by Ron Carter
Hay reared back in his chair, utterly dumbstruck, unable to find his voice for ten full seconds. “Congress . . . General Washington . . .” He could not form a complete sentence, and he stopped.
“I know about Congress and General Washington. Let me put it to you exactly as it now stands. I can fight, or I can retreat, and that reduces itself to a very simple proposition. I can save my character and lose this army, or I can lose my character and save this army. Given that choice, I will save the army. We evacuate.”
For five long seconds the single sound was the rise and fall of the hot, gusty wind in the parade grounds. Dunn sat in his chair, watching the expression on Hay’s face change from shock to the beginnings of comprehending the awful truth, and making calculations of the mind-destroying task that must be completed within twenty-four hours.
St. Clair moved on. “Your duties as acting quartermaster will be to move all the sick and wounded by bateaux, with as much of the medicines and stores as our boats will hold.”
“Bateaux? Most of them are down at the Skenesborough landing. I doubt we can bring them here against this wind.”
“I know. The sick and wounded, and some items of baggage and supplies have priority on the bateaux we have here at our own docks. Our troops will carry what they can down to the Skenesborough landing and load it onto the bateaux there. We’ll have to burn what’s left and spike what cannon we have to leave behind.”
Hay’s mind was still reeling from the shock of abandoning the fort. By force of will he brought his thoughts to focus on the assignment St. Clair had given him and forced some semblance of orderliness to what must be done. “Yes, sir. How many know about this?”
“The war council, Major Dunn, Colonel Baldwin, and yourself. I’ll have to tell Major Stevens soon, so he can begin moving his artillery. Besides those I have named, no one else knows. Go about your assignment quietly so no one will suspect. I’ll personally tell the men when they need to know, and not before. Evacuating overnight will be difficult enough without a panic among the men. So not a word to anyone. Can you do it?”
“Yes, sir. When do I begin?”
“The moment you walk out that door.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“That’s all for now.”
St. Clair watched the door close behind Hay, then turned to Dunn. “Major, locate Major Stevens and bring him here.”
Without a word Dunn walked out the door, and as it closed, St. Clair’s shoulders sagged. Six hours of sleep in the past six days had left him with deep fatigue riding like a pall. He dug a thumb and forefinger into weary eyes, then leaned forward, forearms on his desk, fingers interlaced. For a time he stared unseeing at his hands, trying to order his thoughts by force of will.
What’s keeping the British from opening up with their cannon? Wind?—Ammunition?—Waiting for all units to finish getting into position? Once they start with the cannon they won’t need much else.
He ran nervous hands through his hair.
If we can march men and horses and wagons across the Great Bridge moving supplies down to Skenesborough in broad daylight—if we can start moving our cannon down to the loading docks right under their noses—if we can start withdrawing our troops from the front lines—if we can do it all without the British noticing—if none of our troops look up and see the cannon on Mt. Defiance—if none of them notice everything being moved—if—if—if—how long can we survive on if?
He slowly leaned back in his chair. What will the troops do when they are told to abandon? They’ve come to fight—they believe they can hold the fort against a ground attack—maybe they can—but not against guns on Mt. Defiance—what will they say?—what will they do when they’re ordered to leave under cover of dark?—what will they tell their families?—what will be said of them when they have to say they were among those who abandoned Fort Ti in the night without firing a shot in its defense?—how will they bear up under it?—what will Congress—
St. Clair flinched at the abrupt rap on his door. “Enter.”
Dunn opened the door. “Major Stevens has been ordered to his quarters by the doctor. Fever. He says he’s about recovered. The doctor says you can visit him there.”
St. Clair worked his way through the parade grounds at a controlled, casual pace, to rap on the door to Stevens’s quarters. Stevens was seated at a small table, dressed in his trousers, heavy gray socks, with his tunic unbuttoned, his gray underwear visible.
St. Clair spoke as he entered. “Don’t get up.”
Stevens gestured to a chair. “Sir, have a seat.”
St. Clair sat down and looked into the sick officer’s face for a moment, trying to gauge the temper of the man.
Major Ebenezer Stevens had arrived at the fort in April, and since that time had been the officer in charge of artillery. Crusty, blunt, outspoken, Stevens had never minced words with any soldier, and it was a matter of profound indifference to him whether it was an enlisted man or officer he was talking to, including generals.
“Major,” St. Clair said quietly, “the British have cannon on top of Mount Defiance. We are going to evacuate the fort.”
Stevens head came up in shock, and he blurted, “We’re going to what?”
“Abandon.”
Stevens doubled fist came down on the tabletop. His voice was loud, hot. “Abandon this fort? Retreat again?”
“Yes. We can’t defend against those guns.”
“Storm the mountain!” Stevens boomed. “Send three hundred Indians up there in the night. Promise them scalps and rum. Promise them anything to take those cannon emplacements and turn the guns on the British. But don’t abandon this fort! No more retreating!”
St. Clair shook his head. “Our men would never reach the top. If we don’t evacuate tonight, they’ll have us sealed in by tomorrow noon. We leave immediately, or not at all.”
“Then let it be not at all. Abandon? That’s reason to curse the day I ever put my feet into this country, there being so much retreating. Wars aren’t won by retreating. They’re won by standing and fighting, and attacking.”
Fatigue, lack of sleep, finding himself thrust into the unbearable white heat of the cauldron, St. Clair half rose from his chair, leaning forward, arms stiff, palms flat on the table. His eyes were like flecks of flint, voice rising in anger as he bristled back at Stevens. “I know how wars are won. I know what retreating does to armies. I know what the men at this fort are going to say when they get orders to turn their backs and run in the middle of the night. I know that I will likely face a court-martial, perhaps a trial for treason. But for all that, I will not get my command butchered defending what cannot be defended! You stand to lose some cannon. I stand to lose everything. Everything! Do you understand?”
Stevens settled back onto his chair, startled, subdued by St. Clair’s ferocity. “General, I. . . . It’s just that we’ve worked hard to prepare for a fight . . .”
St. Clair brought himself under control. “I know. Now listen closely. None of what I tell you can leave this room until I give the order. This is how the evacuation will occur.”
Twenty minutes later St. Clair leaned back for a moment, then continued. “While we are loading the bateaux and boats, keep one battery firing at that new cannon emplacement the British are building west of the fort. Things must appear normal to the British.”
Finished, he narrowed his eyes against the blowing dust as he left Stevens’s quarters to walk steadily back to his own office. Inside, he peered from one of the two small windows to watch Stevens walk out onto the parade ground, fully dressed, hunched forward, holding his tricorn on his head against the wind as he made his way to the captain in charge of the cannon on the north walls.
St. Clair turned back to his desk, suddenly weak from unutterable fatigue, unable any longer to keep the iron grip on his mind and thoughts. He sat down and buried his face in his hands as he descended into the blackness of an abyss he had never known existed. Dark despair seized his soul, and for
several moments he feared his mind was disintegrating.
Gates—Adams—Congress—don’t be concerned—Burgoyne will not come down the lake—he’ll move down the St. Lawrence to the Atlantic to come south—no need for a large army at Fort Ti—no need for heavy defenses—no need—no need. He slowly shook his head. But I saw it coming—I knew better—I begged them—begged them—more men, more guns—and they sent more assurances there was no need—I did it wrong—wrong—I should have demanded enough men and guns or abandoned the fort months ago—walked out—now the British are here—cannon where we can’t reach them—thirty-six hours left at the most—I have to run—like a fool—a coward—I did it wrong.
He dropped his hands flat on the desk, staring at them while scenes of battles and men ran unchecked before his eyes. Long Island—Brooklyn Heights—White Plains—Fort Washington—Fort Lee—the Hackensack bridge—we lost them all—the banks of the Delaware in winter—scarecrow men starving, freezing—Washington in the torments of the condemned—I didn’t know then what he was going through—but I know now—how did he stand it—survive it—how?
Once again he saw the shadow of Washington, dark on the side of his tent wall on the frozen banks of the Delaware the night of December 22, 1776, pacing, pacing in the yellow lamplight. His hands were clasped behind his back as he entered the pit where all men must finally face the fires of their own acts, and there Washington stood solid as he admitted that his mistakes had cost thousands of lives, and had left him with a defeated, freezing, starving remnant of his once proud army. His body trembled in his own Gethsemane as the refiner’s fire purged him, burned out the dross, left the gold.
Bright before St. Clair’s eyes came the war council Washington convened the next day. He remembered the impossible decision to take what men could walk and cross the Delaware the night of December twenty-fifth; the crossing in the blizzard; the wild, hand-to-hand morning attack in a blinding snowstorm; the miracle of only four Americans wounded, none dead, the entire Hessian garrison killed or taken prisoner. The victory that stunned the world.
Slowly St. Clair straightened. A glimmer of light crept into his heart and began to swell. The hair stood on his neck, and the flesh on his outstretched arms tingled. His breath came short as the light grew to fill his mind, his soul, with a sureness he had never known before. We didn’t win the battle of Trenton the morning of the twenty-sixth! It was won the night of December twenty-second when Washington faced himself. The night he turned to the Almighty and the Almighty stripped him of human pride and weakness. We didn’t win that battle. The Almighty did.
St. Clair sat transfixed as the certainty reached to his foundations.
This is His work! Not mine! I may fail, but He will not! We will give up Fort Ti, but somehow, in His way, in His time, it will make no difference. This battle for liberty is His, and He will turn our defeats to victory if we will only struggle on. Struggle on.
St. Clair was not conscious of the passing of time, or the sounds of the wind, or of the men on the parade ground. He sat unmoving, engulfed in the brightest inner light he had ever known. With the might of the British army on all sides, ready to descend upon him and crush him in certain defeat, he knew the British would fail. Somehow the cause of liberty would prevail.
The inner light dwindled and faded. St. Clair yearned for it to linger, but he could not hold it. He was left once more in a small, crude office in a fort that was about to be overrun, with the heartrending duty to evacuate it to save what he could of his two thousand men. But in his heart he knew. The chaos outside his office was unfolding in a design hidden to men, but known to the powers of heaven, from whence it had come. The quest for liberty was not forgotten by the Almighty.
The wind held, hot and gusting, blowing dust and fine grit through the cracks around the windows and beneath the doors. The soldiers leaned into it, moving about the fort with eyes slitted, hair and beards and eyebrows gray, and tiny balls of mud caked at the corners of their eyes.
From his window, St. Clair watched the sergeants walking up and down the lines at the enlisted men’s mess, giving the first direct orders in the plan for evacuation. The sergeants knew only that their officers had given the order; they had not been told why.
“Soon as you’re through with mess, go draw twenty-four rounds of ammunition each and five days’ rations. After mess. Twenty-four rounds. Five days’ rations. After mess.”
“Why?”
“Officers didn’t say. Just do it and wait for further orders.”
St. Clair’s eyes narrowed as he studied the men. For a moment all talk stopped, and then they turned to each other, foreheads wrinkled in puzzlement as they struggled to make sense of the order. Twenty-four rounds? The entire command? Who’s attacking, us or them? At night? Five days’ rations? Where are we going for five days?
With the sun touching the western treeline, the next orders were quietly given to confused, anxious troops.
“All pickets are to be doubled immediately. All other troops to stand at their alarm stations until further orders. Maintain silence at all costs. No fires, no lanterns, no lamps, no candles. Be alert but challenge no one.”
“Pickets doubled? Alarm stations? No challenges? No light? What’s happening?”
The sergeants shook their heads. “Ask a general. They didn’t tell us. Get at it.”
The troops went to their assigned posts to stand silent, wide-eyed, their minds timorously touching the unthinkable question: is an evacuation underway? Abandon Fort Ti? St. Clair? Without a fight? Never. Not St. Clair. Never.
In the windswept, fading purple of late twilight, the next order was given to all officers and every enlisted man in the fort. No officer below the rank of general had known the order was coming, save for Major Isaac Dunn, who had said nothing.
“Strike your tents and load them in the boats at the dock for transport to Skenesborough. Pack your gear, and fall into parade formation for marching. Do it now, and do it quiet. No lanterns, no lamps. No light of any kind.”
Officers and enlisted men alike were stunned, their minds reeling, unable to accept what was now beyond doubt. They were abandoning Fort Ticonderoga, and they were doing it under cover of darkness, like cowards, afraid to fight, sneaking away in the night.
St. Clair walked out his office door into the darkness and started across the parade ground, holding his tricorn on his head against the wind, toward the quarters of Colonel Jeduthan Baldwin. Few noticed him in the confusion and the darkness. He watched and listened as he worked his way quietly through the men, feeling their mood, their temper.
A stoop-shouldered old man with his beard blowing raised his voice above the wind. “Been here a whole year of sweat and work and we got ’er ready for a fight and now we’re walkin’ out. It isn’t right.”
A burly corporal, hair and beard filled with blowing grit, answered. “Said come fight for liberty. That’s what they said. And I figgered it was somethin’ I could feel good fightin’ for, maybe dyin’ for, so I come. An’ now what we got? Orders to run!”
A square-shouldered boy, who had never shaved, stood. “Two hundred miles we marched, some of us, and we come to finish this job. Ready to die for it if we had to. And now we get to go home and tell the folks we turned tail and run out in the night, first time the redcoats and Germans come at us.”
A tall, hawkish corporal named Cogan shook his head. “Abandon Fort Ti. I can’t believe it. Such a retreat was never heard of since the creation of the world.”
The response was immediate. “Cogan, this isn’t a retreat. A retreat means you got into a fight and was losin’ so you pulled back. We never got in no fight. We’re sneakin’ away from one like cowards.”
The rebellious rumblings were rampant in the fort. Each had been touched by a still, small voice in the core of their consciousness that quietly repeated—liberty—liberty—liberty—like a drumbeat. Over time it had reached outward to every fiber of their being, penetrated every thought, every feeling. I
t rose above their fear of dying, drove them to pick up their muskets and powder horns and leave hearth and home, to gather against the oppression and tyranny of those who would keep them under their heel if they could. If they had never been sure of anything else in their lives, these men were certain of this one thing. Life would not be sweet without liberty. The right of self-determination. The right to think and act according to their own best lights. For this, they had laid their lives on the altars of the Almighty.
And now, they were being denied their battle for liberty and the powers of heaven by their own commanding officer? Ugly murmurings could be heard in every quarter inside Fort Ticonderoga.
St. Clair stopped before Cogan. “Corporal, there’s something I think you have a right to know.”
Cogan jerked erect, squinting in the windswept darkness of the parade ground, eyes bright, defiant, jaw set stubborn. “And what might that be?” Everyone within earshot stopped dead still. Cogan had not come to attention, nor had he addressed his commanding officer as “Sir.”
St. Clair glanced about at the ring of silent, accusing faces that gathered. Slowly he raised an arm to point south. “Last night the British put cannon on top of Mount Defiance. Fourteen hundred yards from here. Those guns can reach this fort, but our guns can’t touch them. I believe the only reason they didn’t blast this fort to pieces today was because the wind would reduce cannon accuracy. Maybe that, and they wanted to wait until all elements of their full attack are in place before they start their bombardment.”
Cogan thrust his head forward. “Beggin’ the general’s pardon, how long has the general known about those guns up there?”
“Since a little before noon. I had a choice. Save you men for a battle you can win, or stay here and watch those guns kill most of you. I choose to save you for the battle that is yet to come.”
