Fort Ticonderoga

July 4, 1777

CHAPTER XVIII

* * *

The distant boom of cannon rolled over the British camp, and Brigadier General Simon Fraser flinched, then raised his eyes from his desk. He stared at the tent wall for a few moments, until he heard the faint whump of the cannonball strikes. Five seconds later the blasting of cannon much closer sent a tremor up the canvas wall.

Fraser turned to his aide, Major Hugh Billingsley. “What’s going on out there?”

Stocky, square-faced, perspiring, Billingsley answered, “I don’t know, sir. I’m sure the major assault has not begun.”

Fraser rose from his desk to push aside the flap and walk out into the confusion and color and noise of five thousand sweating men laboring, moving about the massive British camp. He squinted upward and then checked his watch—just past nine o’clock in another sweltering morning—and stepped to the side of Major Alexander Lindsay, sixth Earl of Balcarres, standing nearby, looking south.

“What’s the shooting?” Fraser asked him.

Balcarres pointed. “Nothing important. It seems the Americans are just being certain we get no peace, and our guns are returning the favor. Nonsense, more or less.”

“Anything changed since yesterday?”

“We’re reinforcing our breastworks that face their French Lines. An American column got into Fort Ti a while ago—six or seven hundred militia from the Grants. Brought some cattle and sheep. The Americans made a considerable fuss over it—fired a feu de joie with cannon—but there are no changes worth mentioning. Maybe their feu de joie was in celebration of that document they produced a year ago—their Declaration of Independence.” Balcarres shook his head. “They seem to think that document is going to change something.” He turned toward Fraser and harumphed. “A piece of paper? Change the world?” He shook his head. “Nonsense.”

From the south came another cannon volley, and both Balcarres and Fraser involuntarily ducked their heads slightly. Fraser smiled at his own actions. “Odd how the natural instinct is to duck when a cannon’s fired. Even seasoned soldiers do it.”

Balcarres reached with a white handkerchief to wipe at the sweat on his face. “A little embarrassing when the cannon fire is so distant, and you’re not in the line of fire. I’ve seen a few quick-eyed soldiers who can track a cannonball in flight. If it’s coming their way they simply step aside and let it pass.”

Fraser’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’ve seen men who can follow a cannonball in flight?”

“Yes. A few. Extremely sharp-eyed.”

“I’ve never tried—”

At that moment an errant cannonball whistled fifteen feet over their heads to drop behind them, plowing a furrow twelve feet long in the ground and coming to a stop, smoking. Both men ducked violently, then turned to survey the damage, relieved that there was none.

Balcarres said, “That was a little too close. I trust General Burgoyne intends moving on Fort Ti in the very near future and stopping this irritating business. What do you suppose he’s waiting on?”

Fraser replied, “I believe he wants all his cannon in position. Phillips is doing all he can, but there are places he has to build roads to move them across swampy ground. It won’t be long.”

Fraser took a moment to study the terrain surrounding their huge, sprawling camp. To the east, across the lake, Mt. Independence. West, the rolling, forested mountains and valleys. To the south, hidden from sight, Fort Ticonderoga on its small peninsula. Behind the fort, Mt. Defiance, its peak rearing into the blue heavens. It was all familiar, unchanged. He had turned back toward his tent when a thought struck him with such force he came to an immediate stop and slowly turned back to stare south.

Balcarres considered his erratic behavior. “Is something wrong?”

For ten seconds Fraser did not speak nor move. Concerned, Balcarres walked toward him. “General, are you feeling well?”

Slowly Fraser raised his arm high, pointing. “Do you see Mount Defiance?”

Balcarres turned to look, and could see nothing remarkable—no smoke, no movement of troops, nothing. “Of course. What’s your point?”

“Do I recall correctly? Isn’t Fort Ticonderoga just across that narrow neck of water at the Lake George outlet, about fifteen hundred yards from Mount Defiance?”

“Correct. It’s been that way for a million years. Have I missed something?”

Softly Fraser said, “What would happen if we were to get some heavy cannon up there?”

Balcarres stared, and his mouth slowly dropped open. “We’d have the bloody fort in the palm of our hand, and Mount Independence with it!”

“Exactly. The question is, can we get cannon up there?”

For ten seconds Balcarres peered at the mountain. “Probably not, at least not from this side. I don’t recall what the maps say about the back side.”

“Nor do I.” Fraser dropped his eyes. “I’ll look into it.”

Eyes still locked on Mt. Defiance, Balcarres nodded. “Let me know the results.”

Fraser turned and strode quickly to his tent. At the flap, he hesitated long enough to peer once more at Mt. Defiance, then ducked inside and hurried to the leather chest in which he stored his maps. With trembling fingers, he loosened the buckles, threw back the broad leather straps, and lifted the lid. Five seconds later he straightened and hurried to his desk to untie the heavy cord wrapped around a scrolled map.

Billingsley rose from his desk in the corner. “Sir, can I be of service?”

“Can you find my calipers?”

“Yes, sir.” Billingsley walked to Fraser’s desk and began opening drawers.

The general was scarcely breathing as he unrolled the heavy document, spread it on his worktable, shifted it to lie true with the compass, and anchored the four corners with leather pouches filled with sand. Quickly he located the five-sided figure of Fort Ticonderoga, then ran his finger southwest across the narrow neck of water that drained Lake George into Lake Champlain. Slowly he moved his finger to the top of Mt. Defiance, paused, then continued from the top of Mt. Defiance almost due east across the southern extreme of Lake Champlain, called South Bay, to the top of Mt. Independence.

He turned to Billingsley, who handed him his calipers. He spread the two needle-pointed legs of the instrument, planted one point in the center of Fort Ti, the other at the top of Mt. Defiance, then read the scale. His eyes widened. “Fourteen hundred yards.” He spread the instrument once more, relocated the points on Mt. Defiance and Mt. Independence, and again read the scale. “Fifteen hundred yards.”

He lowered the calipers and turned to Billingsley. “Our cannon on Mount Defiance can destroy every American defense at Fort Ti and Mount Independence in less than one day, and there isn’t a single American gun that could reach us.”

“It appears so, sir.”

Again Fraser pored over the map, checking the contour lines to determine how steep the incline was on the face of the mountain. The map showed the lines were very close to each other, and he shook his head. “Too steep.” He shifted his gaze to the back side of the mountain. In places, the contour lines were more widely spaced. Quickly he seized his quill, and without dipping it in ink, he moved the tip of it from the flat land at the foot of the mountain to the top, following only contour lines that were separated. He straightened, wide-eyed, exultant. “It can be done!” he exclaimed. “We can move cannon up the back side of Mount Defiance.”

Billingsley looked at the map for five seconds before the stunning significance of Fraser’s discovery struck home. “Astounding, sir. Absolutely astounding!”

Hardheaded military discipline asserted itself, and Fraser forced himself to sit down at the table and check his work, with Billingsley poring over the map in utter fascination. There was no question—it was there to be done if Fraser had men daring enough to make the attempt. He rose from his chair and walked rapidly to the flap before he turned.

“Major, do you know where I can find Captain James Craig?”

Billingsley concentrated for a moment. “I think his company is assigned to dig a powder magazine. Northwest edge of camp, sir.”

“Good. Wait here for further orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

Officers and regulars alike paused in their work to watch General Simon Fraser as he worked his way quickly through the uproar and muddle of officers, regulars, and camp followers hustling in all directions on their assigned duties. He was sweating profusely when he slowed near a great mound of fresh, dank earth, bordering a gigantic hole thirty feet square, with men inside, stripped to the waist, sweat running as they worked with shovels, steadily sinking the hole to the desired ten-foot depth. Others stood around the top with more shovels, moving the dirt away with wheelbarrows, past a mountain of earth on the west side of the hole.

Fraser stopped at the nearest man, breathing heavily, sweat dripping. “Can you direct me to Captain James Craig?”

For a moment the man stared. He could not recall ever seeing a general move fast enough on a sweltering hot day to raise a sweat. “Yes, sir. Cap’n Craig’s just past that dirt pile with some wagons.”

“Thank you.” Fraser rounded the great mound of fresh dirt and slowed at the sight of twenty men shoveling dirt into two huge freight wagons. Eight yoked oxen stood with their eyes closed against the mosquitoes and brulies, patiently chewing their cud while the wagons filled. Captain Craig was standing with his back to the general, giving orders to a lieutenant.

“When they’re loaded, drive them down to Captain Alexander Fraser’s breastworks facing the rebel French Lines. He needs the dirt for fill in front of the timbers.”

“Yes, sir.”

Craig turned and all but bumped into General Fraser. “Oh! Excuse me, sir. I didn’t expect you.”

Fraser wasted no words but drew Craig aside. “Captain, I have a critical mission for you and twenty of your men, with perhaps a few Indians.”

Craig straightened, eyes narrowed in question. “Yes, sir.”

“I want you to work your way up the back side of Mount Defiance and determine two things: first, can we transport cannon up there; and, if we can, is there a place up there to build gun emplacements? Then report back to me, no matter the time.”

“When do you want this done, sir?”

“Now.”

Craig’s mouth dropped open. “You mean pick twenty men and a few Indians for advance scout and leave right now?”

Fraser bobbed his head. “Precisely.”

Craig rounded his lips to blow air while his brain raced to catch up with Fraser’s order. He turned on the spot and called, “Dugan, come here!”

A lean, raw-boned, bearded sergeant straightened, wiped at the sweat on his face, and rammed his shovel blade into the dirt. “Yes, sir.” He walked rapidly to face Craig and saluted both officers.

“Get your men into uniform as fast as you can and wait here. I’m going to get five Indian scouts and a map. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Dugan’s face clouded in shocked surprise. “Exactly what does the captain have in mind?”

Craig pointed. “We’re going up that mountain.”

Dugan followed his point. “Now, sir?”

“Right now. Get your men into their tunics, in marching formation, with muskets.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fraser paced impatiently, watching Dugan bawl out his orders. Men dropped their shovels and scrambled. Minutes later Craig returned with five confused Indians and spent ten seconds inspecting Dugan’s men. They were sweating in their woolen tunics, faces a blank at being ordered to throw down their shovels, grab their muskets, and fall into marching order without the slightest explanation of why. But they were ready. Craig strode to the young lieutenant in charge of loading the dirt into the freight wagons, who stood at bewildered attention while Craig curtly turned command of digging the powder magazine over to him.

Map crammed inside his tunic, Craig marched back to Dugan and called out orders. Dugan gave the cadence, and the command marched out the south end of camp, Fraser striding along beside them, keeping step. Officers, regulars, women—everyone who saw them—paused to wonder at the strange sight of a brigadier general marching an officer, a sergeant, five Indians, and twenty sweating men out of camp in full uniform, muskets over their shoulders.

One hundred yards beyond the pickets at camp’s edge, Fraser stopped, watching until the red tunics of the last rank disappeared into the forest. Then he turned on his heel and strode rapidly back to his tent, mind racing as he worked with a plan. Billingsley met him at the entrance and stepped aside as Fraser entered. The general stopped and faced him directly.

“I believe the regimental engineering officer is Lieutenant William Twiss. Get him here as fast as you can. If I’m not here, have him wait.”

Billingsley masked his surprise. “Yes, sir.” He turned on his heel and hurried out the door. Fraser stepped to the washstand in the corner and poured water from a large, blue-figured porcelain pitcher into the matching basin. He quickly washed his hands, then the perspiration from his head and face, straightened his hair, set his tricorn squarely on his head, and walked briskly back out into the oppressive heat. Minutes later he was standing beneath the limp pennants that decorated the roofline of the great command tent, facing the picket at the flap.

“General Fraser to see General Burgoyne,” he said, eyes snapping.

“One moment, sir.” The picket disappeared, to return in thirty seconds and hold the flap open. Fraser entered instantly, stopped in the heat of the unventilated room, and stood at attention while his eyes adjusted to the muted color created by the sun on the canvas.

Instantly Burgoyne was on his feet, striding toward Fraser, displaying his dazzling smile—the ever-cordial, always charismatic Gentleman Johnny.

“Simon! Good to see you. What brings you here in the heat of the morning?”

Fraser spent no time playing the game of charm. “Sir, I spent part of the morning proving to myself that we can transport cannon to the top of Mount Defiance.”

Fraser stopped. It took Burgoyne two seconds to grasp Fraser’s drift. In an instant the bon vivant social toast of London vanished, and the brilliant, tough-minded general took over. Burgoyne’s smile was gone, and his eyes bored into Fraser as he uttered one word.

“How?”

“Up the back side.”

Without hesitation, Burgoyne cut straight to the stand-or-fall proposition. “Show me.” In less than two minutes he had his scaled map on his worktable, corners weighted down, standing beside Fraser in silence, waiting.

Fraser shifted the map to square it with the compass, then placed a finger on Fort Ticonderoga, moving his hand as he spoke. He wasted no words.

“From Fort Ti to the top of Mount Defiance is fourteen hundred yards. From the top of Mount Defiance to the top of Mount Independence, fifteen hundred yards.”

“How do you know?” Burgoyne’s eyes were intense, narrowed.

“Calipers.”

“Go on.”

He returned his finger to Mt. Defiance. “The front is too steep, but the back is not. We can get cannon up the back side.”

“On what authority?”

“The contour lines.”

Instantly Burgoyne hunched forward to study the curving contour lines, and as he worked with his finger his breathing quickened, while his eyes began to shine. “Maybe. Has anyone gone to look?”

“I sent Captain James Craig with twenty men and five Indian scouts. They should be back with their report sometime after dark.”

“If his report is favorable, what do you propose?”

“If Craig agrees, I’m going up there myself with our engineering officer, Lieutenant William Twiss. My aide’s gone to get him now.”

“When will you go?”

“Tonight, after Craig gets back. We can be far up before morning, maybe on top. If Twiss agrees, it’s possible we can have guns up there by noon tomorrow.”

Burgoyne’s brow knitted in question. “Noon? That soon? How?”

“Start tonight. Have a company of men move them as far as they can in the dark. If Twiss and I are successful, we can signal, and they can proceed.”

“How do you propose getting a two-ton gun up there without roads?”

“Block and tackle, and ropes. Build a road later.”

Burgoyne’s breathing accelerated to keep pace with his racing thoughts. “It might be possible. We’ll have to talk with General Phillips about cannon. He has every gun assigned, and I doubt he’ll be amenable to changing his mind.”

“Get cannon from the ships out on the lake. The Thunderer can spare a few.”

Burgoyne turned away from the table and began to pace, working with the thoughts that were coming in a flood. “Fifteen hundred yards? We would have total command of a field of fire, both on Ticonderoga and Mount Independence.” He stopped in his tracks as the next thought impacted. His eyes grew large. “I doubt their guns could reach us.”

“They could not.”

“Do you mean to say that we could reduce Fort Ti and their Mount Independence defenses to rubble without a single American shot reaching our guns?”

Fraser bobbed his head emphatically. “That’s exactly what I mean, sir.”

“This could all be over in one day, then, without the loss of a single man.” He caught his breath at the thought. “Unbelievable! Take Fort Ti in one day with no casualties. That would stand Whitehall and Parliament on their heads! And the king! Brilliant!”

Fraser masked his reaction at how quickly Burgoyne had jumped from the possibility of a stunning military victory, to how he was going to use it to rise to the pinnacle in British military and political circles, let alone the whirl of London’s high society. While it was he, Fraser, who had recognized the staggering possibility and formed the plan to bring it to reality, it would somehow be Burgoyne who would have all England at his feet when it was finished. Fraser accepted it, and waited for Burgoyne’s response.

“I’ll have General Phillips brought here at once. I want his opinion on the question of our cannon reaching them, while theirs cannot reach us. Go bring Lieutenant Twiss here for the conference.”

Fifteen minutes later, with all four men hunched around the table, Fraser quickly laid his conclusions and his plan before them. Phillips recoiled at the thought, then leaned forward to trace distances and locations, making silent calculations, with Twiss intently tracking. Phillips glanced at Burgoyne and asked, “Do you have calipers?” Two minutes later he stood erect, chin thrust out. “On paper, it can be done, but I will not approve the plan until a competent person has walked the ground to prove it. I cannot assign one cannon to the project, but I agree that a few guns can be spared from the Thunderer.”

Burgoyne turned to Twiss.

Twiss drew a deep breath. He had never been in such an intense, do-or-die war council in his life. He spoke firmly, without hesitation. “From the best information we have, Mount Defiance is just short of eight hundred feet in height. From the top, cannon should reach all defenses, including Fort Ti. The proposal to put cannon up there appears to be feasible, however, it would be a mistake to commit troops without a visual inspection of the ground. I presume that’s why I was called here. If you wish, I will be happy to climb that mountain and give it my best appraisal.”

Fraser interrupted. “I planned to accompany you, starting tonight, the minute Craig returns with a favorable report.”

Twiss responded. “Good. I’ll be ready when you are.”

Fraser turned to Burgoyne. “As soon as we have reached the mountaintop, and Lieutenant Twiss has made his decision, he and I will signal to the men bringing the cannon up behind us. One pistol shot means they abandon the project. Two pistol shots means bring the guns to the top. Is that understood?”

Burgoyne nodded. “Understood. By that time I’ll have a large force of men halfway to the top with the cannon.”

At twenty minutes before nine o’clock, Fraser checked his watch, then settled back in the chair beside the worktable in his tent. Six lanterns cast their yellow light in the muggy air, with mosquitoes, moths, and night insects drawn buzzing to the glowing, hot glass chimneys. The curled bodies of insects that had come too close to the blistering glass littered the table and floor beneath the lanterns.

Across from Fraser, Lieutenant Twiss leaned back, one arm hooked over the back of his chair. Billingsley sat quietly at his small desk in one corner. Locked in a tense, disciplined silence, the men had not spoken in more than half an hour, as they waited for the return of Captain James Craig, to learn what would be the fate of thousands of Americans and British who were poised for the battle at Fort Ticonderoga.

Through the sounds of the gigantic camp settling for the night came the tread of a marching command. All three men came erect in their chairs as Fraser turned his head to listen. They heard muffled commands as the sounds drew near, and then the voice of Craig halting his men at the front of the tent. The picket challenged, Craig made his request, and the picket pulled aside the tent flap.

“Captain Craig has returned, sir.”

All three men came to their feet, and Fraser spoke. “Bring him in.”

Sweat streaked, his tunic torn by the branch of a dead tree, Craig stepped in and came to attention. “Reporting, sir.”

“Yes?”

“We were on top. It can be done. Guns up there will command Fort Ticonderoga, Mount Independence, the chute from Lake George into Lake Champlain, and you can see forty miles down the lake.”

* * * * *

In the pale silver light of a waxing moon, Fraser drew out his watch. “Twenty minutes past one o’clock,” he said to Twiss. “Are you all right?”

“Let’s go right on up.”

“I think I can hear the guns coming up behind us. Can you?”

“When the wind’s right, sir.”

The moon ran its course and settled behind the western rim, and still they struggled upward, testing each footstep before continuing, looking ahead to avoid impassable trees and rocks. The first hint of the black heavens turning purple in the east found them cresting the summit and emerging out onto the slightly rounded dome of Mt. Defiance. The two weary men sat down on rocks while Twiss dropped his backpack and opened it to remove two officer’s pistols. With gray creeping across the lake, he finished loading them. Ten minutes later they could define limbs on trees fifty yards distant, and five minutes later they could clearly see the broad expanse of the lake, and the thin, twisting ribbon of the two-mile-long crack in the granite that carried the water from Lake George crashing down whitewater rapids to empty into Lake Champlain, just above South Bay, at the southern end.

Carefully the men walked the perimeter of the mountaintop, judging whether there was room to construct cannon emplacements. They peered outward in all directions, awe-struck at how clearly they could see the inside of Fort Ticonderoga and the defense works on Mt. Independence, across South Bay. Satisfied, they looked at each other and nodded.

“Room, and to spare,” Twiss said. “I’ve never seen such a commanding position for cannon.”

“I agree,” replied Fraser.

“On your orders, sir, do I fire the pistols?”

“You do.”

Twiss walked west to the place where he and Fraser had mounted the summit. He raised both pistols at one time, and turned slightly south to avoid the balls striking their own men coming up from below. He fired the pistol in his right hand first, counted to three, then fired the one in his left, the flame leaping three feet from the muzzle in the predawn gray.

The two men backed away from the rim and sat down to reach for their canteens. They drank long, wiped their mouths, and Twiss dug into his backpack to draw out some cheese and dried beef. “Thought this might taste good about now,” he said, offering some to Fraser. For a time the two men chewed and drank water in silence, with a west wind rising in their faces. They were sweated out, exhausted, bone-weary from the climb through the night, but they did not care. Inside they felt the solid, sustaining glow of having done what others thought could not be done, and with each passing moment they felt the rising conviction that what they had done would impact the affairs of the world. Cheese and dried beef never tasted better.

By eight o’clock, with the risen sun bright on their backs, they could see the heads of the men coming up from below, on the shady, west side of the mountain. The shouts and cursing of the struggling company came clear as the men tightened the two-inch hawsers to lash the block and tackle to another great rock or tree trunk, then commence the backbreaking work of throwing every ounce of strength and weight into hauling the ropes through the pulleys, at a ratio of six to one. For every six feet of rope, the two-ton cannon moved one foot upward.

At ten minutes past ten o’clock, with the west wind raising dust-devils and flying grit, the sweating, exhausted men dragged the first big gun over the crest, onto the top, and at ten-thirty, the second. The west wind shifted toward the north and became a howling gale. The five Indian scouts drew to the south, away from the regulars, to stand by themselves. Among the soldiers, the uniform of every man was torn, either at the knees or elbows. Sweat showed on their tunics between their shoulder blades. The dirt raised by the wind caked at the corners of their eyes and mouths and in their nostrils, and stuck to their sweating faces.

They didn’t care. They sprawled on their backs on the mountaintop, arms flung wide, and lay without moving for a time. Then they reached for their canteens to drink long, not caring that some of the water ran down their chins to make additional dark spots on their tunics.

After a time, Lieutenant Charles Digby wiped his chin and stood to face his men. “On your feet. We have to position and block these guns.”

At ten minutes before noon on July 5, 1777, the two, twelve-pound British cannon were in position, their muzzles thrust out northeast, directly in line with Fort Ticonderoga. Their wheels were blocked against any movement forward and allowed four feet of movement to the rear to take the recoil when the heavy guns were fired. The guns in place, Digby walked to General Fraser. His face was covered with sweat and dirt, his uniform torn and filthy, but there was a look of triumph in his eye as he saluted and reported to Fraser.

“Sir, the guns are in commission. Powder in the budge barrels, cannonballs in the lockers between the trails.”

Fraser nodded. “Extraordinary, Lieutenant. My compliments. I want to address your men.” He walked past Digby and stood before his men.

“Remain at ease, men. I do not know what will come of this, but I do want you to know you have done what no others have dared try. I commend each of you. I will be sending a letter of commendation to General Burgoyne for this command. I am also sending orders that the entire army is to receive a ration of rum tonight, and a double ration for each of you.”

Tired, sweated out, sitting on a mountaintop with a hot, high north wind shrouding them in dirt and grit, the men rose as one and gave three resounding huzzahs for their general. None of them noticed that the five Indian scouts, twenty yards south of them, had lighted a fire to signal their chiefs far below that they had reached the mountaintop. The big guns were in place. Fort Ticonderoga was theirs.

* * * * *

The hot north wind sweeping down the Lake Champlain–Hudson River corridor swirled and eddied over the walls of Fort Ticonderoga, raising clouds of dust and sending it stinging into the faces of the Americans as they hurried from their work assignments to the mess hall for their noon meal. Eyes squinted against the wind, they walked with shoulders hunched and heads lowered to stand in line, waiting to get inside the doors, away from the blow.

Colonel Jeduthan Baldwin, engineer in charge of repairs and maintenance of the old fort, marched southwest from his office across the parade ground toward the large shed used to store the tools and equipment on which his work depended. Building good breastworks required axes and shovels, and in his hand he clutched a report that there were twenty-two axes and thirty shovels with broken or split handles. If the report were true, six men were going to spend the afternoon knocking the broken handles out, and fitting new ones in. His crews were digging trenches and throwing up breastworks outside the fort at a fevered pace; he could not afford a work stoppage because of broken equipment.

He was twenty feet from the building when movement atop Mt. Defiance caught his eye. He slowed, then stopped to raise a hand as a shield against the noon sun, peering upward nearly one mile at the crest of the mountain. It appeared that a wind-whipped smudge of black smoke was blowing south. He wiped at his eyes to look upward once more and saw the smoke thicken.

Smoke? How? Lightning? There isn’t a cloud in the sky. The faintest voice of alarm began in his brain. He stood rooted, staring, and suddenly there was movement in the trees and brush on the mountaintop—a flash of crimson against the emerald green. While he watched, the barrel of a heavy cannon rolled into view, stopped, and tiny red-coated figures scurried about blocking the wheels. Moments later a second cannon rolled in beside the first, and the British regulars positioned and blocked it. Sunlight glinted off the gun muzzles, and Baldwin realized they were lined squarely on the parade ground of the fort, within yards of where he was standing. For a moment he stood paralyzed by shock, then pivoted and broke into a run toward the office of General Arthur St. Clair. He pounded across the boardwalk and threw the door open, slowing to let his eyes adjust inside the dimly lit room.

St. Clair jumped the moment the door burst open and was half risen when Baldwin blurted, “The British have guns on Mount Defiance!” St. Clair jerked erect and Dunn came off his chair in an instant. For two seconds the men stared at each other before St. Clair came around his desk at a run, out into the blowing dust, Baldwin and Dunn right behind. He shaded his eyes with both hands while he stared southwest at the mountain.

Even with the gale winds and the flying dust, the redcoats could be seen moving about the big guns on the northeast rim of the mountaintop. St. Clair turned to Dunn. “Get my telescope,” he barked, and in two minutes Dunn returned to jam it into St. Clair’s trembling hand. With his glass extended, St. Clair studied the mountaintop for thirty seconds, then handed the instrument to Baldwin, who looked then passed it to Dunn. For long moments the three men stood looking at each other in stunned shock, faces white, eyes wide, staring.

Then St. Clair gave orders to Dunn. “Get generals Paterson, Long, de Fermoy, and Poor. No matter what they’re doing, have them in my office in ten minutes.”

Notes

Unless otherwise indicated, the following facts are taken from Ketchum, Saratoga, on the pages listed.

On the morning of 3 July 1777, General Simon Fraser was discussing the ongoing sound of the cannon with Alexander Lindsay, sixth Earl of Balcarres, commenting on the natural tendency of men to duck at the sound of cannon, even if they are not in the line of fire. A cannonball passed over both their heads, and they instinctively ducked. In this conversation Balcarres mentioned he knew men with eyes sharp enough to track a cannonball in flight. That morning the Americans did fire a feu de joie, which is a military custom of firing muskets, or cannon, in predetermined numbers to commemorate or celebrate a notable military or historical event—in this case, the one-year anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence—as well as the arrival of Seth Warner with seven hundred troops, cattle, and sheep.

Immediately following the conversation, Fraser noticed Mt. Defiance, and for the first time wondered if cannon atop the mountain could reach Fort Ticonderoga. With a young engineer named Lieutenant William Twiss, Fraser climbed the mountain and saw instantly it commanded both a view and a field of fire covering both Fort Ticonderoga and Mt. Independence, across the narrows of Lake Champlain. The distances were fifteen hundred yards to Fort Ti, fourteen hundred yards to Mt. Independence.

Excited, Fraser sent a lieutenant named Craig, with men, to see if cannon could be moved up the back side of the mountain, and it was determined they could. The night of July fourth, two cannon from the ship Thunderer were hauled up to the top, and the morning of July fifth, they were in place and ready to fire. Indians who accompanied the men who hauled the cannon up the mountain set a fire on the mountaintop, and it was seen by the Americans (pp. 170–71).

It will be remembered that one year earlier, Lieutenant Trumbull, Benedict Arnold, and Anthony Wayne had informed generals Gates and Schuyler that it could be done; further, American cannon were fired from the fort toward the top of Mt. Independence, demonstrating that they could not reach all the way to the top. Thus, cannon atop Mt. Defiance could not be reached by American cannon in Fort Ticonderoga (p. 117).

Leckie, in his work George Washington’s War, states that the cannon were taken to the top overnight by use of block and tackle, a very arduous undertaking (p. 387).

On 5 July 1777, Jeduthan Baldwin saw the smoke from the Indian fire atop Mt. Defiance, then saw the two cannon muzzles. He took the news to General St. Clair, who instantly saw that Fort Ticonderoga was indefensible against the British cannon. He ordered a war council that was attended that afternoon by generals Poor, Fermoy, Paterson, and Long (pp. 171–72).