by Ron Carter
“If morale is so high, why did these men desert?”
Bucholz translated, listened to the Germans, and turned back to Dunn. “They say they want to stop being soldiers. They want families. Perhaps a farm. They want to stay in America.”
Dunn’s eyebrows peaked for a moment in surprise before he turned to St. Clair. “I don’t have anything else.”
St. Clair spoke to the Germans. “You will be returned to the guardhouse and later taken down to General Schuyler in Albany. A court down there will decide what to do with you. I’ll send a written report on your conduct. Maybe it will help. That is all.”
Bucholz translated, the Germans nodded approval, and St. Clair turned to Dunn. “Take them back, then return here.”
Bucholz stood, and St. Clair nodded to him. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Bucholz followed the group out the door and closed it while St. Clair placed his elbows on the desk and lowered his face into his hands. He was still deep in thought when Dunn returned.
“Sit down, Major.” He gestured to the paper, still on his desk. “Everything the Germans said was exactly what Stroud and Weems reported to us after their scout up north. I believe these men told us the truth on the things that are critical now. Burgoyne is getting ready to take this fort by surrounding it and coming at us from all sides. He’s low on food. He expects to find horses and oxen here. He thinks he can mount his dragoons and do something with them in this wilderness. I think the man’s right in the middle of the forest and can’t see it. The notion of a light cavalry charge in this terrain is ridiculous. There are places a man can’t even lead a horse, let alone ride one. But then, Burgoyne’s motives often have nothing to do with military considerations.”
St. Clair stood and for a moment stretched stiff muscles. “I received word that General Washington drove Howe out of Brunswick. I also received information that Seth Warner is due in tonight with seven hundred militia from the Grants, with eighty cattle and some mutton. I think we can use the information to lift spirits among the men. Just before mess, we’re going to conduct a feu de joie. Have thirteen cannon loaded, one for each state, and have the men form in rank and file in the parade ground. We’ll tell them the news and give three huzzahs before we fire the cannon. Have the same thirteen guns ready tomorrow before noon mess. It’s the fourth of July, and we’re going to commemorate the signing of the Declaration of Independence.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dunn had reached the door before St. Clair stopped him. “Separate the two German deserters from the redcoat. Then find Stevens at his artillery battalion and tell him to send Andrew Tracy to me. Lieutenant Andrew Hodges Tracy.”
Dunn nodded and walked out the door.
The south breeze died in the late afternoon. The sweltering heat bore down in dead air. Offices inside the fort became ovens. Before evening mess, a drumroll brought the troops into rank and file on the parade ground, where they stood sweating while their officers informed them of what they thought was a victory by General Washington over General Howe at Brunswick and then promised them fresh beef and mutton and seven hundred fresh militia to bolster the defense of the fort. Led by the officers, the men gave three rousing huzzahs, then on command, the cannoneers lowered their linstocks to the touchholes, and thirteen cannon on the north wall blasted in order. Then the enlisted men took their trenchers of food out of the unbearable heat in the mess hall to find any available shade to sit in and eat their supper.
With shadows growing long, the three prisoners in the guardhouse were startled at the outbreak of loud cursing and the sounds of men in combat in the parade ground. The two Germans in one cell, and the red-coated British regular in the other, crowded around the barred openings in the thick, heavy doors to peer out.
Four American soldiers were half leading, half dragging a stocky young Irishman across the parade ground, toward the guardhouse. He was shouting curses at them, flailing at them with his feet and his hands, despite the chains that bound his wrists together, and his ankles. His old, ragged clothing was torn, one shirt sleeve ripped free at the shoulder, and covered with dust and dirt from the battle that had ensued when they chained him. His face was filthy from being thrown down in the dust, and sweat made muddy streaks through the ground-in dirt. The string that had held back his long, reddish hair was broken, dangling, and his hair was wild, dirty.
They reached the door into the cell where the British regular was being held, and he backed away from the barred opening, wide-eyed, frightened. Three of the armed guards drove the Irishman to his knees, and the fourth worked the big brass key in the lock and threw the cell door open. The guards grasped the chain that bound his wrists to jerk him to his feet, then threw him headlong through the open door. He tried to keep his feet under him, but the ankle chain was too short, and he hit the dirt floor, rolling to slam heavily into the far wall with his head and shoulder. For a moment he lay still, stunned, while the guards followed him, to grab him by the hair and jerk his head up. One American thrust his face into the Irishman’s face and spat, “Six o’clock! At six o’clock in the morning you’ll find out what happens to spies. But don’t worry. We won’t inconvenience you long. The hangin’ won’t take but five minutes.”
The American viciously pushed the man’s head down, then the three guards backed out the door, to slam it and twist the key.
Slowly the battered man rolled over, then struggled to a sitting position in the dim cell, trying to drive the cobwebs from his brain, struggling to understand where he was. Dunphy watched him test the shackles and chains, then rise to one knee, holding his ribs.
Dunphy spoke from the corner. “Anything broken?”
The young Irishman spun, fists cocked, trying to locate whoever had spoken.
Dunphy said, “Stand easy. I’m British.”
The Irishman stood on unsteady legs, fists still cocked, ready. “Get out in the light where I can see you.”
Dunphy stepped into what little light came through the small, square opening in the door and stopped. The Irishman saw the crimson tunic and the crossed belts and lowered his fist. “Are you a prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Captured?”
Dunphy shrugged. “What difference does it make? I’m a prisoner.”
“Deserter?”
“You could call it that. I’m through soldiering. I’m going to find some ground and start a farm and a family. If that’s deserting, then I’m a deserter.”
“What’s your name?”
“Reginald Dunphy. Yours?”
“Crawford O’Leary.”
“Irish, I presume.”
“County Cork.”
“A spy? I heard them talking.”
O’Leary sighed and slowly lowered himself to the floor, sitting down with his back to the wall, arms draped over his raised knees. Suddenly he snorted a brief, cryptic laugh. “I’m a spy until six o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m sorry for you.”
O’Leary shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it. I’d just like to know the name of the bloody scum who told the Americans. I’d get word out somehow, and he’d pay.”
“Someone informed?”
“No other way I can figure it. One minute I was about a mile south of here walkin’ this way, and the next minute six Americans from nowhere were all over me.” He smiled ruefully. “Three of ’em won’t forget the battle for a while.”
“Coming from the south? Where?” Dunphy asked.
“Albany. I got some documents from the files of General Schuyler to deliver to General Burgoyne.”
“About what?”
“The names of the officers and troops and plans for defending this fort.”
“They took the papers?”
“Yes.” Then, as an afterthought, O’Leary reached to pat the baggy leg of his trousers. He grinned and lowered his voice, “But they missed this.” Maneuvering the chains binding his hands, he dug awkwardly into his pants to draw out a flat pewter flask. He unscr
ewed the cap, and the aroma of good Irish whiskey reached out. He tipped it briefly, then wiped at his mouth. “They might find the flask in the mornin’, but they’ll never get the whiskey.” He held it out to Dunphy. “Care for a sip?”
Hungrily Dunphy reached for the flask, savored the smell for a moment, then tipped it up.
O’Leary took the flask back to hold it loosely between his spread knees. “You were with Burgoyne?”
“Yes.”
“If I understood his plan, he ought to be getting ready to take this fort about now.”
“Very soon.”
A smile crossed O’Leary’s smudged face. “Any chance he’ll take it before six o’clock in the morning?”
Dunphy shook his head, and O’Leary offered him the flask again, then took it back and tipped it up himself.
“Burgoyne was coming with a lot of boats, so I heard. Gunboats? Or troop ships?” O’Leary asked.
“Both. Two big gunboats, about thirty bateaux mounted with guns, and over two hundred fifty ships and bateaux with soldiers.”
“How many troops? Ten thousand?”
“Eight. Two thousand wives and camp followers.”
“How did he plan to get past that big bridge and all those logs the Americans have strung across the lake?”
“Cannon. Sail right down to them and blast them with the guns on those two big men-of-war.”
O’Leary bobbed his head and tipped the flask again, then handed it to Dunphy. “After he takes this fort, then what?”
Dunphy took the proffered flask, then sat down beside O’Leary and leaned back against the wall. He took another swig. “On down to Albany to meet Howe, and Joseph Brant coming in on the Mohawk River.”
“Joseph Brant?”
“A Mohawk chief. That’s his Christian name.”
They traded the flask again.
“How’s he going on to Albany? Land or water?”
“Lake George, then the Hudson River.”
“Water all the way, except that little stretch just south of the lake. Maybe ten, twelve miles. Good plan,” O’Leary allowed.
They sat in silence for a few moments, savoring the effect of the whiskey. When he spoke again, O’Leary’s speech was slightly slurred. “How many Germans does Burgoyne have?”
“Just over three thousand.”
“Good ones?”
“Who knows? Can’t speak a word of English. They’re near helpless in the forest.”
“How many cannon?”
“One hundred thirty-eight pieces of artillery, with General Phillips to command them. Best artillery column England ever sent out. And Burgoyne won’t move without them.” Dunphy’s speech had thickened a bit.
They drew again on the flask, and O’Leary continued. “This fort’s got thick walls. How does Burgoyne think he can breach them with cannon?”
“I doubt he’ll try. I think he means to set up cannon on all five sides, with infantry right behind, and start with grapeshot, then follow with an assault from all sides at once. That will divide the Americans inside the fort so no one wall will have enough men to hold it. Once he’s got men over one wall and inside the fort, that should end it.”
O’Leary held the flask up and shook it, listening. “Nearly empty. One last nip for each of us.” He tipped the flask, then handed it to Dunphy. “You finish it.”
Fifteen minutes later Dunphy had slumped over on his side and was breathing deeply, slowly. O’Leary screwed the cap back on the flask and thrust it back inside his trousers, then leaned back against the wall and drifted to sleep in a sitting position.
With the first arc of the sun catching the tops of the trees with gold, the American guards quietly twisted the brass key in the lock and swung the door partially open. Silently O’Leary studied Dunphy’s face until he was certain he was in a deep sleep, then came to his feet. Stooping to hold the chain between his ankles in one hand, he quietly walked out the door. Five minutes later the guards unlocked his shackles, and O’Leary briefly rubbed his wrists and ankles, then softly crossed the boardwalk to rap gently on the office door of General St. Clair. The door opened, the guards backed away, and O’Leary walked inside the office.
A lantern burned on St. Clair’s desk, casting the room in dim yellow light. St. Clair gestured, O’Leary sat down facing the desk, and St. Clair took his chair facing him. For several moments St. Clair studied O’Leary’s filthy, torn clothing, and his dirty, mud-and-sweat-streaked face.
“Are you all right?”
Lieutenant Andrew Hodges Tracy answered. “Yes.”
“Did he talk?”
“After we worked on the flask for a while, he told everything.”
“Was he drunk when you left him just now?”
“Sleeping it off.”
“You?”
“I tipped the flask, but I didn’t drink. He did, all of it. He’s going to wake up about ten o’clock with a terrible headache. Let him know you hung the spy, O’Leary, at six o’clock sharp.”
St. Clair smiled, chuckled, then leaned forward. “All right, let’s start from the top. How does Burgoyne plan to get past our bridge and chain, and how is he going to attack this fort?”
Notes
Unless otherwise indicated, the facts herein stated are taken from Ketchum, Saratoga, on the pages identified.
General Burgoyne’s plan of attack on Fort Ticonderoga included German General von Breymann crossing Lake Champlain and moving south to take the American fortifications at Mt. Independence. To do so, Breymann crossed the lake well above Mt. Independence and marched south, where his line of march required him to cross East Creek. On the map, East Creek was identified as a small stream. In fact, it was a great marsh, or bog, at some places half a mile across. Crossing it on foot was a near impossibility, with the soldiers sometimes bogged in muck to their waists. Insects and snakes of every kind infested the swamp. Horses were in the mud to their bellies. It took Breymann’s command one full day to cover just twelve hundred yards. Fearing the Germans would not reach the Hubbardton road in time to stop the Americans from escaping, Burgoyne ordered Fraser’s riflemen and some Indians to cross to the east side of the lake and seize the road (p. 167).
The “brulies” referred to herein and elsewhere were extremely small, particularly vexing insects that got into clothing and hair and could sting. The soldiers called them “no-see-ums” because they were so small (p. 96).
Recognizing he could not protect his stores and supplies on the docks outside Fort Ticonderoga, St. Clair sent men down to carry them inside the fort. However, with cannonfire in the distance, the oxen became frightened and ran away. Unable to haul the supplies back to the fort, St. Clair ordered them put onto the bateaux at the docks and ferried down Lake George to Fort George at the southern tip (p. 168).
Henry Brockholst Livingston, an aide to General St. Clair, wrote to his father, giving high praise to General St. Clair, who had been tireless in preparing the fort for the British assault, inspecting, moving among the men, bolstering morale (p. 169).
Three deserters from Burgoyne’s army appeared at Fort Ti and were interrogated by General St. Clair. The one British regular would give only his name and unit, while the Germans answered all questions for which they had answers. However, that night, the three prisoners were put in separate cells, and a roughly dressed Irishman was thrown in with the British prisoner. The Irishman professed to be a captured spy, sentenced to hang the next morning. He had a flask of Irish whiskey in his clothing, which he used to ply the British prisoner, cleverly getting answers St. Clair needed. After the British prisoner fell into a drunken stupor, the Irishman was released and taken to St. Clair, to whom he delivered the needed information. The Irishman was in fact Lieutenant Andrew Hodges Tracy, assigned to Steven’s artillery battalion and used by St. Clair for this most clever and strategic trick (p. 168).
Fort Ticonderoga
July 4, 1777
CHAPTER XVIII
* * *
The distant
boom of cannon rolled over the British camp, and Brigadier General Simon Fraser flinched, then raised his eyes from his desk. He stared at the tent wall for a few moments, until he heard the faint whump of the cannonball strikes. Five seconds later the blasting of cannon much closer sent a tremor up the canvas wall.
Fraser turned to his aide, Major Hugh Billingsley. “What’s going on out there?”
Stocky, square-faced, perspiring, Billingsley answered, “I don’t know, sir. I’m sure the major assault has not begun.”
Fraser rose from his desk to push aside the flap and walk out into the confusion and color and noise of five thousand sweating men laboring, moving about the massive British camp. He squinted upward and then checked his watch—just past nine o’clock in another sweltering morning—and stepped to the side of Major Alexander Lindsay, sixth Earl of Balcarres, standing nearby, looking south.
“What’s the shooting?” Fraser asked him.
Balcarres pointed. “Nothing important. It seems the Americans are just being certain we get no peace, and our guns are returning the favor. Nonsense, more or less.”
“Anything changed since yesterday?”
“We’re reinforcing our breastworks that face their French Lines. An American column got into Fort Ti a while ago—six or seven hundred militia from the Grants. Brought some cattle and sheep. The Americans made a considerable fuss over it—fired a feu de joie with cannon—but there are no changes worth mentioning. Maybe their feu de joie was in celebration of that document they produced a year ago—their Declaration of Independence.” Balcarres shook his head. “They seem to think that document is going to change something.” He turned toward Fraser and harumphed. “A piece of paper? Change the world?” He shook his head. “Nonsense.”
From the south came another cannon volley, and both Balcarres and Fraser involuntarily ducked their heads slightly. Fraser smiled at his own actions. “Odd how the natural instinct is to duck when a cannon’s fired. Even seasoned soldiers do it.”
Balcarres reached with a white handkerchief to wipe at the sweat on his face. “A little embarrassing when the cannon fire is so distant, and you’re not in the line of fire. I’ve seen a few quick-eyed soldiers who can track a cannonball in flight. If it’s coming their way they simply step aside and let it pass.”
