Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  He dramatically raised a hand. “For those reasons I chose to wait until we were well supplied. I will not allow momentary zeal to jeopardize the overall plan.”

  He glanced at his notes. “I’m aware that St. Clair and Schuyler have been active while we waited. I know they have been gathering what rebels they can from the local population, but I can assure you, when we are ready to move, there isn’t the slightest possibility of them stopping us.”

  He glanced again at his notes, then turned to von Riedesel. “You reported that while you were engaged with the rebels in and around Hubbardton you heard rumors from some of the loyalists of abundant grain and great numbers of horses to the east, toward the Connecticut River valley. Am I correct?”

  Von Riedesel nodded. “Ja. I was told many times. At Bennington is many horses. Much grain.”

  “I have reports of the same. I am working on a plan to send a column to get both horses and grain, and vast stores of food for our men. That will ease the strain on our supply lines. When that time comes, it is my present inclination to send Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Baum with a column to effect the mission.”

  Phillips’s mouth dropped open for one split second before he clacked it shut. Baum! Baum? Sending Baum east to get horses from colonial farmers? The man doesn’t speak one word of English! Precisely how is he going to ask a farmer for his horses? Shoot him first, then ask?

  For a moment a wistful look crossed Burgoyne’s face. “I can only wish I had authority to move east, instead of south. With this army, we could end this war soon enough if we could move on the Connecticut River basin quickly, to the heart of the rebellion.”

  For a moment every general at the table stared, startled at the thought. Burgoyne read their faces and tossed it off with a flip of his hand. “But I have no such authority, so we continue south.” He glanced momentarily into the face of each man. “Does anyone know where St. Clair is today?”

  The generals all smiled, then chuckled. Under British cannon on Mt. Defiance, and with Mt. Independence burning, St. Clair’s catastrophic stampede the night of July fifth left part of his army shot to pieces at Hubbardton, then Castle Town. He ran on toward Skenesborough to meet General Long and escape in bateaux, south, to Fort Edward. Burgoyne had read the plan perfectly and reached Skenesborough first, to lay it to utter waste on July sixth. Desperately St. Clair changed course, heading for Rutland, then discovered the British hot on his trail, and since then he had been reported in Pawlet, Dorset, Manchester, Fort Anne, and half a dozen other places, some of them not on any military map known to the British. While at Fort Anne, the British caught him again, and in a running fight he had abandoned his dead and set the place ablaze before disappearing into the forest. He had not been heard from since.

  Burgoyne went on. “I do know the whereabouts of General Schuyler. He’s south of us, trying to rally new recruits.” Slowly he lowered his eyes, and for a calculated moment remained silent, allowing a sense of drama to creep into the room.

  “Gentlemen, in my judgment we should proceed south, overland, to meet Schuyler, along with St. Clair if he joins him.” He pursed his lips as he measured the surprise in the face of each man.

  Fraser’s eyes narrowed as his mind raced. Overland? He’s changed the plan! We were to go south on the water—Lake Champlain, Lake George, the Hudson River! Not by land. Why? What does he know now that he didn’t know back in London when he laid out the master plan and Germain and the king approved it? Slowly Fraser leaned back in his chair, waiting for the explanation.

  A look of confident self-assurance passed over Burgoyne’s face. “I know that will surprise some of you, but let me explain.” He spread a map on the table, shifted it true to the compass, then leaned forward to lay his finger on Skenesborough. “We’re here. Should we carry on with the plan to move south by water, we will have to first move backwards, to the north, recross South Bay, and march past Mount Defiance, to the Chute, where Lake George empties into Lake Champlain. There we portage everything we have two miles up to Lake George, then turn around and sail right back south on the lake, to here, on the southern tip of the lake, where we will again be forced to portage everything we have overland twelve miles to the Hudson. It will take an enormous amount of time and energy. And worse, it will appear to the men to be a retreat, a retrograde, giving up ground we have already won. The impact on them could be serious. I will not do that to them.”

  Fraser leaned forward. “General, may I inquire?”

  This was General Simon Fraser, he who had thrown aside the book on military tactics in the chaos and howling gale of the night of July fifth, and seized the moment to go hot after St. Clair. With the north slopes of Mt. Independence ablaze, he had relentlessly pursued the fleeing Americans, giving them not one minute to slow, regroup, or prepare to do battle. When he caught them he engaged them, flanked them despite finding himself and his entire command suddenly in jeopardy. And when von Riedesel came in behind him with enough reinforcements to save him, it was Fraser who had heaped praise on von Riedesel, fairly and openly. This was Simon Fraser, favored of Burgoyne, admired, respected by every man at the table, loved by the men he commanded.

  Burgoyne nodded. “Of course.”

  “How far south by land?”

  “That depends on where we catch Schuyler and St. Clair.”

  “All the way to Fort Edward?”

  “If necessary.”

  Fraser cleared his throat. “I’m sure the general is aware there are places between here and Fort Edward that will literally stop an army of this size. There is one bog three miles wide that can only be crossed on a log causeway. If Schuyler destroys that causeway, our horses will be in muck up to their bellies, and the carts past their axles. We’ll be stalled for days. There are other places where half a dozen trees across our path will stop us. The rainfall this month has been heavy. Brooks are now streams, and streams are now rivers. We’ll have to build bridges to cross some of them. The overland route could be a hard thing.”

  Burgoyne nodded. “I understand, and there’s much to what you’ve said. However, what can be said about going south must also be said about going north, then back south on the lakes. We have to portage no matter which way we go. It’s a hard decision, but I think the proposition to go on south from here is sound.”

  For a moment Burgoyne studied his notes, and the men seated at the table glanced out the west windows. The rain had slackened, and the steady drumming had nearly stopped. Burgoyne picked it up once more.

  “Perhaps some of you know that the written orders delivered to me by Lord Germain were reviewed and specifically approved by King George.”

  He paused, and Fraser glanced at Phillips. Something’s coming, and he’s going to lay it at the feet of Germain and the king.

  “To be specific, both referred to the use of Indians to persuade the rebels to lay down their arms. Governor Tryon of New York, as well as General Carleton have wholeheartedly endorsed the plan.”

  In the ensuing pause, not one officer moved or spoke. The only sound in the room was the faint pelting of the slowing rain. Von Riedesel and von Specht felt a tremor ripple through their bodies at the thought of what was coming.

  “For that reason I have ordered an advance party of Indians to move into the countryside ahead of us to persuade the rebels to grant us peaceful passage south.”

  Every man at the table moved. Von Riedesel dropped his eyes and for several seconds refused to look up. He knew how every German soldier in the command hated, feared, detested, the very presence of Indians. Nothing in their entire lives had prepared them for the shock of fighting alongside men who painted themselves hideously to the waist, preferred to kill hand-to-hand with tomahawk and knife, hacked and dismembered their victims to eat their livers and flesh, made the quick, circular cut to the bone of the skull to jerk the scalp free, sometimes with their teeth, howled insanely, and moved in the forest with the silence of a shadow and the speed of a hawk. Von Specht turned his head far eno
ugh for the two German generals to exchange glances, and each man’s face was a mirror of the sick, dead feeling that had risen in their breasts.

  For three seconds Fraser let air quietly escape from his slightly rounded lips. He had seen enough of the Indians to know their allegiance was absolutely not to the British flag, nor the cause of restoring the rebellious colonies to British control. Regardless of the noble speeches made at the council fires, regardless of the promises made by men both white and red, regardless of the exchange of gifts and the rivers of rum delivered to the delighted Indians, the ultimate truth was, when the battles came, the Indians understood only three things: Kill. Take scalps. Plunder. And worse, when the bloodlust was upon them, they were blind to anything other than the color of skin of those they slaughtered. If it was white, it made little difference whether it was man, woman, or child, American, British, or German. Military discipline? The Indians did not know the meaning of the word. When orders were given, the stony-faced Indians heard what they wanted to hear, then did what they wanted to do, without the slightest deference to direct commands. The single authority that would capture their attention was the muzzle of a musket shoved in their face, with a British or German soldier on the other end, finger on the trigger, the hammer cocked.

  “General,” Fraser ventured, “who will command the Indians?”

  Burgoyne smiled, charisma dripping as though it were palpable. “Chevalier St. Luc de la Corne. A man who understands them and can control them.”

  Both Phillips and Fraser started. St. Luc! The most bloody, treacherous cutthroat in the northern regions—a sixty-six-year-old white man who had lived his adult life among the Indians and had risen to prominence and wealth by mastering and exploiting the Indian refinements of war, including eating parts of their slaughtered enemy. St. Luc had led the Indians in raids on settlements from Hudson’s Bay in Canada to New York in the United States. With him was the mixed-blood renegade Charles-Michel Monet de Langlade, who stood second only to St. Luc in his mastery of the arts of killing and treachery.

  Fraser swallowed hard. “Can St. Luc be controlled? Langlade?”

  Burgoyne nodded deeply. “St. Luc can manage Langlade, and he has assured me his Indians will conduct themselves within the guidelines of my orders.”

  Fraser pushed on. “The Indians have already been forty miles out in every direction attacking everything and everyone they find who might be considered rebels. Blood, mayhem, torture—they’ve killed at least forty of our own loyalists by mistake, most of them while they were on their knees, unarmed, begging. They’ve even killed a few German soldiers. If they are given license to make a general sweep to the east to persuade the rebels to cease hostilities, I fear for the consequences.”

  Burgoyne shook his head. “I believe St. Luc can control them. As you know by now, all colonials, both the loyalists and rebels, have a morbid fear of the Indians. Once it becomes known we will give the Indians a free hand among the American soldiers and rebels if they don’t cease resistance, they will stop soon enough.” He picked up a document and turned it toward them. “Remember, the idea is not mine. It is that of Lord Germain and the king, sanctioned by General Carleton and Governor Tryon.” He waited a moment, lowered the document, and for a meaningful moment locked eyes with Fraser and Phillips. Both men knew the signs. The discussion on the advisability of using the Indians was closed.

  Burgoyne glanced at the mantel clock. Two minutes past eight o’clock. For a moment he leaned over the map before him and was moving his finger to point when the rattle of musketfire reached the room. Startled, all faces turned toward the west windows, when the thundering blast of cannon close by sent vibrations through the room. Every man at the table jumped and instantly turned back to Burgoyne in question.

  “I believe our guests have arrived, gentlemen. That was their salute. I’ve arranged a formal ceremony in which I will give St. Luc and his Indians their orders with everyone present so there can be no misunderstanding. Carriages are waiting outside to take us all. If you’ll go ahead, I’ll be down after I clear the table.”

  Before any man could stand, Fraser raised a hand and all faces turned to him.

  “General, what tribe?”

  “Several. Ottawa, Fox, Mississauga, Ojibwa, Iroquois.”

  “Which Iroquois?”

  Burgoyne shrugged. “All six nations.”

  “Mohawk?”

  “Yes. Many. St. Luc has strong connections with the Mohawk.”

  Fraser’s eyes dropped, knowing the Algonquin root of the word “Mohawk” translated into “man-eaters” or “cannibals.” He could only hope against hope that Burgoyne had somehow conceived of a way to get them to rise above their heritage and subject themselves to British orders. Fraser continued.

  “I’ve heard that St. Luc has openly stated this war must be brutalized. Has he used that word?”

  Burgoyne slowly nodded. “Yes, he has. But it must be understood, his meaning was not that his Indians are to be turned into brutes who will practice murder and mayhem. He meant only that if we are to succeed in bringing the colonials scattered over the greater countryside under control, we must deal with them where they live. Defeating an army of militia on a battlefield will mean very little to families living twenty, thirty, fifty miles away. There is but one thing the families out on the farms and clearings will understand, and that is, Indians will visit them if they do not submit to us. I think the king, Germain, Tryon, and St. Luc are correct. The Indians can do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.”

  Fraser refused to retreat. “No one is concerned that it will have the opposite effect? Solidify the rebels against us?”

  “No. The Indian strikes against the rebels will be lightning fast and conclusive. We’ll have them and St. Clair and Schuyler well in hand before they can even consider any kind of organized resistance.”

  A knot of fear was tightening in Fraser’s stomach as he fell silent.

  Burgoyne concluded. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, the carriages are waiting. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Fraser rose last and followed the other officers to the door. He closed it behind them and turned back to Burgoyne. He wasted no time.

  “General, a few days ago you received a message from General William Howe. I know the plan for this expedition includes meeting him at Albany. There is considerable speculation among your officers about what his message had to say. Does it have anything to do with a change of plan? Does he still intend meeting us in Albany?”

  It came too suddenly. Burgoyne was not ready for the deep insights of Fraser, nor the cold nerve it took for an inferior officer to broach such a pivotal question to his commanding officer. For five full seconds Burgoyne stared at Fraser as he weighed his answer and chose his words. The rain had stopped, and the only sounds were the fading steps of boots on the staircase, then the closing of the downstairs door, and the dripping of water from the eaves. Then Burgoyne lowered his eyes and began folding the map, forcing a sense of casual unconcern.

  “He mentioned Philadelphia. Either before he comes to Albany, or after he finishes at Albany, I think he intends taking Philadelphia.” He stopped working with his hands, raised his head, and smiled broadly. “He was most complimentary of our success at Fort Ti. Said many warm things about your performance. And that of von Riedesel. I’ll share the document with you at a more appropriate time.”

  For a moment Fraser stood silent, unmoving, as he read Burgoyne’s eyes and expression. He won’t say it—Howe’s not coming to Albany to meet us! He held his face deadpan as he nodded. “Thank you, sir. That would be nice.” He turned on his heel and walked out the door.

  As it closed, Burgoyne leaned forward, palms flat on the table. He knows. Intelligent, intuitive, perceptive Simon. He knows, and he won’t tell a soul, and he will give everything that’s in him to support me. Should I have told him? Maybe. Yes. I should have. I should have. But whether I did or not, he knows. For a time Burgoyne did not move as he struggle
d with his inner turmoil. If Howe doesn’t come up the Hudson to meet us . . . if somehow we can’t catch and destroy St. Clair and Schuyler . . . if we get stalled at that three mile swamp . . . if the Americans cut our supply line behind us . . . Suddenly he straightened and quickly finished folding the map, stacked the papers on top, closed them inside his portfolio, and shoved it in the table drawer.

  Let Howe go on to Philadelphia. St. Leger’s coming in from the west, down the Mohawk River. He’ll have an army with him. With what I already have, that will be more than enough. And, there’s always Clinton. He’s there just outside New York. He’ll come if needed. The rebels might delay us, but they’ll never stop us.

  He strode quickly from the room, his heels clicking on the stairs as he descended to the carriages and his officers, waiting in front of the mansion. The Ninth Regiment formed on either side of the column, and with the Union Jack fluttering proudly in the breeze, and their red coats shining in the first rays of the sun piercing the clouds, the regulars marched out smartly to escort their commander in chief away from the blackened wreckage of Skenesborough to the lush emerald green of the forest.

  St. Luc’s Indians—more than five hundred—stood in two lines forty feet apart, facing each other. As the British column approached, St. Luc walked out midway between the rows of Indians to face the oncoming British, and the soldiers and buggies stopped. Burgoyne, dressed immaculately in his general’s uniform with the red tunic and lavish gold braid sparkling, descended from his carriage to meet St. Luc, who was dressed in a green woodsman’s shirt and leggings, both fringed, and trimmed in silver.

  Their greeting was a profuse demonstration of heaping words of praise on each other, shaking hands, and clapping each other on both shoulders, calculated to impress everyone. When they were certain they had achieved their show of mutual respect and solidarity, St. Luc turned and led the general forward, each walking proudly, erect, looking neither right nor left, every inch the leaders of warriors. They approached a high arbor prepared by St. Luc, with felled trees on both sides where the British officers were to be seated.