Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  Ten seconds later the first musket cracked from the shore behind, and then he heard the high-pitched, warbling Huron war cries. Four more muskets cracked, and he heard one musket ball whistle past harmlessly. Five minutes later he eased up on the paddle and listened. There was no pursuit. He settled back on his haunches and let his shoulders slump for a time, then once again eased forward onto his knees and began a steady, rhythmic stroke with the paddle. The raw wind at his back would help him cover the one hundred twelve miles back to Matthew and Arnold by late afternoon the following day.

  At seven-thirty a.m. General Arnold sat at his small table at the stern of his flagship, Congress, took quill in hand, and began his brief daily entry in the log.

  Friday, October 11th, 1776.

  His thoughts would not clarify, and he paused to look about.

  The tiny ship was anchored in the cove on the leeward side of Valcour Island, sails furled, with the fourteen ships in his small command behind him, all hidden, poised, waiting. They had finished a cold morning mess of hardtack and venison—no fires nor telltale smoke—and the crews of the fifteen vessels were waiting in tense, nervous silence for the appearance of the British fleet at the south point of the island. Of the fifteen ships, thirteen captains were civilian or army—no experience in handling ship, rudder, or sail. For two days Matthew had worked with them from dawn to dark, going over the fundamentals of maneuvering again and again, concerned that when the cannon were blasting and the cannonballs flying, they could not remain cool enough to think and remember.

  Matthew stood at the bow of the Congress, watching through the mouth of the cove for the first sign of the British, waiting to see if their deck watch would discover the dwarf fleet hidden in the cove and turn east to try to trap them or continue south. Behind him men waited for his command to hoist the signal flags that would begin the engagement which would determine if Washington’s Continental army lived or died.

  The morning was clear, crisp, the lake calm, with a mist rising from the warm sun on the cold water. Arnold looked ashore at the glorious, incomparable beauty of the forests, ablaze with the rich reds and yellows and browns of leaves nipped by October frost, and he tasted the clean, clear air and then forced his mind back to the never-ending duty of keeping a daily log of his command.

  Expect to engage the British this date. We are as well prepared and trained as time and conditions allowed. Fifteen vessels, seven hundred fifty men. Held meeting last evening. Said our farewells, as we believe our small fleet will be so scattered by tomorrow’s engagement that we will each have to find our own way to our homes at the conclusion, if any of us survive. Invoked the blessings of the Almighty. Fine spirit. Good men.

  He shrugged, could think of nothing more to be added, closed the log, wrapped it in its oilskin and locked it back in his captain’s chest, and walked forward to stand beside Matthew. “Anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  Arnold walked back to his table and sat down. The beautiful morning wore on, and the men became nervous, then impatient as the sun climbed into the clear blue sky. Then at ten-twenty a.m. Matthew’s arm shot up and he muttered, “There they are.”

  The bow of the big British flagship Inflexible, with her two decks of cannon, had cleared the point of the island, sails on the mainmast and the mizzenmast filled with the northwesterly breeze, on a heading due south.

  Matthew turned and gave Arnold a violent hand signal and pointed and Arnold came trotting. They stood side by side, scarcely breathing, while they watched the British flagship Inflexible, three times the size of anything in their own fleet, plow through the calm waters.

  Matthew’s eyes never left the sails. If they were going to turn, the sails would have to be trimmed to the southeast to get full capture of the wind from the northwest.

  The ship moved on, steady in her course, and Matthew counted—one hundred yards, two hundred, five hundred—and then he turned to Arnold, relief flooding. “She’s not going to turn!” he whispered. “She didn’t see us.”

  Arnold nodded and remained silent.

  For twenty minutes they stood rooted, studying the line of ships as they came into view, counting cannon, masts, men they could see, and then they were all past.

  “Twenty-five,” Matthew said. “Nearly twice the ships and twice the cannon. I estimate about one thousand Huron and nearly that many regulars—ten times what we have. They intend to board us if they can.”

  “We’ll see. When do we go after them?”

  Three minutes later Matthew gave the command, and the signal flags were hoisted to the top of the mainmast, and men on the ships behind unfurled all mainsails. Arnold shouted orders, and the Royal Savage moved out of the mouth of the cove and took her heading south, following the British squadron. One minute later the four ships at the rear of the British fleet all turned hard to port and came about, beginning to tack into the wind, slowly moving north, and Arnold gave further orders and the column of ships moved out of the Valcour Island cove in a line.

  At eleven o’clock the first British cannon boomed across the water, and the mainmast of the Royal Savage shook and nine cannonballs ripped through her canvas. The remaining twenty-one ships in the British fleet turned and began to beat upwind, tacking back and forth, and as soon as they came into range they opened up with all their cannon.

  Matthew watched, scarcely breathing, to see if the com- manders of the fifteen diminutive American ships would follow the plan. He didn’t realize he had shouted when he saw them swing into a line, one hundred yards apart, and move south with the wind and, when they came within range, begin their turns, first port, then starboard, firing their cannon on either side as they came to bear on any vessel flying the Union Jack.

  For forty minutes the wild, confused battle raged, the British trying to hold their formation while the smaller, faster American craft flitted back and forth before their cannon, firing as they turned, and then Matthew gaped as four British ships broke off. Three headed for shore, the other a small island south of Valcour, where they stopped long enough to set the entire contingent of Huron on shore with their muskets.

  “The Huron are afraid—won’t stay on their ships!” Tom shouted. The Indians quickly spread out on the shoreline and began firing their muskets, and the balls raised small geysers in the water two hundred yards short of the nearest American ships.

  Then the four British ships returned to the British formation, and the Inflexible ran signals up the mainmast, and the entire squadron started the tedious maneuver of tacking into the wind, back and forth, firing when an American target came under their cannon.

  Arnold looked at Mathew and Matthew nodded, and Arnold ran a single red flag to the top of his mainmast and shouted to his helmsman, “Go after the big one—their flagship.”

  All of the American commanders saw the red flag and instantly trimmed their sails and took a heading directly into the British ships nearest to them, helter-skelter, hit and run, fire at one and pick another, precisely the way the militia and minutemen had ripped into the British column at Concord. The British com- manders shook their heads in bafflement as they tried to square with any American ship, only to have it blast them with ball and grapeshot and dance away to engage the next British ship. Time and time again the British ordered their troops to the rails while they tried to close with any American ship sufficiently to reach her with grappling hooks, and the Americans loaded their cannon with grapeshot and raked the British railings, stem to stern, knocking the troops backwards, and then changed course and were gone.

  Matthew stood beside the helmsman on the Congress, shouting to him above the deafening din of the cannon. “Straight in! Don’t turn! She doesn’t have bow guns! Steady as she goes!” When the Inflexible was sixty yards away Matthew shouted, “Now, turn her to starboard—right!” He waited twenty seconds, then ordered, “Now, left, and bring us right down past her so close you think you’re going to ram.”

  The white-faced helmsman followed the orders, an
d his eyes grew big as the small, low Congress, running with the wind, swept by the Inflexible, which was facing into the wind and nearly stalled, and every cannon on the port side of the Congress blasted holes in the hull of the larger ship, while the Inflexible emptied her cannon twenty feet above the decks of the Congress. One cannonball knocked splinters from the mainmast but did not cut it, and eight balls ripped through the rigging. Chunks and pieces came tumbling onto the deck, but the Congress did not falter and her mainmast held. A second ball shattered four feet out of the railing, and wood flew. Matthew felt the quick bite and sting on his left cheek, and his hand darted and he felt the jagged piece buried. He pulled it out and felt and smelled the blood running but could not stop to bandage it.

  “Now,” Matthew shouted at the helmsman. “Hard port—left, left—and hold her until she stalls in the wind.” He turned to the cannoneers. “Reload! We’re coming around for another broadside.”

  The Congress answered the rudder and cut violently to the left, around the stern of the Inflexible, and the cannoneers worked frantically while she continued the turn, and then she slowed and stalled in the wind. At the moment she came to a dead stop, she was off the rear quarter of the Inflexible, at an angle that brought her cannon to bear, while the Inflexible could not bring her guns to bear without turning to starboard. In that moment, Matthew shouted, “Fire,” and once again the port cannon on the Congress blasted, and the balls smashed through the exposed hull of the big ship.

  “Now, hard to port,” Matthew called to the helmsman, who looked at him in question for a split second before he spun the wheel. The little vessel, bow in the wind, responded slowly. Then, as the wind began to catch the sails, she picked up speed. “Starboard cannon, get ready,” Matthew shouted, and watched as the Inflexible began her right turn to bring her cannon to bear. Once again the cannon on the Congress came to bear before those of the Inflexible, and once again, in the five seconds during which he had the advantage, Matthew shouted, “Fire,” and for the third time the guns on the Congress bucked and roared, and the Inflexible rocked slightly as the balls ripped into her.

  “Now, hard port—left,” Matthew called to the helmsman, “and pick a target.”

  He put his hand on his cheek and it was slick, and he glanced down his shirtfront and it was bloody from his shoulder to his waist. He looked and could find nothing, and he ripped his left sleeve from his shirt and pressed it hard against his cheek.

  Minutes stretched to hours while the deafening sound of the cannon never ceased. American commanders stopped giving needless orders, allowing their helmsmen to pick the targets as they would, while the commanders took charge of the loading, aiming, and firing of the cannon. By two o’clock, seven of the British ships were burning, nine had their mainmasts shattered, four were listing, and twenty had been hulled and were taking on water.

  Among the Americans, the decks and railings of four ships were a mass of shattered timbers. Six mainmasts were cut in half. Most of the ships had holes blasted in their hulls and were taking on water. Grapeshot and cannonballs had shredded their sails. All of them had wounded on board; some officers were down, one commander dead.

  And still, the tiny American command fought on, dumping the splintered masts and yards overboard, moving their dead out of the way, the wounded helping load and fire the cannon as fast as they could, manning the pumps below decks to keep from sinking. By four o’clock all of the Americans were stripped to the waist, sweating, faces grim, filthy from cannon smoke, beginning to count their shot and powder, dodging to avoid grappling hooks, clearing British troops away from the rails with grapeshot.

  Matthew ran a grimy hand over his mouth and quickly counted the powder and shot remaining on the deck of the Congress, then turned serious eyes to gauge how many British ships were still in commission. And while he watched, his heart leaped.

  The British were falling back! Regrouping!

  He turned to Arnold, still commanding the starboard cannon. “They’re falling back!”

  It was exactly five o’clock p.m.

  For more than a minute the two men stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe the British were withdrawing. They watched as the British ships fell back, downwind seven hundred yards, then formed into an east-west line with their starboard cannon coming to bear on the American ships.

  Arnold gave orders and the red flag was quickly lowered and a royal blue one run up in its place, the signal for “Follow me.” Those in command on all the American ships read it instantly and waited until the Congress made her turn to the northeast, and they all followed as Arnold led them away. Behind them the British cannon boomed and geysers erupted in the waters, but more than one hundred yards short. In the fading light, Matthew used his glass to carefully study the line of British ships, and then dusk settled into darkness and the cannon flashes stopped.

  Arnold turned to Matthew. “How bad?”

  “I don’t know. It stopped bleeding. I washed it with lake water.”

  “Let me see.” By lantern light Benedict Arnold carefully inspected the jagged tear, nearly an inch long. “I’ll have the surgeon close it and bandage it. You’ll have a scar.” He waited for a moment. “You did well.”

  Arnold put out a call, and by ten o’clock those in command of the fifteen ships were on his deck, with Matthew and Tom.

  “Report on damage,” Arnold ordered.

  The Royal Savage had beached on the southern tip of Valcour Island to save her crew. Her hull was cracked, mainmast shot away, and her rigging down. The Washington had lost her first lieutenant, with her captain and master wounded, mainmast shot through, and hull and decks battered by shot. The Congress had her mainmast hit and cracked, yard shot through, seven holes above the waterline, twelve at the waterline. The New York lost every officer except the captain and was riddled with grapeshot. The Philadelphia, shattered by grapeshot and wrecked by cannonballs, sank while Arnold was holding his conference. Her crew was picked up by the Boston. Every surviving ship was taking on water. They had sixty-one dead, ninety-three wounded, sixty-six of them disabled.

  “Report on ammunition.”

  They had expended eighty percent of their powder and shot.

  In the light of a three-quarter moon, Arnold turned to Matthew, with the white bandage bright in the moonlight. “Report on known damage to the British.”

  “Sixteen without serviceable masts, seventeen with rigging that must be repaired. Every ship among them has taken holes below the waterline. Thirteen are listing with water in their holds, and some of them will sink. Fourteen have fires on deck or below. I estimate four hundred of their troops are dead from grapeshot and cannon, and another three hundred wounded. Their flagship was hulled thirteen times below the waterline, and her pumps are keeping her afloat. I have no estimate of their remaining powder and shot.”

  “Will they be able to transport thirteen thousand troops the length of this lake before winter, in those ships?”

  “No, sir. There is no way the British can bring in enough men and equipment to repair that fleet before spring. They will not move thirteen thousand troops south with those ships for at least nine months.”

  Murmuring broke out among the group, then dwindled.

  “Gentlemen,” Arnold said quietly, “we succeeded. I don’t know who else will tell you, but I tell you now. It’s probable you saved the Continental army today. History will not forget.”

  He paused and cleared his throat.

  “We’re out of ammunition and we’re battered. We’ve done what we came to do. I propose the following plan.” He turned to Matthew. “Can you navigate us around those British ships tonight, undetected?”

  Matthew took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Yes, sir. I think so, after the moon sets. About two o’clock. ”

  Arnold turned back to his men. “After we’ve passed the British, each of you will take command of your own ship and go home any way you judge best. Beach your ships and walk, if you think it best. I’m going to
Schuyler Island to try to make repairs. If I can’t, I’ll beach the Congress and walk home. Any of you who wish can follow me there, but you will be in command of your own crew and vessel.”

  He went around the circle, and in the crisp darkness of night, he shook hands with every man there, before each silently returned to his own command.

  ______

  Notes

  The survival of the Continental army under the comand of General George Washington, and therefore the survival of the newly declared independent colonies, hung in the balance at the first battle of Lake Champlain, fought in October 1776. The British intended bringing thirteen thousand troops south from Canada down Lake Champlain in order to trap General George Washington’s meager army against the British forces under command of General Howe, which were moving north from Boston. To do so, the British had to move the thirteen thousand troops in boats down the 125-mile length of Lake Champlain. They had quickly built twenty-five boats, led by a sizeable man-of-war named Inflexible. To oppose this force, General Washington ordered General Benedict Arnold, assisted by General Philip Schuyler, to build as many craft as he could during the summer of 1776, with orders that whatever the cost, they had to stop or slow the British until winter set in, which would delay the movement of the troops in Canada to the following spring, 1777, giving George Washington sufficient time to prepare. General Washington did not care if they lost every ship; they had to stop the southward movement of the British troops.

  October 11, 1776, Benedict Arnold led his fifteen hastily constructed craft against twenty-five British vessels. It was a desperate, do-or-die battle in which the British ships enjoyed an advantage of 70 percent more firepower than the small American fleet. Every American ship was sunk or destroyed, but the Americans succeeded in their mission. They stopped the British, and winter set in to delay the British movement south until the spring of 1777. (See Knox, A History of the United States Navy, pp. 17–19.)