General, the Germans have landed both above and below Mount Independence. And it looks like some Indians and Canadians and redcoats are moving on down toward the Hubbardton Road. It appears Burgoyne intends taking our defenses on Mount Independence and cutting off any reinforcements or supplies coming in from the east.”
St. Clair set his jaw and leaned back in his chair. “What about the supplies down on the Lake George landing? Did we get them back within our lines?”
Dunn shook his head. “No. Some of the oxen got frightened by the cannonfire up north and ran off. For some reason the drivers didn’t go after them. They just sat there by their wagons, doing nothing. They’re still sitting down there.”
St. Clair jerked erect. “They did nothing? Why?”
“No one could see a reason for it. Maybe they’re afraid Indians are waiting for them out in the woods.”
St. Clair slammed a doubled fist down on his desktop. “Then we’ve lost any hope of getting those stores back up here. Send Captain Lossing and his company down there right now, with orders to get those supplies onto the bateaux, and have the bateaumen take them on down to Fort George the minute they’re loaded. Tonight if they can. I won’t let the British get those stores.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
A smile touched Dunn’s face for a moment. “One of our pickets just reported that Seth Warner’s coming in from the Grants over in New Hampshire with seven hundred men and about eighty cattle. Some sheep, too. Coming right on past the Germans to the south. Should be here sometime tonight.”
St. Clair stood. “Fresh meat. Good. Has anyone told the commissary officer? He’s concerned we’re getting low on salt beef. Mutton will be a good change.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Go get Captain Lossing moving down to the landing.”
Dunn turned and strode out the door, closing it behind him. St. Clair sank back onto his chair, exhausted, weary to death from days of trying to carry the entire American command on his shoulders. With Burgoyne’s forces systematically moving in from all sides with a force of the world’s finest soldiers four times the size of his own, what could he do? Move out to meet them? One against four on an open battlefield? Insanity. Send out what precious few men he had piecemeal, and give them away in meaningless skirmishes until he had none left? Ridiculous. With Burgoyne relentlessly tightening his stranglehold on Fort Ticonderoga, all St. Clair could do was draw his men in slowly, bringing them back inside the fortress, where the thick walls and their own cannon would give them some sort of fighting chance to survive the final, full-scale assault.
For seven days, possessed by fears that drove him relentlessly, St. Clair had been everywhere—at the commissary, the munitions stores, the enlisted barracks, the enlisted mess, and repeatedly outside the fort in the trenches and breastworks with his men, taking the sporadic incoming musket and cannonfire along with them, patting them on the shoulder, providing generous words of encouragement and praise, assuring them, making himself a presence to his entire command. He had snatched but six hours of fitful sleep in those seven days, and eaten only sparsely. His face was lined, haggard, eyes hollow. But he had earned the respect and the love of his troops, and there was no man in his command who had failed to voice praise for their leader.
He sighed deeply, then stood in the dim light of his tiny, crude office, and reached for his tricorn. He could make the rounds once more, with the news Seth Warner was coming in from the south with seven hundred men—tough militia riflemen from the New Hampshire Grants—and enough fresh beef and mutton for nearly a month. If Warner could make it in, there was still hope. He tucked his hat under his arm and started for the door when footsteps sounded on the boardwalk outside, followed by a perfunctory rap.
He pulled the door opened to see a young private standing there. The boy was not yet eighteen years old, dressed in homespun, smooth-cheeked, awkward, embarrassed in the presence of his commanding officer. With downcast eyes he stammered, “Sir, I . . . uh . . . this was give to me, and I was ordered to get it over here right now.” He thrust a folded paper toward St. Clair.
St. Clair reached for the document. “What
is it?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Just come in with a scout.”
St. Clair looked the boy in the face. “Thank you, Private. Are you all right? Getting enough to eat?”
The boy raised his eyes and spoke energetically. “Oh, yes, sir. Fine. Things is fine. Eating good.”
“Glad to hear it. Go back to your company. They’ll need you.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that.” The boy backed away, bowing twice before turning to sprint for the big gates, grinning his relief at having completed a task that had terrified him.
St. Clair closed the door, then with trembling fingers broke the seal and read the message. His face softened, and he read it once more with a smile forming on his lips. The message was clear. General Washington had met General Howe’s British regulars at Brunswick, and the British were withdrawing. It was signed by Chaplain Hitchcock.
St. Clair breathed deeply for a moment, then hung his hat back on its peg and resumed his seat behind his desk. Seth Warner, seven hundred fresh troops, eighty cattle, mutton, and now General Washington has beaten Howe at Brunswick! How best to use all this to inspire the men. He leaned back for a time in deep thought before he reached a conclusion. At sunset we conduct a feu de joie. He referred to the ancient custom of conducting a military celebration by the firing of muskets, all up and down the line, each in succession. His thoughts continued. But we can’t fire the muskets because some alert British officer will count the shots and know how many men we have. No, we’ll fire the cannon. Thirteen of them, one for each of the states. That should lift our spirits. Tomorrow we’ll do it again to celebrate the first anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
He sobered at the remembrance and forgot time while his thoughts reached back. We hold these truths to be self evident . . . endowed by our Creator . . . life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. There was a stirring in his soul, just as when the immortal document had been read to all the American troops one year earlier. The flesh on his arms tingled again at the sure knowledge that the work of breaking from British rule was not the work of man. Sitting in his small, crude office in the wilderness, his command outnumbered four to one by the greatest military power in the world, short of everything with which to conduct the hopeless defense of the fort, and so weary in body and mind that he did not know if he could get to his feet, he felt once more the transcendent force rise in his heart to fill every fiber of his being, and in that moment he knew—there was a power beyond anything mortal working its indiscernible designs all about him, and no power in heaven or on earth could stop it.
For a fleeting moment he felt a spirit fill him and the tiny, rude office with a light not of earth, and then it began to fade, and slowly withdrew, and he was left sitting at his desk once more, facing the crushing burden of his command.
A brisk knock at the door jolted him.
“Enter.”
Dunn strode in, sweaty, breathless. “Three deserters from Burgoyne’s army just walked through the gates. Two Germans, one British.”
St. Clair came off his seat, leaning forward on stiff arms on his desk. “Sure they’re deserters? Not spies?”
Dunn shook his head. “I’m convinced they’re deserters. They say they want asylum, and they want to talk to you.”
“Where are they now?”
“In the guardhouse.”
“Bring them here.”
“Yes, sir.” Dunn turned to go, then stopped. “I should mention, Captain Lossing’s on the way to the Lake George landing. Those stores and supplies should be loaded and gone tonight, out of British hands.”
“Good. Bring those deserters.”
Less than ten minutes later Dunn swung the door open and seven men entered St. Clair’s small office. Between three Americans armed with muskets were two blue-coated Hessians and one red-coated British regular. The seventh man was Eric Bucholz, a Pennsylvania German with the Pennsylvania Twentieth Militia, who spoke both languages fluently. St. Clair sat stone still, eyes narrowed, watching intently as the three deserters came to his desk to stand at rigid attention, eyes locked on the wall behind him. He slowly leaned forward on his elbows and spoke to Dunn.
“I take it the Germans do not speak English.”
“They do not.” He gestured. “Sergeant Bucholz can translate.”
St. Clair spoke to all three. “I’m told you are deserters, seeking asylum. If we discover you’re actually here to spy, you’ll be hanged.” The redcoat did not flinch. The Germans waited while Bucholz translated and they answered. Bucholz turned to St. Clair.
“They understand. They say they are not spies.” St. Clair could hear the faint German accent in Bucholz’s clipped words.
St. Clair continued. “Are you willing to answer my questions about General Burgoyne’s forces?”
The redcoat responded immediately. “My name is Reginald Dunphy. My commanding officer was Captain Alexander Fraser. That is all I have to say.”
Bucholz translated for the Germans. “They will answer any questions.”
St. Clair glared at Dunphy. “You will not answer my questions?”
“That is correct, sir.”
St. Clair shrugged and turned to Dunn. “Take him back to the guardhouse. I’ll talk with the Germans.”
Dunn marched Dunphy out the door with one guard behind him, bayonet nearly touching his back, and the three of them angled through the hot, south breeze toward the guardhouse. The other two armed guards walked outside, took a position on either side of the door, and closed it. St. Clair gestured, and the two Germans sat on chairs facing his desk. There was no third chair, and St. Clair pointed to the one facing his small, private table in the corner. Bucholz brought it to the side of the desk and sat down facing the Germans. He pointed, they removed their tall hats, and then faced St. Clair, waiting.
St. Clair drew a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. Words and numbers were printed on it, and for a moment he glanced over them before he began.
“Did you come through Quebec and up the Richelieu River?”
“Yes.”
“Was General Carleton in Quebec?”
“Yes. Governor.”
“Did he remain there?”
“Yes, with a small number of his army. Most of his army came with General Burgoyne.”
“How many soldiers are with Burgoyne?”
“Over eight thousand. Two thousand wives and camp followers.”
“Who commands the cannon, and how many are there?”
“General William Phillips. One hundred thirty-eight.”
St. Clair looked at his paper and for a time moved his finger down the column of figures. At that moment Dunn walked back into the room.
“The British regular is in the guardhouse. What are my orders?”
“Find a chair and join us. I may need a witness.”
Dunn walked out the door and returned in two minutes with an empty keg. He set it beside St. Clair’s desk, opposite Bucholz, and sat down. St. Clair continued.
“Who is the German officer in command of all German troops? The one who reports directly to Burgoyne?”
“Baron von Riedesel. Friedrich Adolph von Riedesel.”
“What units are under his command?”
“Seven Brunswick regiments, a light infantry battalion, and four companies of dragoons.”
“Dragoons? Mounted cavalry?”
“Cavalry, but not mounted. They have no horses. They expect to find horses here.”
St. Clair smiled and shook his head. There weren’t twenty horses fit for duty in the entire fort, nor were there enough oxen to pull five cannon. St. Clair sobered and a noticeable intensity came into his face.
“How many days of food supplies does Burgoyne have?”
“Perhaps twenty. Less than thirty.”
St. Clair masked his surprise and went on. “How many wagons in his train?”
The Germans shook their heads in disgust. One of them answered, “Close to six hundred
.”
St. Clair reared back in his chair in total surprise. “What? He thinks he’s going to move six hundred wagons in these forests? And one hundred thirty-eight cannon? He’ll need close to two thousand animals—horses or oxen—to do it. And even if he had the animals, there’s no way under heaven he’ll get six hundred wagons through this wilderness before winter.”
The Germans needed no translation. They nodded their heads.
St. Clair brought his racing thoughts under control. “If he has food for only twenty days, what does he have in six hundred wagons?”
“Fifteen wagons filled with wine and champagne. Sixteen wagons with his clothes. Delicacies for his table. Fodder for the oxen. Sacked oats for the horses.”
“What horses? You said he doesn’t have enough horses to mount his dragoons.”
“He thinks he will get horses, either from the settlements near the lake or from this fort. He is trained for light cavalry and thinks the dragoons will be decisive when the battle comes.”
St. Clair rolled his head back, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Cavalry? In this forest? What are his plans for taking this fort?”
“We do not know. We heard General Phillips persuaded him to put it under siege. Surround the fort, cut it off, and starve you out. Then we heard he had changed his mind—that he intends to surround you, cut you off, then attack from all sides at once. We do not know what he thinks now.”
St. Clair moved on. “How is morale among Burgoyne’s troops?”
“High. Very high. They feel that even now the trap is closing. Our Brunswickers and the Hanau-Hessians are prepared to take all troops and defenses on Mount Independence and cut off the Hubbardton Road. General Burgoyne’s regulars and the Indians are ready to move against you from the west. All units will be in place within two days. They know your strength. They have no fear for the outcome. They are anxious to get it over with.”
St. Clair checked his notes one more time, then turned to Dunn. “Anything you want to ask?”
