Guns for General Washington (7 page)

Or stain with dishonor America's name . . .

 

As the sound of the fife slid into the chorus, others added their voices:

 

In Freedom we're born

And in Freedom we'll live.

Our hearts are ready,

Steady, friends, steady—

Not as slaves but as Freemen

Our strength we will give!

 

The campfire blazed in the night air. Orange flames leaped high into the black sky, their brightness echoing the bright hopes of a country struggling to be born.

 

At daybreak the men prepared for the test. The first of the huge guns, hauled by four pair of oxen, was eased carefully onto the frozen river. The ice creaked and cracked as if complaining about its burden. But the extra thickness worked. The surface held.

When this gun was across, the second cannon was moved without incident. Finally there was only the twenty-four-pounder left. This was Will's gun, and he wouldn't allow anyone else to take it across. He climbed aboard the sled and guided the oxen out onto the ice. The creaking sounds grew louder and more menacing. Will sat tensely, hardly daring to breathe. The axe man, walking alongside, looked nervous and tested the sharpness of his blade.

The oxen passed the halfway point Slowly, they inched closer and closer to the far shore. Henry started to breathe a sigh of relief.

Crack! Crack!

The noise came sharp and loud, almost like gunfire. A great black gap opened in the ice. Will jumped from the sled. The axe man leaped forward, swung his blade, and parted the rope. As the gun went under, the oxen, suddenly free of their load, reacted with fear. They lunged forward, trying to reach safety. J. P.'s father, who was standing nearby, dove at the harness to keep the clumsy animals under control. He was yanked forward, where he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground.

The old farmer lay on the frozen shore, holding his shoulder and gasping. J. P. rushed over, his face pale with alarm.

A soldier who had been trained as a medical orderly also hurried over. He knelt down and examined the groaning man.

“It's naught serious,” he said. “He's throwed his shoulder out I can put it to rights, but he'll need a sling. Afraid he won't be able to use the arm for a few days.”

While the trooper went to work on Mr. Becker, Henry and Will took a look at the sunken cannon. Luckily it had gone down near the bank where the river was shallow, and parts of the gun and cart were showing above the surface.

Colonel Knox was not about to abandon his finest prize. “Bring plenty of rope and get some teams ready,” he said to Will. “We're going to haul her out”

For the rest of the afternoon the men strained and sweated, hauling on ropes, prying at the gun with stout poles, urging the animals on. Little by little the monster crept free of the Mohawk's icy clutches and came to rest at last on the muddy bank.

Worn out from the day's work, the crew camped right there at the river's edge. Hollow-eyed, they ate supper quickly and were soon asleep. All except J. P. His father now felt better, but the boy sat beside him, keeping a drowsy watch.

 

At dawn the farmer, his arm in a sling, met with Colonel Knox. With the arm strapped, there was no way he could control the horses hitched to the Beckers' wagon. Henry scratched his chin. His drivers were all needed elsewhere; he had nobody else to spare. J. P., standing nearby, cleared his throat and tugged at his father's shirt Becker grinned. “I know what's on your mind, John. You think you can handle four horses?”

J. P. nodded quickly. “Sure I can, Pa, if you'll ride next to me. I'll do everything just the way
you
did.”

Colonel Knox was anxious to solve the problem, so he smiled his approval. “Fine, son. Fine. Then it's settled.” With a nod he hurried off to organize the rest of the caravan.

Minutes later, Henry trotted by on his mare and signaled for the convoy to begin. With his father beside him, J. P. snapped his reins and called to the horses—trying to do it just as the older man had done—and the animals moved ahead obediently. As the long line of vehicles lumbered away from the frozen river, John thought he would burst with pride. He wasn't an onlooker anymore; he was a real team member now, doing his bit for the great cause.

15

General Washington stepped back from the flagpole and saluted. Behind him, the regiments were drawn up. A squad fired a volley in the air and the men presented arms. Then the fife-and-drum corps marched smartly across the parade ground. At the edge of the field they turned and broke into a rousing version of the “Liberty Song.”

The red, white, and blue ensign, just raised by the commander, was the very first flag of the colonial cause. It was called the “Grand Union” flag, and it snapped bravely in the Cambridge breeze, telling the world that the American colonies were now a nation and no longer subjects of Britain's king.

The day this ceremony took place was the very day that Henry and his men, far to the north, were dragging their sunken cannon out of the Mohawk River. Back at his desk after the flag-raising, Washington thought about Henry's artillery train. He reread a report just in from the hardworking colonel. The guns were on their way, but they were moving very slowly. Because of bad weather and worse terrain, Henry wrote, it would take longer to deliver them than he'd thought.

Washington ran a tired hand over his eyes. It had been a bad winter for the Continental Army, just as it had been for Howe and the redcoats. For one thing, Washington had to deal with thousands of New England troops who were quitting camp. They had enlisted at the beginning of July for six months—now their tour of duty was over. The worried officers tried hard to get their men to reenlist, but only a fraction did, for there was no reenlistment bounty. “The military chest is totally exhausted,” Washington wrote to Philadelphia. “The paymaster has not a single dollar in hand.”

But the lack of bonus money wasn't as bad as the lack of morale. The colonial troops were tough and independent. They had joined the army with high hopes; now they were cold, homesick, disillusioned, and angry at the long stalemate. For some,
patriotism
had become an empty word. Nothing was happening. British or no British, they were going home to their shops, farms, and families.

Trying to keep his army from melting away, Washington suggested attacking the redcoats in Boston. But he was overruled by Congress and the War Council: Without enough powder and artillery, a head-on attack was too risky. So the general had to settle for strengthening his lines and capturing an outpost called Cobble Hill.

The weeks dragged on, but by the beginning of 1776 the worst seemed over. New men and officers came pouring in to replace the ones who'd left for home, and the army grew to over 10,500 men. This was very satisfying, but numbers meant little without the power of weapons. Washington, like his British enemy, was still playing a waiting game. General Howe waited for a military convoy crossing the stormy Atlantic. General Washington waited for an artillery convoy crawling from Fort Ticonderoga.

The question that worried George Washington on that January day was: Which of the two convoys would arrive first?

16

They had been on the trail all day but Henry, trying to make up lost time, decided to push on a while longer. At that point the Beckers' wagon was up in front and J. P. was feeling pleased with himself. With only a little help from his pa, he'd managed the horses like an expert.

The heavy vehicles creaked slowly along the narrow trail on the west bank of the Hudson. It was growing dark, and a white mist was creeping across the river. J. P's father dozed on the seat beside him. Over his shoulder the boy could see the other sleds and cans following behind. The drivers and soldiers were surprisingly quiet. Even the animals seemed to doze in their traces as they trudged along.

A pale half-moon rose, winking through the pines, while the mist crept in and out of the dark branches.

Caw! Caw! Caw!
A flight of crows exploded from the trees, complaining loudly at the human intruders. Somewhere an owl hooted, getting ready to hunt for his supper.

J. P. was feeling tired. He was also vaguely uneasy. Looking around, he noticed some landmarks and recognized where he was. Twenty years ago this part of the countryside had been a bloody battleground. It was during the French and Indian wars—a time when French troops and their Indian allies fought the British for control of New England and Canada. The British had finally won, but only after years of heavy fighting.

On this very spot there had been a fierce battle—J. P. had heard the whole story from the old-timers. The fight had raged all day long, seesawing back and forth, and there were many killed on both sides. Some of the bodies had been flung into a nearby pond. It was known ever since as Bloody Pond—and folks said the forest was haunted by the ghosts of those who wouldn't stay down in their watery grave.

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

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
.