Guns for General Washington Page 6

  Inching along with the pines looming overhead, J. P. remembered the grisly tale. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and in the gloom he thought he could almost see the flitting shades of Bloody Pond. He stifled a cry. Yes, there they were! French soldiers in blue and British in red, their uniforms torn and bloodied . . . fierce Iroquois wielding war axes . . . painted Mohawks with dripping scalps dangling from their belts! The phantoms were all around him, fighting one another, gliding in and out of the dank mists. . . .

  J. P. held his breath and listened. Now he heard, ever so faintly, the sound of Indian war whoops, the snap of muskets, and the screams of the dying. Or were they just the usual noises of the night forest?

  The boy shivered. He shook his head to clear away the frightening, ghostly images.

  Suddenly his two lead horses reared and whinnied in fear. There was a scuffle of hooves as the second pair reacted to them nervously. J. P. tugged hard at the reins. His father woke with a start and dove forward to help. Behind them, the next driver pulled in his team with an oath, barely avoiding a pileup. Meanwhile the spooked horses kept bucking and snorting, refusing to move ahead.

  “Hold steady, John!” his father cried. “Hold steady!”

  “It’s the ha’nts, pa!” J. P. gasped. “Bloody Pond! The horses can see ’em!”

  Questions were being shouted up and down the line. Some troopers raced over with a lighted torch, and Colonel Knox rode up anxiously.

  The troopers ran to the front of the Beckers’ wagon and bent down. In a moment they stood up, holding a young colonial soldier between them. The man’s hair was matted, his uniform was muddy, and he wore a foolish grin. He also reeked of brandy. When dragged to the side of the trail and doused with water, he came slowly out of his drunken stupor. Questioning him, the colonel learned that the man was from nearby Fort Lyman. Making his way back to camp he’d lost his way, and decided to have a quiet nap in the middle of the trail.

  “Blasted fool!” Will Knox shouted. He grabbed the soldier’s coat, gave him a tongue-lashing, and started him back to the fort with a well-placed kick.

  Grinning, the colonel took off his hat and wiped his brow. “I guess we’ve had enough ruckus for one day,” he said. “Pass the word—we’ll make camp here.”

  After supper, J. P. rolled himself gratefully in his blankets. Luckily, nobody but his father had heard his frightened panicky outburst. No harm was done and he was glad that his ghosts had turned out to be merely a drunken soldier. Still, John Becker would be very happy in the morning to turn his back on Bloody Pond.

  17

  South to Claverack

  Will and his brother stood on the bank and stared at the river, which was choked with ice floes. William began to sing an old folk song:

  The water is wide, I cannot cross,

  And neither have I wings to fly.

  Build me a boat that can carry two,

  And we shall row, my love and I!

  The colonel grunted and waved his hand. “We’ll need more than a boat to get across this mess. We’ll need a whole fleet. Sometimes I think the weather gods have turned Royalist on us!”

  South of Albany the convoy was at a halt again. According to plan they were supposed to go back across the Hudson at this point. On the other side they would pick up the Old Post Road, a smooth route that could take them quickly to the town of Kinderhook. But their bad luck was continuing: A sudden thaw had set in and the river ice had started to break up. It was now a mass of huge floes moving sluggishly downstream. There was no solid place where the teamsters could cross, and there were no barges nearby—not that they could have been much use on the ice-clogged river.

  Henry shook his head, staring at the ice floes that seemed to taunt him. For the first time since Lake George, he felt doubts about the plan. But he forced himself to sound confident “If we don’t cross here,” he said, “we’ll have to go miles out of the way. And we’ve lost too much time already. We’ll stay put and pray for another freeze.”

  Muttering to himself, he stomped over to the farmhouse serving as his headquarters. At the kitchen table he sat down and wrote another letter to Lucy, whom he deeply missed. Then he sent a report to General Washington, which would go to Cambridge by courier. In it he wrote:

  The want of snow detained us for some days, and now a cruel thaw hinders us from crossing the Hudson River. . . . The first severe night will make the ice sufficiently strong. Till that happens, the cannon and mortars must remain where they are . . . which pains me exceedingly.

  After forty-eight hours of impatient waiting—which kept J. P. and everyone else on edge—the freeze finally came. The next morning, the river was solid and the vehicles made their way slowly across the ice, going around the craggy floes that jutted up here and there.

  Once on the Old Post Road the men moved along at a steady pace. They reached Kinderhook without mishap, though some of the horses were trail-weary and had to be replaced. After resting here for a while, the train forded a shallow branch of the Moosic River and headed south to Claverack.

  For a while the travelers had better luck. They reached town by nightfall, and again the whole community turned out to greet them. Colonel Knox was cheered. Pleased with their progress—it had been their best day yet—he was looking forward to an early morning start.

  Suddenly there was a loud cracking noise. A sled hauling the eighteen-pounder had been weakened by the journey; it collapsed in a shower of splinters and broken wood.

  Henry and Will inspected the wreckage unhappily. Nobody had been hurt, but the vehicle looked like it had been smashed by a giant hammer. “We haven’t any spare sleds,” Henry sighed, “and that gun’s too big to put on another load. We’ll have to build a new sled—extra strong.”

  The colonel’s plan wasn’t as simple as he thought. First the right hardwood trees had to be located. Then they had to be cut down and sawed into planks and runners. Next, they had to find a local blacksmith to forge iron rims for the runners and bolt them in place. And finally, metal rings had to be attached to hold the harnesses. Henry growled over the delay. It took two full days to build and load the new vehicle; then at last he gave the signal, and they started on their way.

  Leaving Claverack and the Hudson Valley behind, the caravan crossed into Massachusetts. Ahead lay the roughest part of the trip, the Berkshire Mountain range. Here the tired men would face one hundred miles of wild country—steep hills and deep ravines, treacherous gorges and streams filled with jagged rocks. For most of the way there were absolutely no roads or trails, not even crude footpaths.

  As they pushed on to Great Barrington, Will Knox studied the looming hills. He felt nervous and worried. The caravan was way behind schedule and now they faced their biggest challenge. Some instinct told the young soldier that these high rocky mountains—and not the British—were going to be their worst enemy.

  18

  A Walk in the Rain

  It was drizzling in Boston—a thin rain, more like cold mist. The two companions walked down Beacon Street, their jacket collars turned up, their shoulders hunched against the wetness.

  Nearby, on the Common, a company of soggy redcoats was going halfheartedly through a drill. The walkers stopped to watch.

  “They’re a sorry-looking lot,” Paul Junior whispered.

  Old Toby grunted. “Part of Howe’s reinforcements. Three troopships came in yesterday from England with a whole passel of new so’jers.”

  Paul frowned. “I was afeared of it. I saw the ships anchored off Hudson’s Point this morning.”

  The old boatman spat in the muddy road. “There be rumors,” he said in a low voice, “that England’s having trouble getting volunteers. Not many British lads are keen on sailing the ocean to fight us on our home ground. I hear tell Bow-wow Howe’s had to scrape the bottom of the barrel.”

  Paul studied the marines, drilling carelessly. “Looks to me like they’re half starved.”

  Toby nodded. “Aye, it’s the thin rations. But I’ll
tell you something, lad—their cannons aren’t going hungry; there’s plenty o’ powder to feed them. And now it looks like the British have ’most as many fighting men as Gen’l Washington.”

  The strollers, one young and vigorous, the other old and hobbling, went past John Hancock’s mansion on the slope of Beacon Hill. Hancock, a rebel leader wanted by the British, was safe in Philadelphia. But one of Howe’s aides, General Henry Clinton, was using the Hancock home as a headquarters, so it had been spared destruction.

  The drizzle finally ended and the walkers turned into Cornhill Street, where Henry Knox once had his bookshop. Near the Old State House they leaned against a mossy wall and the boatman lit his pipe. He looked up and down carefully, then leaned over to his young friend. “Look you, Master Paul, Washington’s had another dispatch from Colonel Knox. Your friend Will and his cannons have got as far as Claverack. I’d say that’s nigh on halfway. Now they must come east over the mountains.”

  Paul was excited at the news. “I keep hoping and praying they’ll reach Cambridge soon,” he sighed. “Do you think they’ll make it?”

  The old-timer squinted up at the clouded sky. “Can’t rightly say. But if they don’t, Boston’s done for.”

  The city was gloomy and half-deserted. A few people in drab clothing hurried by, their faces thin and pale. Paul tried to shift to a cheerier note. “Toby, I had a mind to ask you—what does the new flag look like?”

  The boatman’s old face crinkled into a smile. “The ‘Grand Union’ flag? She’s mortal fine, lad. I was right there when Gen’l Washington raised ’er for the first time. She’s got red and white stripes—thirteen of ’em, one for each colony. And in the upper corner—the canton, they calls it—there’s a small Union Jack, for ol’ time’s sake.” The veteran shook his head with wonder. “I tell you, son, it’s powerful good to see our own flag flying in the breeze over Cambridge.”

  Paul looked around at the sad, gray city. “You think,” he asked wistfully, “we’ll ever see it flying here over Boston?”

  Toby trudged along, chewing moodily on his pipe, and gave no answer.

  19

  The Runaway

  “Heave away-ho! Heave away-ho!”

  The men bent their backs to the job while Will called the tempo. When the gun was halfway up the slope he signaled a pause. Holding the taut rope with one hand, he used the other to dash sweat from his eyes. He was dripping wet in spite of the cold. His back ached and his shoulders burned with pain.

  After a short rest, Will grabbed the rope with both hands and started his crew working again.

  “Heave away-ho! Heave away-ho!”

  The teamsters had been at it all day, struggling through an area called Greenwoods—a twelve-mile stretch thick with evergreen trees. There were no marked routes here, only a vague Indian footpath snaking across hill and dale.

  “There’s no way around all of this,” Henry had said to Will. “No possible detour. We have to imitate the Indians—go straight up and over.”

  First the men cut down the smaller trees and chopped away the underbrush, creating a wide path up the steep incline. Then, one by one, with extra men on each side to help, the lighter loads were pulled up the slope by the animals. It was slow going, but finally the small guns were all at the top.

  A different plan was needed for the heavy cannons. The horses and oxen were unhitched and led up the slope. Then the big weapons were rigged with long ropes. These were carried up the hill, looped around stout trees, and brought back down to the work parties. Finally each gun was hauled up pulley-style, inch by inch.

  Will and his crew had been hoisting a thirteen-pounder, and they were relieved when the gun finally reached the summit. Nearby a second party was at work, raising a giant brass siege mortar, and they chanted together as they heaved on the straining rope.

  Resting on the ground, Will watched the mortar crew. Young John Becker was climbing toward them, carrying a bucket and a tin dipper.

  “Pa thought you all might fancy a drink,” J. P. said to William. Gratefully, the men gulped the clear springwater, and some tipped the dipper over their heads, letting the cool liquid run over their sweaty faces and necks. After they’d had their fill, J. P. hefted his bucket and started toward the next group.

  “Ho! Look out!”

  There were sudden shouts and loud crashes. Everyone turned and stared. The rope holding the siege mortar had parted—the gun came hurtling down the hillside!

  Shouting and swearing, the men scrambled as the heavy gun crashed downhill. It fell like a juggernaut, a mad brass beast, bounding and bouncing wildly off rocks and tree stumps.

  Smash! Crack! Boom!

  Down it came, faster than fear, a solid ton of doom crushing everything in its way. J. P., carrying his water bucket, saw the mortar racing toward him. As he turned to run, his foot caught on a tree root and he went sprawling.

  Will streaked toward J. P. He dove, grabbed him, and fell to one side with the boy as the juggernaut hurtled by, missing them by inches. The bucket that J. P. had dropped was smashed to splinters.

  With a thud the cannon came to rest in the stream at the foot of the hill. Its muzzle gaped at the sky. The young boy coughed and sat up slowly, the breath knocked out of him. There was a gash on his forehead, and blood trickled down his cheek. Grunting, Will also sat up, clutching a badly bruised knee.

  The men came running. They crowded around, all talking at once as they helped the dazed pair to their feet. J. P. thanked Will haltingly, stumbling shyly over his words. Pa Becker grabbed Will’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Henry pounded him on the back. “That was quick thinking,” he said to Will. The colonel tried to sound gruff, but he beamed with pride at his young brother.

  Later they climbed down the hill and looked at the runaway cannon lying in the stream.

  “This is the last one,” the colonel said, “so let’s start moving it And this time I want it double-roped.”

  With the mortar finally rigged, Will, still limping, insisted on pacing the crew. He grabbed the rope while the others fell in behind him. Then he began to chant:

  “Heave away-ho! Heave away-ho!”

  The brass mortar crept slowly up the rough slope. Will Knox’s strong voice, calling the time, rose in the mountain air and drifted through the silent pines.

  20

  The Chasm

  From an upper window at headquarters, Washington could see Howe’s troopships in the harbor. For a while he studied them with his telescope, then closed the glass and went downstairs.

  Outside his office door the sentry snapped to attention. Washington took note of the man’s smart appearance and drew comfort from it. Yes, the Continental Army was making progress; it was beginning to look like a real fighting force. But they still needed artillery in order to fight.

  At his desk Washington stared at the calendar and frowned. Time was running out From his spies in Boston, he knew that the British reinforcements weren’t top-grade troops—but there were quite a lot of them. Enough now for Howe to launch his attack.

  The commander drummed his fingers on the desk. Where in blazes was Knox with his cannons? How much longer could they wait? Taking a fresh sheet of paper, he began a note to General Schuyler in Albany. He mentioned the enemy’s reinforcements, which worried him. Then he confided: “I am in hopes that Colonel Knox will arrive with the artillery in a few days. It is much needed.”

  The general would have been even more worried if he knew that while he sat writing, Henry and his men were facing another crisis.

  The convoy had fought its way over the hills, past the mountain hamlet of Otis and the village of Blanford. Their next goal was Westfield, on the east slope of the Berkshire range. From Westfield the path would be easier, but right now they were on the rim of a steep chasm that dropped straight down for hundreds of feet.

  The travelers were at a dead halt. They’d met up with bad terrain before, but never anything this dangerous.

  Standing at the edge
looking over, the drivers shook their heads and grumbled to each other. Finally an old-timer named Thorne spoke up. “’Tain’t any way to get down this cliff, Colonel. No sir! Not a man among us says it can be done.”

  Henry frowned. “I know it’s bad. But the ridge runs south clear into Connecticut. There’s no way round—not for miles. We’ll have to take a chance.”

  Thorne grunted. “All of us is strong for the cause, Colonel, but we didn’t sign on for suicide.”

  Another driver chimed in. “Just gettin’ the animals down is nigh impossible. And if a load ever broke loose, there’d be blue ruin for sure.”

  The argument went back and forth. For almost three hours Henry coaxed and pleaded, but the men wouldn’t budge. Will began to think that the mission was doomed; all their work had been for nothing. But the colonel refused to quit, and finally his stubbornness—plus some practical new ideas from Will—saved the day; the men agreed at last to tackle the chasm, though few of them expected to succeed.

  William’s plan of action matched the one they’d used before. But this time he added many safeguards. The animals were unhitched, then they were led, sliding and slipping, down the steep incline. Meanwhile the vehicles were rigged with heavy ropes which were looped around big trees. Drag chains and guy ropes were added to help the crews steady the loads as they went downhill.