Guns for General Washington

by Seymour Reit

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  About This Book

  Epigraph

  The Restless Rebel

  Stalemate in Boston

  The New Commander

  Paul and William

  “Go Ahead, Henry . . .”

  To Ticonderoga

  Trouble on the Lake

  The Colonel Reports

  News and Rumors

  Heading Overland

  Into the Storm

  A New Start

  Good News for the British

  Dangerous Ice

  Marking Time

  The Ghosts of Bloody Pond

  South to Claverack

  A Walk in the Rain

  The Runaway

  The Chasm

  On to Westfield

  Partings

  Plans and Preparations

  The Guns Speak

  What Happened After

  Other Reading

  About the Author

  Copyright © 1990 by Seymour Reit

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Reit, Seymour.

  Guns for General Washington: A story of the American

  Revolution/Seymour Reit

  p. cm.—(Great Episodes)

  Includes bibliographical references.

  Summary: In the bitter winter of 1775–76, Colonel Henry Knox and his younger brother, Will, both of the Continental Army, become frustrated with the British blockade of Boston and decide to attempt to move 183 cannons from Fort Ticonderoga, over 300 miles of mountainous wilderness, to defend the besieged city.

  1. Knox, Henry, 1750–1806—Juvenile fiction. 2. United States—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Juvenile fiction. [1. Knox, Henry, 1750–1806—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction.] I. Tide. II. Series.

  PZ7 R2785Gu 2001

  [Fic]—dc21 2001016557

  ISBN 978-0-15-216435-5

  eISBN 978-0-547-54015-3

  v1.0714

  For Edmée

  About This Book

  Paul Revere’s midnight ride . . . Washington crossing the Delaware . . . the winter crisis at Valley Forge . . . Some events of America’s War for Independence are known to us all. But there are other episodes, just as dramatic, that seem to have been lost in the dusty pages of history.

  The subject of this book—the great cannon trek of 1775—is one of those remarkable events. It played a vital part in the early months of the revolution, but few people seem to know much about it. What you’re about to read is factual and accurate. All the dates, times, and places are real. The people who took part in it are also real. And now, for the first time, the full account is being told.

  Material for our drama came from many places. Colonel Henry Knox, the central player, kept a diary for part of the long journey. He also sent regular reports to General Washington. Another participant was a young boy named John P. Becker. Years later, in the 1830s, he wrote about his boyhood adventure for a newspaper called the Albany Gazette. The story was also mentioned in many histories, though not in detail.

  This author is grateful for the accounts of historians who helped him to put the exciting pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. Among those noted writers are Donald Barr Chidsey, North Callahan, Clay Perry, Howard H. Peckham, and Esther Forbes, author of a major biography of Paul Revere.

  Others who deserve thanks for their kind help include William H. Hooks of Bank Street College; Harris Colt, proprietor of the Military Bookman in New York City; and Linda Russell, singer, musician, and authority on colonial songs and ballads. Thanks must also go to Margaret Peet for her excellent secretarial work.

  Most of our country’s history comes to us on printed pages. But there was a time before those pages were written, when people actually experienced the adventures we read about. To make past events truly come to life, the people involved must also come to life. We must really know how they felt and what they may have thought. To do this, the author has tried to “re-create” various speeches and thoughts for his characters. All of these inventive touches have been done with great care, in order to keep them true to the characters and true to their times.

  As you read these pages, you may agree that Colonel Knox’s great adventure was indeed a stirring, suspenseful, and important event in American history. It is a tale of courage and bravery—an episode that gave young America its first real victory, paving the way for the future of a great democratic nation.

  From the east to the west

  blow the trumpet to arms;

  Through the land let

  the sound of it flee;

  Let the far and the near

  all unite with a cheer

  In defense of our Liberty Tree!

  —THOMAS PAINE (1775)

  1

  The Restless Rebel

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The sound of musket fire cut through the stillness of the sleeping camp. Colonial soldiers, bleary-eyed, tumbled out of their shelters with their weapons ready and raced toward the palisade. One of these men was a trooper named William Knox, who had been hoping to see action. Excited, he joined the others on the firing line and peered into the gray mist.

  The news spread quickly among the waiting men. Hidden by morning fog, a British patrol had slipped across Mill Creek in an attempt to probe the rebel defenses. But an alert sentinel had spotted them in the marshes and opened fire. Others had joined in and the redcoats, giving up, had raced to their barge and escaped. The immediate crisis was over.

  With shrugs and yawns, the soldiers trudged back to their warm beds. But Will Knox was too keyed up to go back to sleep. Unloading his musket, he walked across the drill grounds and climbed a rise called Prospect Hill. From here he could see his beloved Boston, locked in the hands of the enemy to the southeast. The city was only a few miles away, but it could well have been a thousand; the British had thrown a tight blockade around the city, and nobody could get in or out.

  On this frosty morning in October of 1775, a sharp wind was blowing, but William was warmly dressed. Some weeks earlier a regiment of Pennsylvania frontiersmen had come marching into camp. Tough, hardy men, they wore long homespun shirts of butternut brown, fringed leather tunics, leggins, and Indian-style moccasins. Will had traded his best hunting knife, plus half a pound of sugar and some chewing tobacco, for a long shirt and tunic. He’d also fancied one of the fine coonskin caps worn by the Pennsylvania men, but those were scarce, so he had to make do with an ordinary militia tricorn.

  Now, sitting with his back against a log rampart, the trooper studied the sweeping view. From where he sat the city looked like an island; it was entirely surrounded by water, except for a narrow causeway called Boston Neck. This strip of land was fortified and guarded by British redcoats. The rest of the area, lying in Boston Harbor, was patrolled by the powerful frigates of the Royal Navy.

  Will had just turned nineteen and had joined the Continental Army after the fighting at Lexington and Concord. He’d been born in Boston on Sea Street and had lived there with his parents, brothers, and sisters. When Wi
ll was only three, his father had gone off to the West Indies to seek his fortune. He died while away and Will’s older brother, Henry, became the head of the little family. Henry Knox was now twenty-five and a trusted officer on General Washington’s staff! In Will’s admiring eyes, Henry was a true hero—at least, William felt, he would be a hero if there were only something to be heroic about.

  Will Knox was half Irish and half Scottish—and both halves were hot-blooded. Like most volunteers, he was a solid patriot. Also an impatient one. He had come here to fight for liberty, eager for action and excitement. But the only action he’d found was trudging the countryside to collect firewood. And his only excitement was an occasional hunting trip to bring down some game for the regimental cook pot.

  Restless and unhappy, William sat and chewed on a blade of spear grass. He raised his empty musket and idly aimed at a British frigate anchored off Dowe’s Wharf. Slowly he moved his weapon, targeting the warships in the blockading fleet one by one. “In truth,” he muttered to himself, “if this puny piece were a heavy cannon, I’d teach Bowwow Howe and his lobsterbacks a thing or two. Aye, I’d send them packing . . .”

  Behind him, Will heard the muffled roll of drums—a tattoo calling the troops to their morning drill. He stood up and started down the hill. The day had hardly begun, and already he felt weary. Wars, he knew, were not won by endless drilling. Why was he here? Why in blazes had he rushed to enlist? Why had he expected to find glory, when all he’d found so far was firewood?

  As he hurried to join his company, Will Knox sighed with self-pity and boredom, unaware that an incredible adventure awaited him. The young soldier would soon be part of a strange expedition—one of the most daring and dangerous missions of the American Revolution.

  2

  Stalemate in Boston

  General Howe was in a bad mood. The cabin boy knew it because the tea things hadn’t been touched, and when the general skipped his tea it meant a very bad mood indeed.

  The young sailor picked up the silver tray and stood undecided. “Care for some fresh tea, sir? Nice ’n’ hot?”

  “Get out,” growled the general.

  With a shrug the boy left, closing the door softly. Alone with his black thoughts, Major General Sir William Howe stared out the stern window of his cabin. Then he threw on a boat cloak, picked up his brass telescope, and stomped out on deck.

  Howe stood at the rail and swept his glass back and forth across Boston Harbor. Five warships bristling with cannons stood in a half circle around the city. His own ship, HMS Somerset, was a frigate of sixty-eight guns that served as the British command post. On the port side he saw the Lively, a twenty-gun sloop, and near her the brig Glasgow, mounting twenty-four guns. To starboard were the armed transports Cerberus and Symmetry. Beyond them he could see the topmasts of the brig Falcon, guarding the mouth of the Charles River.

  There were also a number of gun barges, armed schooners, and floating batteries at various key points. All of these formed a strong ring of oak and iron that held colonial Boston in a tight grip. With Howe’s watchdogs on duty, not a single musket ball, not an ounce of gunpowder, not a morsel of bread or beef could get through to the weary, hungry Bostonians.

  Howe lowered his brass telescope and snapped it shut Yankee Doodle was locked up neatly, at least from the sea. But on the land side it was a different story—and the reason for Sir William’s constant bad moods.

  He narrowed his eyes and gazed toward the hills beyond Boston, half hidden in the cold November mist. Three miles away was the town of Cambridge. This was the site of Harvard College, founded years ago when the settlers were loyal to the king. Now the area was a fortified camp where the so-called patriots had their headquarters. Howe stomped along the deck, swearing under his breath. Patriots, indeed! They were nothing but traitors—a ragtag bunch of ignorant farmers, country bumpkins, riffraff, and ne’er-do-wells who had the colossal nerve to defy the laws of His Majesty, King George III.

  Still, the general had to admit—albeit grudgingly—that these boors and roughnecks were surprisingly brave. They knew how to use their long muskets, pouring out volley after volley of deadly fire. The skirmishes at Lexington and Concord, the recent fighting at Breed’s and Bunker Hills, had proved that they could be tough and dangerous.

  A staff officer stepped up to General Howe and touched his hat. “Word’s come from our friends in Boston, sir. Three rebel regiments have just reached Cambridge. Militia from Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Maryland.”

  Sir William nodded and continued his pacing. Worse and worse. It wasn’t just a Massachusetts affair anymore; the rebellion was spreading to all the colonies.

  Cambridge was out of range of his heaviest guns—otherwise he’d blow the whole place to bits. He also had four thousand marines under his command—veterans whose fighting skills were famous. But this wasn’t a big enough force to sweep across the Charles River and attack the Yanks in their stronghold. At Breed’s Hill his redcoats had taken heavy casualties and many were out of action. There were just enough left to control Boston, protect the loyalists in the city, and fight off rebel patrols—and that was all.

  The general had other problems. Scurvy, a dread disease, was increasing, and fresh food was scarce. His hungry troops were living on biscuits and salt pork, half-rotted from lying so long in casks. The men had little to do except walk guard duty, drill on Boston Common, and go on scouting parries, hoping to round up a few cattle or sheep.

  William Howe had been sent over to stamp out this colonial treachery. Instead he found himself in a stalemate. He knew from letters and messages that his expedition was becoming a laughingstock at home. One of the songs popular in England’s pubs and taverns went:

  In days of yore our noble troops

  Took warlike kings in battle.

  But now, alas, their valour fades—

  They capture harmless cattle!

  Back at the railing, Sir William watched a squad of redcoats climb down the rope ladder into a waiting barge. Another party was going off to scour the countryside in search of food. They’d probably come back empty-handed.

  He turned away, frowning. For the present he’d have to be patient and bide his time. But not for long. Heavy reinforcements were on their way from England; soon he’d have more ships, more guns, and a lot more troops. When these came he’d smash the rebels once and for all, and then sail home a hero. Yankee independence be hanged! Against the full force of England, the country bumpkins didn’t stand a chance.

  Feeling better at this happy thought, Sir William allowed himself a brief smile. As his bad mood slowly passed, he strode back to his cabin to order fresh tea.

  3

  The New Commander

  Father and I went down to camp,

  Along with Captain Gooding,

  And there we saw the men and boys

  As thick as hasty pudding.

  Yankee Doodle keep it up,

  Yankee Doodle dandy,

  Mind the music and the step,

  And with the girls be handy!

  A ragged squad, led by a lone fifer, made its noisy way through camp. The fife shrilled and squeaked, and the men raised their voices to follow the melody. The ditty had first been sung by the British to mock the rebels. But the colonists liked the lively tune, so they added new words and made it their own:

  There was Captain Washingtons

  Upon a slapping stallion,

  A-giving orders to his men;

  I guess there were a million.

  Yankee Doodle keep it up,

  Yankee Doodle dandy,

  Mind the music and the step,

  And with the girls be handy!

  The squad, on its way to gather wood, marched past the camp headquarters. An officer working at his desk stopped to listen, and the song gave him a welcome lift. George Washington had been sitting and brooding. Like General Howe, his opponent aboard HMS Somerset, Washington was worried about the stalemate—but not for the same reasons.

&
nbsp; Months earlier, in June of 1775, the Continental Congress had chosen him to command the new Continental Army. The delegates in Philadelphia couldn’t have made a better choice. Tall, dignified, with good military experience, the Virginia landowner was a staunch patriot. When the call came, he accepted it gladly.

  Full of exciting plans and high hopes, he had hurried to Massachusetts by fast coach. But after a few days in Cambridge, his excitement and hopes had begun to fade. What the general found when he reached headquarters was something close to chaos. The Continental Army was a force without shape; there was no organization and no discipline. Shelters were scattered everywhere, no two alike. The men were living in tumble-down shacks, rickety lean-tos, or tents patched together from scraps of canvas and blankets. Their clothes were shabby, and there were no uniforms except for a few companies funded by their wealthy officers.

  Washington had a neat, precise military mind. Over and over he tried to remember that his raw troops were colonists, not professional soldiers. They were a noisy, good-humored, democratic mob, willing and brave but not happy taking orders. In fact, orders and royal commands were the very things they were against. So they’d come together to put an end to King George’s tyranny— this odd assortment of farmers and fishermen, carpenters and cobblers, tradesmen and teachers, barbers, blacksmiths, frontier scouts, seamen, clerks, weavers, tanners, tailors, shopkeepers, stonemasons, lumberjacks, and young men just seeking adventure. Also, the good pay of six dollars a month for army privates drew many colonials to the cause.