by Eric Flint
Amherst had reviewed the troops who remained at Halifax and then returned here to New York to prepare for the coming campaign, now confirmed as commander in chief of His Majesty’s Forces in North America. There had been nothing for it but to wait for reinforcement; though instead of good old Edward Boscawen, the Admiralty had informed him that the new expedition would be led by Admiral Saunders . . . and would include James Wolfe, who had sailed back to England in late summer in what Amherst could only describe as a huff.
And now . . . word had come from Halifax, and reports had arrived from sea, indicating that something had happened—some terrible storm, or irruption, or—a variety of other things that Amherst discounted as seamen’s imagination. There were apparently no reinforcements for his planned campaign up the Hudson River, and none to force their way up the Saint Lawrence toward Québec. He was expecting to get an accurate report from Wolfe. What he was not expecting was a demand (disguised as a “request”) to present himself to a young prince who was part of the Halifax expedition.
There was no alternative but to appear in his best dress uniform and to offer his politest bow and sharpest salute. And then there would be a more detailed discussion.
Amherst and his staff were waiting as the carriage halted outside Fort George. A dress-uniformed lieutenant opened the door and held it as Prince Edward and General James Wolfe disembarked. Salutes were exchanged, and the two visitors turned toward the gate of the fort. Two staff officers stepped down to the cobbles on their own.
To Amherst, the prince looked composed and calm, showing considerable dignity for a young man his age. Wolfe’s angular face was tilted, his nose pointed upward as if he was sniffing the New York air. It seemed almost rude—about what he would have expected from the younger officer.
The visitors approached and the prince and general offered Amherst smart salutes.
“Your Royal Highness,” Amherst said. “You honor us with your visit.” And to Wolfe, he nodded and said, “General.”
Wolfe looked ready to respond, but wisely waited for the prince to speak.
“I wish we were here under more auspicious circumstances, General Amherst,” Prince Edward said. “General Wolfe and I are eager to apprise you of current events.” He paused and looked from Wolfe to Amherst. “But perhaps first . . . one of your subordinates could give me a brief tour of this excellent fort.”
Amherst took a moment to respond, then beckoned to the lieutenant who had received the carriage. “Show His Highness our disposition, if you please,” he ordered, which shortly left him alone with Wolfe.
“General,” Wolfe said.
“General,” Amherst answered. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your advancement.”
“Does it trouble you, sir?”
“Does it matter whether it troubles me or not? I confess to being surprised, Wolfe. I would have thought that your rather abrupt attitude regarding my strategic decisions would have kept you from being considered for any sort of advancement.”
“Apparently others disagree,” Wolfe sniffed. “But in any case, it hardly matters now. We had our chance to defeat the French last summer, General, and that was our last opportunity. The world is fundamentally changed now.”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
Wolfe explained, in the simplest terms he could manage, what they had seen and heard since the crossing of the Atlantic several weeks earlier, including their experience aboard Neptune and the accounts given by the men of Magnanime. It was given in a tone that stopped just short of insolence; but Amherst listened intently. Wolfe was headstrong, impetuous and dismissive of those with whom he had disputes, but he was also intelligent, brave and had no reason whatsoever to dissemble.
“This is . . . very disturbing news,” Amherst said at last. “An extended breach of contact with home will certainly affect our ability to defeat the enemy.”
“By which you mean the French.”
“Of course. Who else do you consider the enemy, General? Aren’t we here in America to fight the French?”
“Yes, of course. But I don’t know how we should be expected to proceed. We assumed that this year we would have several thousand troops to prosecute the war—here in New York, in the Maritimes, and wherever else. Those men are gone. They are either beyond the new boundary or have drowned in the Atlantic. Whatever we do, whatever we wish to do, will have to be done without them.”
“And what, if anything, do you advise?”
“I think we have two choices, sir. We either use all of our forces to prosecute the campaign right away. After all, the French will be as isolated as we are, and we have the advantage of numbers.”
“And the second alternative?”
“Though it pains me to say it, General Amherst, the other choice is to seek an armistice.”
“Our king has not authorized us to negotiate anything of the sort.”
“Our king . . . ” Wolfe looked away toward Prince Edward, who was carefully examining a field piece in the company of a young lieutenant. “General Amherst, from the time the event occurred, I believe that the mantle of kingship descended upon that young man. We may never see our sovereign again—but in the meanwhile, we have someone who may have to take his place.”
If Amherst were of a different character, it might have rankled him to think that Wolfe was right about the stark choice presented by the events the younger man had described. But personal animus, he knew, must always bow before pragmatic necessity.
With staff assembled and at least some of the stiff parade-ground uniform dispensed with, he outlined the situation in detail for Prince Edward.
“We have half a thousand Blues from New Jersey, and about a quarter of the promised five thousand provincials from Pennsylvania. I would have none of them, of course, if I had not threatened to withdraw garrisons from their Ohio forts—the Quakers would rather stand by and watch their colony be overrun than take a musket in their hands and defend their hearth.
“In addition, there are nearly two thousand New Yorkers, with another thousand currently encamped near Albany, and a thousand men from Connecticut. The promised troops from Massachusetts have not arrived. I expect that the events in Salem you describe—” Amherst gave the slightest of nods to Wolfe—“have delayed, or possibly even prevented, their departure.”
“What about regulars, General?” the prince asked.
“The 17th, 27th, 53rd and 55th are at Albany, along with some artillery and rangers.”
“Rangers?”
“Irregular forces, Your Highness,” Amherst replied. “Under the command of Major Rogers, an . . . unusually skilled woodsman. They are used for scouting and special missions. Invaluable man, though his methods are somewhat unorthodox.”
Wolfe looked uncomfortable at the idea—whether it was due to the described method of warfare, or the fact that the man was a provincial, Amherst wasn’t sure. Wolfe had made some extremely uncharitable observations about Americans during the previous summer’s campaign.
He’d best get used to them, Amherst thought. They are our countrymen and neighbors now.
“In any case,” Amherst continued, “I do not know when these forces will be ready to embark. My supplies are not yet prepared, and I do not have most of my American troops in camp.”
“If I may ask,” Wolfe said archly, “what is your best estimate of an embarkation date?”
“Mid-June, perhaps.”
“That is nearly two months from now,” Prince Edward said quietly. “With respect, General, many things may have changed by then.”
“With respect, Highness,” Amherst answered, “if General Wolfe’s conjectures and observations as well as your own portray the situation correctly, then this is the only army I am likely to have. As he has pointed out to me, the circumstances of our isolation apply equally to the enemy. There is no reason to deploy our forces prematurely or to act peremptorily.
“Carillon, and its garrison, will still be there whenever we arrive to bes
iege it. I have every intention of meeting it with adequate force and proper supplies and accomplish my task with deliberation, instead of failing it with unnecessary haste as my predecessor clearly did. That was the command of my king, and I will fulfill it . . . unless ordered otherwise.”
There was a long pause, and Amherst focused his attention on the royal prince seated before him. When he finished speaking, Edward was looking intently at the map of the Hudson Valley; but as the room remained quiet, he looked up at Amherst, meeting him gaze for gaze.
“I think it would be improper to change those orders at this time, General,” the prince said at last.
Yet he does not abdicate the authority to do so in the future, Amherst thought. Interesting.
“What is the situation of the troops at Albany, General?” Wolfe asked.
“I only know what my dispatches tell me,” Amherst answered. “Perhaps you might wish to inspect their disposition yourself.”
“Are you proposing to send me to Albany, sir?”
“It is within my authority, sir,” Amherst snapped back. “But as you may in some way be obliged to His Highness, I would be more inclined to make it a request. I am sure we would both benefit from the direct observation of a trained military man.”
Wolfe appeared to be ready with a response, but Prince Edward held up his hand.
“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly and deliberately, not taking his eyes from Amherst. “As your expected deployment date is several weeks hence, General, I would assume that it would be possible to travel to Albany and back in the interim and obtain first-person intelligence. Am I correct? I do not have more than a very . . . superficial knowledge of this country’s geography. Every stretch of land seems unutterably vast.”
“It is a week’s journey by boat up the river, now that spring has come,” Amherst said. “Perhaps five days’ ride, though that might be strenuous. A hundred and fifty miles.”
“I assume one man on horseback could make better time than that,” Wolfe said.
“Two men,” the prince said, placing his hand on his breast.
“More than two men,” Amherst said, before Wolfe had a chance to reply. “If His Highness is determined to go by horse or riverboat to Albany, he will be accompanied by a troop of soldiers.”
“That will slow the trip down considerably,” Wolfe said. “General—”
“I brook no disagreement. A prince of the House of Hanover traveling with only one companion through the wilds of the Colony of New York? Preposterous.”
“The . . . ‘wilds of the Colony of New York,’ General? This land was settled more than a century ago. Surely—”
“It does not matter, Wolfe. We are at war; the wild part of the colony commences as soon as you pass beyond the Haarlem village. Your Highness says he does not understand the vastness of America? Well, here it is—on display, not a half-hour’s ride from where we sit.
“So, surely not, Wolfe. No royal person will be traveling anywhere, including within the boundaries of this city, unless he is escorted in a manner that befits his station. Am I understood?”
In the end, it was only two dozen men from the 40th, which had in part accompanied the prince to New York, who were detailed to ride with him and General Wolfe to Albany. It was less than Amherst wanted to send; he knew that Wolfe was impetuous, and eager to be in action—but he recognized the need for the group to move quickly and conceded.
Still, as they rode away from New York the following morning, a fifer playing “God Save the King,” Amherst felt a palpable dread.
Chapter 19
It is no place to go
Albany
To most residents of the colony of New York, “Albany” meant “the rest of the colony”—everything upriver from Manhattan, the great wilderness where trappers caught beavers and savage Indians lurked with their scalping-knives. The troopers of the 40th were on edge during the entire journey upcountry, but Prince Edward was welcomed by gentleman farmers—patroons, in the half-Dutch half-English parlance that prevailed out in the country—and met no trappers (or knife-wielding Indians) during the entire journey.
Still, it was clear that rumor of his travels ran ahead of him at unheard-of speed, so that by the time they came upon Albany town—a compact settlement on the left bank of the Hudson River—his arrival was expected. On the south boundary of the town, near the gates of a spacious plantation that spanned a wide, well-maintained bridge, there was a banner bearing the royal coat-of-arms. A delegation of city fathers led by a substantial man of middle years was waiting for the dignitary and his entourage when they approached.
Wolfe was strongly in favor of nodding and riding on, but Prince Edward was having none of that; he raised his hand and the troop halted. The portly man stepped forward an offered what to Wolfe seemed to be an insufficient bow, and then spoke before the prince did—both of which made Wolfe want to swat him with the flat of his sword.
“Your Highness,” the man said in accented English, “permit me to present myself. I am Jacob Van Schaick, the sheriff of this county. We are honored and pleased to welcome you to Albany city.”
The young prince did not respond in a way that suggested that the provincial insulted him; instead, he was extremely cordial.
“You honor me with your welcome, Mynheer Von Schaick.” The Dutch title made the portly man smile, making Wolfe want to swat him a second time. “I am not sure what role the sheriff fills here in America, but I am sure that you must be a person of some stature to be chosen to lead those sent out to meet me. Is the entire—city—in your charge?”
“Oh, no, no indeed,” the man answered. “Within Albany itself I am an alderman—a subordinate in charge of one of the city’s wards—”
“I know what an alderman is, Mynheer. Pray continue.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course, your Highness does.” He gathered himself and continued. “But I assure you that, while a subordinate, I am fully qualified to serve as an emissary of the proper station to receive Your Highness and his . . . servants.”
As Wolfe bristled but remained silent, Prince Edward turned slightly toward him and said, “This is General James Wolfe, Mynheer Von Schaick. His heroic action at Louisbourg last summer helped secure that fortress for our King. He will be inspecting the troops here; I am sure that you will show him all of the courtesies—and respect”—his voice acquired a serious, hard edge that the alderman clearly noticed—“that his rank and station deserves.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Without another word, Von Schaick bowed as he retreated, then mounted his own horse. He and the others who had accompanied him—and who remained unintroduced—led Prince Edward and General Wolfe into Albany.
Though bigger than Halifax, Albany did not impress Wolfe as anything more than a frontier settlement. It was a trifle less grimy than he would have expected, as a place where fur traders and trappers met to do business; perhaps that was due to the nominally Dutch nature of the place. The streets were clean, and the houses were neat. Troops were deployed on the bluffs to the west of the town, along one of the creeks that flowed into it. After paying their respects to Von Schaick’s household—his wife Catharina and his four young children, as well as his older brother Sybrant (another alderman), Sybrant’s wife, and six other young ones—and a handful of cousins and “family members” who clearly wanted a glance at a royal prince—they were able to make their way to the encampment.
Prince Edward and General Wolfe were escorted at once to the tent of the commanding officer, Brigadier-General John Prideaux. He welcomed them politely but cordially, showing little of the awe that the alderman of Albany had possessed. He was a tall, plain man, about the same age as Amherst, who seemed comfortable in his uniform—a true veteran soldier.
Edward noted that, like Amherst, Prideaux was acquainted with Wolfe.
“Dettingen,” Prideaux explained, when the three men were seated, and the prince remarked upon it. “Young Wolfe here and I were both on the battlefield with His
Royal Highness that day. And, I think, we both acquitted ourselves with honor.”
“I agree,” Wolfe said. “Though General Prideaux was of a somewhat higher rank and, therefore, with greater responsibility.”
“I was an adjutant, nothing more. But we’ll have greater things ahead of us, I hope,” Prideaux noted. “Though . . . I am somewhat disturbed by reports I have had from our rangers.”
“What sort of reports?”
“I think it would be better that you have that directly,” Prideaux answered. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending for—” he stopped and looked up at a figure who had appeared in the doorway of his field tent. “Ah, and here he is. Tell me, Major Rogers, did the sentry admit you, or did you just sneak past him?”
“I am responding to your orders, General,” the man answered. His broad drawl made him out to be an American, though Wolfe could not place him. Rogers was a tall, spare figure, dressed in something that only approximated a uniform; it was clothing better suited to wilderness travel than a parade ground, and it showed signs of frequent, and hard, use. He gave a salute to Prideaux and then to Wolfe and sketched a bow to the prince.
“I have chosen to forbear discussion of your report, Major Rogers,” Prideaux said. “I thought it would be more informative coming directly from you.”
