Cannons for the Cause

by Martin Ganzglass

  With his head down and Elisabeth’s scarf wrapped around his throat. he recited out loud the Colonel’s speech about the reasons why they were fighting. He forgot about the anchors and chains with their spikes, the men holding on to the ropes behind him, the interminable waiting in the blowing snow and bitter wind as the block and tackle were retrieved higher up and affixed to other trees lower down the slope. Alone on the sled, Will threw the Colonel’s words to the teamsters defiantly out against the storm. He imagined the old farmer in Menotomy, crouched behind an overturned worn oak bench at his front door, loaded muskets at his side, firing at uniformed Redcoats as they closed in, bringing them down with each shot, discharging his pistols as they charged him, and then using his waning strength with his sabre to keep them at bay. He winced at the vision of the old man’s body being pierced by the long narrow bayonets, wielded by vicious soldiers laughing savagely as they stabbed him again and again. Anger at this atrocity and the hot desire for revenge warmed Will’s spirits and served to keep him going. Disoriented in his reverie and exhausted, he lost all sense of time, until he caught himself letting the reins go slack. He jerked up with a start, brushed the snow off his arms and shoulders, and focused on the back of Big Red’s head, the long red mane coated with ice and snow.

  It was dark when they had reached the bottom. Will barely had the strength to tether the horses and give them a meager meal of oats. He clung to Big Red to steady himself before staggering off to fall asleep under his makeshift lean-to of boughs against the sled. The pine branches kept some of the falling wet snow off him, but he was almost past caring. Numbed by the constant cold and drained of his last reserves of energy, he was asleep instantly, with no thoughts of Elisabeth, Tom Jones, or Johan.

  He awoke in the morning and felt Nat’s cloak over his shoulder and Nat’s body spooned around him for mutual warmth. He rose, careful not to wake his friend, aware of the stiffness of his body and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. Daylight revealed the forward two sections of the caravan stretched along a flat road. Here and there a few of the teamsters were up, the blue smoke of their cooking fires spiraling up into the cold air. Will looked back up toward the Blandford Summit. The sky was clear save for a few wispy white strands of clouds. Near the top, some of the sleds and wagons of the next segment of the train were beginning to negotiate the steep descent in the crisp early morning.

  “It had to be the hand of Providence that guided us down through yesterday’s storm,” Nat said, standing beside him, looking upward at the sharp precipitous decline. He offered Will a piece of hard bread and Will shared with him the last of his cured ham. They ate standing up, occasionally bending down to warm their hands on the small fire between them. Ahead, to the east, the terrain was flat. They were in a river valley. Farther to the east, on the far side of the frozen Westfield River, snow-covered bluffs rose with grey granite slabs piercing the white like an occasional dark feather on a snow goose. Will shaded his eyes against the glare of the rising sun on the icy river and the snowy fields and hills beyond.

  “One of the locals says it is six miles to Westfield, which is this side of the river. The weather is good,” Nat added, scanning the sky, “the road is flat ahead and with luck we shall be snug inside the Westfield Inn, before a warm fire and sleeping in a dry place by nightfall.” He glanced back toward the summit. “They will have an easier time descending than we did yesterday, but even so, they will not be in Westfield until tomorrow.”

  As Nat predicted, the train made good time over the packed snow on the road. Until the Blandford descent, they had not met a solitary person since leaving Great Barrington, and nor seen even an isolated home or barn. Now, on the road to Westfield, there were tradespeople, farmers, peddlers, men traveling between the farms and homes that dotted the river valley. Many had never seen a cannon at all. They stopped and gawked as the vanguard of the caravan passed by.

  Nat, sitting on the sled next to Will, waved cheerfully at a bearded farmer standing by the side of the road, next to a sled loaded with trimmed logs. “There are still more behind us, coming down from the Blandford Summit,” he shouted.

  “Where you coming from?” the farmer asked, apparently puzzled by Nat’s Boston accent.

  “Great Barrington. Before that Albany, and before that, Fort Ticonderoga,” Nat answered exuberantly, now that the most tedious part of the journey was over. “Two days ago, we were in the frozen marsh between two ponds below the summit,” he added to emphasize how difficult it had been to get to the Westfield Road.

  “If you were at Spectacle Ponds, there is no road from there to the summit,” the farmer replied. “Never has been. What passes for a road from here to Great Barrington is more to the north.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I would not try it with my load of logs. It is a wonder your sled with that monstrous cannon made it over.”

  The rest of the trip to Westfield was similar, the citizens inquisitive and eager to talk, their normally taciturn nature overcome by the length of the train and the size of the cannons. When they reached Westfield, the people lined the road. Dogs darted and snapped at the heels of the oxen, and barked from a more respectful distance at the horses. Small boys ran between the wagons and sleds, daring each other to time their dashes closer and closer to the oncoming team. As each driver stopped near the Westfield Inn, the citizens rushed up to touch the cannons, caressing the massive iron and brass, and putting their hands down the muzzles. They tried to lift the cannon balls and shouted out their guesses at the cannons’ weight and circumference.

  Will had no trouble finding a barn for the horses. The populace were eager to help. He was offered hot mulled cider, which he eagerly accepted, feeling the heat through the pewter warm his frozen fingers. He tarried to talk to townspeople who invited him inside the cozy warmth of their houses on the way to the inn. After seven days in the wilderness without having spoken to a soul outside of the caravan, Will was gratified by the friendliness of strangers and their willingness to provide free food and drink.

  The Westfield Inn was at the junction of two roads. One continued east to Springfield and beyond to Cambridge and Boston. The road north led to Northampton and Vermont and still farther to New Hampshire. The Inn was a three- story brick building with three gables and two huge chimneys at either end rising higher than the roof line. A barn with a wood rail-fenced pasture stood on one side and a small salt box home on the other. Candlelight streamed from the long windows on the first floor, like flickering yellow tongues of flame around a campfire.

  Colonel Knox was holding court in front of the huge fireplace in the main room of the inn. The room was warm, almost stifling, from the number of people present. Will squeezed himself in among the townspeople and teamsters at a corner table. The noise, the warmth and the smells of roasting meats all assaulted his senses, attuned to the vast silence and freezing cold of the woods. Seeing and smelling cooked food aroused a tremendous hunger in the pit of Will’s stomach. He eagerly seized a plate of boiling hot stew, reached for a hunk of warm bread and went to work with his spoon satisfying his most basic immediate need. Two plates and a loaf and a half of bread later, he leaned back on the bench against the brick wall, licked his fingers and surveyed the room.

  The Colonel was sitting at a linen-covered table, eating a large slab of beef with a knife and fork. He was surrounded by several men of the town, dressed in Continental or militia uniforms, their coats brushed, their boots shining, their white vests and breeches without a spot of dirt to soil their splendid appearance. One particularly fine looking officer, resplendent in a dark blue coat with polished brass buttons, a gleaming sword at his side, and the finest and highest pair of black boots Will had ever seen, presented himself to the Colonel and bowed from the waist.

  Knox politely finished chewing and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “Another Officer,” Knox’s voice boomed out over the crowded room. “ Well, Captain. It is a pity that our soldiers are not as numerous as our officers.” He laughed heart
ily and clapped the embarrassed Captain on the shoulder. The Colonel was in a jovial mood. The most arduous part of the journey was over. The teamsters were relieved, having made it through the Berkshires. The townspeople were in a celebratory and generous mood, buying food and drink for the weary wagoners and pestering them incessantly for details of the journey, the size of the cannons, their purpose, and how soon the British would be driven from Boston. Will, after satisfying his neighbors with what he believed was an accurate and unembellished account of their trip to Westfield, took out the book the Colonel had lent him and eagerly read in the ample candlelight. He read for about an hour, oblivious to the noise and activity around him, lost in the world of Tom Jones and his courtship of the beautiful Sophie, who in Will’s imagination, despite the author’s description, assumed the visage and figure of Elisabeth.

  “So, there you are,” Nat said, jostling to squeeze in next to Will in the corner and pulling him back from the world of Tom Jones into the boisterous inn.

  “The Colonel has determined we all shall enjoy the town’s hospitality for another day. The men have worked hard and drunk enough to make tomorrow a day no single teamster will want to be on the road. Let alone be able to hitch their teams and proceed.”

  Will smiled and put the book carefully in his pouch.

  “How can you read in such a place?” Nat asked, surveying several drunken teamsters at the nearest table. “For myself, I need a quiet dock or my room in the attic.”

  Will shrugged. “I get lost in the words of the pages and do not hear anything around me. Nat, did you ever feel the need to hurry through books so you can get on to the next one? To want to read everything that was ever written?”

  Nat looked surprised. “I cannot say that I have. My tastes run more to the Bible and the religious side. I have a copy of Dodd’s Sermons to Young Men I can lend you when we reach Cambridge.” Will didn’t know who Dodd was but knew he certainly wasn’t going to waste any time reading sermons. He acknowledged Nat’s offer but determined to let the Colonel guide him with his future selections.

  They slept in a real bed, sharing it with the Continental Captain and a Lieutenant, in a room of the house on the other side of the Inn. Nat had procured the quarters after the innkeeper had seen him in the company of the Colonel. Will awoke early and discovered their room was on the same side as the inn’s kitchen. The cooks were already preparing breakfast for the guests. He was given bread and hot porridge, by the inn owner’s wife, who was supervising the preparations. He devoured breakfast in the kitchen and went to see to the horses. It was frigid but clear. The snow around the barn quickly soaked into his shoes and froze his stockings. After feeding and watering his team, he found some clean straw and stuffed it around his feet before reluctantly putting his wet shoes back on and going outside. When he returned to the inn’s main room, Nat waved him over.

  “I thought you would be tending to your horses. You must be starved. Get your bowl out. They are about to serve breakfast.”

  Will sat down, ignoring the knowing and mischievous smile of the serving girl who had seen him in the kitchen less than an hour before. He ate as if he hadn’t seen food since last night, glad for the warmth of the room and the extra porridge and bread. The tea in his mug was made of sassafras, the drink of patriots who boycotted the real tea and other goods from Britain.

  “The Colonel is upstairs taking breakfast in his room,” Will heard Billy Knox say to Nat. “He would like to see you, and Master Will. Your presence in a ‘meeting’ will keep some of the local dandies away. At least for awhile.” He pointed to a group of well-dressed young men, many in their resplendent uniforms of the night before, in a side room off the entrance door.

  The Colonel had indeed finished breakfast and was affixing a wax seal to a letter. “For General Washington. I have told him of our arduous progress to date, apologized for the delay and alerted him we are likely to reach Cambridge by the 20

  th of this month. If Divine Providence continues to favor us,” he added hastily. “It will go off by courier this morning, together with a letter to my beloved Lucy.” Will was embarrassed by the affectionate reference, recalling the bawdy remarks of the teamsters around the fire and the imagined coupling of Knox and his wife. Knox handed the two letters to his brother. Will heard him clomping down the steps calling for the rider. Will saw himself dashing up to General Washington’s camp on Big Red, waving the pouch and calling out, “An Important Letter for the General from Colonel Knox. The cannons are coming,” to the cheers and huzzahs of the soldiers. The Colonel drew him out of his reverie.

  “Do you write, Master Will? Of course you do, you told me yourself. But you said you can write. Not that you do.”

  “I have not had occasion to write letters, sir. And I do not have thoughts others would want to read like you and General Washington.” He looked down at the floor. There were bits of dirty straw was sticking out of the torn seam of his left shoe.

  “Nonsense, Will. Every man has important thoughts. When we get to Cambridge, I will give you some paper and writing implements. Surely, there must be someone you want to tell your thoughts to.” Will thought he saw the Colonel wink. He glanced quickly at Nat who was innocently staring over Knox’s shoulder at something out the window.

  The Colonel heaved himself out of the wooden armchair, which creaked in relief. “I have a more practical gift for you now, Will. The good people of Westfield are beside themselves to help. I praise the Almighty for their generosity.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Last night when they pressed me for what they might do to assist our noble train, I told them a few of my men and the Continentals needed boots. Come, Will, and pick first from the fruits of their liberality.” He dramatically opened the twin doors of a large armoire revealing several pairs of boots in a pile on the floor.

  Will knelt down and felt their soft leather. They were used, some were scuffed and more worn than others. He put his hand inside, feeling for nails or rough leather that would cause blisters. He turned them over, checking the thickness of their soles. There was a pair of high black boots, smartly polished, and several with decorative buckles. He rejected them as too fancy. He settled for a well-worn brown pair with a broad square toe and no internal defects. They were almost mid calf and would keep all but the deepest snow out. When they were on his feet, he rocked back and forth and strode around the room, trying them out.

  “Good choice, Master Will. Chosen like a true cordwainer. Well selected indeed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he stammered, “I mean not for the choice but for giving them to me.” He bent down, embarrassed, and quickly scooped up his worn shoes and tucked them under his arm.

  “You deserve them, Will. I know from what Nat has told me, I indeed bested your father in the bargain. He received only money. I, in turn, a teamster who, by his hard work and example, helped bring a train of artillery through a New England blizzard.” Will blushed, accustomed only to harsh words and blows from his father. He wanted to express his appreciation for the Colonel’s praise, but the words would not come.

  “Now, gentlemen. We must satisfy the enthusiasm and curiosity of the good people of Westfield. Today is a day of celebration. We will reciprocate and give them a show in return for their generosity. Tomorrow, we leave for Springfield and on to Cambridge.”

  Will practically flew down the tavern’s stairs and out into the fresh air. He smiled broadly, recalling the Colonel’s complimentary words. He, Will Stoner, had helped Colonel Knox bring the cannons over the mountains. The appreciation by the Colonel was, for him, worth more than all the pounds sterling paid to his father.

  Chapter 5 - The Muddy Slog to Cambridge It took until early afternoon for a crew to remove “The Old Sow,” a twenty-four pounder so named because of its ungainly shape, from its sled. It now rested on its gun carriage beyond the crossroads, pointing toward Springfield, as if it could shoot a cannonball that far and beyond. The townspeople had gathered and waited with a mix of curiosity and excitem
ent, watching the preparations and shouting questions to the gun crew, who ignored them. The good people were crowded together, behind the cannon but at a respectful distance, many of them unsure of what would happen when the piece was fired.

  Colonel Knox rode the brief distance from the tavern to the site, dismounted from his horse and led the populace in a brief prayer of thanks for their safe journey to date and a speedy delivery of the cannons to General Washington. Raising his voice, he made a speech in favor of their cause. Will thought it was not as inspiring as the one the Colonel had given to the Massachusetts teamsters before the ascent at Blandford, but it elicited three cheers from the crowd for General Washington.

  The gun crew manned their stations, ceremoniously and unnecessarily worming and swabbing the cannon, which had not been fired in years. Even Will knew there was no likelihood of any remnants of a previously fired shot being lodged in the barrel. He surveyed the crowd and to his satisfaction, found not a single young girl who was half as pretty or as well dressed as Elisabeth.

  The gun commander crisply called out his orders. There was a collective intake of people’s breath in anticipation. The women covered their ears and their men folk protectively put an arm around them as the command to fire was given. The blast was like a clap of thunder. They were enveloped by the sound, as if they were standing in the center of a storm. The echo off the nearby hills was almost as loud, as the noise dissipated into the distance. The smoke from the powder remained an acrid white blanket over the road, as if a cloud had suddenly dropped from the sky and shrouded the people of Westfield at ground level.

  Some women were still screaming. Men grinned as if they had showed great courage and survived in the face of danger. Will observed that the Colonel’s horse had snorted and lowered his head but otherwise remained still. He would like to train Big Red to be that calm under fire.