Band of Giants_The Amateur Soldiers Who Won America's Independence Read online

  Yet Montgomery’s foreboding continued. In his letters to Janet, he often included the phrase, “If I live . . .” He admonished her not to send him “whining letters” that “lower my spirits.”

  * * *

  On November 2, the supplies Arnold had promised began to reach his scattered and famished troops: two oxen, a cow, two sheep, and three bushels of potatoes. The cattle were butchered and eaten on the spot, the bloody hides fashioned into crude moccasins. Soon cornmeal, mutton, and tobacco arrived. It was “like a translation from death to life,” one man noted. “Echoes of gladness resounded from front to rear.”

  The inhabitants around Quebec were astounded to see the bearded, emaciated troops emerge from the wilderness. Of the 1,050 men who started, 675 had completed the miraculous journey. If they had reached the city a few days earlier, Arnold and his men might have taken it. But they found that a corps of loyal Scots Canadians had just arrived to defend the walled city. Arnold chose to withdraw twenty miles and wait for Montgomery. He reported to Washington that his men were “almost naked and in want of every necessity.”

  In early December, Montgomery arrived, leading only three hundred of his New York men. He had left some to secure Montreal. The rest had departed when their enlistments expired, or had fallen ill or deserted. Arnold’s men cheered the arrival of this diminished prong of the grand pincer. They cheered the food, supplies, and winter clothing that Montgomery brought with him. The addition of several hundred Canadian militiamen, who had chosen to join the cause of those they called Bostonois or “Congress Troops,” raised their numbers to more than thirteen hundred.

  General Carleton organized his defenses, but remained pessimistic. “We have so many enemies within and foolish people, dupes to those traitors,” he wrote to London authorities, “that I think our fate extremely doubtful.”15

  From outside the city walls, Montgomery sent Carleton word that he was having trouble restraining his hordes from “insulting your works” and taking “an ample and just retaliation.” The British commander, who had fought with Montgomery in the West Indies, sneered at the threat.

  During the next few weeks, the two sides engaged in a desultory cannon duel. The Americans tried building fortifications of ice, which enemy guns quickly splintered. One cannonball demolished Montgomery’s carriage and killed his horses seconds after he stepped down, one of his several brushes with death. Another shot decapitated a woman drawing water from a stream. It was Jemima Warner, who had left her dead husband under leaves back in the mountains.

  Morgan’s riflemen fired at long range toward any defender who appeared on the walls. After they shot a sentry through the head, a British captain complained about the “skulking riflemen . . . These fellows who call themselves soldiers . . . are worse than savages. They lie in wait to shoot a sentry! A deed worthy of Yankee men at war!”

  The soldiers suffered from “lice Itch Jaundice Crabs Bedbugs and an unknown sight of Fleas.”16 Worse—smallpox soon began to prostrate one man after another.

  General Montgomery mulled his options. Tall, slender, balding, with a handsome, slightly pockmarked face, he was beloved for “his manliness of soul, heroic bravery, and suavity of manners.” Staring at the wintery walls of Quebec, he knew that he must act. Most of the New England troops had enlisted only through December. No pleading could convince them to stay past their promised time. The only course left was to take Quebec by storm. With limited manpower, the key to entering the city was to concentrate on one point. But where?

  Montgomery chose the Lower Town, the sprawling waterfront commercial district at the foot of the cliffs on which Quebec stood. “I propose amusing Mr. Carleton with a formal attack, erecting batteries, etc.,” Montgomery wrote to Schuyler in the sardonic tone of the day, “but mean to assault the works, I believe towards the lower town, which is the weakest point.” Taking the Lower Town would cut off the garrison from the water. A threat to burn the warehouses and places of business might induce the inhabitants to surrender.

  On December 16, Montgomery put the question to his officers. They debated the matter: a few staunchly opposed the foolhardy attempt, the majority voted to lead their men against the city’s walls. They agreed that the faint of heart could bow out, only volunteers would be included.

  “Fortune favors the brave,” Montgomery stated. On the evening of Christmas Day, the general gave a rousing address to the troops. “General Montgomery was born to command,” one man wrote. He sweetened the prospect of attack, proclaiming that “all who get safe into the city will live well,” plundering as they pleased. They would attack using the “first strong north-wester” for cover.

  Although Montgomery kept up a brave front for his men, he was feeling the strain. “I must go home,” he had written to Schuyler. “I am weary of power and totally want that patience and temper so requisite for such a command.”17

  Quebec sat on a rocky bluff at the end of a peninsula between two rivers: the Charles on the northwest side, the tidal St. Lawrence on the southeast. Montgomery’s plan was to set fires at the western gates as a diversion and attack the Lower Town from two directions. He would personally lead an advance party along the path between the bottom of the bluff and the St. Lawrence. Arnold would advance on the Charles side with the main force.

  By December 29, it seemed likely the clock would run out before the men could act on the plan. Many of the soldiers were already packing, settling debts, and preparing to return home on January 1. The weather, which had tormented them during the march, now remained frustratingly clear. If they attacked without the cover of a storm, the defenders inside the walls could anticipate and counter every move.

  The next evening it began to snow. A screeching gale swept in from the northeast. Word went out for the men to be ready at midnight. They would attack on the last day of 1775.

  Doctor Isaac Senter, the battalion physician, remembered that General Montgomery was “extremely anxious” during the preparations. Fortune, Montgomery had written, although it might favor the brave, “often baffles the sanguine expectations of poor mortals.”

  Waiting in darkness, the troops hunched against the fanged blizzard. At four in the morning, rockets fired to coordinate the separate attacks. Artillerymen working mortars began to lob bombs into the city. The time for action had come.

  Montgomery led his three hundred New York musketmen on a mission known as a “forlorn hope.” Derived from a Dutch military term verloren hoop, “detached troop,” it had nothing to do with hope but simply meant an advance assault force. Yet the English words carried their own connotation and fit the tenor of Montgomery’s mind.

  His contingent descended the steep path to the river. Accompanied by his officers and by workmen equipped with axes and saws, he took the lead. The soldiers strung out behind him. They crept along the narrow ledge between the river and the steep rock cliff on their left. The bitter wind took their breath away.

  The river had thrown large blocks of ice onto the path. It took them an hour to scramble two miles. They reached a barricade that Carleton had ordered built to protect the Lower Town. The palisade of stakes was undefended. Carpenters hacked an opening. Beyond, officers made out a two-story blockhouse, its black gun portals staring blankly. Nothing moved.

  Every second was precious now. Rather than wait for his straggling men to come up, Montgomery chose to advance with fifteen officers. He drew his short sword with its silver dog’s head pommel. He motioned his men forward into the snowy darkness.

  * * *

  On the opposite side of the peninsula, Daniel Morgan and his riflemen were marching into Lower Town at the head of the main body of six hundred soldiers that Colonel Arnold commanded.

  “Covering the locks of our guns with the lappets of our coats,” Private John Joseph Henry recorded, “holding down our heads (for it was impossible to bear up our faces against the imperious storm of
snow and wind), we ran along the foot of the hill in single file.”18 Unseen defenders fired down on them from the walls, which loomed on the rocky promontory to the men’s right.

  When they reached one of the barricades blocking the road, Arnold ordered Morgan and his riflemen to assault the obstacle. The riflemen surged forward. They ran to the log wall and fired point blank through the loopholes. The shots echoed, the flashes lit the swirling snow. A fragment of a ricocheting ball tore through Arnold’s left calf. Unable to stand, his boot overflowing with blood, he allowed himself to be helped to the rear.

  Morgan ordered a scaling ladder placed against the barrier and, he later reported, “for fear the business might not be executed with spirit, I mounted myself.” A musket blast scorched his face. He fell back. Enraged, he rose and scrambled up again. His momentum carried him over the parapet. He landed on a cannon, “which hurt me exceedingly.” As the riflemen swarmed over the top behind him, fifty enemy soldiers fled in panic. Dozens surrendered as the Americans rushed into buildings beyond.19

  A number of the officers present outranked Captain Morgan, but in the crisis, the younger men deferred to his age, size, and air of cold command. The Virginia rifleman took charge. The moment was ripe. Enemy soldiers, especially the French-Canadian militiamen, were surrendering. Panic was gripping the populace. Some townspeople were welcoming the invaders with shouts of Vive la liberté! The tide seemed to have turned. The arrival of Montgomery’s contingent from the opposite direction would hammer home the victory.

  General Carleton did not panic. He sent his limited force of defenders to the northern walls to fire down on Arnold’s men as they streamed into the Lower Town. Amid the chaos, Carleton made two critical decisions. First, he marshaled defenders to rush out and take a stand against the Americans at a second barricade closer to the city walls. Then he sent sixty of his scant remaining men through the Palace Gate on the northwest side of the fortified city. They would tread in the footsteps of Arnold’s men to attack them from behind.

  General Montgomery had still not arrived. Morgan urged that they should rush ahead and assault the town as planned. But now the others asserted their rank. Leaving a mass of prisoners lightly guarded in their rear would be a mistake. It made more sense to solidify their gains and wait for Montgomery. A frustrated Morgan argued to no avail.

  Time ticked away. An impatient Morgan went to look for troops who had gotten lost near the docks. A tepid light was staining the eastern sky. When enemy troops began to congregate at the second barrier, the American officers finally allowed Morgan to attack. Running ahead with his riflemen, he collided with British regulars. A lieutenant demanded his surrender. Morgan’s answer was to shoot him in the head. But enemy fire now forced the Americans to take cover in doorways. They tried to pick off the soldiers firing from the second barricade. Morgan moved among them, encouraging and rallying. From the center of the street, he directed their fire. “Betwixt every peal the awful voice of Morgan is heard,” one of the riflemen remembered, “whose gigantic stature and terrible appearance carries dismay among the foe wherever he comes.”

  The gray light of a snowy day revealed the dire situation: facing defenders far more familiar with the lay of the land, the Americans found the momentum of the battle going against them, and still no sign of General Montgomery. Morgan continued to urge on his troops. “He seems to be all soul,” the account continued, “and moves as if he did not touch the earth.”20

  But the attackers’ situation continued to erode. The British regulars advancing from behind captured some Americans who had gotten lost in the urban maze. The British took up a defensive position at the first barricade, hemming in the Americans between the two walls. The prospect of victory dissolved as groups of disorganized patriot soldiers began to surrender rather than be killed. Morgan pushed for an immediate escape attempt. The other officers overruled him.

  As he saw men throwing down their weapons around him, Morgan “stormed and raged.” He broke into tears of angry frustration. He would not give up. He would not concede that the awful ordeal had been for nothing. But surrounded, backed against a wall, he finally had to relinquish his sword.

  The attack was over. In three and a half hours, 60 Americans had been killed or wounded, 426 captured. More than a third of the army in Canada had been wiped away. For all they knew, the American cause may have gone down to defeat with them.

  Morgan and the others were taken to an improvised prison. A British officer wrote home, “You can have no conception of the Kind of men composed their officers. Of those we took, one major was a blacksmith, another a hatter. Of their captains there was a butcher . . . a tanner, a shoemaker, a tavern keeper, etc. Yet they all pretended to be gentlemen.”21

  The Americans soon learned why General Montgomery had never arrived on the scene that snowy night. As he had rushed through the barricade with the lead unit of his forlorn hope, defenders in the blockhouse had greeted them with the roar of a cannon. The charge of grapeshot, a mass of lead balls that turned the piece into a giant shotgun, “mowed them down like grain,” one of the defenders observed. Montgomery and six of his officers were torn apart. The shock induced the others to turn back. Fortune had indeed baffled the expectations of poor mortals.

  * * *

  Montgomery instantly became a symbol of the sacrifice that was required to win Liberty. The fall of a great man testified to the seriousness of the cause. “Weep, America,” an officer wrote to Montgomery’s brother-in-law, “for thou hast lost one of thy most virtuous and bravest sons!”

  America wept. Congress voted to erect a monument in Montgomery’s honor. “In the Death of this gentleman,” Washington wrote, “America has sustained a heavy Loss.”22

  Janet Montgomery never remarried. She lived for half a century, treasuring the memory of the man she called “an angel sent to us for a moment.” Childless, she corresponded with some of the many children named for her late husband, encouraging them to live up to his virtues.

  Americans had entered the conflict convinced that free warriors fighting for liberty could vanquish professional soldiers. The notion held both truth and falsehood. At Concord, at Bunker Hill, and in the phenomenal feat of arms that was the invasion of Canada, spirit and patriotism had made up, in part, for discipline and experience. Amateur soldiers and neophyte officers had come close to snuffing out British sovereignty in North America. The men who attacked Quebec had marched with hopeful hearts. They had learned the lessons that Montgomery had understood before they started: that war is cruel, fortune fickle, liberty costly.

  Washington sat frustrated before Boston, his army evaporating, recruitment slow, supplies lacking, the first heat of enthusiasm for the cause gone. In the spring, British reinforcements would arrive in numbers. He needed a victory.

  Five

  Precious Convoy

  1776

  With the British fortified in Boston, any patriot victory there was going to require heavy artillery. Washington turned his attention to the cannon at Ticonderoga. “The want of them is so great,” he wrote, “that no trouble or expense must be spared to obtain them.”1 He reached into the ranks and chose Henry Knox as the man who might wrestle the heavy guns to Boston.

  The commander in chief had an extraordinary knack for reading men and for sensing ability. Having seen experts like Braddock fail, he understood that an officer needed imagination and vision as well as knowledge and experience. Politics would inevitably push mediocre candidates to the fore, but Washington vowed to advance his officers on merit only. Knox was twenty-five and unblooded. Washington gambled by recommending him over more experienced veterans to take charge of all American artillery. He saw a canniness in the young man, a toughness and intelligence that inspired trust, a creativity and initiative that suggested Knox could handle a task most deemed impossible.

  From his wide reading, Henry Knox knew that cannon, after t
heir invention during the late Middle Ages, had remained so immensely heavy and cumbersome that they had served mainly as tools to besiege and defend forts and to turn ships into floating platforms of destruction. Gunmakers of the eighteenth century had created lighter, more mobile weapons. Field guns, wheeled into position on carriages, had proven their potency during the Seven Years’ War. Canister shot had scythed lines of musketeers, just as it had cut down Montgomery’s forlorn hope at Quebec. Big guns sometimes bore the motto ultima ratio regum, the last argument of kings. When they were well used, that argument was unanswerable.

  On November 16, 1775, while the invasion of Canada still hung in the balance, Knox kissed Lucy, now pregnant, and rode off with his nineteen-year-old brother William on a roundabout trip to Ticonderoga. Neither young man had traveled far from their native town and both excitedly looked forward to seeing New York City, where they arrived nine days later.

  Knox wrote to Lucy with a tourist’s awe. The brick houses in New York were “three stories high, with the largest kind of windows.” The churches, colleges, and workshops were all grand, and the streets wider than Boston’s. “The people—why the people are magnificent,” he reported, although he found some profane or tending to Toryism. He added: “My Lucy is perpetually in my mind, constantly in my heart.”2

  At Ticonderoga, Knox gazed on war supplies that would make any artilleryman’s mouth water. In addition to field guns the armaments included heavy siege pieces larger than any cannon Knox had seen. He examined forty-three guns ranging from 3-pounders, which could do enormous damage at short range, to a huge, eleven-foot-long cannon weighing 5,000 pounds and capable of blasting to pieces any fortification on the continent. The short-barreled mortars and howitzers could heave bombs as big as pumpkins.

  Knox understood that a cannon required a great thickness of metal to assure that the explosion did not rip the barrel apart, as it had burst the shotgun that mangled his hand during his innocent duck hunt. Thick metal made the guns dauntingly heavy. All told, Knox figured the artillery he wanted weighed 120,000 pounds. The way to move such behemoths was by boat, but the water route to Boston was closed to him. He had no choice but to do the impossible: transport this massive cargo more than three hundred miles over land. Timing and weather were critical. He had to get the guns down Lake George before the water froze and blocked the movement of boats. Then he had to hope for snow. Only on sleds—“slays” Knox called them—could the heavy guns be moved forward. “Without sledding,” he wrote, “the roads are so much gullied that it will be impossible to move a step.”3