by Seymour Reit
At last, exhausted and numb with cold, they staggered into Stillwater and were taken to the home of Squire Fisher. Bowls of hot broth eaten in front of an open fire helped to revive the frozen hikers. When the squire heard Henry’s story, he sent his farmhands with food and supplies to relieve the crew trapped in the pine grove. Then he lent Henry his fastest horse so the colonel could race ahead to Albany.
Meanwhile, in the snowbound grove, Will did his best to keep the animals warm and raise the men’s failing spirits. He joked with young J. P., who was feeling frightened but trying hard not to show it.
By evening the storm had passed and the wind finally died down. Henry, riding the fast mount, managed to reach Albany at last and hurried to see General Schuyler. The general, who was one of the doubters, still thought the plan was crazy. But he admired the colonel’s stubborn courage.
“Most of the horses are played out and have to be replaced,” Henry said unhappily. “Some of our men are sick, too, and need medical help.”
Schuyler nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll take care of your sick. I’ll also send a platoon into the countryside to find substitutes. I don’t know how much luck we’ll have, but we’ll try.”
Henry Knox had been authorized to pay twelve shillings a day for each span of horses he hired. It was a good fee, but he found to his dismay that there were few takers. The locals all supported the rebel cause, but they knew the perils of winter and the dangers of the trail, and they were afraid to risk their animals.
While Henry fretted over the delay, Schuyler’s men scoured the area, visiting every farm and hamlet, bargaining for teams and drivers. It took four full days before enough replacements could be found and sent to Stillwater, where Will and the others were waiting. Here the changes were made and new teams were harnessed in place. Finally, on December 31, the convoy was ready to move ahead.
Their next goal was to get across the Mohawk River, which joined the Hudson near a town called Lansing’s Ferry. The Mohawk was frozen over, and Henry expected this to be a simple operation like their earlier crossing. When they reached the riverbank, Will and several other men walked out on the ice. They drilled small holes here and there to test for thickness. Then they came back with long faces.
“The ice is starting to melt,” Will explained to his brother. “It’s getting thin out toward the middle.”
Henry scratched his chin slowly. “You think it can hold the heavy wagons?” he asked.
Will shook his head unhappily. “Not a chance,” he said. “I’m afraid they’ll never make it.”
13
Good News for the British
While Henry Knox’s cannon convoy was stalled at the Mohawk River, Major General William Howe, back in Boston, was busy making plans.
In his cabin aboard HMS Somerset, Sir William read a secret dispatch from London. He read it through, then read it again. Locking it in a desk drawer, he leaned back and smiled. After so many disappointments, it was nice to have good news.
Muffled against the cold, the British commander stepped on deck and looked around the harbor. Like faithful watchdogs his ships were all in place, standing guard over the helpless city. Howe began to pace alongside the ornate railing, reviewing in his mind the events that had recently taken place.
Two weeks ago, in mid-December, transports had sailed in from England bringing a regiment of marines. Then other ships had arrived from the Bay of Fundy in Canada, carrying hay and grain for the horses. But the real supply convoy, the one he’d been counting on, had met with disaster. Twenty-six ships had left Plymouth, England, bound for Boston Harbor. They carried thousands of redcoats as well as cannons, powder, food, and muskets—everything the general was waiting for. Then in midocean the convoy sailed into a hurricane. The ships were scattered and blown off course, and they wound up far to the south in the British West Indies.
During the storm many soldiers were lost and ships were damaged. Some had escaped without too much harm; but it would take a long time for these ships to be refitted, then to beat their way north in the middle of winter.
Adding to Howe’s problems, he had to deal with the cursed little ships called privateers. These weren’t part of an official navy, but the rebel congress allowed them to capture any British vessels that came their way. To the colonists the raiders were heroes, but to General Howe the armed privateers were plain pirates—lawless ships that stole out of port and attacked his merchantmen, then took cover in the many bays and inlets of New England. The privateers not only captured Howe’s cargoes, but then escaped to shallow waters where his warships couldn’t follow.
All in all, 1775 had been a black year for Sir William—a year filled with trouble. But the secret dispatch that had just arrived gave him hope. According to this message a new supply fleet was being assembled, even larger than the last. After the start of the new year, this convoy would cross the Atlantic with the reinforcements he needed. In a neat, flowery hand the secretary of the admiralty had promised Howe forty thousand troops plus enough weapons to carry out all his plans . . . for 1776, and up to May of 1777.”
The general returned to his cabin to study his maps. He could rely on the admiralty. If the weather behaved, the transports and supply ships would arrive soon. Then, with a powerful new force, he would strike. He was tired of the stale mate. Tired of the inactivity. Tired of the fool rebels with their prattle about “freedom” and “liberty.”
Sir William Howe could hardly wait to crush Washington and the colonial army once and for all.
14
Dangerous Ice
Henry and his men spent the first day of 1776 trying to strengthen the ice on the Mohawk. To begin with, they laid out the shortest route across the river. Then at certain spots the men chopped holes through the ice. Water gushed up from these holes and flowed across the surface. In the cold wintry air the water froze quickly, adding a new layer of ice to what was there before.
The crew did this several times until the ice had built up and thickened. Now it was stronger—but would it be strong enough? Will stepped out onto the river. He walked up and down, frowning. “It might hold the big loads,” he said to his brother, “but I’m not powerful sure.”
Henry shrugged. “We won’t know until we try. But we’ll move the guns one at a time, starting with the lightest. Tell the drivers that no team is to go until the one before is safe on the other side.”
The colonel had a long rope tied to the front of each sled and wagon. The other end was attached to the harness of the team that did the hauling. A man walked alongside this rope, holding a sharp axe.
Colonel Knox climbed on the first sled and took the reins. “Keep an eye on that rope,” he said to the man with the axe. “If the sled breaks through the ice, cut the rope fast. Then if it goes down, the load won’t drag the team along with it. But you’ll have to look sharp.”
Everyone stood on the bank, watching tensely as Henry snapped his reins. The horses leaned into the traces and stepped out on the ice. It crackled a few warnings, but it managed to hold. Carefully, foot by slow foot, the sled moved across the frozen river. Sweating in spite of the cold, Henry talked to the horses, coaxing them. William bit his lip anxiously. J. P. Becker held his breath. The sled passed the halfway mark and drew near the far shore. In a few more minutes—though it seemed like hours to the men—the gun was across and the horses scrambled to safety.
Henry hopped down and joyously waved his hat Will and the others cheered wildly and hurried to get the next sled ready. Then, one by one, horses and oxen—tethered to the long taut rope—hauled the cargo across. And every step of the way, the man with the axe stood ready in case of danger.
The river passage took all afternoon. Finally every load was across the Mohawk except for three cannons—the heaviest of all. These were Henry’s pride and joy, the most important of his weapons, and he wanted to be sure they would make it across safely. So he had fresh holes chopped along the route. In the gathering darkness, river water gushed from th
e holes and swept across the ice.
“By morning the new layer should be frozen fine,” Henry said to Will. “Then we’ll try crossing the big guns.”
That night, after supper and hot coffee brewed over the campfire, the men sat around smoking their pipes and staring into the flames. One of the soldiers took a wooden fife from his tunic and began to play softly. J. P., sitting with a warm blanket around his shoulders, recognized the tune. The “Liberty Song” was a great favorite among the colonists; in fact, some thought of it as their new anthem. A few troopers began to sing, and the boy listened happily to the stirring words:
Come join hand in hand, brave Americans all,
And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty’s call;
No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,
Or stain with dishonor America’s name . . .
As the sound of the fife slid into the chorus, others added their voices:
In Freedom we’re born
And in Freedom we’ll live.
Our hearts are ready,
Steady, friends, steady—
Not as slaves but as Freemen
Our strength we will give!
The campfire blazed in the night air. Orange flames leaped high into the black sky, their brightness echoing the bright hopes of a country struggling to be born.
At daybreak the men prepared for the test. The first of the huge guns, hauled by four pair of oxen, was eased carefully onto the frozen river. The ice creaked and cracked as if complaining about its burden. But the extra thickness worked. The surface held.
When this gun was across, the second cannon was moved without incident. Finally there was only the twenty-four-pounder left. This was Will’s gun, and he wouldn’t allow anyone else to take it across. He climbed aboard the sled and guided the oxen out onto the ice. The creaking sounds grew louder and more menacing. Will sat tensely, hardly daring to breathe. The axe man, walking alongside, looked nervous and tested the sharpness of his blade.
The oxen passed the halfway point Slowly, they inched closer and closer to the far shore. Henry started to breathe a sigh of relief.
Crack! Crack!
The noise came sharp and loud, almost like gunfire. A great black gap opened in the ice. Will jumped from the sled. The axe man leaped forward, swung his blade, and parted the rope. As the gun went under, the oxen, suddenly free of their load, reacted with fear. They lunged forward, trying to reach safety. J. P.’s father, who was standing nearby, dove at the harness to keep the clumsy animals under control. He was yanked forward, where he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground.
The old farmer lay on the frozen shore, holding his shoulder and gasping. J. P. rushed over, his face pale with alarm.
A soldier who had been trained as a medical orderly also hurried over. He knelt down and examined the groaning man.
“It’s naught serious,” he said. “He’s throwed his shoulder out I can put it to rights, but he’ll need a sling. Afraid he won’t be able to use the arm for a few days.”
While the trooper went to work on Mr. Becker, Henry and Will took a look at the sunken cannon. Luckily it had gone down near the bank where the river was shallow, and parts of the gun and cart were showing above the surface.
Colonel Knox was not about to abandon his finest prize. “Bring plenty of rope and get some teams ready,” he said to Will. “We’re going to haul her out”
For the rest of the afternoon the men strained and sweated, hauling on ropes, prying at the gun with stout poles, urging the animals on. Little by little the monster crept free of the Mohawk’s icy clutches and came to rest at last on the muddy bank.
Worn out from the day’s work, the crew camped right there at the river’s edge. Hollow-eyed, they ate supper quickly and were soon asleep. All except J. P. His father now felt better, but the boy sat beside him, keeping a drowsy watch.
At dawn the farmer, his arm in a sling, met with Colonel Knox. With the arm strapped, there was no way he could control the horses hitched to the Beckers’ wagon. Henry scratched his chin. His drivers were all needed elsewhere; he had nobody else to spare. J. P., standing nearby, cleared his throat and tugged at his father’s shirt Becker grinned. “I know what’s on your mind, John. You think you can handle four horses?”
J. P. nodded quickly. “Sure I can, Pa, if you’ll ride next to me. I’ll do everything just the way you did.”
Colonel Knox was anxious to solve the problem, so he smiled his approval. “Fine, son. Fine. Then it’s settled.” With a nod he hurried off to organize the rest of the caravan.
Minutes later, Henry trotted by on his mare and signaled for the convoy to begin. With his father beside him, J. P. snapped his reins and called to the horses—trying to do it just as the older man had done—and the animals moved ahead obediently. As the long line of vehicles lumbered away from the frozen river, John thought he would burst with pride. He wasn’t an onlooker anymore; he was a real team member now, doing his bit for the great cause.
15
Marking Time
General Washington stepped back from the flagpole and saluted. Behind him, the regiments were drawn up. A squad fired a volley in the air and the men presented arms. Then the fife-and-drum corps marched smartly across the parade ground. At the edge of the field they turned and broke into a rousing version of the “Liberty Song.”
The red, white, and blue ensign, just raised by the commander, was the very first flag of the colonial cause. It was called the “Grand Union” flag, and it snapped bravely in the Cambridge breeze, telling the world that the American colonies were now a nation and no longer subjects of Britain’s king.
The day this ceremony took place was the very day that Henry and his men, far to the north, were dragging their sunken cannon out of the Mohawk River. Back at his desk after the flag-raising, Washington thought about Henry’s artillery train. He reread a report just in from the hardworking colonel. The guns were on their way, but they were moving very slowly. Because of bad weather and worse terrain, Henry wrote, it would take longer to deliver them than he’d thought.
Washington ran a tired hand over his eyes. It had been a bad winter for the Continental Army, just as it had been for Howe and the redcoats. For one thing, Washington had to deal with thousands of New England troops who were quitting camp. They had enlisted at the beginning of July for six months—now their tour of duty was over. The worried officers tried hard to get their men to reenlist, but only a fraction did, for there was no reenlistment bounty. “The military chest is totally exhausted,” Washington wrote to Philadelphia. “The paymaster has not a single dollar in hand.”
But the lack of bonus money wasn’t as bad as the lack of morale. The colonial troops were tough and independent. They had joined the army with high hopes; now they were cold, homesick, disillusioned, and angry at the long stalemate. For some, patriotism had become an empty word. Nothing was happening. British or no British, they were going home to their shops, farms, and families.
Trying to keep his army from melting away, Washington suggested attacking the redcoats in Boston. But he was overruled by Congress and the War Council: Without enough powder and artillery, a head-on attack was too risky. So the general had to settle for strengthening his lines and capturing an outpost called Cobble Hill.
The weeks dragged on, but by the beginning of 1776 the worst seemed over. New men and officers came pouring in to replace the ones who’d left for home, and the army grew to over 10,500 men. This was very satisfying, but numbers meant little without the power of weapons. Washington, like his British enemy, was still playing a waiting game. General Howe waited for a military convoy crossing the stormy Atlantic. General Washington waited for an artillery convoy crawling from Fort Ticonderoga.
The question that worried George Washington on that January day was: Which of the two convoys would arrive first?
16
The Ghosts of Bloody Pond
They had been on the trail all day but Henry, trying
to make up lost time, decided to push on a while longer. At that point the Beckers’ wagon was up in front and J. P. was feeling pleased with himself. With only a little help from his pa, he’d managed the horses like an expert.
The heavy vehicles creaked slowly along the narrow trail on the west bank of the Hudson. It was growing dark, and a white mist was creeping across the river. J. P’s father dozed on the seat beside him. Over his shoulder the boy could see the other sleds and cans following behind. The drivers and soldiers were surprisingly quiet. Even the animals seemed to doze in their traces as they trudged along.
A pale half-moon rose, winking through the pines, while the mist crept in and out of the dark branches.
Caw! Caw! Caw! A flight of crows exploded from the trees, complaining loudly at the human intruders. Somewhere an owl hooted, getting ready to hunt for his supper.
J. P. was feeling tired. He was also vaguely uneasy. Looking around, he noticed some landmarks and recognized where he was. Twenty years ago this part of the countryside had been a bloody battleground. It was during the French and Indian wars—a time when French troops and their Indian allies fought the British for control of New England and Canada. The British had finally won, but only after years of heavy fighting.
On this very spot there had been a fierce battle—J. P. had heard the whole story from the old-timers. The fight had raged all day long, seesawing back and forth, and there were many killed on both sides. Some of the bodies had been flung into a nearby pond. It was known ever since as Bloody Pond—and folks said the forest was haunted by the ghosts of those who wouldn’t stay down in their watery grave.
