by Ron Carter
To perfect this delicate plan will require the services of a navigator who is trustworthy under severe battle conditions, and who can navigate Lake Champlain. Commodore Esek Hopkins has highly recommended Mr. Matthew Dunson, who was his chief navigator in a successful effort to seize British munitions in the West Indies. Commodore Hopkins advises this man is presently under your command.
I therefore earnestly make request of you that you send Mr. Dunson earliest to our forces at the south end of Lake Champlain, to assist in construction of ships and to serve as chief navigator under General Arnold when they are completed. I note, somewhat whimsically, the oddity of having a general of the army taking command of ships of the navy. However, in such times, we must meet the need with what we have and trust in God.
Further, should you know of any man who is acquainted with the forests and the Indians in and about northern New York and Vermont, and southern Quebec, and who has been in battle, his services would also be most welcome, since we are advised the British are bringing several hundred, perhaps thousands, of armed Indians to assist in their efforts.
Your earliest reply is urgently requested.
Your humble servant,
General George Washington.
Matthew stood still, silent, stunned.
“You better get your things packed,” Weyland said gruffly.
“I never expected anything like this,” Matthew breathed. “I’ve never seen Lake Champlain.”
“You’ll see a lot of new things before this war is finished. Know anybody who knows the north woods and the Indians?”
“Yes. Tom Sievers.”
“Where is he?”
“Boston.”
“Boston? How does he know the north woods? Indians?”
“It’s a long story, but I can tell you he’s the best fighting man in Massachusetts, and no one knows those north woods or the Indians like him. If I had to take one man into this fight, it would be Tom.”
“Can you get him?”
“Yes.”
“How will you get to Lake Champlain?”
“Any way I can.”
At noon Matthew left his quarters, with charts, sextant, compass, clothing, and toiletries rolled inside a blanket, tied, with a loop slung over his shoulder. He paused for a moment to look at the familiar sights and sounds of the port of Gloucester in the late-June heat, then walked to the captain’s cabin.
“I’m leaving, sir. Would you see to it this letter reaches my mother in Boston soon? She’ll get it to Tom Sievers.”
“How will he get to Lake Champlain?”
Matthew grinned. “Trot.”
Weyland smiled, then sobered. “Washington’s army lives or dies with you and Arnold on Lake Champlain. You have too much on your young shoulders. God bless you, Matthew.” He thrust out his hand and Matthew grasped it warmly, then turned and strode to the gangplank and down onto the dock, and turned northwest.
For six days he walked on dirt roads or no roads, through tiny, unmapped hamlets and villages, rode on wagons and carts when he could, ate from fields or the bounteous tables of farmers when invited, bathed in streams, slept in straw stacks or barns, or beds when they were offered, and steadily made his way north and west, through the lush, overpowering beauty of the Green Mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont. On the seventh day he crested one of the endless ridges and to the north saw the waters of Lake Champlain glittering in the heat of the afternoon sun. At dawn he worked his way through a jumble of windfall timber to the rocky shores of the narrow south end of the lake and stopped to listen.
Jays argued in the trees, and nearby a woodpecker hammered out his incessant tattoo on a yellow pine. The morning breeze whispered in the pine boughs, and squirrels darted and chipmunks peered from branches, then disappeared in the blink of an eye. Eagles and hawks circled on great wings, patiently waiting, heads cocked and yellow-rimmed eyes focused on fish three feet below the lake surface. Matthew closed his eyes to concentrate, and sorted out the sound he sought, echoing across the smooth water—the sound of many axe blades being driven into the trunks of standing pines, and the incessant clanging of blacksmiths at their forges, along the east lakeshore.
He moved steadily on, following the sound, peering through the trees until he saw movement. He was a quarter mile from the camp when he stopped in his tracks, startled by the figure that silently appeared fifteen feet to his right, musket in hand.
“Tom! You got the letter—how are you?”
“Tolerable.” He walked to Matthew and shook his hand warmly. He was dressed in worn buckskin hunting shirt and pants, and moccasins. “How are you?”
“Good. How’s Mother, the family?”
“Sound. Good.” He gave Matthew a head sign and they walked on towards camp while they talked.
“Heard anything about Kathleen?”
Tom shook his head.
“How long’ve you been here?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Met General Arnold yet?”
“Yes. Got a hundred fifty men or so up ahead building ships. Sent me to wait for you. Wants to see you as soon as you get here.”
“Why?”
“He’s army. Doesn’t know about building ships.”
“Doesn’t he have some shipbuilders here?”
“One. Another one coming. A few carpenters. Mostly soldiers.”
Tom walked him through the forest into a great clearing where the trees and stumps had been cut back one hundred yards up and down the lakefront for nearly half a mile, and a double string of tents was pegged down along the tree line. The area between the tents and the water’s edge was organized with men driving oxen and mules to skid fresh-cut logs to three crews who worked with long, heavy crosscut saws to cut them into planking four inches thick, while other men stacked. At the north end, a thin line of smoke rose into the blue sky from three blacksmith forges, where sweating smithies pounded white-hot iron into brackets and bolts four feet long. Within twenty feet of the waterline, the keels of four small ships had been laid, ribs framed into place, and the planking on the sides begun.
A crew Matthew could not see was deeper in the forest, and he could hear their axes working. Wood chips and sawdust and tree bark were scattered everywhere, and the air was rich with the smell of fresh-cut pine logs and of pine gum. There was little conversation among the sounds of the ripsaws and of the heavy hammers driving the ribs into place and of the forges, while the carpenters continued the tedious work of measuring and boring the two-inch holes through which oak plugs would be driven to tie the ribs to the keel and to the deck. No man was more than thirty feet from his musket.
Tom picked his way through the men and timbers to the place where the first keel was laid and approached a well-built man in a shirt damp with sweat, poring over a crude drawing on a big, rough-cut pine table. Tom stopped and the man turned to him.
“General,” Tom said, “this is Mr. Matthew Dunson.”
General Benedict Arnold straightened and studied Matthew shrewdly for a moment with piercing blue eyes that missed nothing and in which Matthew could see traces of victories and defeats, joy and heartache. The man’s chin and nose were prominent, attractive, and he moved with a sense of grace and authority. He thrust out his hand. “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Matthew gripped the strong hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“I take it you know why we’re here—you’ve read General Washington’s letter?”
“I have a copy.”
Arnold’s voice firmed. “We have about ninety days to prepare to stop the British on this lake, and I mean to do it. When Mr. Sievers has settled you in, come back and I’ll acquaint you with what we’re doing.”
Tom walked Matthew to the east side of the clearing to a six-man tent. When they were inside, he pointed to a place in the corner. “Put your blanket there.”
“Have you been helping with the ships?”
“No. Arnold told me to get fresh meat. There are two buck deer
hung in the trees back there, and two more on spits roasting for supper.”
They started back to Arnold’s table.
“How’d you find deer with all this noise?”
“Found their salt lick two miles east. Borrowed a mule to pack them here.”
Arnold straightened at their approach. “Find a place for your blankets?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let me show you what we’re doing.” He turned a rough handmade drawing of a ship towards Matthew. “That was drawn by the only shipbuilder in camp. We’re using it for a guide on these ships.”
“Who’s your shipbuilder?”
“Abraham Udell. He’s built merchantmen before, but never a gunboat. I’d like your response to the drawing.”
Matthew studied it for a minute. “Could I take some time to think about it?”
“Yes, but not much. I’d also like your thoughts on how best to meet the British on this lake, when the time comes. We know they’ll have a superior force. The question is, what can we do to offset their advantage?”
“Could I study my chart of the lake for a while?”
“When can you have a report?”
Matthew shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow morning. Could I have that drawing for a couple of hours?”
For two hours Matthew studied his navigator’s map of Lake Champlain, spread out on his blanket. Longitude, latitude, mean depth, deepest, shallowest, islands, sandbars, bays, coves, winds, currents, temperatures, seasonal shifts—he went over them again and again. Then he studied the drawing by which Arnold’s tiny command was building their ships—length, width at the beam, height, mast height, deck structure, compartments in the hold, thickness of the hull, size of the sails.
He took one o’clock mess with Tom, then returned to his tent. At two o’clock he walked out and down to the shore, and watched the slow, tedious work of cutting the planking to fit the ribs of the ships. Then he hurried back to his tent and once again went over the dimensions on the ship drawing, and in the late afternoon sat cross-legged on his blanket writing pages of notes and a sketch of his own. At evening mess he returned the ship drawing to General Arnold.
“Sir, could I talk with you and Tom Sievers privately in the morning?”
Arnold looked at him, surprised. “Privately? Something wrong?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Come find me after morning mess.”
The cooks banged on brass kettles while the morning star was fading, and when the sun’s rays caught the tops of the pines in the crisp, cool, clear air, the sounds of axes and saws and hammers were echoing through the trees and across the mirror surface of the lake.
“Come to my tent,” Arnold invited, and Matthew and Tom followed and let the flap fall closed. They sat at a small table in the center of the large tent, Arnold’s cot on one side, his aide’s on the other.
Arnold leaned forward, arms on the table. “What is it?”
“I’ll make this as short as I can,” Matthew said.
Tom leaned back in his chair, missing nothing.
“How many ships do you already have?”
“Five serviceable,” Arnold answered. “One is beyond repair.”
“How many do you expect from the British?”
“Between twenty-five and thirty.”
“How many will you have ready by then?”
“Half that number.”
“Will you want to use your ships for anything when this is all over?”
“You mean maintain them on the lake? No.”
“They’re expendable?”
“Their sole purpose is to delay the British until winter.”
“Do you know on which side of Grand Isle the British are working?”
“West side.”
Matthew nodded his head and spread his chart of the lake on the table. “All right. This is how I see it.”
For half an hour he led Arnold through the facts. Grand Isle divides the top of the lake—Valcour Island on the east side, the leeward side, of the isle at the southern tip—cove there—can hide several small vessels—the ships designed by Udell good but heavy—can’t maneuver well—British bound to build heavy ones—we build lighter ones—outmaneuver them—hide ours in the Valcour Island cove—let British come past—come in behind them—ambush—leeward side—wind to our backs—they will have trouble turning into the wind—we can force them to come to us—move right in among them—use all cannon on both sides—best chance we have—tie them up as long as we can—do all the damage we can—then run for it to save our men if we survive—lighter ships can outrun heavier ones.
He finished and drew and released a great breath and fell silent, waiting.
Arnold slowly straightened. “Lighter and smaller?”
“Yes, sir. We can build six more then you’ve planned in the next ninety days, if we do. We can eliminate nearly everything below the main deck and save time and work.”
“Can you make a sketch?”
“I have, sir.” Matthew handed him the drawing.
“Fast, small ships, stripped down to only the necessaries for one severe battle. Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happens if they find out we’re waiting in ambush in Valcour Island Cove?”
“If they do, we’ll know it the moment they clear the south end of Grand Isle, because they’ll have to make a hard turn to port—east—to come get us, if that’s what they intend to do. If they do that, we run north, and because we’re lighter and smaller we’ll outrun them. If they follow, we lead them up to Saint Albans, circle the island, and come right back to engage them, once again with the wind at our backs and able to outmaneuver them. If they split their force, half to follow us, half to go on south, we lead the half following us up to Saint Albans, circle the island, and make an all-out run through them, and catch the main group headed south, again with the wind at our backs and able to dictate the terms of the engagement.”
Arnold studied the chart, and slowly a hint of a smile formed. “Let me study this for a while.”
“There is something else.”
Arnold raised his eyes. “What?”
“Send someone up there to see what they’re doing, and count everything—officers, men, gunpowder, ships a-building, Indians—everything.”
“Who?”
“Tom.”
Arnold turned to him. “Can you do that?”
“Shouldn’t be much trouble.”
“Both of you be back here in the morning before mess.”
“Take up the slack. Easy, easy. You there, take up the slack. All right, she’s true. Tie it off.”
Matthew gave hand signals, and the men tied off the six guide ropes that held the forty-two-foot mizzenmast in place and exactly perpendicular in the big notch in the newly laid keel of the tenth ship, while craftsmen went to work with levels and drills and heavy iron brackets to bolt it in place. Then he backed away, sighting the mizzenmast against a straight, perpendicular stick to be sure the mast was not leaning. Satisfied, he wiped sweat with his sleeve and turned to get a dipper of water from the water barrel, and stopped, puzzled at the sounds of a running horse coming through the timber at the south end of camp. The work stopped as hands reached for muskets and waited to see what brought a horse and rider in at a run. The man reined the horse in near the big table and was on the ground before it came to a skidding stop.
“Where is General Arnold?” he demanded.
Fingers pointed, and he ran to the general. Matthew came trotting.
“Sir,” the man panted, “I was sent to deliver this.” He thrust an envelope to Arnold.
“From whom?”
“General Washington.”
A sense of foreboding touched Benedict Arnold as he took the large brown envelope, looked briefly at the seal pressed on the flap, and nodded to the messenger. “Wait in camp. I might need to send an answer.”
He settled onto a rough-cut pine stool in his tent and leaned forward, elbows on
the large oak table covered with drawings of ship hulls and riggings. For a brief moment he stared at the bold, stiff cursive writing on the envelope, and his forehead wrinkled in concern. From Washington? What’s wrong? Has he surrendered? Are we beaten?
He broke the seal and withdrew a sheaf of papers. With disciplined deliberation he laid them on the tabletop, smoothed them, and steadily read the first document, written in the hand of General Washington.
General Benedict Arnold:
On Tuesday, July 4th, 1776, the Congress of the United States adopted a Declaration of Independence, severing forever the thirteen colonies from England. The work of drafting Articles of Confederation for the new nation continues under the leadership of our Congress, and the beneficent eye of the Almighty. In my humble opinion, the document is unique. I send a copy for your consideration and whatever beneficial use you might find for it. You may wish to share it with your command.
I send this intelligence to you that you may know you are now free men, and the campaign in which you are engaged is for the purpose of maintaining the freedom we have so boldly declared and so dearly bought. Your success is critical to the survival of this new nation.
God bless you all.
Your obdt. servant,
General George Washington
Arnold felt a rise begin in the depths of his being. Independence! They did it! Defied the British empire!
Slowly he laid the letter aside and felt his breathing constrict as he read the bold printing centered at the top of the next page.
In CONGRESS, July 4, 1776.
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united
States of America
States! Not colonies! Sovereign states! United! It surged through his brain, and he paused for a moment before he continued. Time and place were forgotten as he read. He finished and was oblivious to the sounds of axes and saws and men outside the tent as he again read the document, slowly, pausing, letting his thoughts run with the words and the concepts. Then he carefully read the signatures of the fifty-six men who had placed their lives and all that mortality holds dear on the block for the world to see and the British empire to crush and destroy if they could.
