Saratoga (9 page)

When he found a quiet spot to leave his horse, he tied the reins to the branch of a tree and left the animal in a shaded grotto. Musket in one hand and telescope in his pocket, he set off along the western bank of the river before using the cover of the woodland to move in a wide arc to his right so that he could get to the rear of Mount Hope. An outwork had been built to protect the sawmills and the La Chute River that twisted along from Lake George. Since the battery and blockhouse were on the southeastern corner of the summit, Skoyles began to ascend from the northwestern side, using the butt of his musket as a walking stick and checking every so often that he had not been spotted.

At length, he reached the top and made his way across it with circumspection, getting as close as he dared to the blockhouse in order to have a vantage point. Lying flat on his stomach, he was now able to view the fort with the aid of the telescope. At first sight, its defenses were intimidating. Inside the fortifications built by the French were the tents of the summer camp, protected to the east by two newly constructed redoubts. Fort Ticonderoga had a daunting solidity, and Skoyles did not need reminding how many soldiers had perished while trying to take it. The skulls of which McIntosh had spoken were relics of General James Abercromby's disastrous attempt at capturing the fort in 1758. Some of the tents that Skoyles had seen were pegged to the ground by the shin and thigh bones of dead British soldiers.

Set on a tongue of land that poked into Lake Champlain, the fort showed
signs of activity, though it was difficult for Skoyles to estimate the number of men in the garrison. Judging by the size of the camp, it was not large. Across the water, on the Vermont shore, were a series of earthworks and batteries that extended the perimeter defenses around the base of Mount Independence, where the hospital, the dock, and workshops were located. Through the lens of his telescope, Skoyles could see the gun emplacements on top of the mountain, an array of firepower that could bombard any vessels that foolishly tried to sail between the promontory and the fort opposite.

Directly below him to the south was the sawmill on the La Chute River outlet from Lake George. There was a blockhouse beside it but no sign of life in either building. Skoyles surmised that men had been withdrawn to the fort to prepare for its defense. Even with their reduced garrison, the Americans would be able to offer stiff resistance. To take the fort, the British army would have to be prepared to sustain heavy casualties, but that would not deter Burgoyne. Having set out his plan of campaign, he would follow it to the letter.

Some distance to the south of the fort, on the western bank, was another mountain, a steep hill, shaped like a sugarloaf and rising to over eight hundred feet. McIntosh had insisted that it was undefended, but Skoyles wanted to see if it was possible to drag heavy artillery up the face of the incline. Guns mounted on the summit would have the fort at their mercy. Skoyles was not given any time to study the problem. There was an angry shout from the direction of the blockhouse, and a shot was fired.

Someone had seen him.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he bullet missed him by a matter of inches, whistling past his ear and spending its fury in the ground behind him. Skoyles reacted quickly. Without even looking to see who had fired at him, he jumped up and scurried away as fast as he could, keeping low and zigzagging to present a more difficult target. When he reached the edge of the summit, he opted for the swiftest means of descent. With the telescope in his pocket, he clutched his musket tight to his chest like a lover and hurled himself down the slope. It was a perilous descent, rolling over uneven ground that was full of awkward bumps, sharp stones, and unexpected hollows, but he gathered momentum with every yard.

Skoyles hoped that time was on his side. Having fired one shot, the man who had aimed at him would take half a minute to reload his musket. That was the fugitive's margin of safety. It soon disappeared. Roused by the alarm, two other soldiers ran after Skoyles and tried to pick him off as he rolled crazily down the side of the mountain, but their shots went harmlessly past their target and bounced off some rocks. Cursing themselves, they reloaded as fast as they could, but they were much too slow. Skoyles hurtled on downward, losing his hat, collecting cuts and bruises as he went, ignoring the pain in the interests of survival, and praying that no better marksmen aimed at him.

When he reached the bottom, he hauled himself up, risked a look at the summit, then sprinted toward the nearest trees. They were some distance away as the garrison had denuded the woodland in its immediate environs for firewood during the winter. Skoyles reached the cover of a tree stump and crouched behind it only an instant before another venomous bullet came hissing after him. It buried itself in the wood. Three soldiers were now scrambling down the side of Mount Hope in pursuit of him, choosing a far safer but
much slower route. Two more had appeared at the top of Mount Hope. Delay would be fatal.

Skoyles sprang up and darted off into a stand of trees, snaking his way through the trunks as fast as he could. When the woodland thickened, he began to feel that he was clear of immediate danger, but he was determined to complete his survey before he returned to camp. With that in mind, he headed south toward the river outlet that connected the two lakes, staying hidden all the way. To cross the river by means of the bridge near the sawmill would bring Skoyles out into the open again, and there would be several rifles trained on him this time. He had to get out of their range and find another place to cross the water.

His search took him well over a mile along the outlet. All that he had to do was to find a spot where it was possible to wade across, enabling him to keep his musket and powder dry. They were his essential lifeline. Eventually, he came to a bend in the river where the water was so shallow that he could see the pebbles at the bottom of it. Making sure that he was neither watched nor pursued, Skoyles stepped in and waded across with the cold, refreshing water up to his waist.

As soon as he found cover on the other side, he paused to take stock of the injuries he had picked up. There was blood on his hands and face, and his head was pounding from the blows it had taken during the reckless descent, but it was his hip that throbbed with the most insistent pain. The reason was self-evident. Stuffed in his pocket, the telescope that had been so invaluable had dug into him time and again as it revolved its way down Mount Hope. Skoyles lifted his shirt to see an ugly black bruise already starting to form around his right hip. There were a few dents in the telescope itself. He hoped that General Burgoyne would not notice them.

With his sodden breeches clinging to his legs, the bottom of his shirt dripping, and his feet squelching in his shoes, he continued on his way until he came to the foot of the steepest mountain. Once called Sugar Hill, it had been given a more appropriate name less than a year earlier. Mount Defiance had defied all attempts to hoist cannon up its sheer sides. Knowing that General Phillips would not be so easily frustrated by the problem, Skoyles decided to reach the top, spurning the easier northern face because it would make him visible to sentries on Mount Hope, Mount Independence, and at the fort. He was not the only person with a telescope.

Forced to take the precipitous southeastern route, he could see why the engineers at the fort had abandoned the notion of hauling any artillery up there. It was a long, hazardous climb, and Skoyles had to make frequent changes of direction, using his musket to steady himself yet again and making light of the dull ache in his whole body. When he felt yet another trickle of blood down his face, he wiped it away with the back of a hand that was itself badly lacerated. By the time he reached the top, he was so fatigued that he needed a long rest before going on.

As he had guessed, Mount Defiance not only commanded the fort, fifteen hundred yards away, it overlooked the battery on the summit of Mount Independence. Both targets would be within range of British guns. There was an additional benefit. Guns on Mount Defiance would cut off escape routes up Lake Champlain and up the river that led to Lake George. The only other route that needed to be blocked off was the wagon track that ran from the rear of Mount Independence. Fort Ticonderoga would then be completely surrounded.

Lying flat as before, Skoyles used the telescope to good effect, taking a careful inventory of the defenses and troop numbers. Since the climb had been so difficult, he had no fears that anyone would try to follow him. When he had a strange feeling that someone was watching him, he took no notice at first, assuming it was a trick of his imagination rather than a warning of imminent danger. Only when he heard a noise directly behind him did he realize that he was not alone.

Fear made him tense his muscles. He grabbed his musket and rolled quickly on to his back to aim at what he expected to be a rebel soldier. Instead, to his utter astonishment, he found himself looking into the large, brown, inquiring eyes of a goat.

Skoyles laughed with relief.

Presiding over dinner that afternoon, General Burgoyne had fewer guests than usual. General Riedesel and his wife were there, and so were General Phillips and Brigadier Fraser. The party was completed by Major Harry Featherstone and Elizabeth Rainham, all of them sitting around a table that was laden with rich food and drink. Elizabeth was relieved that there was no sign of Lucinda Mallard, though she was a trifle worried at the amount of claret that Featherstone was consuming.

Burgoyne held forth with his usual geniality, favoring them with some anecdotes of his success as a playwright and boasting of his friendship with the actor David Garrick. In order that his German guests would not feel left out, he translated into French as he went along, a language in which he was quite fluent after living in France for so long. Talk soon turned to the campaign itself, and William Phillips, a big, beefy man in his forties with a forthright manner, complained about the shortfall in manpower.

"Ideally," he said, "I'd need six hundred trained men for the movement and operation of the guns but I've less than half that number. General Riedesel has been kind enough to supply me with a hundred gunners but the rest are raw recruits from the infantry."

"They'll not let you down," Burgoyne assured him.

"I'd prefer regular artillerymen, General."

"I'd prefer more troops, more horses, more provisions, and three times as many wagons, William, but I have to make do with what Sir Guy Carleton managed to scrape together for me. No matter," he went on, slapping the table for emphasis. "We've an army that will sweep aside everything that gets in our way."

"Hear, hear!" said Featherstone.

"It may not be quite as easy as that," suggested Fraser.

"Come now, Simon," teased Burgoyne. "I'll have no defeatism."

"I'm not being defeatist, General. I'm as certain of success as you are, but there'll be bruising battles ahead. We must accept that."

"We accept it and relish it," said Phillips, reaching for his claret.

"And we push forward regardless," Burgoyne insisted, "whatever our setbacks. Remember what I said in my general order—this army must not retreat."

"Out of the question," Featherstone agreed. "We never retreat."

Riedesel had not been able to follow everything that was said, so Burgoyne acted as interpreter once more. Phillips and Fraser fell into conversation about tactics, leaving Elizabeth free at last to have a quiet word with Harry Featherstone. Having emptied his glass, he was signaling to the steward to refill it for him.

"Don't you think that you've had enough?" she asked.

"No, Elizabeth," he replied with a laugh, "not nearly enough. I can drink all afternoon and still walk back to my tent in a straight line."

"I'd rather not put that claim to the test, Harry."

"Would you deny me the pleasure of carousing with friends?"

"Of course not," she said.

"I'm glad to hear it. We can't have a daughter of Colonel Richard Rainham objecting to alcohol. Your father would never forgive you. He can hold his wine and spirits with the best of them."

"That's certainly true."

Elizabeth chided herself for making any comment. Several glasses of claret had had no visible effect on him. Throughout the meal, Harry Featherstone had been loving and attentive toward her, clearly pleased to be part of a couple and thus able to show Elizabeth off to the others. By the same token, she was reveling in his company, thrilled that she was sitting beside the youngest and, in her view, most handsome man there. In his immaculate uniform, he cut quite a figure. One day, she hoped, they would achieve the deep marital contentment displayed by Riedesel and his wife. Elizabeth felt an upsurge of love.

Then she recalled what Nan Wyatt had told her earlier.

"Is it true that you had a man flogged?" she said.

"I've had a number of men flogged," he answered breezily. "Necessary part of army life. You have to punish them hard, Elizabeth, or you forfeit their respect. A good flogging will keep the rest of the men on their best behavior for weeks."

"But sixty lashes—isn't that a bit extreme?"

"I'd order a hundred, if it was needed—even more. You don't realize what we're up against. All you've done is to see the troops on parade. If you knew them better, you'd see what scum they really are."

Elizabeth was dismayed. "That's a harsh judgment."

"It's a compliment to some of them," he told her, "believe me. Our army consists largely of the lowest of the low—thieves, drunkards, wild Irishmen, ignorant farm boys, ruffians, riffraff, and downright villains. But for officers like me who know how to impose discipline, that rabble would run scared when they heard the first shot."

"General Burgoyne speaks so well of his men."

"Only because we've licked the unlettered wretches into shape."

"You talk of them with such contempt, Harry," she said.

"It's all they deserve."

Elizabeth was shocked by the undisguised hatred in his voice. He obviously despised the men he commanded. Burgoyne rose from his seat to signal the end of the meal. After exchanging pleasantries, his guests dispersed. Featherstone escorted Elizabeth back to her tent on his arm. She took the opportunity to touch on a more sensitive topic.