Even though Danforth agreed, he wasn’t totally comfortable with this decision to fortify the lake front. But General Arnold had been adamant—the danger would be from the lake if it came at all. Danforth didn’t like putting all their defensive eggs in one basket and had gotten Arnold’s grudging permission to send a handful of men up the river to warn against any surprise attacks. Rudyard had laughed at Danforth’s cautious nature. However, he had agreed to keep half a dozen men on guard duty on the rafts at all time.
Still, Danforth was worried. Rudyard was drinking ever more heavily and his men had taken their cue from him and had become slovenly and lazy in their duties. Worse, Rudyard had confided that most of the men who appeared to be British regulars were nothing more than the scrapings from the various communities in the area, such as St. Ignace, Sault St. Marie, Detroit and Pitt, and had gotten little training as British soldiers. They were Redcoats in name only.
He’d thought about discussing Rudyard’s drinking problems with Arnold, but decided against it. For all his flaws, Rudyard was the closest thing to a friend Danforth had. Arnold was also drinking heavily, apparently depressed by the fact that his attempts to find glory and wealth had so far failed.
The hell with Arnold, the hell with Rudyard, and the hell with the rebels, Danforth finally decided. He rolled into a blanket and quickly went to sleep.
* * *
Only a couple of miles upriver, Brigadier John Glover and the remnants of his Marblehead Regiment waited. At first they’d been shocked when the British began to sail up the river they’d chosen as a point from which to attack the rear of Arnold’s Armada as it passed. They had arrived in canoes, which were not their craft of preference, but they were justifiably confident that they could handle anything that floated.
Still, they’d had to paddle furiously to stay ahead and out of sight of a very slow moving British patrol probing up the river that was clearly wary of an ambush. When they’d gotten far enough ahead, Glover had sent scouts downstream who had reported that the British had stopped and pulled back to a point closer to the mouth of the river.
When scouts confirmed that the British defenses faced west towards the lake and not up the river, Glover realized that he’d been handed a golden opportunity. He’d stroked his broad jaw and finally smiled. He had fewer than two hundred men and was outnumbered and outgunned, but then, the damned British didn’t know he was here.
Glover waited until night was almost dawn, the time when everyone would be either asleep or groggy. Then silent as a mild breeze, his canoes moved down the dark river, hugging the north shore. A mist hovered over the water and provided more protection. A campfire’s dim glow told him that the handful of British sentries on the shore were as stupid as he’d been told.
Glover signaled and several canoes peeled off and landed softly. Their men slipped into the water and moved through the woods while Glover waited and watched. The anchored sailing barges were dim shapes only about a hundred yards away. He could rush past the guards, but didn’t want them in his rear.
A scream was followed by the sound of a musket. Glover cursed. His men were magicians on the water but lumbered like elephants on land. Surprise was lost. “Go!” he yelled and his men paddled their canoes with desperation and fury.
* * *
At first Danforth was uncertain whether he’d actually heard the sound of gunfire or he’d dreamed it. He stood up and looked around. Like everyone else, his gaze was towards the lake which was empty.
“What the devil is that?” Rudyard screamed and pointed upriver where shapes could be discerned behind the barges.
Boats, Danforth realized with a sinking feeling. He grabbed his sword and pistol and raced to the shore. Not boats, he corrected himself, canoes. And they were alongside the barges and men were pouring onto the precious craft. Rudyard lurched to the water and drunkenly fired his pistol at nothing in particular. This was a signal for his alleged British infantry to start firing at their own barges.
“Fire at the canoes,” Danforth screamed as Rudyard fell face first into the river. I hope the bastard drowns, Danforth thought. Rudyard had failed to patrol and protect their rear.
“No!” Danforth heard General Arnold sob as he saw the glow of flames on the barges that quickly became raging fires. A moment later, the powder on one exploded, raining burning embers on its neighbors.
The barges were made of poorly seasoned wood that caught fire quickly despite their being immersed in water. Worse, the wind was from the east, blowing flames from the rear of the column of barges towards its head. Now, however, many of the rebels were silhouetted against the growing flames and British fire increased in accuracy. The Americans returned fire and several men near Danforth fell to the ground. Rudyard had managed to pick himself out of the mud and was just about to say something when a musket ball struck his skull and blew his brains out, splattering Danforth with gore. This demoralized his men who stopped firing and backed away.
It didn’t matter, Danforth realized sadly. The anchored barges had become an inferno and the remaining rebels were climbing back in their canoes. They were paddling furiously for their lives as yet another cache of ammunition cooked off, taking two canoes with it.
* * *
John Glover was one of the first men out of the canoes and onto the barges. He heard the sounds of men screaming and realized that his voice was one of them. An astonished-looking British sentry was suddenly in front of him. Before Glover could respond, one of his men shot the man in the face.
“Gotta be quicker, General,” the soldier said.
“Indeed,” Glover murmured as more men sped past him and jumped lightly onto the other barges. By this time, the British were awake and alarmed and bullets from wildly fired muskets splattered around the barges. One of his men howled in pain as a shot found home.
“Grenades,” Glover hollered and pulled a pair of them from his coat. They were not the grenades used by the British soldiers which contained explosives. These were clay and glass containers filled with flammable liquid and with a cloth wick that had just been immersed in that same liquid. They were fire bombs.
Glover lighted the fuse from the flint on his pistol, held it until it was burning brightly and dropped it down the hatch of the barge. A few second later, the fire grenade exploded and the barge shuddered. The barge’s hull was cracked and water began to pour in. He grinned with satisfaction and threw the second one down the same hatch. Others were also hurling their grenades and explosions began to rip the air.
Several barges in front of him, a store of gunpowder exploded, sending flaming debris over the ships around it and killing several of Glover’s men. Glover had to duck as pieces of burning wood fell around him.
British musket fire had become more accurate and organized. Another of his Marbleheaders fell, and then another. Glover looked around. Every barge was burning and flames were racing through their heavily tarred rigging. It was time to go and he signaled the retreat. Whooping happily, his men ran back to their canoes and began to push off. Glover was happy. He had won a great victory.
It was his last thought as the second grenade he’d thrown down the hatch a moment before exploded next to several barrels of gunpowder, utterly destroying the barge and Brigadier John Glover.
Chapter 16
Danforth walked along the edge of the river as the rising sun revealed the totality of the disaster. Not a single one of the barges remained intact. Most had sunk or disintegrated after burning down to their water lines, the weight of their cargo dragging the shattered boats to the bottom. Those with ammunition on board had exploded and the only things remaining on the surface were a handful of masts and a great deal of charred debris along with a number of burned and mangled bodies.
A handful of the barges had broken loose or had their lines cut and had beached themselves on the shore of the river. But these too were burned hulks.
They retrieved a number of bodies from the river and most of them were American, includ
ing one which Arnold identified as John Glover’s. That should have made Danforth feel good, but didn’t. The price the British had paid had been far too high. At least thirty-nine rebels had died in the attack, but it was scant comfort for the utter destruction of the barges and their precious cargo.
Benedict Arnold stood ashen-faced and stared at where his armada had once been. Danforth thought the term “armada” was singularly appropriate. Just as the Spanish Armada had been destroyed, so too had Arnold’s. Along with it had gone any hope of glory for Benedict Arnold.
“How many men did we lose?” Arnold asked.
“Maybe a dozen, General,” Danforth said, “Twenty at the most.”
Included in that figure he counted the six men left to guard the rear and were now presumed dead. Of the half dozen sentries on the barges, three had survived by throwing themselves overboard before being immolated, and a handful of men on shore had been killed by American gunfire or by falling debris.
Arnold nodded. “And that damn fool Rudyard was one of the dead, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Danforth said reluctantly. Rudyard had indeed been a fool, and a drunken one at that, but he’d also been Danforth’s friend.
“Then he’s fortunate he’s dead, otherwise I’d be forced to court martial him and have him hanged for dereliction of duty. His incompetence has destroyed what remains of my dreams. Damn him,” Arnold said, his voice nearly a sob.
He turned and looked again at the mangled corpses. Some of the fixed grins seemed to be mocking him. “Bury them. Then we’ll finish our journey.”
Danforth turned away. He didn’t give a stinking shit about Benedict Arnold’s dreams of money and glory. All he wanted to do was see a victorious end to this campaign and a return home to England where he could seduce and marry the wealthy daughter of a rural squire. He’d had more than enough of war.
* * *
Will helped the frail old man to the top of the hill. Benjamin Franklin was winded by the time he made it, and had to pause and gather himself before he could speak with General Stark. Will was worried about Franklin’s well-being. The hill wasn’t that tall or that steep. Will had barely noticed it.
Franklin regained his breath and looked about him. General Stark looked on quizzically. “What are you thinking, Doctor Franklin?”
“My dear General, I am thinking that I was expecting so much more. You’ve had a good deal of time to prepare for the second coming of Burgoyne and I’d rather expected defenses that were much more formidable and daunting.”
“Impregnable?” Stark asked with a smile.
“Something like that, General, although I know full well that there is no such thing as an impregnable fortress. Something like irresistible forces meeting immovable objects, I believe. But still, I had rather hoped to see so much more than some ditches and some earthworks protected by wooden spikes. While I admit that they run for several miles, they just aren’t terribly impressive.”
“If you had an army, do you think you could storm this hill?”
“I am many things, but a military man is not one of them. Still, General, I do think that Burgoyne’s army could batter its way through if they were willing to pay the price.”
Will moved a few steps away. He would let the two men discuss matters with a semblance of privacy. Of course, he would stay close enough to listen unless one of them told him to either join the discussion or move farther away.
Stark smiled tightly. “Let me guess, you expected something like the hundred foot tall triple walls of Byzantium that kept barbarians at bay for so many centuries in the days of Rome and the subsequent Byzantine Empire.”
Franklin flushed with anger, “Hardly. But I did expect something more.”
“And what would Burgoyne do if he saw what you wished us to build? Do you think he’d go away? Return to New York? No. His orders are to destroy us and anything less would be a disgrace to him and his ambitions.”
Stark turned and waved at the work going on around them. “No, Doctor, what Burgoyne would do if he found us too strong to attack would be to try to find a way around us. He would probe to our left and he would find a stream in flood that presents a significant barrier and, beyond that, he would find miserable ground leading to the lake. Then he would turn to our right and he would find that the swamp to our right is an even greater deterrent. By the way, Doctor, we have spent a great deal of time and effort making sure that the stream and swamp are formidable barriers by diverting other streams into both.”
Franklin shook his head. “In which case, he could still go farther around our flank and find the end to the swamp.”
“Which would cost him valuable time, and that is a commodity he doesn’t possess. Major Drake stands over there pretending he isn’t listening to us, and he will confirm that, won’t you, Major.”
Will smiled. He was not at all embarrassed. “It’s the truth, Doctor. We’ve intercepted a number of messages from Lord Cornwallis stating the need for Burgoyne to make haste and destroy us before New York and the rest of the colonies explode and take them all to hell. Add to that the reality that George III wants his army back to fight in France and you have the fact that Burgoyne is under great pressure to end this as quickly as is possible. Thus, he is unlikely to spend time maneuvering his army unless he absolutely has to.”
“What a happy thought,” Franklin mused. “But I still don’t understand? Why not make the fortifications greater?”
Stark smiled. “Because, if they were indeed too strong, he would have a legitimate reason to defy Cornwallis and go beyond that damned swamp and devil take the extra time such a move would require. But now he will be faced with a conundrum. The defenses will be strong, but not all that strong. He will face the likelihood of both success and heavy losses if he attacks us here, but he will see no alternative given his orders to make haste.
“Everything I’ve heard says he is tormented by two incidents in his life. First, the tremendous casualties he saw the British army take when it launched frontal assaults on our positions at Bunker Hill and, second, the devastating impact of his surrender at Saratoga caused in part by his dividing his army and attempting to maneuver around us. We want him to come to us where we want him, not anyplace else.”
The truth dawned on Franklin. “And this hill is the place where you want to fight him.”
“Precisely, indeed,” Stark said. “We stand little enough chance as it is, so I wish to be the one to choose the battlefield, not Burgoyne. I have no desire to see him turning our flank and us chasing him to God knows where and then possibly having to fight him in the open without the protection of any significant fixed defenses. No, Doctor, I wish to fight him here.”
“And here we stand a chance of victory? This is reminiscent of Bunker Hill, is it not?”
“We stand very little chance of victory,” Stark admitted. “But a little chance is better than no chance at all. And kindly recall that we lost at Bunker Hill, although I must admit we are now far better trained and equipped then the army we had back then.”
He did not need to add that part of the reason for the British army’s ultimate success at Bunker Hill was because the colonists simply ran out of ammunition. There would be more than enough ammunition for the coming fight, just not enough men.
Stark paced the hill’s gentle crest. “Are you aware that the men are calling this Mount Washington? It’s largely sarcasm of course, since it does not in anyway resemble a mountain, but they know that this is where we will make our stand. What Burgoyne will do differently than what he saw in Boston that day, is that he will prepare the field instead of charging straight into our defenses. He will try to clear the abattis we’ve weaved and fill in the ditches in front of the earthworks before he attacks, and that will tell us exactly where he must fall on us. There will be no room for subtlety.”
“And this is to our advantage?” Franklin asked.
“To a very small extent, but yes.”
“But won’t we be in a be
tter position when the men from the south arrive?” Franklin persisted.
Stark shook his head sadly. “They’re not coming.”
* * *
Burgoyne was livid. “Gone? All of them? Every one of the cannon on those barges? All the ammunition and supplies? This is not possible,” he said as he paced the confines of his tent. “Not even Arnold could be that inept.”
Danforth tried hard to stand at attention. He hadn’t eaten in days and what remained of his uniform was caked with mud and hung in rags. Behind Burgoyne, Fitzroy looked at his friend with deep sympathy. Not only was Benedict Arnold’s career ruined, but so too was Captain Peter Danforth’s. But he quickly changed his mind. Danforth’s family had more than enough wealth to buy forgiveness and even a promotion when the proverbial dust settled. Assuming Danforth wanted either forgiveness or promotion. He’d briefly told Fitzroy of his decision to leave the army.
It was Danforth’s misfortune to be the first to arrive with news of the debacle on the river. With both schooners occupied in recovery operations, Danforth and a handful of men had set out on foot to find Burgoyne. They’d had to elude rebel patrols and could trust no one they found. Since they had no real idea where Burgoyne’s army was, they’d had to backtrack to find its trail and then chase it westward. It had been an exhausting effort and Danforth had an overpowering urge to go to sleep. He wondered if he could possibly do it while standing at attention. Danforth had given Burgoyne both a written and an oral report.
“Is any attempt being made to raise some of the guns, the supplies?”
“Sir, General Arnold is using the schooners to try and do exactly that, but I don’t think he’ll succeed. They’re just too small to lift something as heavy and inert as nine-pound cannon out of the deep mud of the river.”
Burgoyne shook his head angrily, “Assuming, of course, that they can even find the damned things in the muck.” He sighed and tried to calm himself. “Stand at ease and relax, Danforth, I hardly think this farce is your fault and nobody here will blame you for it when they have Arnold as a far more convenient target. After all, he was in command, not you. According to Arnold, the fault lies with the late and unlamented Captain Rudyard who was drunk on duty and allowed the rebels to sneak up on him. Is that correct?”
Liberty 1784: The Second War for Independence Page 29
