Guns for General Washington Page 3

  Colonel Knox read from a slip of paper. “According to Captain Arnold,” he said, “they found a lot of heavy artillery when they took Ticonderoga. There were one hundred eighty-three cannons, nineteen mortars, three howitzers, and fifty-one swivel guns—plus barrels of flints and crates of musket balls. Some of the big pieces may be in good condition. I propose, sirs, to go to the fort and bring them here to Cambridge.”

  A few of the officers frowned. Others just shook their heads in puzzlement. One old general growled, “How do you plan to do it, colonel? Will you fit your cannons with wings and fly them here?”

  The others laughed, but Henry stood his ground. “Wings won’t be necessary, sir. Give me a dozen men and authority to hire more if I have to, and we’ll handle it.”

  A major of infantry swept his hand over the map. “This is bad terrain, Knox. You’re talking about three hundred miles of mountain wilderness. No roads, no bridges, hardly any footpaths. How the devil are you going to move heavy guns?”

  “I’ll use everything,” Henry answered. “Boats, barges, sleds, ox teams. Whatever I can build, borrow, or buy. All I need are funds and men.”

  “What about the weather?” someone asked. “This time of year you’ll have ice storms, blizzards, heavy snow. Everything will freeze solid. You’ll never get through.”

  The others nodded in agreement They turned away and began muttering to each other. Henry caught words like “impractical,” “absurd,” and “foolhardy.” The old general spoke up again. “I admire your spirit, Knox, but the whole thing’s impossible. Waste of time and good money. It simply can’t be done.”

  Henry sensed the mood of the group and his hopes began to fade. He hadn’t convinced them; his wonderful scheme was about to be rejected. But at that point General Washington turned to him, put a fatherly hand on his arm, and said, “They may well be right. Considering the odds, it does sound impossible. But we need those guns and if anyone can get them, you can. So go ahead, Henry. Go ahead and try.”

  An hour later, Henry Knox burst into his brother’s tent. William, sitting on his cot, was trying to sew a button onto his tunic. He looked up, saw his brother’s face, and let out a whoop. “They accepted the plan!”

  Henry sat down, beaming. “Right, lad. At least Washington did—and that’s what matters. Official permission has to come from Philadelphia, but that’s only a formality. The general wants us to get started, and we’re to spare no trouble or expense. He’s rushing a letter to General Schuyler in Albany, ordering him to give us all the help we need.”

  William narrowed his eyes and smiled. “You said ‘we’ and ‘us.’ That means I get to go with you?”

  His brother laughed. “I have no choice; I promised father before he left for the Indies that I’d always keep an eye on you. So finish that button—we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  One of the ferrymen on the Charles River was William’s friend, a grizzled veteran known as Old Toby. Early that evening, Toby tapped on the kitchen window of the Revere house in Boston. When Paul Junior answered, he handed him a note, winked, and hobbled away. Paul opened the scrawled note and read:

  Paulie, The plan is under way. I won’t be seeing you for a spell. Keep praying.

  —W.K.

  6

  To Ticonderoga

  On November 28, 1775, Henry and Will Knox left camp on horseback, leading a pack mule loaded with supplies for their journey.

  Ahead lay miles of wilderness, craggy mountain ranges, ice-clogged rivers, deep gorges, and valleys thick with stands of birch, spruce, and white pine. The woods were teeming with beavers, deer, black bears, and other animals, but there were few people. On their way the travelers would be isolated, except for a few river towns and a scattering of Iroquois Indians living in bark-covered longhouses.

  Their first goal was the city of Albany. But before that, they stopped at Worcester so Henry could say good-bye to Lucy. William, staying tactfully out of the way, watched the couple sympathetically. They kept up a brave front, but Will saw anxiety in Lucy’s face. They didn’t put it into words, but all three knew that the mission was dangerous. Anything could happen. If there were a bad accident, if they were ambushed by Indians or by the British, husband and wife might never see each other again.

  Soon Henry and Will swung into their saddles to continue west. Lucy stood at the door, her eyes fixed on her big, brawny husband. As the men clattered down the icy road, the mule trotting behind, her smile faded. She raised a hand and whispered softly, “Take care, my dear. Take care . . .”

  The weather turned colder and the wind rose. Muffled in scarves and heavy coats, the brothers rode past Webb Hill, forded the Connecticut River, and came to the village of Pittsfield. Here they crossed the border into New York State, turned north, and reached Albany on the first of December.

  General Philip Schuyler, commanding the Albany garrison, had already been alerted by Washington. Like the others, Schuyler thought it was a fool’s errand and that Knox’s plan was impossible. But he was a soldier under orders, and he gave the travelers all the help he could. While there, Henry studied his maps and arranged for the building of sturdy carts and sleds. When these were ready, they would be rushed north.

  Two days later, the men left Albany and headed toward their final goal. Fort Ticonderoga was at the northern tip of a huge body of water called Lake George. Beyond this was another big lake called Lake Champlain. The French had built their fort between these lakes so they could control both waterways. First it was called Fort Carillon, but when the British had seized it they gave it an Indian name, Ticonderoga. Early in 1775, with the country in rebellion, the fort was attacked again. Now it was in the hands of the colonists. Benedict Arnold, who had helped capture the outpost, reported that it was filled with cannons—weapons hauled there over many years, first by French troops and later by the British.

  Riding beside his brother, William felt his excitement building. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Only a few weeks ago he’d been bored and unhappy, afraid that the war would pass him by. Now here he was on a vital mission, under secret orders from General Washington himself!

  Turning toward Henry, Will noticed him frowning. Something was on his brother’s mind and Will was curious. “Do you think,” he asked, “that Captain Arnold’s report is really reliable?”

  The big man shrugged. “He said there were close to two hundred guns, and I don’t doubt the count is right. But that doesn’t mean they’re usable, Will. Guns aren’t any use if they’re pitted and rusted—or if they were deliberately spiked by the British. We may be in for a disappointment, but there’s no sense worrying. Good or bad, we’ll know soon enough.”

  For three days the brothers rode north through the woodlands, cooking over small campfires and sleeping under the frosty stars. On December fourth they reached Fort George at the lower end of the lake. They stayed overnight to rest, and Henry took this opportunity to write letters—one an official report to George Washington, the other a note to Lucy. He told her again how much he loved her and closed by confessing, “I think of you continually.”

  Next day the two men sailed up the full length of Lake George. Will stared ahead, alive with anticipation—and there was Ticonderoga at last. The old fort was held by militia from nearby towns, and the commander had been told to give Colonel Knox all the men and supplies he needed. The travelers were overjoyed to reach their goal—and even more excited to find hundreds of cannons inside the fort.

  “Arnold was right!” Henry exulted. “Look at them all—enough artillery here for ten armies!” Along the high fortress walls and in the huge arsenal, they found weapons of every shape and size: iron cannons and brass cannons, mobile guns on wheels and fixed guns bolted to wooden frames, heavy fat mortars and small bronze ones called cohorns. Some of the cannons had stubby barrels only twelve inches in length. Others were great iron brutes eleven feet long and weighing two tons each. Colonel Knox also found, to his joy and relief, that some of the weapons
were in very good shape.

  Their next job was to choose a team. “We’ll take volunteers only,” Henry told Will, “but no clerks or city lads. We want roughnecks, the rougher the better. Mountain men, hunters, lumberjacks—fellows used to hard living. We’ll have our share of work before we see Cambridge again.”

  Will was put in charge of assembling boats. These would ferry the prizes down the lake to the waiting carts. On Lake George there were three main kinds of boats: flat-bottomed barges, or scows; wide-beamed shallow vessels known as bateaux; and small, fast sailboats called piraguas. The barges and bateaux, fitted with sails, would carry the heavy cargo. The frisky piraguas were just right for scouting and communication.

  Three hectic days flew by as men were chosen, boats fitted out, and cannons dragged down to the Ticonderoga dock. Henry, carrying his scribbled notes, went over the list with the fort commander. “We’re taking fifty-nine pieces, altogether,” he said. “Thirty iron cannons, thirteen of brass, and sixteen mixed guns—mortars, howitzers, and co-horns.” The cargo also included a large barrel of thirty thousand flints and twenty-three boxes of lead bars. The flints were for the army’s flintlock muskets, and the lead would be melted down for bullets.

  Soon every box, barrel, and cannon was ready for the boats. Hurrying along the dock as the loading began, the brothers looked at each other with tense faces. They had been much too busy to think; now it was as if they suddenly realized what lay ahead. They were about to move sixty tons of metal cargo through the cruelest weeks of winter, across three hundred miles of wild country—a dangerous, rugged trip people told them could not be done.

  William wiped his nose and tried hard to smile. Henry cleared his throat and slowly scratched his chin. Then he roused himself, grinned, and patted Will on the shoulder. “No turning back now, little brother, so let’s get started. We’ve a fair way to go—and the general is waiting.”

  7

  Trouble on the Lake

  Loading the flat-bottoms took time. First, each gun had to be dismantled, then the heavy parts had to be lashed together. The loaders also had to carefully balance the weight in each vessel. Henry’s team was just what he wanted—a group of tough, muscular men who were used to hardship and danger. He had also hired some local boatmen who knew the lake well.

  By midafternoon on December ninth everything was loaded. At last the sails were raised and they started south. William rode in the first barge, the others following behind. For himself, Henry chose a fast piragua with a good pilot, so he could range up and down among the moving vessels.

  Groaning under their loads, the boats crept through the gray water while Will nervously tested the wind. Luckily it was strong, whipping briskly from the northeast and filling the little sails. Even with their loads the boats moved steadily, and Henry hoped to make the thirty-three-mile voyage in just a few days. November had been a terribly cold month and thick ice had formed on both shores of the lake. Here and there, big jagged ice chunks were piled up like miniature white mountains. But there was an open channel right down the center.

  Watching with sharp eyes, Will guided the flotilla through this middle passage. He was flattered that Henry had picked him to lead the way, but he was nervous as well. It was a big responsibility; also, some of the men were a good bit older than he was and might resent taking his orders.

  As dusk closed in, Henry decided to find a place to stop for the night. Leaving the boats, he sailed on ahead. Suddenly he heard a splintery crash and muffled shouts!

  Henry turned the piragua and raced back to the convoy.

  “What happened?” he shouted.

  “It’s my fault!” his brother wailed. “Blast me for my fool carelessness!”

  In the growing darkness, Will had begun to daydream. He’d allowed his barge to drift and it had run aground on hidden rocks. The damage wasn’t serious, but the barge was leaking and would need repairs. Two bateaux came alongside and cargo was shifted from the damaged scow. Several men, daring the frigid water, went over the side onto the rocks and managed to shove the boat free. Henry’s pilot led the convoy to a sheltered cove called Sabbath Day Point. Luckily it was fairly free of ice. The men ran the leaky barge up on shore, and the others dropped anchor nearby.

  Fires were quickly built so the ones who’d gone overboard could get warm and dry their clothes. Meanwhile carpenters patched the damaged bow with tar and lumber brought from the fort. The barge was pushed back into the water for a test Will breathed a long sigh of relief when it proved seaworthy.

  By now everyone was exhausted, so Colonel Knox decided to stay put until morning. Canvas bags of biscuits and dried salt meat were brought ashore. Huddled around the campfires, the men settled down to a cold, uncomfortable night.

  Suddenly a group of strange painted faces loomed from the surrounding bushes.

  “Injuns!” somebody shouted.

  The men jumped up and scrambled for knives and muskets, ready for a fight. But it proved a false alarm. A band of Algonquins living nearby were curious about all the activity. They had come to investigate, bringing a gift with them—a big haunch of roast venison. It made a fine and unexpected meal for the tired travelers.

  At dawn they broke camp and the convoy set off again. Henry was worried about arrangements at the southern end of the lake. “Schuyler’s supposed to have cans and oxen for us, but I don’t want to take chances or lose any more time,” he said to his brother. “I’ll move ahead and meet you at Fort George.”

  In his fast boat Henry reached the fort without trouble. He found preparations under way. But William and the convoy were not so lucky. Wind currents on mountain lakes could be tricky and unpredictable. For a while the wind had been their friend, but it began to fade. Then it picked up again—blowing hard in the opposite direction. Now they faced a problem: The bateaux were too clumsy and heavy to work against a head wind in the narrow channel.

  Will stood up and faced the barges behind him. “Take in your sails and break out the sweeps!” he bellowed. “We’ll have to row!”

  Holes had been cut on the sides of each boat in case oars, or “sweeps,” were needed. On each vessel, the crews put the oars in place, then began to pull.

  It was hard, back-breaking work, but William set the pace and the men rowed steadily. Together they fought the sly wind that threatened to blow them all the way back to Ticonderoga. It had been slow going before, but now their progress was even slower.

  Meanwhile Colonel Knox, waiting at Fort George, was in a fever of uncertainty. A whole day passed while he walked the windswept shore, anxious to know what was happening. Finally he sent a rider on a fast horse up the side of the lake to investigate.

  After several hours the rider returned. His horse was winded and his clothes spattered with icy mud. He reported that there had been another accident A second barge had sprung a leak and started to go down, but the men were able to shift the cargo before the barge sank. “The boats are moving again,” the rider said, “and they’ve only ten more miles to go.” Henry was thankful for the news but knew he wouldn’t relax until every man and gun was ashore.

  Then, on the morning of the fifteenth, six days after they’d started, a thick fog drifted across the southern end of Lake George. The fog added to Henry’s worries; he could do nothing but wait. He peered and paced and tried to stay calm. Where were the boats? Was Will safe? Had there been another accident? What if the guns wound up at the bottom of the lake? He stared into the fog, his fears growing. Maybe the council officers were right, after all. Maybe he really was doomed to fail.

  The colonel groaned to himself. Had he made a blunder? Was the whole plan unrealistic—just a vain and foolish dream?

  The fog blanketed the shore. Filled with guilt and worry, Colonel Knox continued to pace back and forth, back and forth. The hours ticked by. Still no sign of the convoy. Henry felt miserable. His daring plan was falling apart. He’d have to go back to Cambridge in disgrace. . . .

  Suddenly he froze. Was he imagin
ing things? No, there it was again—a faint voice singing in the fog!

  We had a little ship

  and she sailed upon the sea,

  And the name of that ship

  was the Golden Vanity . . .

  The colonel held his breath and listened hard. He began to smile as he heard the voice again:

  And we thought she would be taken

  by the Spanish enemy,

  As she sailed upon the lowland,

  lowland low,

  Sailed upon the lowland sea!

  Henry squinted through the gloom. A ghostly line of boats was creeping toward shore. He watched the oars rise and fall, rise and fall, as the convoy drew closer. The lead barge was listing badly, but he could see Will standing in the bow, baling water and singing in a loud tenor voice.

  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.