Guns for General Washington (5 page)

One by one, the barges scraped up on the pebbly slope. As the weary men collapsed over their oars, William climbed ashore and came toward his brother. His face was haggard and there were dark circles under his eyes. With a big grin, he gave Henry a fancy salute and said, “Ticonderoga Navy, sir—reporting as ordered.”

At that moment, Colonel Knox had never felt happier.

8

With the guns safely at Fort George, the next move was to start overland. The pilots who had volunteered for the lake passage were paid, thanked, and sent home. The brothers added a group of men who knew how to handle horses and oxen, and a platoon of soldiers was assigned to the convoy.

General Schuyler had kept his word: Many carts and sleds had been sent from Albany, and more were on the way. The sleds were made of thick wooden planks, and the wooden runners were reinforced with iron strips. Some colonists also came to the fort to offer their own sturdy wagons.

One of these was a farmer named Becker who brought his twelve-year-old son, John, with him. John—known as J. P.—had begged for the chance to go with his pa, and he became the youngest member of Colonel Knox's team. Becker had signed on for the run to Springfield, Massachusetts—a distance of several hundred miles—and he and J. P. were put in charge of a big brass nine-pounder. It was called that because it could fire a cannonball weighing approximately nine pounds. Four strong horses were used to haul this gun on Becker's wagon. But the heaviest weapons—the eighteen-pounders and twenty-four-pounders—needed the pulling power of eight oxen, yoked in pairs.

The scene at the lakefront was chaotic, but there was order in the confusion. J. P., wide-eyed, watched in excitement as the men hoisted cannons onto the sleds, rolled carts into line, studied maps, bridled horses, loaded tools and supplies, and hitched oxen to vehicles. Through it all, Henry and Will were everywhere, shouting orders, helping to load, and keeping an eye on their precious cargo.

It wasn't until the next day that Henry could sit down and write to General Washington. His quill pen raced over the paper as he explained that the guns had finally reached Fort George. Then he went on:

 

It is not easy to conceive the difficulties we had transporting them across the lake, owing to the advanced season of the year and contrary winds; but the danger is now past. Three days ago it was uncertain whether we could have gotten them until next spring but now, thanks be to God, we can go forward. I have had made 42 exceeding strong sleds, and have provided 80 yoke of oxen to drag them as far as Springfield, where I shall get fresh animals to carry them to camp. I expect to move on to Saratoga on Wednesday or Thursday next, trusting that between now and then we shall have a fine fall of snow, which will enable us to proceed further and make the carriage easy. If that shall be the case, I hope in sixteen or seventeen days' time to be able to present to your Excellency a noble train of artillery
.

 

Henry sealed the note and handed it to a rider who had been standing by. He stepped outside for a last-minute check. Everything was in order. In a little while the journey would begin.

As he finished his inspection, William fell in beside him. The brothers nodded to each other without exchanging any words, for there was nothing more to say. The lake trip had been dangerous, but it was behind them. Now, they hoped, the convoy's worst troubles were over.

9

Somewhere across town, church bells began to ring. Finishing his breakfast of biscuits and cheese, Paul listened. That would be King's Chapel, he decided, over on Tremont Street. Probably a funeral for another smallpox victim. These days the bells tolled often for the dead. The pox was everywhere, striking people without regard for their politics or for history. Tory and Whig, royalist and neutral—everyone was fair game for the deadly sickness.

Gone away
, moaned the church bells.
Gone away . . . gone away . . . gone away . . .

Paul gathered the leftovers of his breakfast and put them in a tin box. Nobody in Boston wasted a single bit of food, no matter how small it might be.

Farewell
, cried the bells.
Farewell . . . farewell . . .

In the old days, Paul thought, church bells had sounded different. He had loved to hear them calling across the rooftops. Even on sad occasions they rang out strongly, serenely, full of life and hope. Now, it seemed, they we're always dull and gloomy, as if mourning for a dying city.

Paul pulled on a jacket, grabbed his cap, and slipped out of the house, locking the door behind him. Crossing Fish Street, he passed a company of redcoats standing at rest. Their muskets slanted carelessly every which way. Sullen and bored, they glared at Paul with cold eyes. The boy looked the other way and tried to appear small and unimportant. He hated the British for making him feel weak and fearful—and despised himself for giving in to those feelings.

Take care
, warned the bells.
Take care . . . take care . . .

He walked quickly past Faneuil Hall, once the main public market and now a barracks for Howe's marines. Partway down Merchant's Row he turned and walked out on Long Wharf. This great pier, stretching two thousand feet into Boston Harbor, was a wonder of engineering admired all over the colonies. Once it had been a busy meeting place, the center of Boston's shipping trade. Here, in earlier days, contracts were signed and precious cargoes bought and sold. Along the north side of the wharf were warehouses, shops, and business offices. The south side of the pier had been left free for the docking of sailing ships. Even at low tide, the wharf could handle the biggest schooners on the Atlantic Ocean.

Today, as usual, the berths were unused, except for a small cutter flying the British flag. The shops and offices were dark and empty. Some of them had been boarded up for safety, but the planks had been torn off long ago and used for fuel—and so had the furniture inside.

Here and there on the pier, Paul saw small groups of people, their faces worn and their clothes shabby. With Boston trapped in Howe's blockade, citizens often gathered on the wharf to hear the latest news and rumors. Paul moved among the different groups, searching for a face. His eyes brightened. Near the south end of the pier, he spotted Old Toby sitting against a wooden piling, holding a fishing pole.

When Toby showed up on Long Wharf it usually meant interesting gossip.
Paul strolled over and sat next to the boatman, his long legs hanging over the platform. Without turning his head, Toby touched his battered, shapeless hat. The hat had once belonged to a ship's captain, and since Toby was a man of the sea, he felt entitled to wear it. “Morning to you, Master Paul.”

Paul nodded. “Morning to you, Toby. How are you faring?”

Toby made a face. “Well enough, thankee. Except for an empty belly.”

“You might have some luck with your fishing,” Paul said.

The old boatman shrugged. “I've got a powerful fat worm on my hook. Mayhap I'll catch a bit, if the redcoats haven't fished the harbor clean.”

They sat for a while side by side, and Paul waited patiently. When Toby had news he would share it in his own way, in his own good time. He moved the pole about in the water, then cleared his throat “Did you ever hear tell of a Captain John Manly?”

Paul nodded, curious. “A privateer, isn't he? Licensed by the council to go after British vessels?”

Toby grunted. “Aye, that be he. Commands an armed brig called the
Lee
. Word's come that he captured a British supply ship, the
Nancy
, out on Boston Bay. Took the ship, put a prize crew aboard, and sailed 'er into Cape Ann. Washington's sending four companies to get the cargo and carry it down to Cambridge.”

“Were there good pickings?” Paul asked.

“The best, lad. The
Nancy
was carrying munitions. Two thousand muskets, plenty of round shot, flints, musket balls—even a grand thirteen-inch brass mortar. When they hauled the monster ashore, ol' General Putnam christened it with a flagon of rum.”

Paul smiled. “A thirteen-inch mortar! Lord, wait until the British get a taste of
that
!”

“We'll have a long wait,” Toby grumbled. “There's nary enough powder to fire it.”

The boy frowned. For weeks now he'd heard rumors that the army was very short of gunpowder, one more battle and the supply would be gone. It was worrisome, if the rumors were true.

“Word's come,” Toby added, “that powder's on the way from France and Spain. And a new powder mill's being built here in Canton. Your pa's been put in charge, 'n' he's got old Jim Otis, the powder master, to help him. But it will be months afore they're turning out enough to supply everyone.”

Silently they watched a British patrol frigate as it beat its slow way across the harbor. Then Paul asked, “Any news of my friend Will Knox?”

Toby spat into the water. He looked around carefully before answering; then he grinned. “He and the colonel have took themselves off to Fort Ticonderoga. They're aiming to collect the cannons up there and bring 'em back to headquarters.”

Paul was surprised. The Ticonderoga cannons! So
that
was the colonel's secret plan—and a mighty clever one!

“Those big guns,” he said, “will be useful when they get here.”

Toby shot him a grim look. “
If
they get here, lad.
If.
”

Paul bridled. “I'm not worried. The colonel will have many a good hand with him.”

The boatman nodded. “Aye, but the one he needs is the hand of Providence.”

 

Later, walking home through the dreary streets, Paul heard the church bells again. The mournful ringing troubled him. Old Toby wasn't very hopeful about Colonel Knox's journey. It
did
seem a bit daft, Paul admitted—well nigh unworkable. He turned and looked toward Charlestown and the Mystic River. Somewhere, miles beyond Boston, his friend Will was helping to haul cannons over the mountains to save the rebel cause. It was a dangerous mission and a daring one. But would it succeed, or would it end in failure?

None can say
, chimed the bells.
None can say . . . none can say . . .

10

The first run from Fort George to Glens Falls was only ten miles, but to Will Knox it seemed like ten times ten.

This was rough terrain—the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, far from civilization. There were no highways here. No paved roads. No bridges or underpasses. No route signs or sheltered rest areas or lighting to chase the gloom. What passed for a road was only a dirt trail, used now and then by farmers, trappers, or migrating Indians. In summer the trail was often a sea of mud. Now, in the icy cold, it was a frozen crisscross of ruts and ridges, as hard as the granite rocks of the mountain.

With so many vehicles plus the animals needed to pull and drag them, the colonel's “noble train of artillery” was spread out for almost a mile. William was in charge of a heavy gun bringing up the rear of the convoy. His brother, riding a sorrel mare, trotted up and down the line, watching for trouble spots and helping stragglers.

The guns crawled slowly along the bumpy route, and every yard was hard work. Wagon wheels creaked. Drivers cracked their whips. Oxen strained. Horses whinnied. Men swore and shouted, sweating under their wool shirts while their breath came out in icy clouds.

The Beckers' wagon, with its brass cannon, was near the middle of the convoy. Sitting beside his father, J. P. watched the careful way the old veteran handled the team. Controlling four horses on this kind of rough trail took nerve and skill. Half rising from his seat, reins threaded through his strong fingers, Becker guided the animals, calming and coaxing them.

Suddenly, as they topped a hill, their lead horse stumbled on a sharp rock. “Look out!” Becker shouted. The heavy wagon lurched to one side; J. P. slid from his perch and landed hard on the ground. He got up dizzily, rubbing a sore hip—but his pride was wounded more than his body. Colonel Knox rode up and was relieved to see that J. P. wasn't seriously hurt But the wagon had skidded off into a ditch.

Half a dozen troopers were needed—with Becker handling the horses—to get the heavy cart back on the trail. By the time the cart was righted and ready to move, the front half of the convoy had lumbered ahead, leaving a wide gap in the line.

The accident led to a change in the rules. “From now on,” Henry announced at the next rest stop, “when a unit gets in trouble, the whole caravan will halt. That way we'll keep everyone close together. And we'll have enough manpower in case there's serious trouble.”

Day faded into dark as the convoy struggled on, and by the time they reached Glens Falls, men and animals were bone weary. The strange parade received a wonderful welcome from the villagers—certainly the artillery train was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to this tiny, out-of-the-way place. The animals were quickly unhitched, fed, watered, and given shelter. The men were treated to great platters of hot food, and warm dry beds were found for them in barns and farmhouses.

The town had a small inn, a coach stop for travelers, and the innkeeper bustled about tidying a room for Colonel Knox. After a good meal washed down with hot cider, Henry met with Will and the other convoy leaders. Their next goal was to cross the upper Hudson and turn south to Saratoga.

“The river's frozen solid, so we won't have any trouble crossing,” the colonel said.

Will chimed in, “The locals say snow's on the way. I expect a good fall of wet snow'd make it easier for the sleds.”

His brother nodded. “You're right. We can move twice as fast over snow, if it's not
too
heavy. So let's gamble. We'll wait here a bit—and pray for a white Christmas.”