“And what then,” one of the soldiers shouted from the far side of the fire. “How do get off this God-forsaken place?”
“The same way we arrived. By boat,” Nathaniel answered, leaving them to puzzle it out.
“We should wait here for those ahead to return and rescue us,” one said loudly. Others grunted their agreement. “Why does the bloody sailor decide?” someone grumbled from the shadows, in a slurred voice.
Holmes ignored their continued muttering. He sat down on his knapsack, ate some hard biscuit, washed it down with a swallow of cider and stared into the flames. The soldiers would not dare to attack him at night, he thought. But rum could encourage the most cowardly. If it didn’t make them drowsy first. He decided to move away from the rocky beach and keep his axe nearby. When he thought most of them were asleep, he quietly rose, and walked away from the fire. He found a broad tree trunk to rest against, pulled his cloak up behind his neck and, with his knees against his chest, fell asleep his right hand grasping the axe handle.
He awoke numb and stiff before sunrise to a clearing sky. The wind was now gusting briskly from the northeast. Chilly but most welcome, Nat thought. It would fill the sails and take them to Fort George at the southern end of the lake. The two large bonfires had burned down to glowing red embers. He scraped the hot coals together with a stick and flames leaped up. After throwing the remaining brush and a few roughly cut logs on the fires, he awoke the Sergeant. They would have to move quickly to take advantage of the limited hours of winter daylight.
“The wind is favorable. Rouse your men. We must get to work.”
At first, the men didn’t understand. When it was clear they had to wade back into the frigid lake waters and bail the scow out, they rebelled. Nathaniel’s original plan was to have all of them working at the same time and be on their way in a few hours. He was forced to concede in the face of their protests.
“There are buckets for swabbing the cannons, more than enough for all of us to use. However, we will work in shifts, seven men in the boat bailing, seven on shore keeping the fires going.” Despite the grumbling and muttering, the soldiers divided into two seven-man squads.
With Nat in the lead, the first shift waded out to the scow. Nat gritted his teeth as the icy waters soaked his canvas breeches and rose up to his armpits. He hauled himself over the gunnel and helped the soldier closest to him. Pulling the slip knots that tied the buckets to the gun carriages, he handed one to each man. The soldiers began bailing, at first in a disorganized frenzy of activity, as if they would empty the scow in a rush.
“Set a pace,” Nat commanded. “We will be at this for a while. Watch me and bail when I do.” Soon he had them working steadily and complaining loudly about their frozen fingers and numb legs and feet. After an hour, when the second squad of men, led by the Sergeant, came out, the level of water was lower but still almost waist-high in the hold. By noon, Nathaniel determined they had bailed enough for the sails to do their work. He let loose the bowline, which drifted back toward shore, untied the tiller and directed the raising of their two sails.
The dirty square canvas billowed out full and the masts creaked with the strain from the strong following wind. The soldiers cheered as the scow headed out into the wide lake. Once they found there was no place for them to escape the blustery gusts, they fell silent. Several of them, still wet and shivering, sought shelter among the gun carriages. Most took refuge in the remaining rum in their canteens.
Nat did not care if they became drunk and useless now. He would bring the vessel and its cargo of cannons to Fort George and report to Colonel Knox, who would be anxious at their delayed arrival. From the Fort it was three hundred thirty miles overland to General Washington’s headquarters in Cambridge. There, he would be reunited with his Regiment. With these cannons, the Army under General Washington would attack and force the Redcoats out of Boston.
He dreaded the upcoming long trek on poor roads made worse by winter blizzards, the mountains they would have to cross, and whatever other difficulties they would encounter. This would be his last time on open waters for a long time. He leaned comfortably against the oak tiller, pulled his cloak collar up and breathed in the fresh air. High above the two tattered sails a hawk soared swiftly on the wind toward Fort George.
1
Chapter 1 – The Ghosts of Bloody Pond Horses can see ghosts. He knew it for certain. The de Ruyter boy, on the next farm over, had been thrown from his horse near the ruins of Adril’s mill. His horse must have seen the ghost of old man Adril, killed by Indians, scalped and worse, while he was still alive. His mill burned to the ground during the French and Indian War.
Will Stoner sat up straight on the wooden plank of the sled’s seat. The wagon train was approaching Bloody Pond. Many men had died in the woods off this old military road leading south from Lake George. 1 It was a place filled with their ghosts. Horses can see ghosts, he repeated aloud to reassure himself.
He leaned forward, as if by being closer he could pierce the cold December night. The reins were slack in his frozen hands. Ahead, the darkness seemed to be peopled with the dead spirits of the slaughtered soldiers. He peered ahead, barely able to distinguish the low hanging dark boughs of the evergreens from the dreary gloom of the forest.
Everyone north of Albany knew about Bloody Pond. It happened during the French and Indian War. British Colonials, many of them militia from New York, had caught French and Canadian troops and their Indian allies resting by the water. It was late on a balmy autumn afternoon in September 1755. They shot, stabbed and tomahawked more than two hundred of them, and dumped their bodies in the water. The Colonials crossed the pond using the backs of the corpses as stepping stones, in pursuit of the fleeing survivors. Will had heard this from a man his father had once invited home for dinner. He said he was a veteran of that war and had the scars to prove it. 2
The sky was clear but the slim quarter moon gave little light to see by. He passed the end of the open rolling snow-covered fields and entered the forest. He was seized by a terrible fear of the unknown. The coldness he felt in his body was nothing compared to the terror that froze his mind. The cedar and fir tree branches, bent down like icy fingers, reaching to pluck him off of his seat. Will listened anxiously for the comfort of human sounds. Behind him, after what seemed an interminable silence, he could hear noises from the main body of the wagon train, the creak of axles, the snuffling of horses and oxen, a man’s voice, the occasional crack of a whip. The sounds reached him faintly through the gloomy air of the bitter cold night. There were more than eighty wagons and sleds and over two hundred horses and oxen pulling the cannons, barrels of shot and lead, and boxes of flint, accompanied by a small detachment of Continentals. The entire disorganized train was spread out for miles on barely passable roads through the sparsely populated wintry countryside.
Will was in the lead of a group of teamsters pulling the heavy guns. His small sled was loaded with bags of oats and feed for the horses. Enough weight to smooth out the rutted road for the wagons and sleds behind but not so heavy as to get bogged down in the slush. He had been glad to get away from his father when they had first set out. Now he reproached himself for being so far ahead.
The nighttime silence and isolation of the woods were in stark contrast to the noisy tumult and confusion at Fort George earlier that morning. He had never seen so many teamsters, horses and oxen in one place. The men boisterous and good humored at the money to be made. Seven pounds sterling per ton for every sixty-two miles, or twelve shillings per day for each span of horses. They stood stamping their feet, waiting for the cannons to be loaded, telling stories and passing around a jug of rum. The oxen stoically rooted in place and yoked in tandem, stared disinterestedly in front of them. The horses, more intelligent and hobbled nearby, sensed the excitement and raised their heads, their ears pointed forward at every strange noise, before pawing the snow to find some bit of grass beneath.
Once the guns were securely tied down on a s
led or wagon, the teamsters left quickly, whipping their animals on, hoping to reach Glen Falls and a warm inn or barn before nightfall. By early afternoon it was George Stoner’s turn.
Will carefully checked the harnesses on each of the four pairs of horses and then attached the traces. He brought the eight horses around to the large sled with the thick ash runners to hitch them to the worn wooden tongue.
“Wilhelm,” his father shouted at him from the seat of the sled. The long wait and rum had put him in a vile temper. “The bay and the dun mare are foremost. Not third. And you paired the roan with the grey. That one pulls better with our white spotted plow horse.” He let loose a string of curses. “Now we will be camping out in a snowy field tonight. Make it right and be quick about it.”
Will was certain he had paired the eight horses as his father had instructed. It would do no good to tell him so. Resentfully, he rearranged the spans and hitched the horses to the sled. His father made him walk the half mile to the flat pasture adjacent to the beach. It was the loading area for the cannons brought down by boat from Fort Ticonderoga.
The frenzy of activity and tumult made Will forget his anger and humiliation. Men strained on ropes, pulling cannons over freshly cut log rollers up from the waterline. Others wrestled to lift the smaller pieces, the three and six pounders, weighing between four and six hundred pounds each, on to waiting sleds and wagons. He watched the men tie ropes around a large fortification gun. It was the cannon for his father’s sled. They ran the thick cord back to a double block and tackle hanging from the apex of a ten foot high A frame of roughly hewn oak tree trunks.
A squad of soldiers from Fort George strained and grunted on the ropes. The gun rose slowly off its temporary bed of logs and swung up in the air, a few feet off the ground but high enough to clear the lip of their sled.
“Wilhelm,” his father yelled from his wagon seat. “Stop your woolgathering and pay attention. Hold the team steady,” he commanded, pulling back on the reins. “Worthless boy,” he said to no one in particular, shaking his head in disgust. Will firmly grabbed the bridles of the two lead horses. He kept their heads down so they would not rear at the unexpected noise.
The gun came down on the oak planks of the sled with a loud crunch. “You have cracked my sled you whore-faced assbags,” George Stoner shouted, seeing his chance to earn sterling gone if the planks were splintered. He jumped down from the sled seat, cursed the soldiers again for their clumsiness and went to assess the damage. With the gun resting on the sled, the soldiers no longer needed to hold on to the ropes. A few of them stepped from around the scaffolding and advanced on Stoner. Will’s father looked quickly for an officer to intercede.
“Not the loudmouth now, you dickweed farmer,” one of the soldiers said, holding a large wooden mallet in one hand. Two others followed him, one with a stout club, another with an iron pry bar. Will saw his father glance desperately around for help. The other teamsters were either too far away or preoccupied with getting their own sleds loaded.
“You there, Sergeant,” a man yelled. “Get your men back to work. Knock those pegs out and take down the frame. We have more cannons still to be put on sleds.” He ducked under the ropes dangling from the block and tackle and came over to examine Stoner’s sled. He was young, with enough flesh on his frame to indicate he ate well and frequently. He wore a wool dark blue great coat, opened in front to reveal a simple hunting shirt with a brocaded waist coat underneath.
“Your name, sir,” he asked Will’s father.
“George Stoner. This is my sled and team of eight, duly hired by Colonel Knox himself to haul this cannon. If the sled is smashed by those oafs, I will demand my full payment from Colonel Knox as promised. And who be you?” He stood with his hands on his hips in front of the man.
The man didn’t answer but smiled slightly, amused as if privy to a secret joke. He walked around Stoner, stepped on to the sled, knelt down and examined the planks. The heavy cannon’s breach rested at the front, and because it was far thicker than the muzzle at the rear, the gun was on an angle with space beneath revealing the sled’s floor.
“The flooring is sound,” he declared, after running his hand along the planks up to the breach. “A crew will come and lash this gun down. Then you had better be on your way, Mr. Stoner.” He stood up and pushed back his shoulder cape that had fallen forward.
The man walked the length of the four span, noting the strength of the horses and checking the traces. He smiled at Will, still holding the lead pair’s bridles. He turned to Will’s father who had followed closely behind.
“I am William Knox. Fortunately, Mr. Stoner,” he said, before returning to supervise the dismantling of the A frame, “you will not have to contend with my brother for your claim for compensation. I am certain he would have denied it, and had you thrown in the brig at Fort George for demanding it. He does not take kindly to war profiteering.”
A few of the teamsters who had approached, hoping to profit from George Stoner’s ill fortune if his sled were ruined, snickered enjoying his discomfort.
Will knew his father. He would not let this public rebuke go unanswered. He would wait for the opportune time to make the Colonel pay for his brother’s demeaning words.
In some way, Will was certain it had been by wheedling or trickery, his father had been assigned the transport of the largest of the guns, the iron fortification cannons, weighing more than 5,000 pounds. George Stoner had shrewdly calculated more weight and slower going, with the possibility of being delayed by either thawed out muddy roads or snow covered impassable ones, meant more money for him.
Instead of being satisfied with getting the heaviest of the guns, as he had wanted, his father had left Fort George angry and fuming at everyone and everything. If his father were still in his evil mood he would take it out on him that night. But for now, Will was more concerned about the ghosts of the slaughtered French and their Indian allies, waiting for him in the forest.
Big Red, the horse Will depended on to keep the grey mare calm, shied to the left, ears alert, exhaling warm air from his nostrils like twin puffs of smoke. Will tightened his grip on the reins, wrapping the cold leather around his knuckles. He stood up to urge Big Red forward. The horse refused to move, pawing at the ground and snorting. He lifted his great head and shook it from side to side. The grey, in harness next to him, lowered her neck and rubbed her shoulder against Big Red.
Will had been handling teams since he was eight. At fifteen, he was tall and rangy with shoulders too wide for his long, narrow torso. He was still growing into his body, his feet too large and his neck a bit too long, like a colt whose conformation indicated the horse he would become. He had strength in his arms though. He pulled back firmly on the reins to get the horses’ heads up and snapped the straps smartly on their haunches. The team responded and pulled the sled forward down the narrow dark road and further into the murky forest. Suddenly, on his right he heard a crunching sound, like someone or something walking on the frozen crust and moving toward the road. Big Red halted, his ears pointing up, his nostrils flaring to catch the scent.
Will reached for the whip and lashed at both horses forcing them forward. The crunching was louder, accompanied by a soft moan. To Will, it was the sound a soldier would make as a tomahawk bit into the flesh of his back before striking bone. In his mind, he saw the bloody blade raised again, splitting a man’s skull, the brains spilling out between the gaping white of shattered bone.
Big Red whinnied and reared up. Will whipped both horses again. The team leaped over something in front of them. Will pulled back on the reins but the two horses, blinded by fear, were too strong for him. They bolted off the road. The short sled bounced over fallen trees and rocks covered by snow and ice, hit a boulder and upended. Will was thrown against a tree, his breath knocked out of him. He got up quickly, still more afraid of the ghosts of dead Frenchmen than the wrath of his father for losing control of the sled.
He secured the reins to a small
cedar before unhitching the team. He patted Big Red on the neck, making soothing sounds, more to calm himself than the horse. He shouted back to the wagons and sleds following on the road and was relieved to hear his halloos answered by human voices, the creak of wagons, the snuffling of horses and the deeper, lower snorts of oxen. Some men emerged from the darkness and righted the sled. One remained to help him reload the bags of grain.
“I would rather be in a dory in a nor’easter than riding a wagon on this accursed road,” the young man said, easily lifting one of the bags onto his shoulder and hoisting another under his arm. “These ruts have jarred my very vitals.”
Will followed him, carrying only one sack on his right shoulder, steadying it with his left hand. The snow was deep with just enough crust to hold his weight momentarily before he sank in up to his calves. The wetness numbed his skin through his thin stockings. He stumbled, and winced with pain. He must have bruised his left side when he fell. He dropped his sack on the sled.
“Nathaniel Holmes, from Massachusetts,” his companion introduced himself, barely puffing from the exertion. He was shorter and a few years older than Will, stocky, muscular and solidly built. He had a high forehead and prominent cheek bones, with reddish brown hair, curling forward at the temples. His thin lips formed a mouth that would have seemed grim except that it was dispelled by blue, clear eyes, showing pleasure at their meeting and amusement at their predicament.
“Will Stoner, from Schoharie, New York,” he said, catching his breath.
Fortunately, most of the sacks that had fallen off were close to the sled. They made quick work of reloading them, moving faster on the paths they had already made in the snow.
“Wilhelm,” his father shouted, striding from the road. “What have you done now? You idiot.” He stomped through the snow in his knee high black boots, with his horse whip in hand. He glanced at the unhitched wagon and the rearranged pile of grain sacks.
Cannons for the Cause Page 2
