Guns for General Washington (6 page)

11

On Christmas Eve, Henry Knox got his wish: It finally began to snow. Fat white flakes fell steadily, blanketing the trails and adorning the branches of the pines. Early Christmas morning the men rolled out of their warm beds, washed up, ate a quick breakfast, and harnessed the animals. Eager to begin, Henry gave the signal and the guns crept slowly out of Glens Falls.

Just below town, where the Hudson made a loop, the river was solidly frozen. With relief, Will saw that the ice was very thick—thick enough to carry the heavy sleds and carts. The good crust of snow would give traction for the animals. The drivers all made this crossing safely, then they headed for Saratoga. From there the colonel hoped to push right on to Albany.

The recent snow had been a big help and the men were in good spirits. At the rear of the column, Henry rode alongside William's sled with its giant twenty-four-pounder. “If our luck holds,” he said, “we'll be right on schedule, little brother. No doubt about it—the general will have his cannons in two more weeks.”

Will, watching the colonel trot to the front of the line, shook his head and smiled. That's what he liked about Henry—the man was always so cheerful and optimistic, so sure everything would work out. As far as Colonel Knox was concerned, bad luck was something that only happened to
other
folks.

Henry passed the Beckers' wagon and gave them a friendly wave. Perched high on his seat, J. P. could see the whole column. Craning his neck, he could even spy Will Knox, whom he admired, bringing up the rear. The drivers in their gray scarves and caps, the troopers in their blue tunics, the guns of iron and glowing brass, the sleek muscles of the straining horses, the shiny leather harnesses, the brown oxen bending under wooden yokes—everything stood out crystal-sharp against the dazzling snow. John P. Becker decided that he'd never seen a grander sight.

When they reached Saratoga the tired men received a welcome much like the one at Glens Falls. It looked to William as if everyone in town came running to greet them. And in the spirit of Christmas, people brought baskets of food and jugs of ale and cider.

The next morning the men started out again. But as they moved through the Hudson Valley, leaving the Adirondacks behind, their luck changed. Instead of stopping, the snow began to fall more heavily—and slowly their kind helper became an ugly enemy.

The temperature dropped, the wind rose, and eight miles below Saratoga the convoy found itself smack in the middle of a raging storm. Waves of snow fell and a howling wind whipped stinging needles of ice into the faces of men and animals. It piled up giant drifts that blocked the trail. Time after time, Will and the others had to climb down and shovel the drifts away before they could push on.

Along with this came bitter, bone-chilling cold. Huddled on the seat, leaning against his father, J. P. thought he would never feel warm again. He'd wrapped pieces of burlap over his shoes, but his feet were blocks of ice. His hands were numb in their wool gloves, even tucked inside his coat pockets. And his wide-brim hat was yanked so far down over his frozen ears that he couldn't see anything in front of him. Not that there was anything to see through the fierce driving sleet.

Henry and Will did their best to keep the convoy moving. Horses and oxen struggled bravely through ten inches of snow. Then twelve inches. Then eighteen inches. Soon the animals were fighting through snow well over two feet deep. At that point, though the solid oxen still tried to move, the horses could not go on; strain as they would, the snow was simply too thick.

In the teeth of this blizzard, the convoy came to a dead halt and Henry called a conference. “We're just north of the town of Stillwater,” he said. “Some of us will have to get through to the town on foot and bring help.”

The animals were unhitched and led into a grove of pine trees where they had a little shelter. Most of the men, with Will in charge, stayed to build fires, guard the wagons, and tend the weary animals. The rest of the party, led by Henry, started hiking.

From the grove, William watched the hikers disappear in a blinding whirl of white. For the first time during the trip, the young soldier felt a pang of doubt, a nagging feeling that they might fail. He fought the unpleasant feeling, but it kept returning to torment him. Standing there with sleet stinging his face, he began to wonder if their “noble train of artillery” had finally come to the real end of the line.

12

The rescue party trudged blindly through the storm, and even for a husky six-footer like Henry Knox, it was a grueling march. For several miles they struggled through snow three feet deep, against a howling wind, moving across country with no path or trail to guide them. Their breath came in gasps and they floundered in deep drifts, often losing their footing.

At last, exhausted and numb with cold, they staggered into Stillwater and were taken to the home of Squire Fisher. Bowls of hot broth eaten in front of an open fire helped to revive the frozen hikers. When the squire heard Henry's story, he sent his farmhands with food and supplies to relieve the crew trapped in the pine grove.
Then he lent Henry his fastest horse so the colonel could race ahead to Albany.

Meanwhile, in the snowbound grove, Will did his best to keep the animals warm and raise the men's failing spirits. He joked with young J. P., who was feeling frightened but trying hard not to show it.

By evening the storm had passed and the wind finally died down. Henry, riding the fast mount, managed to reach Albany at last and hurried to see General Schuyler. The general, who was one of the doubters, still thought the plan was crazy. But he admired the colonel's stubborn courage.

“Most of the horses are played out and have to be replaced,” Henry said unhappily. “Some of our men are sick, too, and need medical help.”

Schuyler nodded thoughtfully. “We'll take care of your sick. I'll also send a platoon into the countryside to find substitutes. I don't know how much luck we'll have, but we'll try.”

Henry Knox had been authorized to pay twelve shillings a day for each span of horses he hired. It was a good fee, but he found to his dismay that there were few takers. The locals all supported the rebel cause, but they knew the perils of winter and the dangers of the trail, and they were afraid to risk their animals.

While Henry fretted over the delay, Schuyler's men scoured the area, visiting every farm and hamlet, bargaining for teams and drivers. It took four full days before enough replacements could be found and sent to Stillwater, where Will and the others were waiting. Here the changes were made and new teams were harnessed in place. Finally, on December 31, the convoy was ready to move ahead.

 

Their next goal was to get across the Mohawk River, which joined the Hudson near a town called Lansing's Ferry. The Mohawk was frozen over, and Henry expected this to be a simple operation like their earlier crossing. When they reached the riverbank, Will and several other men walked out on the ice. They drilled small holes here and there to test for thickness. Then they came back with long faces.

“The ice is starting to melt,” Will explained to his brother. “It's getting thin out toward the middle.”

Henry scratched his chin slowly. “You think it can hold the heavy wagons?” he asked.

Will shook his head unhappily. “Not a chance,” he said. “I'm afraid they'll never make it.”

13

While Henry Knox's cannon convoy was stalled at the Mohawk River, Major General William Howe, back in Boston, was busy making plans.

In his cabin aboard HMS
Somerset
, Sir William read a secret dispatch from London. He read it through, then read it again. Locking it in a desk drawer, he leaned back and smiled. After so many disappointments, it was nice to have good news.

Muffled against the cold, the British commander stepped on deck and looked around the harbor. Like faithful watchdogs his ships were all in place, standing guard over the helpless city. Howe began to pace alongside the ornate railing, reviewing in his mind the events that had recently taken place.

Two weeks ago, in mid-December, transports had sailed in from England bringing a regiment of marines. Then other ships had arrived from the Bay of Fundy in Canada, carrying hay and grain for the horses. But the
real
supply convoy, the one he'd been counting on, had met with disaster. Twenty-six ships had left Plymouth, England, bound for Boston Harbor. They carried thousands of redcoats as well as cannons, powder, food, and muskets—everything the general was waiting for. Then in midocean the convoy sailed into a hurricane. The ships were scattered and blown off course, and they wound up far to the south in the British West Indies.

During the storm many soldiers were lost and ships were damaged. Some had escaped without too much harm; but it would take a long time for these ships to be refitted, then to beat their way north in the middle of winter.

Adding to Howe's problems, he had to deal with the cursed little ships called privateers. These weren't part of an official navy, but the rebel congress allowed them to capture any British vessels that came their way. To the colonists the raiders were heroes, but to General Howe the armed privateers were plain pirates—lawless ships that stole out of port and attacked his merchantmen, then took cover in the many bays and inlets of New England. The privateers not only captured Howe's cargoes, but then escaped to shallow waters where his warships couldn't follow.

All in all, 1775 had been a black year for Sir William—a year filled with trouble. But the secret dispatch that had just arrived gave him hope. According to this message a new supply fleet was being assembled, even larger than the last. After the start of the new year, this convoy would cross the Atlantic with the reinforcements he needed. In a neat, flowery hand the secretary of the admiralty had promised Howe forty thousand troops plus enough weapons to carry out all his plans . . . for 1776, and up to May of 1777.”

The general returned to his cabin to study his maps. He could rely on the admiralty. If the weather behaved, the transports and supply ships would arrive soon. Then, with a powerful new force, he would strike. He was tired of the stale
mate. Tired of the inactivity. Tired of the fool rebels with their prattle about “freedom” and “liberty.”

Sir William Howe could hardly wait to crush Washington and the colonial army once and for all.

14

Henry and his men spent the first day of 1776 trying to strengthen the ice on the Mohawk. To begin with, they laid out the shortest route across the river. Then at certain spots the men chopped holes through the ice. Water gushed up from these holes and flowed across the surface. In the cold wintry air the water froze quickly, adding a new layer of ice to what was there before.

The crew did this several times until the ice had built up and thickened. Now it was stronger—but would it be strong enough? Will stepped out onto the river. He walked up and down, frowning. “It
might
hold the big loads,” he said to his brother, “but I'm not powerful sure.”

Henry shrugged. “We won't know until we try. But we'll move the guns one at a time, starting with the lightest. Tell the drivers that
no
team is to go until the one before is safe on the other side.”

The colonel had a long rope tied to the front of each sled and wagon. The other end was attached to the harness of the team that did the hauling. A man walked alongside this rope, holding a sharp axe.

Colonel Knox climbed on the first sled and took the reins. “Keep an eye on that rope,” he said to the man with the axe. “If the sled breaks through the ice, cut the rope fast. Then if it goes down, the load won't drag the team along with it. But you'll have to look sharp.”

Everyone stood on the bank, watching tensely as Henry snapped his reins. The horses leaned into the traces and stepped out on the ice. It crackled a few warnings, but it managed to hold. Carefully, foot by slow foot, the sled moved across the frozen river. Sweating in spite of the cold, Henry talked to the horses, coaxing them. William bit his lip anxiously. J. P. Becker held his breath. The sled passed the halfway mark and drew near the far shore. In a few more minutes—though it seemed like hours to the men—the gun was across and the horses scrambled to safety.

Henry hopped down and joyously waved his hat Will and the others cheered wildly and hurried to get the next sled ready. Then, one by one, horses and oxen—tethered to the long taut rope—hauled the cargo across. And every step of the way, the man with the axe stood ready in case of danger.

The river passage took all afternoon. Finally every load was across the Mohawk except for three cannons—the heaviest of all. These were Henry's pride and joy, the most important of his weapons, and he wanted to be sure they would make it across safely. So he had fresh holes chopped along the route. In the gathering darkness, river water gushed from the holes and swept across the ice.

“By morning the new layer should be frozen fine,” Henry said to Will. “Then we'll try crossing the big guns.”

 

That night, after supper and hot coffee brewed over the campfire, the men sat around smoking their pipes and staring into the flames. One of the soldiers took a wooden fife from his tunic and began to play softly. J. P., sitting with a warm blanket around his shoulders, recognized the tune. The “Liberty Song” was a great favorite among the colonists; in fact, some thought of it as their new anthem. A few troopers began to sing, and the boy listened happily to the stirring words:

 

Come join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;

No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,