MOUNT INDEPENDENCE
Brigadier Fraser’s men advanced upon the picket fort at the top of the mount, the one the Americans ironically called “Independence.” William led one of the forward parties and had his men fix their bayonets as they drew close. There was a deep silence, broken only by the snap of branches and shuffle of boots in the thick leaf mold, the stray clack of a cartridge box against musket butt. Was it a waiting silence, though?
The Americans could not fail to know they were coming. Did the rebels lie in ambush, ready to fire upon them from the crude but very solid fortification he could see through the trees?
He motioned to his men to stop some two hundred yards short of the summit, hoping to pick up some indication of the defenders, if defenders there were. His own company halted obediently, but there were men behind, and they began to push into and through his own company without regard, eager to storm the fort.
“Halt!” he shouted, aware as he did so that the sound of his voice presented almost as good a target to an American rifleman as would the sight of his red coat. Some of the men did halt but were at once dislodged by more behind them, and within seconds the whole of the hillside was a mass of red. They could not stop longer; they would be trampled. And if the defenders had meant to fire, they could not ask for a better opportunity—and yet the fort stayed silent.
“On!” William roared, throwing up his arm, and the men burst from the trees in a splendid charge, bayonets held ready.
The gates hung ajar, and the men charged straight in, heedless of danger—but danger there was none. William came in with his men, to find the place deserted. Not only abandoned, but evidently abandoned in an amazing hurry.
The defenders’ personal belongings were strewn everywhere, as though dropped in flight: not only heavy things like cooking utensils, but clothes, shoes, books, blankets … even money, seemingly cast aside or dropped in panic. Much more to the point, so far as William was concerned, was the fact that the defenders had made no effort to blow up ammunition or powder that could not be carried away; there must be two hundredweight, stacked in kegs! Provisions, too, had been left behind, a welcome sight.
“Why did they not set fire to the place?” Lieutenant Hammond asked him, looking goggle-eyed round at the barracks, still fully furnished with beds, bedding, chamber pots—ready for the conquerors to move straight in to.
“God knows,” William replied briefly, then lunged forward as he saw a private soldier come out of one of the rooms, festooned in a lacy shawl and with his arms full of shoes. “You, there! We’ll have no looting, none! Do you hear me, sir?”
The private did and, dropping his armful of shoes, made off precipitately, lacy fringes flapping. A good many others were at it, too, though, and it was clear to William that he and Hammond would be unable to stop it. He shouted above the increasing din for an ensign and, seizing the man’s dispatch box, scribbled a hasty note.
“Take that to General Fraser,” he said thrusting it back at the ensign. “Fast as ever you can go!”
Dawn
July 7, 1777
“I will not have these horrid irregularities!” General Fraser’s face was deeply creased, as much with rage as with fatigue. The small traveling clock in the general’s tent showed just before five o’clock in the morning, and William had the oddly dreamy feeling that his head was floating somewhere over his left shoulder. “Looting, theft, rampant undiscipline—I will not have it, I say. Am I understood? All of you?”
The small, tired group of officers gave assent in a chorus of grunts. They had been up all night, chivvying their troops into some form of rough order, keeping back the rank and file from the worst excesses of looting, hurriedly surveying the abandoned outposts at the Old French Lines, and tallying the unexpected bounty of provisions and ammunition left for them by the fort’s defenders—four of whom had been found when the fort was stormed, dead drunk by the side of a primed cannon, trained on the bridge below.
“Those men, the ones who were taken. Has anyone been able to talk with them as yet?”
“No, sir,” Captain Hayes said, stifling a yawn. “Still dead to the world—very nearly dead for good, the surgeon said, though he thinks they’ll survive.”
“Shit themselves with fear,” Hammond said softly to William. “Waiting all that time for us to come.”
“More likely boredom,” William murmured back without moving his mouth. Even so, he caught the brigadier’s bloodshot eye and straightened up unconsciously.
“Well, it’s not as though we need them to tell us much.” General Fraser waved a hand to dispel a cloud of smoke that had drifted in, and coughed. William inhaled gently. There was a succulent scent embodied in that smoke, and his stomach coiled in anticipation. Ham? Sausage?
“I’ve sent word back to General Burgoyne that Ticonderoga is ours—again,” the brigadier added, breaking into a grin at the hoarse cheer from the officers. “And to Colonel St. Leger. We shall leave a small garrison to take stock and tidy things up here, but the rest of us … Well, there are rebels to be caught, gentlemen. I cannot offer you much respite, but certainly there is time for a hearty breakfast. Bon appetit!”