Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Cogan’s reply was loud, abrupt, almost a challenge: “And give up Fort Ti without a fight?”

  A sergeant cut in, his voice sharp, tough. “Cogan, keep your place. You’re talking to General St. Clair.”

  St. Clair held up his hand. “It’s all right, Sergeant. I expect to be court-martialed over this, but I tell you men, we can give Fort Ti to the British now, or we can give it to them after most of you are dead. Either way, they get the fort. You have a right to know.”

  Without another word St. Clair pushed through the silent men. They all turned their heads south to peer into the darkness, up at the deadly cannon muzzles, while they struggled with the question of whether St. Clair was right or wrong. What had been clear to them was now clouded, muddy, obscured. They turned back to their duties, silent, with the beginnings of understanding of their commander taking root in their minds. The hot, rising mood of rebellion cooled as they walked away, pondering.

  St. Clair strode to the quarters of Colonel Baldwin. He rapped on the door, then, on invitation, walked into the small, dimly lit room.

  Baldwin came to attention. “Yes, sir?”

  St. Clair gestured to the tiny table, with two chairs, and they sat down facing each other. St. Clair fidgeted with his hat for a moment, then locked eyes with Baldwin.

  “Colonel, we’re abandoning the fort tonight. You know about the guns up on Mount Defiance. We cannot survive them.”

  Baldwin did not move nor speak.

  “Order your artificers to collect all their tools and move them down to the bateaux at the landing. There are a number of them assigned to you. Have it done by two o’clock a.m.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  St. Clair studied this square, tireless patriot for a moment, looking for any sign of regret, of resistance, of personal loss. No man had done more than Baldwin to prepare Fort Ticonderoga for the expected assault. The Great Bridge, the landing, powder magazine, redoubts, trenches, new hospital—all of them his handiwork. Tireless, dedicated to a fault, the man had spent a year poring over engineering diagrams at night, working with his artificers and crews during daylight hours, pouring his heart and soul into the endless projects. And how was it all to end? In vain. Useless. Giving a year’s mind-bending, backbreaking work to the British at night, in a wind storm, without firing a shot. St. Clair searched Baldwin for evidence of acrimony, bitterness, resistance, but there was none.

  Baldwin’s eyes were steady, his face immobile. “I’ll be ready, sir.”

  St. Clair felt a rise in his throat. He swallowed, started for the door, then stopped and turned back. “Colonel, I . . . your country is in your debt. It’s been an honor to work with you.”

  “Thank you, sir, and an honor to work with you.”

  St. Clair opened the door and disappeared into the blowing dirt and blackness. Baldwin quickly put on his tunic, buttoned it closed, picked his tricorn from its peg by the door, and followed. With his head ducked against the northeasterly wind, he made his way to the quarters of his artisans and delivered their orders. “Have all equipment boxed and delivered to the landing by midnight.”

  At eleven-twenty p.m. the last crates were lifted from wagons and set on the dock south of Fort Ti, ready, and Baldwin gathered his crew. “Wait here,” he shouted above the wind. “Someone will help load you when the time comes. I’m going to go help Captain Winslow with his guns and ammunition.”

  He wound his way through the columns of men, moving tents and equipment from all directions to the ordnance depot. Even in the darkness it was clear that not one gun, nor man, remained. He turned to go and bumped into a lieutenant.

  “Pardon, sir, didn’t see you,” the young man said.

  “Do you know where Captain Winslow has gone?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m on my way to join him down at the landing. He got all the cannon loaded onto some bateaux.”

  “Already?” Baldwin asked.

  “Yes, sir, except for a few big guns.” The young lieutenant shook his head. “We had to spike ’em. A real shame.”

  Baldwin nodded, turned, and headed for St. Clair’s office. Major Henry Brockholst Livingston answered his knock, and Baldwin quickly dodged inside before Livingston slammed the door shut against the wind and dirt. Baldwin beat at his clothes with his tricorn, knocking dust. “You acting aide for St. Clair?”

  “Yes, sir, while Major Dunn is gone.”

  “Know where Major Dunn is? Or General St. Clair?”

  “Yes, sir. Both are across the Great Bridge, somewhere on Mount Independence. Got word things aren’t going well over there.”

  Baldwin shook his head. “I think we’re headed for trouble here, too. Wind’s got the lake running high and rough, and without light, nobody knows what they’re doing. I’m going over to find General St. Clair.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Despite its own weight, the Great Bridge was pitching, rising and falling, awash with the great swells and whitecapped waves kicked up by the howling wind. Drenched to the skin, Baldwin battled his way across to the base of Mt. Independence. Five minutes later he found St. Clair, hot, angry, shouting orders above the wind to a group of cowed officers.

  As Baldwin approached, St. Clair pointed, and the clustered officers turned on their heels and hurried away. Baldwin came to attention. “Sir, my men have their tools on the docks below the fort. Can I help you here?”

  Relief flooded through St. Clair. “When I got here, everybody was still asleep! They’re not now, although I understand General de Fermoy has not yet made an appearance. Would you go up to his quarters and wake him. If he’s drunk, shake him awake and get him moving. He received his orders this morning. He knows what to do. Then collect a crew—any place you can get them—and go to the stone magazine. You’ll find about a hundred barrels of gunpowder. Get it all down to the docks on this side of the lake, ready to load for Skenesborough. When you’re finished with that, get with Udney Hay and Lieutenant Thomas Blake from New Hampshire and try to keep things organized and moving on these docks. If things get any worse we could have a general mutiny in the middle of the night. Understand?”

  “Sir, do I understand I’m to shake de Fermoy awake and see to it he’s up and moving? With all respect, sir, he’s a general.”

  The controlled rage was plain in St. Clair’s voice. “If he’s drunk and asleep, do it. Do you know about him at Trenton, the day before we marched around Cornwallis?”

  “No, sir. I was here, not there.”

  “He got drunk and abandoned his command. They were ordered to slow down four thousand British until dark to save Washington’s army on the banks of the Delaware.”

  “What happened, sir?”

  “When de Fermoy abandoned, Colonel Edward Hand took over. Had two hundred of his backwoods riflemen with him. He finished the job. Saved Washington’s army. If Hand hadn’t stopped the British, I believe Washington would have had de Fermoy shot. So you get him up and moving. If he doesn’t like it, tell him I ordered it, and that I’ll bring him up on capital charges if he fails. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Baldwin turned on his heel and started up the trail leading to de Fermoy’s quarters. The hot north wind swept the north face of Mt. Independence, whistling through the brush and trees, driving dirt stinging as Baldwin ascended. He came to the plateau where he and Colonel Thaddeus Kosciuszko, the volunteer Polish engineer, had designed and built cannon emplacements and breastworks, along with quarters for officers and some enlisted men. He held his hat on as he pounded on de Fermoy’s door.

  There was no response from inside. He pounded again, and waited. No light showed; there was no answer. He tried the door handle and shook his head. The door was deadbolted from inside. He took one step back, and kicked hard. The pine door frame splintered, the wind drove the door open and filled the room with dust. Baldwin walked in, propped the door closed with a chair, and fumbled in the dark for a lamp on the table.

  In the dim lamplight, he made out the form of de Fermoy on his
bed, lying on his side, face to the wall. The room reeked of wine and alcohol. Two empty bottles stood on the nightstand, with an overturned pewter mug. Baldwin shook de Fermoy’s shoulder.

  “Sir, the fort is being evacuated. General St. Clair . . .”

  The drunken man lay inert, making no move, no sound. Again Baldwin shook him, more roughly. “Sir, wake up! We’re evacuating!” he shouted. General de Fermoy swatted at his hand, then settled back into his alcoholic stupor. For a moment Baldwin did battle with a desire to jerk the man to his feet and slap him awake. Instead, he peeled back the blanket and once again shook de Fermoy’s shoulder, dropped his face a scant eight inches from de Fermoy’s ear, and fairly shouted, “Sir, you’ve got orders to evacuate! Wake up!”

  He came up with eyes clenched shut, wildly waving his hands, muttering, cursing loudly in French. He squinted in the yellow light, trying to focus, struggling to understand what was happening. “Who are you?” he blurted.

  “Colonel Baldwin. Under orders from General St. Clair. We’re evacuating the fort and your command . . .”

  The general swayed to his feet, furious. “You dare break into my quarters—shout at me—you will be disciplined—shot—”

  Something inside Baldwin snapped. His big hand clutched de Fermoy’s nightshirt at the throat, and he jerked the smaller man forward, nose to nose. His voice was very close to a snarl. “You’re drunk! The lives of twenty-five hundred good men hang in the balance, and you’re up here drunk. You’ve got your orders from General St. Clair. Now you get into those clothes and you get out there. Do it, or in the name of the Almighty, I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

  De Fermoy backed away, bleary eyed, battling to bring his brain out of an alcohol fog. He bobbed his head once, then reached for his trousers. Baldwin watched him struggle, then steady himself with one hand on the table while he worked to get a foot started down the pants leg. Disgust and anger plain on his face, Baldwin backed out the door, slammed it shut, and started across the small plateau. The moon had risen, a thin crescent of light that did almost nothing to ease the blackness of the windswept night.

  Baldwin awakened and rousted fifty confused, reluctant, sullen men from the crude log barracks near de Fermoy’s quarters, pushed and shoved them into rank and file, and marched them halfway down the north face of Mt. Independence to the powder magazine built of solid stone. In the wind-driven dust he ordered them to move the powder kegs down to the docks to be loaded onto the waiting bateaux and boats. Cursing, near mutiny, the men lifted them, two men to the keg, and with Baldwin leading the column, carrying his end of a keg, they moved down the path.

  The scene at the docks was utter chaos. Angry, confused men were dropping loads of tents, baggage, food, medicines, tools, muskets, and bullets in wild disorder. Officers stalked among them shouting orders above the wind, shoving, pushing the enlisted men to bring their loads to the boats. Half a dozen officers had drawn their sabers and were striking the men on their legs and backs with the flat side, threatening them with being shot on the spot if they did not obey. The lake was a mass of monstrous swells, wind-whipped to a froth, driving the huge, flat-bottomed bateaux and boats bucking, crashing against the heavy docks and pilings. Men swore as they struggled to load crates and boxes into vessels that were rising and falling six feet in the heaving swells, fearful of being crushed if they slipped on the slick, water-drenched planking and fell between the boat and dock.

  From out of the blackness, Lieutenant Thomas Blake and Colonel Udney Hay approached Baldwin from opposite directions, at the same instant, hats jammed tight against the wind.

  “We’re never going to get it all loaded,” Blake shouted, his words snatched by the wind. “There’s some looting going on right now. Clothing chests broken open, shirts and trousers and shoes disappearing.”

  “Pass orders that looters will be shot on sight,” Baldwin called back to him, and Blake hurried away.

  Colonel Udney Hay leaned forward to shout, “Where’s de Fermoy? Where are his men? They were supposed to be here working on the docks.”

  Baldwin pointed back up the trail. “Forty minutes ago he was still asleep. He should be on his way down here now, with his command.”

  Hay pointed back across the Great Bridge. “We got supplies in the wagons over by the fort, but no oxen. How do we get the wagons across the bridge?”

  Baldwin shook his head. “Get ropes and have the men pull them. What we don’t get across we’ll have to leave. We’ve got to be out of here by daybreak.”

  Hay gestured to the men milling about in a state of angry mass confusion. “These men are approaching panic. They wanted to stay and fight, and now they’re fast losing confidence that we can get them out of here. They know we don’t have enough wagons, oxen, boats. We’ve got to get this thing organized—keep them busy—or we’re going to have a revolt.”

  “I know. Move among them. Have them organize the crates and barrels. Get as many as you can on the docks, loading the boats. Anything to keep them busy. If de Fermoy doesn’t come soon, I’ll go back up there, and if I do, I want you along as a witness. I have St. Clair’s permission to put that man in irons if I have to.”

  Stunned, Hay straightened, then moved away, and Baldwin heard his voice booming out orders as he went, threatening, pleading, driving the men. Baldwin turned and nearly bumped into General St. Clair. He came to attention, waiting, as Isaac Dunn came in at a run, stopping abruptly as he recognized St. Clair in the dark.

  St. Clair wasted no words. “Where’s de Fermoy?” he demanded of Baldwin.

  Dunn broke in. “I just left him. He’s up there sitting on his luggage in front of his quarters doing nothing. I think he’s drunk.”

  Even in the darkness and howling wind, Baldwin and Dunn saw St. Clair’s face cloud with fury, and they heard it thick in his voice. “I’ll deal with him later. Go get Poor, Paterson, Francis, and Long and bring them here.”

  Within minutes all six men were gathered before St. Clair, panting from their run, wide-eyed as they waited for an explanation.

  St. Clair shouted rapidly. “It’s a little after one o’clock, and this is one of the shortest nights of the year. It’ll be daylight by four o’clock. General Long, the minute the boats are loaded with the cannon, gunpowder, stores, the sick and invalid, and the pay chest from the fort, you take command and lead the flotilla down to Skenesborough. Wait for us there. We’ll march overland to Castle Town, then west to meet you. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is the order of march. I give it to you now exactly as I gave it this morning at the war council.” He pointed to each man as he spoke. “Poor’s brigade leads. Next, Paterson’s brigade. Next, de Fermoy’s command. Last, Francis’s command, who will be the rear guard. I have placed brigades from the Continental army in the lead, and in the rear, with the inexperienced militia in the middle. The plan is for the continentals to keep the green militia in rank and file, and moving.”

  He turned to face Francis. “Did you give orders to have some of your men form a line across the peninsula so they can stop any American deserters from sneaking through to tell the British what we’re doing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This morning you were ordered to handpick your rear guard. Did you do it?”

  “I did, sir. They’re ready.”

  “Good. Do I have to tell you that the rear guard is the heaviest assignment in this operation? Your men have to stop, hold the British, retreat, stop, hold the British, as long as it takes. Have your men damage the bridge as much as they dare as they come across. Four of them are to man a cannon on this side to maintain fire on the British as long as they can as they try to cross the bridge. If your men fail, there will be nothing to stop the British from overrunning the entire column. It will be a massacre. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned back to Poor and Paterson. “Do you still have men over at the French Line? Still firing the cannon?”

 
“Yes, sir, three hundred handpicked men. They’ll become part of Francis’s rear guard. They know their orders.”

  “Get over and tell them to evacuate and be here at this landing ready to march not later than half past three. It will be light enough by four o’clock for the British to see what’s going on. Colonels Baldwin and Dunn, stay with me.”

  He paused for a moment, then spoke to all of them. “Be certain you get your regimental papers to General Long down on the docks. When his boats leave, we march out. Whatever isn’t loaded, leave it. Be sure to blow up what gunpowder we have to leave behind. Watch for militia. Most of them have never been in battle, and in the dark they’re going to lose touch with their officers and regiments and scatter. Grab them and put them in your units as you find them. Two Massachusetts regiments have already gone—gave me notice after dark that they didn’t sign on for this.”

  Standing there in the dark, chaos growing by the second, St. Clair tried to force a conclusion to what was to be his last war council with these men. They silently waited, nervous, anxious to get back to their commands, wanting only to get past this nightmare of trying to do the impossible in the black of night with an army of confused, angry men, coming ever closer to open rebellion.

  “Remember my order of this morning. On pain of arrest and trial, no one strikes a light between now and dawn. No fires, no lanterns, not even a candle.” He paused and took a great breath. “Unless you have something to say, we’re finished. God bless you all.”

  The officers turned on their heels and disappeared in the sounds and muddle of a disintegrating army. With Baldwin and Dunn at his side, St. Clair strode to the docks and found Long.

  “How close are you to being loaded?”

  “Close. We’ve got the fort records, and the supplies and guns and powder—as much as we can take—in the boats, and most of the sick and invalid. When the pay chest gets here, I think we can leave.”

  “Good. We won’t be far behind. How many bateaux and boats will you have?”

  “Just over two hundred.”