Band of Giants: The Amateur Soldiers Who Won America's Independence (11 page)

They stood it and stood it. The concussions of British artillery and the zinging musketballs stripped the world of all safety. The deafening percussion went on hour after hour.

All of New York came awake to the desperate struggle that had erupted. As dawn brightened the eastern sky, Stirling rode up and down his lines, adjusting, encouraging. General Washington came over from New York—he could do little but observe from Cobble Hill, a high point
inside the American fortifications. At nine o’clock, amid the din, Stirling’s ears picked out the firing of a single cannon. Could it be? Yes, the boom sounded a second time—from behind him. What could it mean?

An instant later—for Stirling, for Sullivan and Putnam, for Washington and the whole Continental Army—the veil dropped. The attack against Stirling was a diversion. While Grant’s cannon banged away at the American right, General Howe had marched his army through the darkness to a distant pass where the Jamaica Road went around the end of the American line. The pass, Howe noted, had, through “unaccountable negligence,” been left undefended. His men captured the five mounted sentinels stationed there and slipped around to the north of Sullivan’s men. They marched down the length of road that led straight toward the main American fortifications.

Now the whole tenor of the battle changed. The Hessians, who had been exchanging a sporadic fire with Sullivan’s men in the center, formed for an attack in earnest. The green-jacketed jaegers, German hunters, scrambled through the woods, firing with short-barreled rifles. The huge, brass-helmeted grenadiers came tromping forward, their drums pounding an angry tattoo. The Americans, accustomed to clean-shaven faces, had never seen the like of the fierce black mustaches the men wore. These fairytale giants from the German woods, smelling blood, thrust their eighteen-inch bayonets into any American flesh that came within reach. They had no mercy.

Caught in a vice between the Hessians in front and Howe’s infantry to their rear, Sullivan’s men threw down their muskets and sprinted to gain the relative safety of the fortified lines two miles away. Fear gave their feet wings. “The rebels abandoned every Spot as fast, I should say faster, than the King’s Troops advanced upon them,” General Howe’s secretary noted.
25

Sullivan did what he could, which was nothing. “The last I heard of him,” one of his officers reported, “he was in a corn Field close by our Lines with a Pistol in each Hand.” He was captured by three Hessians.
26

The American outer line collapsed. Lord Stirling, with his Maryland and Delaware regiments, stood alone outside the fortifications. They now faced the all-out attack of Grant’s brigade at their front, the Hessians sweeping down the ridge from the east, and General Cornwallis leading the British advance guard against their rear. Stirling “encouraged and animated our young soldiers with almost invincible resolution,” Major Gist wrote. Watching the action beyond the American fortifications, Washington was reported to have sobbed or yelled, “Good God! What brave fellows I must this day lose.” It apparently had not occurred to him or to Putnam to order these troops to retreat. Lord Stirling had been directed to repulse the enemy and he had received no further orders. He fought on.

Finally, pressed on three sides, Stirling saw that the only escape was through the marshy Gowanus Creek. He detached 250 Marylanders as a rear guard and sent the rest of his regiments toward the water. Wading through the tidal muck under fire, most of them made it across, emerging inside the American lines “looking like water rats.”

Sword in hand, Lord Stirling led his Maryland contingent in a sharp counterattack to the north against Cornwallis. Flung back, the Americans regrouped and tried again. And again. They came very close to breaking through and gaining the fortified line. Their commander, a soldier noted, “fought like a wolf.”
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After five charges, Stirling saw that it was “impossible to do more than to provide for safety.” His men ran for it the best they could—all but nine were killed or captured. Stirling was cornered and forced to surrender. As his biographer duly noted, no one could have predicted that this amateur, “this overweight, rheumatic, vain, pompous, gluttonous inebriate,” would shine so in battle.
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By noon, the largest battle that would be fought during the entire war was over. It seemed to officers on both sides that the rebellion itself was finished. The Americans had been utterly defeated. William Howe had outthought, outmaneuvered, and outfought George Washington. Nathanael Greene, who had yet to participate in a battle, lamented his absence. “Gracious God! to be confined at such a time.” He suggested that the outcome “would have been otherwise,” had he been in command.
29

And the cost. Captain Joseph Jewett lingered in agony from bayonet wounds to his chest and stomach—a day and a half later he was “sensible of being near his End, often repeating that it was hard work to Die.”
30
Three hundred other Americans had been killed, hundreds wounded, and hundreds, including three generals, taken prisoner.

The rest of the bedraggled force was now trapped inside their perimeter. The victorious British and Hessian troops might have instantly overrun them, but Howe followed, a historian noted, “the dictates of prudence rather than those of vigor.”
31
Sure of victory, he called his men back and began a classic siege. The cocky General Grant opined that “if a good bleeding can bring those Bible-faced Yankees to their senses, the fever of independency should soon abate.”
32

* * *

With half his army trapped in a cul de sac, George Washington had full cause to despair. Yet he did not despair. He did not flinch. The next day, as the fine weather turned cold and rainy, Washington did the unexpected: he ordered two more regiments over to Long Island. The sight of 1,200 fresh
men marching up from the Brooklyn ferry landing with drums beating did wonders for the morale of the weary army manning the fortifications.

The drenching rain developed into a cold nor’easter. The storm dampened the spirits of the soldiers, but the contrary wind kept the British navy from getting up the East River and cutting them off. American riflemen popped away at the enemy from the forts and from forward skirmish positions as often as their damp gunpowder would allow. The British began digging ditches that would soon bring their cannon within range of the forts.

By the following day, some Americans stood waist-deep in waterlogged trenches. Washington had not slept the past two nights. He displayed no anger, frustration, or panic. He thought out his situation and ordered men to confiscate all available boats along the Manhattan shoreline. They would be used, he let on, to bring more troops over from New Jersey.

In the late afternoon, with the boats assembling, he called a war council of his officers. Retreat was the only option. Washington was going to try to slip the army on Long Island, 9,500 men, over to New York. The move would test the nerves of every man in the force. As each regiment withdrew, the others would have to spread out to maintain the illusion of a strong defensive line. Down at the Brooklyn ferry landing, John Glover, a stocky, redheaded member of the Massachusetts “codfish aristocracy,” commanded a regiment recruited from rugged Marblehead fishermen. These watermen would row the army across an estuary churning with contrary currents.

As a drizzly darkness fell and the wind died, the silent evacuation began. Orders were passed in whispers; wheels were muffled; the men were warned not even to cough. The fishermen began rowing their makeshift ferries, the gunwales inches above the water. Over and back, over and back. Washington personally supervised the loading. Henry Knox directed his gunners in hauling and ferrying across almost all his critical cannon. For those left in the lines, the danger steadily grew. If the British got wind of what was going on, the men who remained would be instantly overrun and slaughtered.

Dawn came and hundreds of men remained on the Brooklyn side. Luckily, a dense fog formed along the waterfront and continued to obscure the movement from British eyes. By seven in the morning, all the troops had escaped. None had died in the effort. Washington stepped into the last vessel to cross.

An hour later, British officers appeared on the empty Brooklyn shore. They peered across in astonishment. Washington, who bore most of the
blame for the calamitous defeat three days earlier, had pulled off one of the most delicate exploits of the war. But the escape could not erase the rout. British experience had bested American enthusiasm. “In general,” John Adams noted wryly, “our generals have been out-generalled.”
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The British were exuberant. Having easily triumphed over Washington’s amateur army in battle, they now had his troops on the run. Lord Cornwallis was sure that “in a short time their army will disperse and the war will be over.” Soon after the battle, British general Henry Clinton, who had devised the brilliant flanking march that had beaten the Americans, wrote home to his sister. He ended with that perpetual, poignant soldier’s cliché: he would, he assured her, be home by Christmas.

Seven

Valcour Island

1776

On a long twilight evening in midsummer 1776, as rebels rushed to fortify New York City, the curtain dropped on the last scene of the Americans’ dramatic effort to conquer Canada. Benedict Arnold sat astride his horse at the north end of the Hudson-Champlain corridor witnessing the tragedy’s end. The town of St. John’s, which Arnold had raided the previous May, which Richard Montgomery had captured after an exhausting siege in November, was in flames. It would soon return to British control. Sparks danced into the gathering darkness. Arnold and his aide James Wilkinson spotted the forms of enemy grenadiers emerging from the trees.

Arnold’s trek through Maine, Montgomery’s sacrifice, the loss of five thousand American lives, all had come to naught. A force of British regulars and hired Hessians had landed in Quebec during the spring. Their goal was to retake Canada, drive south, meet with Howe’s huge army, and end the uprising. Governor Carleton had gone on the offensive. The Americans had scurried away from Quebec. “In the most helter skelter manner, we raised the siege, leaving everything,” noted Dr. Isaac Senter, who had marched over the mountains with Arnold and who had removed the bullet fragment from his leg after the failed attempt to storm the city.
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During May, they had retreated up the St. Lawrence. The men had become, Arnold wrote, “a great rabble.” Their commander, General John Thomas, died of smallpox on June 2. John Sullivan, arriving on the scene with 1,400 more men, took command. The New Hampshire lawyer had
ordered an attack on the British at Three Rivers, ignorant of the fact that additional British reinforcements had arrived at this outpost halfway between Quebec and Montreal. Blindly crashing into the superior army, Sullivan’s men were routed in confusion. Arnold, recuperating from his wound at Montreal, understood the situation. “The junction of the Canadians with the Colonies—an object which brought us to this country,” he wrote, “is at an end.”
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Sullivan reluctantly hurried south along the Richelieu River, with the enemy close on his heels. He blamed his “dispirited Army” for his inability to hold back the British. Panic gripped men and officers. On a rumor of approaching Hessians, some troops ran off and “could not be Stopt.” Arnold abandoned Montreal and led his own force to join Sullivan’s men at St. John’s. Still limping, Arnold volunteered to command the rear guard while the patriots departed.

Now, the vanguard of the enemy army was bearing down on him. Arnold and his aide turned and spurred to the waterfront. The last of the Americans were piling into boats on the river, which flowed north from Lake Champlain, for the escape.

When Arnold had led the initial invasion northward, Canadian authorities had sneered at him as a “Horse Jockey” because he had traded the animals before the war. Although he loved a good mount, Arnold was determined to leave nothing behind for the victors. He put the barrel of his pistol to his horse’s head and killed it. He ordered a reluctant Wilkinson to do the same.

The two men scrambled to a waiting bateau. Arnold, the first American officer to arrive in Quebec, “pushed the boat off with his own hands” and climbed in, the last to leave. Canada fell entirely into British hands.

Hearing that his troops had almost captured Arnold, Lord Germaine, the British secretary of state for America, regretted the failure. Arnold, he wrote, “has shown himself the most enterprising man among the rebels.” George Washington was relieved. “It is not in the power of any man to command success,” he advised Arnold, “but you have done more—you have deserved it.”
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Lake Champlain, the long carrot-shaped glacial gouge with its south-pointing tap root, had for months served as the supply route for the northern army. Now it had become a potential path of invasion. Because the British could not sail their ships past the twelve-mile rapids north of St. John’s, they were temporarily blocked from falling on the fleeing Americans. But it was only a matter of time before they attacked southward along the lake.

* * *

During the first year of the war, Horatio Gates had helped to guide Washington through the jungle of administrative details required to organize an army from scratch. Striving and ambition came naturally to this man who had, against the odds, climbed the British officer ranks. He wanted a command of his own, and in June 1776, with the Canadian expedition in a shambles, Congress had raised him to the rank of major general and appointed him to head the American army there. When he arrived at Fort Ticonderoga early in July, he was dismayed to discover that there was no army in Canada. He began to give orders anyway. A miffed General Schuyler, still commander of the northern department, complained. John Hancock, the president of Congress, informed Gates that he would have to serve under the patrician, who was six years his junior and far less experienced in military affairs.

The men at Ticonderoga and nearby Crown Point were not fit to resist the British force that would inevitably advance along the lake. Smallpox had prostrated thousands and was claiming thirty lives a day. “The most descriptive pen cannot describe the condition of our army,” Schuyler wrote. “Sickness, disorder and discord reign.”
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An observer noted that it was “not an army but a mob.”

But Benedict Arnold had a plan. The rebels already possessed four armed warships on the lake: Arnold himself had grabbed the
Enterprise
and the
Liberty
during his campaign to capture Fort Ticonderoga. Montgomery had seized the
Royal Savage
the previous fall. Workmen at Ticonderoga had just finished building the
Revenge.
If the Americans could construct and arm more ships, they might keep control of the lake and block a British invasion. Lacking north-south roads, the enemy would have to build their own fleet to protect troop transports. This naval arms race would give the rebels a chance to rally, dig in, and reinforce. It would buy time.

The logic of the plan was obvious to Schuyler and Gates. Arnold, a nautical professional, was the man to make it a reality. Now a brigadier general, he had become intimate with the sea during his days as a merchant and smuggler. The experience had also shaped his personality—a sea captain needed backbone and dauntless self-mastery to exert his will over the rough men of a ship’s crew.

Schuyler had already directed the building of several gondolas. These open, flat-bottom gunboats, fifty feet long, were maneuverable, powered
by both sails and long sweep oars. He had planned to use them as transports to supply the army in Canada.

In addition, Arnold wanted seventy-foot galleys, a common type of coastal warship fitted with a gun deck and a raised quarterdeck at the stern. They carried about two dozen powerful cannon that could fire a coordinated broadside. They were likewise propelled by oars as well as sails.

Arnold began to oversee the construction of the Champlain fleet at Skenesborough, a tiny village at the southern limit of the lake (now Whitehall, New York). At Ticonderoga, twenty-five miles north, workmen would fix the masts and install sails, rigging, and arms. The fleet was to be stationed at Crown Point, site of another fort on the lake ten miles north of Ticonderoga, ready to take on any British incursion.

Constructing ships at a post two hundred miles inland presented knotty problems. Sawyers worked their mills around the clock to shape the needed beams and planks. Everything else had to be scavenged, improvised, or begged for: canvas for sails, blocks and pulleys, rope, nails, oakum to caulk the hulls, and all the devices and fittings unique to the nautical trade. Arnold aptly summed up his frustration with the creaky supply system: “When you ask for a frigate, they give you a raft; ask for sailors, they give you tavern waiters; and if you want breeches, they give you a vest.”
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The shortage of experienced workmen frustrated the project. Arnold tried to teach house carpenters nautical construction. He pleaded with Congress to offer salaries sufficient to induce skilled shipwrights to venture to the interior. Even harder to come by were sailors. Few were willing to give up the potentially lucrative privateer trade to man oars on an inland lake.

Yet Arnold thrived on adversity, on inducing others to go beyond apparent limits. He had exercised this knack for leadership during the harrowing march to Quebec. He now threw himself into a frenzy of activity, moving from Skenesborough to Ticonderoga and Crown Point, ordering, urging, instructing, browbeating, and improvising. Slowly, the work advanced. Shipwrights finally arrived. They scrounged supplies from shipyards as far away as the Hudson River port at Poughkeepsie. Half-finished warships kept splashing down the ways into the lake.

The feud between Gates and Schuyler sputtered along all summer. Gates had grudgingly accepted Schuyler as overall commander in the north, then blamed the New Yorker for the shortages. He wrote peremptory letters to his superior, demanding supplies like powder, lead, and flints. “Pray hurry it up,” he added.

Arnold’s personality was another lightning rod for resentment. His men loved him; fellow officers often found him abrasive and arrogant. While Arnold had held sway in Montreal, he had requisitioned supplies
needed by the army, sometimes at bayonet point. These transactions came back to haunt him during a complicated court-martial in late July, during which Arnold was accused of mishandling goods from a Montreal warehouse. Forced to deal with such pettiness during this critical period, Arnold erupted and challenged the judges to meet him on the dueling ground. Gates was alarmed when the court moved to have Arnold arrested, and he ordered the tribunal dissolved.

All summer, Arnold had been itching to find out about British preparations at their own shipyards in St. John’s. He decided to make his way there and see for himself. This wasn’t exactly what Gates had in mind. As cautious as Arnold was impetuous, Gates had written to John Adams in the spring: “Our business is to defend the main chance, to attack only by detail, and when a precious advantage offers.”
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He reiterated the message to Benedict Arnold. “It is a defensive war we are carrying on.” He advised his aggressive subordinate to keep to the south end of the lake and avoid “wanton risk.” His job was to shield Ticonderoga from attack, a duty Arnold might find “monotonous.”

Arnold put his own interpretation on Gates’s orders. On August 24, with several of his galleys still under construction, he took the rest of the small fleet—a schooner, a sloop, one galley, and nine gondolas—and sailed north. A headwind and storm slowed his progress, but by the first week in September the fleet lurked at the very mouth of the Richelieu, barely a mile from the Canadian border.

As the forests took flame with autumn color and sailors shivered in the cramped open boats, Arnold tried to determine British strength and guess the intentions of Carleton, the smart, careful strategist who had gotten the better of him at Quebec. He sent out scouting parties to investigate the fleet the British general was assembling to protect his invasion force. He knew that the world’s leading naval power would have a full cohort of shipwrights and stores of nautical supplies in the holds of their ships on the St. Lawrence. But before they started construction, they would need to haul the material around the rapids to St. John’s.

While he awaited word, Arnold received a letter from his sister Hannah, who had taken over the care of his three sons after the death of his wife. He had not seen them in more than a year. She sent him several pairs of stockings, and reported that “Little Hal sends a kiss to Pa and says, ‘Auntie, tell my Papa he must come home, I want to kiss him.’”
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He also found out that George Washington’s army had been crushed on Long Island and was reeling before Howe’s massive invasion force.

As he awaited the British, Arnold demanded that Gates send the supplies that had been lacking all summer: ammunition, anchors, caulking
irons, sail needles, pitch and tar, pine boards. Also “Rum, as much as you please; Clothing, for at least half the men in the fleet who are naked” and “One hundred seamen (no land-lubbers.)”
8

His scouts returned to give Arnold a daunting picture of British strength: A 10,000-man invasion force, 27 war ships, 250 bateaux to carry the troops. With his own puny navy—barely 500 men on a dozen ships—he had no hope of stopping them.

Yet Arnold remained in his forward position, his men enduring the raw weather and the icy spray the lake spat at them. By October 7, three more galleys had joined the fleet. Arnold transferred from the schooner
Royal Savage
onto the galley
Congress
in order to command from a more maneuverable vessel. Always thinking, Arnold had his men erect screens of tree branches along the gunwales of the ships to protect them from small arms fire.

Any battle in the open water would favor the British, who wielded twice as many guns as the Americans. But Arnold had studied the lake thoroughly and sounded many of its bays. He now retired with his fleet to a haven twenty miles south of the Richelieu. He tucked the vessels into a channel three-quarters of a mile wide between the New York shore and Valcour Island. His ships could ride there out of sight from the lake. Shoals to the north would help protect him from a superior enemy. He planned to surprise the British armada as it passed.

* * *

On the brisk, windy morning of October 10, General Carleton’s ships, directed by Commodore Thomas Pringle, finally emerged from the river onto Champlain. Carleton had spent the summer and early autumn completing two ships that were guaranteed to give him mastery of the lake. One was the man-of-war
Inflexible,
a full-rigged battleship resplendent with three masts, tiers of square sails, and rows of powerful cannon. The other, the floating gun barge
Thunderer,
carried six massive 24-pounder guns that could outshoot any armament in Arnold’s fleet. Carleton, like General Howe, had assembled an overwhelming force.