10
The first run from Fort George to Glens Falls was only ten miles, but to Will Knox it seemed like ten times ten.
This was rough terrain—the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, far from civilization. There were no highways here. No paved roads. No bridges or underpasses. No route signs or sheltered rest areas or lighting to chase the gloom. What passed for a road was only a dirt trail, used now and then by farmers, trappers, or migrating Indians. In summer the trail was often a sea of mud. Now, in the icy cold, it was a frozen crisscross of ruts and ridges, as hard as the granite rocks of the mountain.
With so many vehicles plus the animals needed to pull and drag them, the colonel’s “noble train of artillery” was spread out for almost a mile. William was in charge of a heavy gun bringing up the rear of the convoy. His brother, riding a sorrel mare, trotted up and down the line, watching for trouble spots and helping stragglers.
The guns crawled slowly along the bumpy route, and every yard was hard work. Wagon wheels creaked. Drivers cracked their whips. Oxen strained. Horses whinnied. Men swore and shouted, sweating under their wool shirts while their breath came out in icy clouds.
The Beckers’ wagon, with its brass cannon, was near the middle of the convoy. Sitting beside his father, J. P. watched the careful way the old veteran handled the team. Controlling four horses on this kind of rough trail took nerve and skill. Half rising from his seat, reins threaded through his strong fingers, Becker guided the animals, calming and coaxing them.
Suddenly, as they topped a hill, their lead horse stumbled on a sharp rock. “Look out!” Becker shouted. The heavy wagon lurched to one side; J. P. slid from his perch and landed hard on the ground. He got up dizzily, rubbing a sore hip—but his pride was wounded more than his body. Colonel Knox rode up and was relieved to see that J. P. wasn’t seriously hurt But the wagon had skidded off into a ditch.
Half a dozen troopers were needed—with Becker handling the horses—to get the heavy cart back on the trail. By the time the cart was righted and ready to move, the front half of the convoy had lumbered ahead, leaving a wide gap in the line.
The accident led to a change in the rules. “From now on,” Henry announced at the next rest stop, “when a unit gets in trouble, the whole caravan will halt. That way we’ll keep everyone close together. And we’ll have enough manpower in case there’s serious trouble.”
Day faded into dark as the convoy struggled on, and by the time they reached Glens Falls, men and animals were bone weary. The strange parade received a wonderful welcome from the villagers—certainly the artillery train was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to this tiny, out-of-the-way place. The animals were quickly unhitched, fed, watered, and given shelter. The men were treated to great platters of hot food, and warm dry beds were found for them in barns and farmhouses.
The town had a small inn, a coach stop for travelers, and the innkeeper bustled about tidying a room for Colonel Knox. After a good meal washed down with hot cider, Henry met with Will and the other convoy leaders. Their next goal was to cross the upper Hudson and turn south to Saratoga.
“The river’s frozen solid, so we won’t have any trouble crossing,” the colonel said.
Will chimed in, “The locals say snow’s on the way. I expect a good fall of wet snow’d make it easier for the sleds.”
His brother nodded. “You’re right. We can move twice as fast over snow, if it’s not too heavy. So let’s gamble. We’ll wait here a bit—and pray for a white Christmas.”