Cannons for the Cause

by Martin Ganzglass

  Will kept Elisabeth’s scarf around his neck and approached the fire to warm his hands.

  “Who be you, lad?” the old man asked, coughing into his sleeve and clearing his throat. “One of the teamsters from New York?” Will nodded.

  “Well, come on, share the fire,” he said, patting a place on the bench next to him. “My name is Potts. Samuel Potts. The Town Council made me custodian of the building after we seized this Court House from the King’s men. You know about that? Of course not, you’re from New York,” he said gruffly, answering his own question. He cocked his head, like a quizzical rooster, examining Will through his rheumy eyes.

  “No more sessions of the King’s Court in Great Barrington. No sir. We put a stop to that a year ago this past August, it was.” 1 He shifted on the bench to turn toward Will, apprehensive he would leave. “Are you interested in hearing this,” he snapped, “or do you want to go with the others to drink rum and put a hand up the skirts of the serving women?”

  Will flushed. “No, sir. I mean yes,” he stammered. “I want to stay and listen.”

  “Good” Potts said. “Everyone here in Great Barrington knows the story. I only get to tell it to those who are passing on this road for the first time. Your fellow teamsters from New York were too eager to get rum at the tavern to listen.” He looked Will up and down again as if determining whether or not he was worthy of telling the story to, decided Will would do, and cleared his throat of phlegm.

  “General Gage’s appointed Loyalist Judges, riding circuit, pranced into town on their fancy horses in August of ‘74. It was the 15

  th , if I remember correctly.” He paused, as if visualizing the Judges coming down the street to the Court House. “They had their wigs, robes and other accoutrements of their station. What they did not have was lawful authority.” He slapped his open palm on Will’s knee. “The Intolerable Acts which infringed the God-given rights of free Englishmen were not lawful,” he said vehemently, digging his bony fingers into Will’s thigh. “General Gage occupying Boston and closing the port. Banning town meetings. Nominating his own Council to govern the people of our Commonwealth and appointing these magistrates who came to town.” He shook his head as if still dismayed by Gage’s conduct. “All of it as unlawful as,” his voice trailed off as he searched for a proper example. “As the Boston Massacre,” he said, pleased with his conclusion.

  “What did you do?” Will asked, mistakenly thinking Potts needed some prompting to regain the thread of his story.

  “The word went out the night these pretender Judges arrived in town and were lodged in the tavern. By morning, I tell you there was a mass of men in the street. We blocked the Court House. We turned out and stood in front of the door and would not let these Loyalist toadies enter the building. Without firing a shot, we prevented the King’s Court from holding session.” He snickered. “You should have seen their faces. As red as a British soldier’s coat. But there were no Regulars to enforce their writ. So their writ stopped, right outside this building,” he said, removing his hand from Will’s knee and pointing a skinny knobbed finger toward the street. “They went back to the tavern, changed into travel clothes, and rode down the road as fast as they could, heading back to Boston. They were lucky we did not do them any physical harm. We did enough harm to their pride and pricked their pomposity,” he chuckled, remembering the scene.

  “Did General Gage send Judges out again with troops as an escort?”

  “No,” Potts said. “We have not seen a Judge since. I suppose General Gage had his hands full with the good patriots of Boston and the coast. He was sent home and now there is General Howe to deal with. I hope your cannons make him abandon the occupation of the city and lift the blockade. Maybe then the King will come to his senses and treat us like the free Englishmen we are. Now, lad, that you’ve heard the story, do you have a morsel of food to share from that pouch of yours?”

  Will cut a chunk of the slab of cured ham Agnes had given him when they crossed the Hudson at Albany and offered it to Potts. The old man took it, went to a cupboard and brought back some bread and a small tub of butter. “Now, we can share a meal and you can educate me about those cannons. The last time I saw so many artillery pieces was in ’56 in the French and Indian War.” He borrowed Will’s knife, sparingly spread some butter on the bread, studied the ham for a moment and cut off a large chunk.

  But before Will could tell about loading the cannons at Fort Ticonderoga, Potts, talking while he chewed, was off about his service in the Massachusetts Bay Colony Provincials sent to guard the New York frontier in the summer of ‘56. His account of his skirmishes with the Iroquois was interrupted by a shout from the courtroom.

  “Will. Will Stoner? Are you in here?”

  Will recognized Nat’s voice. “Yes. Back here,” he answered.

  Nat entered the room, stamping the snow off his feet but keeping his cloak on. He nodded at Potts.

  “The Colonel has sent me to find you. He is meeting with your father now. I have looked all over for you. Come quickly. We must not keep the Colonel waiting.”

  Will grabbed his slouch hat and stuffed his unbuttered bread in his haversack. As they hurried through the darkened streets toward the welcoming warm lights of the tavern, Nat explained that George Stoner had requested a meeting with the Colonel. Will’s father had shrewdly counted the number of Massachusetts teamsters available to take over the carriage of the cannons to Cambridge and noted that more New Yorkers were leaving than there were replacements. He was bargaining with the Colonel for an improved price to continue on and had offered the four span of horses and the sled pulling the fortification cannon as well as Will as a driver, as far as Boston.

  “I vouched for you,” Nat said. “However, the Colonel prefers to talk with you directly.” He smiled and dug an elbow into Will’s ribcage. “I told you Providence would let you see Boston.” Will grinned as Nat’s news sunk in. He would continue on to Boston, meet Johan, and be away from his father. He would be free and who knows what would happen in Boston.

  Maybe Elisabeth’s father would come there on business and she would come with him.

  Nat led the way through the main room, crowded with drunken teamsters from both New York and Massachusetts carousing in front of the massive fireplace, to the second floor of the tavern. He knocked before pushing the door open. The Colonel sat in front of a desk that was far too small for his massive girth, his jacket draped behind him. George Stoner sat before him in the role of a petitioner, although his confident posture indicated he thought he had the upper hand.

  “Ahh. Master William Stoner. Yes, I remember you from Half Moon Landing. Ensign Holmes tells me you are a most able and willing hand.” The Colonel’s booming voice filled the small room, which was hot from the warm air rising from below.

  “Wilhelm,” his father said, turning in his chair to address his son who was standing next to the door. “I told the Colonel you are capable of driving four span of horses, as you have done the past few days with that massive cannon. If you keep your mind on your task, you can pull that piece all the way to Boston without mishap.” Will bristled at the implied reprimand but remained silent.

  Stoner turned back to the Colonel. “We have agreed on the price and the terms. You are to pay me in advance. You can see that my son is trustworthy although a bit slow. He will not abandon his duty,” his father said reassuringly, “or he will pay dearly for such disloyalty.”

  I never would do such a thing, Will thought. He held his tongue. Tomorrow he would continue on as part of this great adventure, and his father’s face would be turned back toward Scholarie.

  “After the cannons are delivered in Cambridge, my horses together with the sleds and my son are to be sent home as soon as possible, weather permitting, of course,” George Stoner continued. He waved his hand toward Knox, as if he were making a concession. “For our purposes,” Stoner said, “it is agreed there are 115 miles to Cambridge, more or less, and that huge cannon is an even
two tons. As you said at Fort Ti, a load of that weight needs four span of horses.” The Colonel nodded and motioned for Nat to open the roster and write down the terms. George Stoner read the entry and signed his name.

  “I would like Will to sign too,” Knox said. “He is on his own as part of our noble train of artillery.” Will came forward, a bit too excitedly. He read the entry. His father was being paid twelve and one half pounds sterling, in advance. It was a generous price, equal to half the sales price of their entire crop of hay in a year, but it bought Will’s freedom to travel on to Boston. He bent down, eagerly picked up the quill and signed his name under his father’s.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Stoner,” Knox said, rising with a grunt from the confines of his narrow chair and walking him toward the door. “Still, I am guaranteed four span of horses and a sled to carry this magnificent cannon to Cambridge, and I wager, a hard worker as well. A word with your lad, alone if you do not mind sir,” Knox said, using his impressive bulk to herd Stoner out of the room.

  “Now, Will,” the Colonel said, gesturing with his right hand for Will to sit in the chair his father had been in. Ensign Holmes has informed me you read and write. Is Will or Wilhelm your preference?” His question boomed out in the low-ceilinged room.

  “Will, sir,” thinking it better not to correct the Colonel and tell him his real name was Willem. “It was my grandmother, my maternal one,” he added for emphasis, “who taught me how to read and write and some mathematics.”

  “Good. That’s very good. You know I was a bookseller in Boston before General Gage occupied our city. Do you know Tom Jones?

  Will was puzzled. “I am sorry sir but I am not acquainted with everyone in the train yet. Is he a new fellow from Massachusetts?”

  Knox frowned, his clear gray eyes assessing Will, trying to discern if Will was slyly making fun of him. He broke out in a roar of laughter, his huge frame shaking so hard that the fragile chair on which he sat seemed in danger of shattering. He wiped his eyes with the handkerchief wrapped around the end of his left hand and reached behind him to open a wooden chest.

  “Books are important, Will. They are the key to understanding the world. I learned artillery from books. First from John Muller’s great treatise on artillery, the standard British text, and then from drilling, drilling and drilling. On the Boston Common. I learned French the same way. Although it was a different kind of drilling,” he said chuckling, remembering something he found amusing. He pulled a book from the chest. It was leather bound with gold lettering on the binding.

  “Will Stoner. Meet Tom Jones,” he said, laughing heartily again. “Return it to me when you have finished and I will lend you another.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Will said, taking the volume carefully. He read the gold lettering: The History of Tom Jones by Henry Fielding. Gingerly, he opened the binding and flipped through the pages, admiring the few engraved drawings. “Thank you again, sir. I will not disappoint.”

  “I know that,” the Colonel replied. “Otherwise, I would not have agreed to your father’s rather exorbitant demands. He thinks he has gotten the better of me but I believe, before this journey is over, the bargain will be mine.”

  Will left the room, clutching the book in his hand. He would follow Colonel Knox to the ends of the earth. He was free to be part of this great adventure on his own. If only he could talk to Elisabeth now and tell her of his good fortune. As he came down stairs into the sweltering, boisterous tavern, his euphoria was deflated by the sight of his father beckoning to him. He hid the book in his pouch, his hand brushing the hatchet handle, and reluctantly walked to where his father was standing.

  “I have special instructions for you, Wilhelm. Listen carefully now. I will repeat them to you tomorrow morning so they sink into that thick Dutch skull of yours.” He rapped Will’s head with his knuckles, none to gently. Will smelled the rum on his father’s breath, as he leaned closer to Will’s face.

  “When you get to Cambridge, make contact with your brother. Tell Johan to write me what his business prospects are in Boston, either under the British or if they are driven out, with General Washington.” His father paused as if to allow time for Will to absorb what he had said. “He is to give you a letter detailing his prospects and you are to carry it back with you. It is my intention, if Boston remains closed as a port, or blockaded by the British, to bring Johan to Albany and apprentice him to a merchant there. You understand my instructions?” As he raised his arm to knock on his son’s head again for emphasis, Will caught his father’s wrist in mid air and held it tightly.

  “I understand,” he said looking his father in the eye, before pulling Stoner’s arm down and releasing his grip. As he walked through the snow, in his mind, it was he, not Johan, who was apprenticed to the merchant Luykas Van Hooten, spending time with Elisabeth in her father’s library reading books together.

  Chapter 4 - Never Was a Road There, Before or After The uphill slope leading east from Great Barrington was deceptively easy. Will’s sled was in the middle of the vanguard of twenty or so, spread out on the snow-covered road as the train assembled behind them. He stood up on the seat, oblivious to the strong, cold wind blowing the wet snow off the tall hemlock and spruce. The branches, finally free from the weight, sprang back, pointing upward again. Will stretched, raising his arms to the clear blue sky.

  He looked past the train waiting in position, lined up on the road behind him. A plume of grayish white smoke curled from the chimney of the tavern and blew quickly toward the grist mill by the frozen Housatannack. Beyond, curving away from the river and partially hidden by trees, the road extended west, back the way they had come, toward Albany and Schoharie.

  He felt amazingly free and unburdened. His view of Great Barrington, as seen from this height was like looking at himself through a window into his past. Ahead, he was beyond the control of his father, free from the incessant and boring work of the farm, of his menial existence as nothing more than an indentured laborer with no hope and no future. True, he thought, he was his own man only so far as Boston and back. But he would be with his brother. Either Johan or Nat would think of something when the time came. Ahead was the adventure of the road, and liberating the great city of Boston from the British.

  And then, who knew what Divine Providence had in store. Hadn’t Providence, as Nat had predicted, freed him to continue on?

  Will let out a long yell of pure joy and exuberance, scaring a flock of junkos and chickadees foraging among the oxen’s manure for undigested seeds. They took to the air. Concluding there was no imminent danger, the birds returned to the business of searching for breakfast. A gruff teamster on the sled immediately behind, wrapped in his blanket against the morning cold, bellowed for Will to sit down, be quiet and mind his four-span. Will waved in a friendly manner and settled himself on the bench, smiling. It was a wonderful morning to travel. The lead sleds were on the move. He flicked the long whip and called to Big Red to pull.

  That morning, without asking his father’s permission, he had brashly switched Big Red and the grey with the first span of his father’s team. He depended upon Big Red and could not leave him behind. When George Stoner had seen him off, repeating his instructions of the night before, the teams were already hitched and the sled in line in the train. His father had accepted the change with a frown and a dismissive comment that it didn’t matter to him which horses his son took. “They will all be back in a month’s time,” he had said.

  The Colonel and Nat were in the lead, scouting the road, followed by the light cannon and then Will’s sled with its massive fortification gun. The other double fortification cannons and the eighteen and twenty-four pounders were immediately behind, trailed by the few remaining light guns and small mortars and the sleds carrying flint boxes and shot. At the very rear were the sleds and wagons with the supplies for the entire artillery train. The Colonel’s plan of march, as he explained in the early dawn before they left Great Barrington, was to keep the heav
ier-loaded sleds and wagons close to the middle. If the horses and oxen could not pull the big guns uphill, or hold them from running out of control on the down side, other teamsters and soldiers, forward and rear, could be called upon for help.

  Once they were up the first slope, the land appeared to level off, although, across the snow-covered pastures and fields, Will observed the gradual incline of the tree line of evergreen pitch, white pine, spruce and hemlock and the bare-branched birch, ash and maple. The strong winds created drifts, three to four feet deep in places, and obscured the outlines of what was a poor road to begin with. The train covered almost six miles that first day and camped in the middle of a thick pine forest. The lower boughs were bent almost to the ground with the heavy snow. Higher up the trees, where the wind had blown the snow away, the green branches merged into twinkling river of stars coursing through the night sky. The local Massachusetts teamsters called it Greenwoods.

  That night, after Will had unhitched the eight horses, hobbled six together and tethered Big Red and the grey to a tree, he wandered over to share the warmth of a roaring fire and listen to the talk of the Massachusetts men. They were mostly farmers who had been recruited by the Colonel’s brother on his way through in November to Fort Ticonderoga. Will found their manner of speech strange but not as broad as Nat’s, to which he was now accustomed.

  “They say Knox is not a genuine Colonel,” one of the men closer to the fire said. “He was promised a commission, by whom no one says or seems to know, but the Congress in Philadelphia has not yet approved it.”

  “It makes not a whit of difference to me,” another replied, “what the Congress does. Knox has the money to pay and a letter from General Washington. That is all I need to keep my part of the bargain.”

  “You will wish your hardest you had bargained for more once we get into the mountains,” the first man said. “That brother of his never told us the weight of some of these cannons. Besides, it will not matter even if the cannons do get to Boston. I heard tell Admiral Howe has four men-o-war in the harbor with a total of two hundred guns. More than enough to blast General Washington back to Virginia.” He put one finger to his nose, blew snot out of the unblocked nostril, repeated the process and rubbed his thumb knuckle vigorously against a raw cold sore at the right corner of his lips.