by Ron Carter
The call came down the line from General St. Clair at the head of the column. Not far ahead—Lacey’s Camp—north end of Lake Bomoseen—open ground—rest—food—not far ahead—not far—Hubbardton just one mile after Lacey’s Camp—ten miles from Castle Town—not far—keep moving.
At five minutes past one o’clock, with the sun directly overhead hammering down like a blacksmith’s sledge, few soldiers saw the farmer run to St. Clair, stop, and point ahead, exclaiming excitedly. Nor did they notice St. Clair’s shoulders sag for a moment before the farmer turned and ran back up the trail, out of sight. Only General Poor knew the message the farmer had delivered to St. Clair, and Poor sucked air as it struck home.
Thomas Hubbard had received a grant to a parcel of property in 1774 and built a crude log cabin and outbuildings as the beginnings of a settlement. Eight additional families had come, the Sellecks being the most recent, and together the families had cleared the land to graze their cattle, sheep, and pigs, proudly calling their settlement Hubbardton. That was before the British advance raiding parties struck two days before, and took some of the families prisoner while the others grabbed their children, threw some cheese, dried meat, and bread into a blanket, abandoned everything else, and disappeared into the woods, running for Massachusetts from whence they had come.
The farmer had told St. Clair, with Poor listening, that a force of raiding British, mixed with Tories and Indians, still remained at the Hubbardton settlement. The Americans were walking into what could be a trap.
St. Clair sat his horse in the humid heat, sweating, forcing his mind to work. Should he stop at Lacey’s Camp to rest his men, who were nearing the breakdown point? If there were British and Indians ahead at Hubbardton, did they have scouts who had discovered the American column coming? With Fraser behind and a raiding party ahead, did he dare stop, and run the risk of letting his army be caught between the two forces?
Running on grit alone, he made his decision. He reined his horse around to face the leading officers. “We will not stop at Lacey’s Camp. We march straight on through to Hubbardton. If we find the enemy there we will engage them. Pass the word.”
Poor wiped the sweat from his eyes and asked, “Think the men can make it?”
“No choice. We can fight what might be ahead in Hubbardton, or we can fight what is behind if we have time to prepare. But we can’t fight both if we stop and they come from both sides at once. Keep moving.”
Poor nodded agreement and turned his lathered horse around.
The officers rode their sweat-flecked horses on either side of the column as they came into the Lacey’s Camp clearing, pushing their men on, refusing to allow any of them to falter or break away from the column to rest. They trudged up the incline, through the notch on Sargent Hill, then down the slope to Sucker Creek. They slogged through the small stream, then up a gentle hill to a stone wall, and stepped over into a field cleared of all trees. Before them was a loose cluster of crude log houses with a scatter of outbuildings.
Hubbardton.
Nothing moved in the dead, sweltering heat. The doors and windows in half the houses stood partly open, cattle pens with the gate bars down and the cattle gone, chicken coops empty, pig and sheep pens deserted, doors to most root cellars thrown open. Cautiously St. Clair led the column into the center of the clearing, every man with his musket primed, ready. There was no sound, no call, no challenge, no shifting shadows in the surrounding trees.
St. Clair halted the column and turned to Poor. “Appears deserted. See anyone?
“No, sir. Whoever was here is gone.”
St. Clair drew out his watch. “Five minutes before one o’clock. Order a rest until further notice. Get the men into shade. Find food for them if you can. Pass the word.”
“Some men brought a few cattle from the fort, and picked up a few more on the way.”
“Slaughter them for the men. Check the root cellars and houses for anything they can find to eat.”
“Yes, sir. How long will we be here?”
“I won’t know until we finish a scout to find out if the British raiders and the Indians are waiting out there in ambush. If they’re not, I’ll wait a while for the rear guard to catch up. If they are too long, we’ll have to keep moving. Find a captain and ten men who are up to it and have them make a circle one mile out, then report back. In the meantime get pickets posted and tell them to keep sharp watch.”
Wearily the men in St. Clair’s command shot the cattle where the hair swirled in the forehead, dressed, skinned, and quartered them. With flies swarming, they laid the hides in the grass, hair down, built fires and gathered and sharpened sticks while others cut thick chunks of meat and piled them on the hides. Ravenous men speared them on the sticks, seared them over the fires, and sat down to eat them smoking, dripping blood and grease. They wiped their fingers and their beards on their shirtsleeves, drank tepid water from their canteens, and collapsed in the shade, asleep in seconds.
At twenty minutes past two o’clock, the captain led his patrol of ten sweaty, bone-weary continentals back to General Poor.
“Sir, we’ve made the circle, maybe a mile and a half out. Nothing out there except some pigs rooting in the creek and two milk cows and one local farmer, hiding in a cave. He said about five hundred British and Tories and Indians left yesterday, headed on south to Castle Town.”
Poor nodded. “I’ll tell General St. Clair. You men go back to your units. Should be some meat left from the beef we slaughtered. When you can, go find those milk cows and pigs and bring them in to slaughter for food.”
“We’ll do that, sir.” The captain wiped his mouth. “Can’t tell you how good that beef smells cooking.”
Poor watched them leave, leg-weary, shirts sweated through, then turned to find St. Clair.
“General, the captain reported no British or Indians within more than a mile. They found a local farmer hiding. He said the bunch that were here left yesterday, headed east.”
St. Clair nodded. “Then we’ll wait here and let the men rest until Francis and the rear guard get here. If it gets too late we’ll send the main body on and leave orders for them to catch up with us. Tell the men, and keep pickets out until then.” He looked at his watch again. Two-forty p.m.
At ten minutes past three, St. Clair began to pace, nervous, apprehensive, glancing constantly to the west, down the road, searching for the first sign of the rear guard. At three-thirty he walked to where Poor sat in the shade, propped against a tree.
“We can’t wait longer. We don’t know how many British are coming, or who’s leading them. If they catch us here they could hurt us. Get Colonel Warner and meet me over in that house as soon as you can.” He pointed.
Ten minutes later, seated at the table in the abandoned home of the Selleck family, St. Clair leaned forward and gave his orders to Seth Warner, commander of the one hundred fifty Green Mountain boys from New Hampshire. “Colonel, we’re risking too much if we remain here any longer. I’m going to take the main body and move on to Castle Town. You remain here with your command. When Colonel Francis arrives, give his men a little time to rest and eat. You know this area better than the others, so you take command of his men, and the New Hampshire Second Regiment under Colonel Hale. Leave here in time to come within a mile and a half of Castle Town before dark, and camp there tonight. I will be in Castle Town, and I need you between my command and the British, if they get that far. Tomorrow morning have your troops fed and marching not later than four o’clock a.m. I’ll be waiting for you. From Castle Town, I will lead the entire force on west to Skenesborough. We will meet Long and his command and all the supplies and guns he transported in the bateaux on the lake. From there we sail on south, eventually to Albany. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I repeat, leave here in time to camp one and one half miles outside Castle Town tonight. I’ll expect you to be there, and in my camp tomorrow morning by six o’clock a.m. Long’s depending on us.”
&
nbsp; “I understand.”
At ten minutes before four o’clock, St. Clair rode out, leading the main body of his command south on the road to Castle Town.
At five minutes past four o’clock, Captain John Woolcott cautiously approached the clearing from the west end, leading the first of the rear guard in at the very moment the last of St. Clair’s command was leaving the east end. Weary beyond his endurance, Woolcott led his men to one side and ordered a rest while the remainder of the rear guard stumbled into the campground. He slumped down in the shade of an oak tree, and within seconds his head tipped forward, and he was asleep.
Warner stood still to watch Francis’s command stagger in. They came strung out, sweated, dragging their muskets, exhausted beyond talking, with no pretense of rank and file. Officers led their men to the nearest shade where they dropped to the ground and did not move. Warner counted three hundred—five hundred—and still they came until there were one thousand. Mixed among them were some sick and invalid, and at least fifty whose only impediment was sweating out the tortures of too much rum in the night. The last man in the column was Francis, mounted on a sweating horse that showed ridges of white lather every place leather touched him—bridle, saddle, and girth. Warner walked to him as Francis dismounted and stood still for a moment, waiting for his quivering legs to take his weight.
Warner came straight to the point. “How close are they?”
Francis pulled his sweat-stained tricorn from his head. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and the hatband marks were plain. “Several hours. Had a little shooting at first, but after we got under way it stopped.”
“We left you with less than five hundred men. Where did you get over a thousand?”
Francis shook his head. “Stragglers. Sick. Invalids. Drunks. All the ones who couldn’t keep up with their own units and fell back. We gathered them up as we came. Slowed us down, but what else could we do? Had to leave over one hundred as it was, too sick to go another step, and we didn’t have time to make litters, and no men to carry them if we did.” His eyes dropped for a moment, and he shook his head again. “Hated to leave them, but there was nothing else to do.”
“Got any food for your men?”
“Not much. You got any?”
“We slaughtered some beef. Might be some left if they don’t mind shanks and livers and brains. Maybe something’s left in the root cellars. Settle your men as soon as you can and meet me in that house over there. Bring Colonel Hale.”
With their men lying prostrate in the shade, Francis and Hale walked across the clearing to the Selleck home, pushed through the front door, waited for their eyes to adjust from the glare of the five o’clock sun, and then sat on plain, rough-cut pine chairs.
Warner spoke to both of them. “How much more of this can your men take without rest and food?”
Francis had his tricorn in his hand, wiping at the sweatband with the sleeve of his shirt. “Lucky we got this far. I doubt they can go two more miles without nourishment and sleep.”
Hale pursed his lips for a moment. “If my men march two more miles without sleep and something to eat, they’ll be worthless for forty-eight hours. If the British caught up with us right now, my command might make a fight of it until dark. But if they go further, I doubt they’d be able to resist a British attack.”
Warner’s face clouded. He leaned back in his chair, staring at his hands on the table while St. Clair’s orders echoed in his brain. March on today—camp one and one half miles outside Castle Town—must have you between the main body and the British—depending on you.
He raised his eyes and for long moments studied the two officers before him. They were as good as the Continental army had to offer. Colonel Hale, New Hampshire, political leader, then captain in the New Hampshire militia, and the one who marched his regiment from Cambridge to Lexington when the redcoats marched out the night of April 18, 1775, to quash the revolution before it began. Fought brilliantly at Bunker’s Hill, then under Washington at Long Island and in New Jersey.
Ebenezer Francis from Beverly, Massachusetts. A captain in 1775, then promoted by the Continental Congress to lead one of Massachusetts’ fifteen battalions. Three brothers who were officers, he had left his home and five children to go defend Fort Ticonderoga. Tough, fair, fearless, admired and loved by his troops, despite the fact he drove them hard when he had to. His regiment was held to be one of the best in St. Clair’s command, under Francis’s leadership.
Warner himself, from Connecticut. It was Warner who brilliantly covered the retreat from Breed’s Hill. Lately moved to Bennington, he became a skilled woodsman and was the only one of the three who knew the country they were passing through.
Flies buzzed in the silence while Warner suffered the loneliness and hot tortures of command, weighing St. Clair’s clear orders to march this body of men on, against what he considered the cold, harsh reality that in his opinion these men could not make such a march and remain ready to fight. The camp was in a strong position. Good water, roads both north and south if they had to run, hedges of trees surrounding the clearing for cover, cut by the families who had abandoned the settlement. They could fight here if they had to.
He narrowed his eyes as he placed the crucial question in the avoirdupois of his mind. Can the British arrive here before morning? He watched to see which side of the scales raised and which side lowered. In the small, hot kitchen of the deserted Selleck house, he reached his decision. He turned to Warner.
“We’ll camp here for the night. Tell your men. Later, when they’ve rested and it’s cooler we’ll fell some trees for breastworks to defend the clearing if we’re attacked.”
* * * * *
In the black of night, British Brigadier General Simon Fraser stood outside his command tent, feet spread slightly, staring wide-eyed across South Bay. Minutes earlier fire had erupted on the east face of Mt. Independence, with flames shooting a hundred feet in the air, driving sparks swirling upwards into the night. A few of the British command had bounded from their tents to stand in amazement, confounded by the sight of the clean, clear silhouettes of hundreds of Americans scrambling on the mountain side. Lower, at the docks, they could make out a dim muddle of men working with horses and oxen and wagons among growing heaps of kegs and crates and boxes. The firelight caught dark figures crossing the Great Bridge carrying baggage south to the bateaux waiting at the Mt. Independence docks.
Fraser palmed his watch from its pocket and turned the face toward the fire. Ten minutes past three a.m., July sixth. He turned on his heel and narrowly avoided colliding with his aide, Major Hugh Billingsley.
“Come with me, Major,” he said, and the two strode quickly back to his command tent. Hurriedly Fraser wrote a message, folded and sealed it, and thrust it to Billingsley. “Take that to General Burgoyne immediately.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask, sir, what the rebels are doing over there?”
Fraser’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “I don’t know. It has all the appearance of a general evacuation. Maybe they saw our guns on top of Mount Defiance and realized they can’t hold Fort Ti. Or maybe it’s an elaborate hoax to draw us into an ambush, or at least get us within range of their grapeshot. Until I know, I’m going to be cautious. The moment you’ve delivered that message to General Burgoyne, find Lieutenant Twiss and bring him here. I’ll have the regimental colors hoisted as the gathering point. I’m taking two companies from my command over there to look.”
Later, with Twiss and Billingsley beside him, Fraser led his picked men to Fort Ticonderoga, lying dark, silent, eerie in the night. He paused to order a major and one hundred men to post themselves at the fort while he continued on. He and his men halted as they came in sight of the Great Bridge. With the wind howling at their backs, they studied the structure, rising and falling on the huge swells. In the first traces of light they saw the bridge was vacant and intact. Quickly Fraser had his men lay new planks where some of the old ones had been torn up by the fleeing rebels. The
y all paused at the sight of a young lieutenant working his way to meet them at the halfway point on the bridge.
“Sir, Captain Ottaman and his company have gone on ahead, chasing the rebels. He sent me with a message for you.”
Fraser steadied himself on the pitching bridge. “What’s the message?”
“The rebels have abandoned everything, sir. Fort Ti, Mount Independence, everything.”
Fraser considered, then said, “Take your message on to General Burgoyne.”
He watched the young officer pass on, then turned to Billingsley. “Send ten men to catch Captain Ottaman and tell him to return to this command. I don’t want him engaging the rebels before I’m ready.”
“Yes, sir.” Billingsley turned, spat orders, and two minutes later Fraser watched an eager captain lead ten men forward to disappear in the darkness.
Fraser slowed and stopped as he cleared the bridge and walked among the stacks of crates and boxes and kegs strewn all over the ground and on the docks at the foot of Mt. Independence. Incredulous, he recognized the signs. The Americans had been panic-stricken. Besides abandoning more than a hundred tons of supplies, dozens of cannon, and a mountain of gunpowder ready to be blown up, they had left clothing, razors, combs, letters from home—countless personal things—thrown down at random. Thousands of dollars in Continental paper currency blew in the wind, tumbling along the ground to catch on broken cases and the spokes of wagon wheels.
With the approaching sun lighting the underside of low eastern clouds, his men could not resist the temptation. Quickly they scattered, searching through the heaps of abandoned things for money, souvenirs, anything of value. Infuriated, Fraser strode among them, shouting orders, threatening, commanding his officers to take control of their men on pain of courts-martial if they failed.
