Saratoga (7 page)

"Somebody is lying," he said.

"We'll it's not me, laddie," retorted McIntosh, bridling.

"Two prisoners were captured yesterday. They told us that there were twelve thousand troops at Fort Ticonderoga, yet you claim there are only a third of that number."

"There are, Captain Skoyles."

"Who do we believe—you or them?"

"Me, of course," urged McIntosh. "I've got no reason to mislead you. Those other men have. They gave you false estimates of the garrison to try to frighten you off. I'm telling the truth."

"I know that you are," said Fraser supportively.

"If we invest Ticonderoga," Skoyles resumed, "it could be a protracted siege. How long do you think their provisions will hold out?"

McIntosh shrugged. "Six weeks. Two months at most, I'd say."

"Could fresh supplies be brought up from Lake George?"

"Not if you put your artillery in the right position," said McIntosh, scratching his beard. "You could isolate the fort completely. As I told you, it's understrength in every way. Last December, there were less than two thousand troops there, and many of them didn't even have shoes on their feet. I felt sorry for them. Winters are grim around here. Ticonderoga is especially bleak. The only reason they put Colonel Anthony Wayne in charge of the fort was that he was felt strong and fit enough to survive the climate." He gave a wry grin. "Do you know what Mad Anthony is supposed to have said when he was eventually replaced?"

"What?"

"That Ticonderoga was the last place on earth that God made, and that there were grounds for believing He finished it in the dark." He gave a harsh
laugh. "The colonel could never get over the number of human skulls that were lying around. For want of any other vessel, some of his men drank out of them. Yes," he continued, "and they even used the bones of dead soldiers as tent pegs. It's like living in a graveyard."

"It was always called the Gibraltar of the North," said Skoyles.

"Well, it doesn't deserve that name now, Captain, From what I've seen, the fort is far from impregnable."

Delighted with all that he had learned, Fraser was anxious to pass on the intelligence to Burgoyne as soon as the general arrived. He thanked McIntosh and asked him to remain in camp until the main army joined them. McIntosh was only too pleased to be among British soldiers again. Skoyles wanted a private conversation with the man. The two of them stepped outside the tent.

"Thank you for what you said about me in there," said Skoyles.

"It was the truth, Captain. If you hadn't stopped those savages when you did, they'd have carved up that man's body for sport. You forced them to behave in a more civilized way."

"We couldn't leave that man just hanging there."

"
They
would have," said McIntosh.

"Be that as it may. What I really wanted to ask you about was a friend of mine. If you've lived in the area so long," said Skoyles, "you might just have come across him."

"I might. Who is he?"

"Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"Proudfoot . . . Proudfoot," McIntosh repeated, thinking hard. "Now why does that name mean something to me?"

"His father is Mordecai Proudfoot," Skoyles explained. "He owns several hundreds of acres on the eastern bank of Lake George. I was billeted at the house with other troops many years ago. I was only fourteen at the time, around the same age as Ezekiel. That's why we became such good friends. We've tried to keep in touch ever since."

"So this Ezekiel Proudfoot works on the family farm?"

"No, that's what made him so unusual. Ezekiel was the youngest of three brothers. The other two were happy to become farmers but Ezekiel had other leanings. He defied his father's wishes."

"What did he do?"

"He got himself apprenticed to a silversmith in Albany."

"That's
how I've heard the name," McIntosh declared, slapping his thigh. "Of course. Ezekiel Proudfoot is an engraver."

"Yes," said Skoyles, "he turned out to have a real talent for it. I've seen some of his work. But I lost track of him a couple of years ago and wondered if he's still in Albany."

"I doubt it, Captain."

"What do you mean?"

"Your friend is a true patriot," said McIntosh. "He makes and sells prints that celebrate the American cause. It seems that Ezekiel Proudfoot has a knack of being in the right place when action breaks out. He was at Trenton and at Princeton last winter, and his prints of both American victories were on sale within three weeks. They were very popular. I saw mention of them in the newspapers."

"He's obviously making a name for himself," said Skoyles.

"So are you, from what I can gather."

"Me?"

"I could see the trust that Brigadier Fraser places in you. He wouldn't do that unless he had a high opinion of you." He sucked his teeth and shook his head sadly. "Great pity, really."

"What is?"

"This clash of loyalties, tearing the colonies apart."

"I agree. It's tragic."

"People who once wore British uniforms now try to shoot holes in them. Old comrades are intent on killing each other. Take your own case, for instance," said McIntosh. "You and this fellow Proudfoot have obviously been friends for years, then this happens."

"Yes," said Skoyles reflectively, "we've probably only met a dozen times or so, yet we feel very close to each other. Or, at least, we did," he added with a frown. "You're right, Mr. McIntosh. War ruins everything. Ezekiel and I are now on opposite sides."

Fort Ticonderoga was a forbidding sight, enclosed by the old French lines and heavily guarded by fortifications on top of the lofty Mount Independence to the east and, a mile to the west, by those on the summit of Mount Hope. Ticonderoga, "the place where the lake shuts itself off," was an ideal location
for a bastion that could command the narrows, a mere quarter of a mile wide. By way of protection, a log-and-chain boom was stretched across Lake Champlain. A floating bridge gave easy access between the fort and the earthworks and batteries on the eastern bank.

Major General Arthur St. Clair, a well-featured, upright man of forty with chestnut hair, had taken over the stronghold from Colonel Wayne and, with the help of his engineers, done his best to reinforce it. Glaring weaknesses remained. The fort had been built by the French to repel a British advance from the south. If an attack were launched from Canada, Ticonderoga was facing the wrong way. St. Clair had a more worrying problem. To defend the fort properly, he needed twelve thousand men, and his garrison fell woefully short of that number. With limited supplies and low morale among the soldiers, he was far from sanguine.

"Congress gave me false hope," he grumbled, pacing up and down his office. "When I was in Philadelphia, they swore to me that the British would sail from Canada to New York by sea. Yet here they are—only fifteen miles away at Crown Point."

"You know my opinion," said Wilkinson. "I think that we should fall back to Fort George. It will be much easier to defend."

St. Clair was appalled. "Abandon this place without a fight?"

"We could never hope to win, General."

"That's not the point, Colonel. If we ran away from battles we never expect to win, then our cause would have been lost at the start. Besides, we can't be absolutely certain that Burgoyne's army
will
attack."

"Why else have they come?"

"To deceive us by making a feint."

"That's highly unlikely."

"General Burgoyne is a man who usually has a trick up his sleeve."

"With an army of that size, he doesn't need to rely on tricks."

James Wilkinson, the fort's adjutant, was an alert, intelligent, zealous officer of twenty-one. Inclined to be opinionated and overeager, he had not endeared himself to all of his colleagues, but St. Clair valued his comments. In suggesting evacuation of Ticonderoga, the bumptious adjutant was advocating a course of action that his superior would once have believed unthinkable. Even now, it had little appeal to St. Clair. He turned to the other person in the room, a tall, rangy, round-shouldered man in his thirties with a lean, pockmarked
face and long, straggly brown hair. Seated in a corner, Ezekiel Proudfoot had a board across his knee and a piece of charcoal in his hand.

"What do you think, Ezekiel?" asked St. Clair.

"We must always bear in mind the fort's prestige," replied the artist. "It's a potent symbol. To surrender it would be quite shameful."

"Not if the decision were made on practical grounds," Wilkinson argued. "We have some idea of the size of the British forces and we can be sure that their artillery will be formidable. How can we defend the indefensible? Our ammunition is limited. Our men are ill disciplined and poorly armed. Think how they'll behave under heavy fire."

"They'll fight like Americans," said St. Clair bravely, "or I'll know the reason why. We've been outnumbered before, Colonel."

"Yes," Proudfoot added. "Our victory at Trenton was against a larger force than our own. The general and I were there."

"That may be," said Wilkinson, "but, on that occasion, you had the advantage of surprise. That doesn't obtain here. We can't cut and run this time. The fort is a trap. It's only a question of time before they pound us into submission or starve us out."

"Not necessarily."

"There's no hope of relief. General Schuyler made that clear."

"He also made it clear that Ticonderoga must not fall."

"That was before he knew details of Burgoyne's advance."

"It's our duty to fight, Colonel," said Proudfoot.

"Even if it results in the loss of the fort and the entire garrison?" asked Wilkinson. "Congress wouldn't thank us for that."

"I've a feeling that they'd admire us nevertheless."

"No, Ezekiel. With respect, you don't think like a soldier."

"I do," attested St. Clair.

"Sacrifice everything here and we leave the country defenseless."

"I prefer to take a more optimistic view," asserted St. Clair, putting his tricorn hat on at a rakish angle. "Hold out against the British and we strike a major blow for freedom. That's what we must do." He opened the door. "I'm going to visit the hospital to see if any of the patients are able to hold a weapon. We need every man we can muster."

"A complete waste of time," said Wilkinson under his breath.

"Keep that drawing board handy, Ezekiel," St. Clair advised. "You may have some real action to record very soon."

"Thank you for the warning, General," said the artist, with a lazy smile. "That's exactly what I was hoping to hear, sir."

"Have you ever sketched a disaster before?" asked Wilkinson.

"No, sir. I was too busy running away from it."

"Then have the sense to do the same thing now."

"Not when we have a chance of a famous victory," said Proudfoot with sudden passion. "I side with the general here. Ticonderoga is the gateway to New England. We must defend it tooth and nail to keep the British at bay. While you fight with muskets, my only weapon is a stick of charcoal but—long after the echo of gunfire has died—my sketches of what happened here will have the power to bring more and more soldiers to the American flag. Give me some heroism to immortalize," he pleaded. "Repel the British and strike a major blow for freedom."

There were four of them in the general's tent. Having arrived at Crown Point that morning, Burgoyne was anxious to hear the latest intelligence. Brigadier Fraser introduced him to James McIntosh and gave him an abbreviated account of the information supplied by the Scot. It served to bring a real glint to Burgoyne's eye. Next to speak was Jamie Skoyles, back in uniform, on hand to explain what had happened on the scouting expedition. He felt obliged to offer his counsel.

"We mustn't rely too much on the Indians, sir," he warned.

"But they're the eyes and ears of the army," Burgoyne insisted. "All that we have to do is to keep them in check."

"That will be impossible in the heat of battle. They just follow their own murderous instincts. We saw an example of that yesterday."

"They had provocation, Captain. Their companion was shot dead."

"They were under orders to take prisoners, General, not to kill and mutilate an enemy like that."

"It was a grisly sight," said McIntosh, wincing. "Scalping is one thing, but they would've hacked him to pieces if Captain Skoyles hadn't intervened. Indians are a law unto themselves."

"Not when they're under my command," affirmed Burgoyne, thrusting out his chin. "I won't stand for disobedience. They know that." When he turned to Skoyles, there was amusement in his voice. "It seems as if you've altered your stance, Captain. If memory serves me aright, you once stood up for the Indians. Is that correct, Simon?"

"Yes," replied Fraser, "but it was a very long time ago."

"These things stick in the mind. I heard it from Jeffrey Amherst's own lips. He regaled us with the story at Brooks's one evening. At the time, he didn't know whether to laugh or explode with anger."

Skoyles was astonished to learn that his moment of youthful boldness had actually been discussed in one of the leading London clubs. All that he could recall of the event was that he had been given a stern reprimand and sent on his way.

McIntosh was curious. "What exactly happened, General?"

"Skoyles can tell you."

"Must I, sir?" asked Skoyles. "I was very young at the time."

"Yet with sufficient daring to confront your own commander."

"Not everyone agreed with General Amherst's actions," said Fraser, trying to spare Skoyles the embarrassment of telling the story himself, "but few people would have done what Jamie did. When he heard that the general had given smallpox-infected blankets to the Seneca, he was so upset that he complained to him in person."

"I'm a doctor's son," said Skoyles. "I thought that inflicting such a dreadful disease on anyone was wrong. I told General Amherst that it was an immoral way to wage war."

McIntosh was amazed. "You told him
that?
"

"Words to that effect, anyway."

"Then you're a braver man than I am, Captain."