Authors: David Garland
"That doesn't mean we should cut and run, General."
"What's the alternative?"
"Fight to the last man and show them our true character."
"Fine rhetoric, Ezekiel, but poor leadership. If we stay here, we're all doomed. The British have the upper hand. Taking the fort will be like shooting fish in a barrel."
"As one of those fish," said Proudfoot, alarmed by the vacillation of his commander, "I'm still ready to put up some resistance—and so are the men. That's why they're here. We'll be judged by our deeds, General."
"Yes," said St. Clair, "I know. But I'm not sure that I want to be remembered as a man who allowed a whole garrison to be wiped out. Loath as I am to admit it, I'm coming to see the wisdom of Colonel Wilkinson's argument."
"What's happened to your resolve?"
"It's tempered by discretion, Ezekiel."
"Discretion!"
"It's the better part of valor."
"I don't see anything remotely discreet or valiant about abject surrender, because that's what it would amount to, General. Abandon the fort and you'd be betraying our cause."
"That's a dreadful accusation!"
"I speak as I find."
"Then it's my fault for listening to you," said St. Clair crisply. "You're entitled to your opinion, Ezekiel, but I have to remind you that you have no military authority here. You are merely an artist, nothing more. Since I agreed to defend the fort, the situation has altered radically. That calls for a change of plan."
Proudfoot was bitter. "The only thing that's changed is you, General," he said. "Yesterday, you were full of courage and determination to withstand
whatever the enemy could throw at us. Today—because of one shot fired from a cannon—you've lost your nerve."
"Don't you dare accuse me of that!"
"Why else are you even considering a retreat?"
"Because I have a duty of care for my soldiers," retorted St. Clair, bolt upright and quivering with rage, "and I do not choose to have them blown to pieces by artillery that can pick us off at will. Now let's have no more carping from you, Ezekiel, or I'll have you put under restraint."
"For being honest?"
"For being insubordinate."
"I'm only saying what you said yourself earlier."
"That's enough!" the other barked. "You've exceeded your latitude. I give the orders here—you simply obey them."
"Yes, General."
"I've been far too indulgent with you."
"If you say so, sir."
St. Clair heard the faint note of insolence in his voice. He was fond of the artist and respected his work immensely. Not wishing to lose his friendship, he adopted a more conciliatory tone.
"One day, Ezekiel," he said, "you'll thank me for saving your life."
"All that I'll remember," Proudfoot returned, still smoldering visibly, "is how you lost your reputation as a soldier at Ticonderoga. You also threw away a golden opportunity to show just how bravely American patriots will fight for their independence. You let this country down, sir. Don't expect any gratitude from me on that account."
CHAPTER SIX
W
hen night came, a full moon lent Fort Ticonderoga a ghostly quality. It floated like an apparition on the brilliant waters of Lake Champlain, surrounded by the phantom peaks of Mount Independence, Mount Defiance, and Mount Hope, three giant silhouettes that seemed at once to protect and threaten the beleaguered fortress. Under cover of darkness, the evacuation began in earnest, the speed and secrecy with which it was conducted leading to all manner of confusion. It was less of a controlled departure than a headlong flight.
Hustled without warning onto a series of bateaux, the sick and wounded were rowed away from the dock, escorted by armed ships and galleys that carried the female members of the garrison, as well as six hundred soldiers under the command of Colonel Pierce Long. They sailed due south at a leisurely pace toward Skenesborough. The vast majority of the soldiers, however, crossed the bridge from the fort and assembled on top of Mount Independence so that they could make their escape overland. With a collection of sketches in his satchel, a reluctant Ezekiel Proudfoot went with them.
Two serious blunders were made by the departing troops. They failed to destroy the bridge behind them and—thanks to the French commander on Mount Independence—they let the cat out of the bag. General Roche de Fermoy, a colorful but erratic adventurer, was a seasoned tippler. While the rest of the army was on the move, the slothful Frenchman was still sleeping off his latest drinking bout. Awakened by the noise of departure, he stumbled about so clumsily that he contrived to knock over a candle and set fire to his tent. The ensuing blaze was a clear signal to the British and German troops that something dramatic was happening.
On the eastern bank, General Riedesel saw the fire and promptly urged his men on. Their attempts to reach the wagon track behind Mount Independence had been delayed by marshes but, with a final push, they arrived in time to harry the rear guard with a few parting shots. Brigadier Simon Fraser, meanwhile, had verbal confirmation of what was afoot. Three deserters from the American ranks arrived to tell him that General St. Clair had ordered an abrupt withdrawal from Ticonderoga. The presence of artillery on the top of Mount Defiance meant that it was impossible to make a successful defense of the fort or of the battery on the summit of Mount Independence.
Fraser's response was characteristically prompt. Without waiting for a direct command from Burgoyne, he advanced with his men, sending word of his movements to his commander, who still lay asleep in the capacious arms of Lucinda Mallard. With a party of Indians in tow, Fraser's men were braced for fierce resistance that never materialized. The four American gunners, who had been posted on the eastern bank with a loaded cannon, could not resist plundering the discarded supplies and drinking themselves into a stupor. Unable to fire at anyone who attempted to cross the bridge, they were sprawled on the ground, dead drunk beside their cannon, allowing the British troops to take instant control.
It was an Indian who then caused unnecessary danger to his own men. When he saw a lighted match beside the snoring rebels, he picked it up out of curiosity and dropped a spark upon the pinning of the cannon. The result was ear-splitting. Loaded with all kinds of deadly shot, the cannon went off and sent its contents flying over the heads of the British troops and into the lake. It was only by a miracle that there were no casualties from this random act of madness.
Minutes later, the British flag was hoisted over Fort Ticonderoga.
Captain Jamie Skoyles was among the first to join his commander. Having seen the fire on top of Mount Independence and realized that the garrison was making a run for it, he brought his men down Mount Defiance to approach the fort from the south. By the time he got there, British troops were ransacking the stores and carrying some of the provisions away. Brigadier Fraser was staring at a sheet of paper.
"Good morning, sir," said Skoyles.
Fraser looked up. "Good morning, Jamie."
"The birds have flown, I see."
"But not as silently as they would've liked," said Fraser. "With luck, General Riedesel may have peppered their arses as they took the road out of here. The main thing is that we've seized the fort without any loss of life. General Burgoyne will be delighted."
"What are his orders, sir?"
"I await them. The general was still in his cabin on the
Royal George
when I set out. My guess is that he'll order us to pursue the rebels west to Hubbardton while he sails on down the lake to Skenesborough."
"We watched the boats leave," said Skoyles. "They were not rowing with any urgency. They obviously think we'll be held up here for a long time by the boom across the lake, and by the men left to guard the bridge."
"Then they're in for a nasty shock, Jamie. The bridge has been secured and I reckon that our gunboats will smash a way through the boom in well under an hour. Take a look at this," he said, handing him the sheet of paper. "I found it scrunched up in the courtyard. Someone obviously thought they were going to mount a courageous defense of Ticonderoga."
Skoyles looked down at the sketch. Even in the dawn light, he could make out a dramatic scene, drawn by a talented hand, showing a group of Continental soldiers inside the ramparts of the fort. They were firing their muskets bravely at the enemy and, in some cases, engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the British as they attempted to storm the fortress. It was a patriotic celebration of American heroism. Jamie Skoyles had seen the work of this particular artist before, and his emotions were deeply stirred.
"What do you make of it?" asked Fraser.
"Ezekiel Proudfoot."
"Who?"
"It was drawn by a friend of mine, sir," said Skoyles. "An engraver named Ezekiel Proudfoot. He was here."
"Are you certain of that?"
"No doubt about it."
"Then he's not a friend any longer, Jamie. He's an enemy."
Ezekiel Proudfoot was hurt and profoundly dismayed by the order to flee from Ticonderoga, refusing to accept the arguments in favor of immediate withdrawal. Some of the scenes he had witnessed verged on the chaotic. Discipline was lost, bickering broke out, officers gave contradictory commands, soldiers bumped into each other in the dark, knapsacks and even weapons were left behind in the headlong retreat, and the whole hurried exercise was symbolized by the folly of the inebriated French general who had accidentally lit a beacon on Mount Independence to alert the enemy.
What irked Proudfoot most was that he had been deprived of an opportunity to commemorate American resolution during a prolonged siege. The sight of an entire garrison scurrying away like rats from a sinking ship was hardly a fit subject for one of his prints, and would certainly not arouse the patriotic instincts of his countrymen. A once unassailable stronghold had been yielded to the British without even a semblance of resistance. Ezekiel Proudfoot felt so ashamed that he voiced his disgust to General St. Clair.
"I never thought to see such a thing," he complained. "The mighty Fort Ticonderoga, abandoned in haste by a whole army."
"That army was more apparent than real," said St. Clair briskly. "We had barely two thousand men fit for duty, a corps of artillery and fewer than a thousand militiamen. If the enemy launched a simultaneous attack from both directions, there was no way that we could hold them off."
"How do you know if you wouldn't even try?"
"My hand was forced, Ezekiel."
"Even though we might have—"
"And I'll brook no criticism," said the other, interrupting him with a peremptory glance in his direction. "Not even from a friend."
"My apologies, General," said Proudfoot through clenched teeth.
"Better to lose a fort than sacrifice a whole garrison."
"That's your opinion, sir."
"I'm not interested in yours."
"That won't stop me from having one."
"Make sure that I don't have to hear it," said St. Clair.
After a forced march of several miles that had lasted for most of an oppressively hot day, they had reached the tiny settlement of Hubbardton in Vermont. Knowing that there would be pursuit, St. Clair elected to take the main body of men on to Castleton, some six miles or so away. Colonel Seth
Warner was left in Hubbardton with 150 men and told to wait there until the rear guard caught up with him. Instead of continuing to retreat with the others, Ezekiel Proudfoot remained behind, eager to be where action might take place. It was quite late when the rear guard, comprising the 11th Massachusetts and the 2nd New Hampshire regiments, finally arrived in the town. Ignoring an express order to keep moving, Warner chose instead to spend the night in Hubbardton.
Proudfoot sensed a battle ahead. Excited by the prospect, he was glad that he had spurned the opportunity to go on to Castleton with the others. St. Clair might have let him down, but Seth Warner was made of sterner stuff. American heroism would be displayed, after all.
"Confounded Germans!" sneered Major Featherstone. "We've lost them."
"They don't march as quickly as we do, Major," said Skoyles.
"No—damn them! Riedesel is far more interested in keeping his troops in formation than pushing them on."
"They'll catch up with us in time, Major."
"Brigadier Fraser is furious with them."
"I think that he accepts that they move at a slower pace," Skoyles said tolerantly. "Especially in the kind of hot weather we've had today. Their uniforms are too thick and their boots too heavy. But I dispute that the brigadier's shown any real anger toward our German allies. When all is said and done, General Riedesel is nominally in charge of this operation. He does outrank the brigadier."
"He'll never outrank Simon Fraser in the things that matter," said Featherstone, curling his lip. "That's why he defers to the brigadier, who has twice the military brain of that lumbering foreigner and ten times the experience of fighting in America. General Burgoyne understands that. The brigadier, quite rightly, is always taken into his confidence while the German commander is often excluded from any meetings."
"That may not be a sensible policy, sir."
"It is to me. The power of decision must be ours."
"Nevertheless, we rely very heavily on the Brunswickers."
"Then where the bloody hell
are
they, Captain?"
Jamie Skoyles and Harry Featherstone were with the force that had been
dispatched after the fleeing Americans. Checked from time to time by sporadic gunfire from the rear guard, they had pressed on hard to get within striking distance of Hubbardton. Tents had been pitched at night at Lacey's Camp, a place vacated by the Americans only an hour earlier. Since they traveled without provisions, the hungry British troops had slaughtered a cow in the woods to eat for supper. Somewhere behind them, under the command of Riedesel, were regiments of Brunswick grenadiers and riflemen, unable to catch up and pausing to rest for the night. The chasing army was split in two.
While they waited for reports from Indian scouts, Skoyles found himself talking to Featherstone. Aware of the man's defects, Skoyles had always conceded that the major had his finer points. He was fearless in battle and led his men from the front. Other officers would prefer to wait until the German reinforcements arrived, but Featherstone was ready to join battle without them. He loved action as much as Skoyles himself, and always showed gallantry in the field. He was also a keen student of military strategy.