Had the matter not been thus arranged, and had General Washington, moreover, not reinforced this Northern army by stripping his own of some of its best troops – and sending up, besides, camp-kettles, shovels, pickaxes, field-guns and small-arms ammunition from his own arsenals, the campaign would have no doubt ended in a very different manner. Such disinterested conduct as his was by no means universal among the leaders of the American Revolution and deserving, in this instance, of his countrymen’s highest praise; for General Washington was not certain but that our Southern army under General Howe might not suddenly attack and overwhelm him.
The jest of it was that General Gates, when he returned to his command, found himself far from welcome. Indeed, a strong brigade which had arrived from Vermont was for turning back in disgust, unwilling to serve under him, and other regiments expressed the same disinclination. But the magnanimous General Schuyler urged them not to make his supposed quarrel their own: for he had no quarrel.
Chapter XXII
THREE DAYS before our arrival at Fort Edward, there had occurred a sad murder by a party of Wyandot Indians, led by a powerful chief named The Panther, of a Miss Jane M’Crea who lived with a relative of General Fraser’s in the neighbourhood of Lake George. The occasion was the abandonment of Fort George, at the southern end of the lake, by the American garrison; and the flight, either to the American or the British camp, of almost all the settlers of the district, for fear of marauding parties. Since the news of Miss M’Crea’s fate made a great noise in Great Britain and America at this time, I shall take the liberty of relating it in the words of that great American partisan, Dr Ramsay:
This, though true, was no premeditated barbarity. The circumstances were as follows: Mr Jones, Miss M’Crea’s lover, from an anxiety for her safety, engaged some Indians to remove her from among the Americans, and promised to reward the person who should bring her safe to him, with a barrel of rum. Two of the Indians who had conveyed her some distance on the way to her intended husband, disputed which of them should present her to Mr Jones. Both were anxious for the reward. One of them killed her with his tomahawk, to prevent the other from receiving it. General Burgoyne obliged the Indians to deliver up the murderer, and threatened to put him to death. His life was only spared, upon the Indians agreeing to terms, which the General thought would be more efficacious than an execution, to prevent similar mischiefs.
The above account has been challenged by some, who deny that Mr Jones, an officer in a newly raised corps of Loyalist sharpshooters attached to our army, ever made any bargain with the Indians; and say that Miss M’Crea was found wandering in the woods. Others explain that the dispute arose between The Panther and a chief of the Ottawas who met the party as it was escorting Miss M’Crea to our camp in all civility and decency. Be this as it may, The Panther, also named ‘The Wolf’ by some authors, arrived in camp with Miss M’Crea’s scalp in his belt, which had hair of a yard and a quarter long. Some of the many poets who later versified upon her fate described these tresses as being ‘black as raven’s wing’; others made them ‘yellow as ripe Indian corn.’ I cannot satisfy my female readers upon this question. The Panther was, it seems, unaware of the heinousness of his act, which was that expected of an Indian man of honour: it was held decent to avoid unnecessary bloodshed between fellow-warriors by sacrificing the subject of dispute, whether horse, dog, or woman, so that neither party should triumph. He consented at last, when he was acquainted with the sorrow and grief of Mr Jones, to sell him the scalp for a trifling consideration, though Indians in general are most chary of parting with these relics even at a very high price. (Mr Jones, by the way, never subsequently married but, surviving the war, retired to Canada, a morose and taciturn man.)
Had the threatened execution of The Panther taken place, his brothers-in-arms would have been bound by custom to revenge themselves upon our sentinels and advanced posts, for he was held in great esteem by them. General Burgoyne did very well not to press the matter, against the remonstrances of General Fraser. The chiefs of the confederacy of Wyandots, Algonquins, and Ottawas, then called a council under the presidency of a Frenchman, Monsieur St Luc le Corne, who had once led them in their wars against the English. At this meeting they informed General Burgoyne that their warriors were most discontented by the restraint in which they were kept, as never before when they had served as allies of the French. M. St Luc remarked: ‘General, we must brutalize affairs, you know.’ General Burgoyne replied warmly: ‘I would rather lose every Indian in my army, Monsieur St Luc, than connive at such enormities as you would condone.’ The next day, therefore, these tribes deserted by the hundred, loaded with such plunder as they had collected; only Indians of the Six Nations being left with us, and not many of these.
It cannot be a matter of much surprise that the murder of Miss M’Crea and General Burgoyne’s pardon of The Panther were painted in the darkest and most disagreeable colours by the Americans, and that reports of similar outrages were fabricated by them and printed at large in their newspapers to discredit us. Dr Benjamin Franklin, who should have known better, circulated a document of his own composition, purporting to be an extract from a letter written by a certain Captain Gerrish of the New England Militia. This piece, which appeared in the Boston Independent Chronicle, described in minute circumstance the taking of booty from the Seneca nation, among which were eight packages of scalps lifted from American soldiers, farmers, women, boys, girls, and infants. A forged invoice and explanation from one James Cranford, trader, to Sir Guy Carleton in Canada was appended, and his supposed request ‘that this peltry be sent to the King of England’.
But it astonished me later to learn that such cheap lies obtained circulation and credit even at home. Saunders’ News-Letter of August 14th 1777 gravely asserted: ‘Seven hundred men, women, and children were scalped on the sides of Lake Champlain. The Light Infantry and Indians scoured each bank, women, children, etc., flying in turn before them.’ Now the fact is, that between St John’s and Crown Point there were not more than ten human dwellings, the whole country being upwards of eighty miles of woods and wilderness. Could inhabitants who never existed be either scalped or made to fly before their enemies? Yet, necessary as it would seem for such public scandal-mongers to acquaint themselves with the topography of the places in which they fix their scenes of horrid action, their readers are usually as ignorant and willing to believe evil as themselves were to concoct it, so that the lie travels far. As a former light infantry man I hold this libel against my Corps in particular detestation.
At Fort Edward our expedition was faced with a further stubborn task, namely to clear our communications with Fort George, twenty miles from us, which was to be our base of supplies. General Schuyler, who was not superseded until a fortnight later, had sent a thousand axe-men up each of the roads and tracks connecting these places. Moreover, the road, once cleared, must be solidly laid to bear heavy transport. For between us and Albany, our destination, lay two broad and swift rivers over which our artillery must somehow be conveyed: thus, in addition to the artillery itself and our supply wagons we must also bring along large numbers of batteaux and a quantity of planking to form two solid pontoon bridges. One-third of the team-horses expected from Canada had not arrived to haul for us, nor could our foragers, scour the neighbourhood as they might, discover more than a mere fifty ox-teams. Thus a deal of the hauling was by man-power.
Great ill feeling was caused among us that the Brunswick foraging-parties failed to add to the common stock the cattle and sheep they took, yet drew from this stock their share of what we put in. We seldom now tasted fresh meat, but were reduced to our British salt beef, salt pork, and biscuit once more; and while our officers were content each to take all his worldly goods upon his shoulders in a knapsack, the German officers positively refused to be separated from their superfluities, but maintained a great train of vehicles to carry them. Our officers felt that this was unjust, and regretted having left at Ticonderoga, in the Light Infa
ntry storehouse, many comforts which had become necessaries in a climate of this sort, and which could be conveyed upon a single tumbril. Colonel Lord Balcarres wrote asking General Burgoyne’s permission to send a small party back to ‘fetch a little baggage’. This permission was refused, on the ground that no party of men, however small, could be spared; and it was desired that no officer, either, should be given leave of absence for this purpose.
Lord Balcarres thereupon went in person to General Burgoyne and said frankly that he stood greatly in need of certain articles, such as shirts and stockings, left at Ticonderoga, and must fetch them at all events. Though he had been forbidden to send out any party of men, however small, nor any officer, he warned the General that he would obey this order only in the letter – he would send out a single sergeant, as being neither an officer nor a party of men. General Burgoyne took this in good part, but enlarged upon the danger to such a lonely emissary, for the woods were filled with prowling rebels. Lord Balcarres thereupon declared that he had a man in mind for the task who could be counted upon successfully to accomplish it; and was then good enough to name Corporal, acting as Sergeant, Roger Lamb of The Ninth.
General Burgoyne recollected me as both the messenger sent on from Hibbertown and the surgeon with whom he had spoken at Fort Anna. He not only consented but ordered that, if I accepted the mission, I should hasten the delivery to him of a quantity of other stores newly arrived at Ticonderoga, taking command of the recruits and convalescents there and bringing them back with me as escort. The cause of General Burgoyne’s anxiety for the stores was that his advance was held up for lack of them. His foolish counsellor, Major Skene, had advised him to supply himself at the expense of the enemy, who had a richly stocked magazine and supply-base at Bennington, thirty miles to the south-eastward. Major Skene declared that the supplies at Bennington were but weakly guarded, that the district was populated with none by Loyalists, and that the Brunswick Dragoons, who still lacked horses, might have their choice of several hundred that were collected there. General Burgoyne thereupon sent off a force of Germans, with an advance guard of Indians, who, coming up against a strong force of New Hampshire militia and farmers from Vermont – under General Stark, a former British officer who had been overslaughed for promotion and now took handsome revenge – were utterly routed, losing five hundred men and all their artillery, ammunition and wagons. Thus his need of fresh supplies was worse than before.
Lord Balcarres now sent for me and explained what he wished done, without disguising the dangers of the journey. ‘But,’ said he graciously, ‘my opinion of you is already so high that I feel perfectly sure that you will successfully undertake for us this very necessary service. See, here is General Burgoyne’s pass, made out in your name.’
I undertook the commission with alacrity, not a little proud to be chosen as the depository of his Lordship’s confidence and that of our Commander-in-Chief.
We were stationed at Fort Miller at this time, which lay fifteen miles beyond Fort Edward. The month was early September, although I cannot now recall the day, since my journal remained unposted for two months from July 8th, the day of the fight at Fort Anna. I set out from Fort Miller at noon, taking with me no blanket, but only some provisions, a rifle and twenty rounds of ball-cartridge. That it was a hazardous journey I knew well, for several of our men had been attacked when bringing up supplies or running messages. However, I kept off the beaten track, like an Indian, and by four o’clock came safe to Fort Edward – where a sergeant of the regiment stationed there gave me a drink of rum – then off again towards Lake George, after ten minutes’ halt.
In this lonely journey through almost continuous pine forest, broken with tangled clearings, I met with no single soul, and stopped but once or twice by the way to refresh myself with the wild raspberries of excellent flavour that there abounded. I recalled, with little satisfaction, that this was the very way that had been taken by the wretched survivors of the Massacre of Lake George two years before my birth. The victims of this massacre were some scores of British soldiers – the number is not exactly known – together with their women and children. They were the garrison of Fort William Henry at the lake head, who had capitulated from hunger to the French general, Monsieur de Montcalm. He had allowed them all the honours of war and a safe convoy under guard to Fort Edward, but his callous and inhuman subordinates permitted these unfortunate people, whose ammunition had been taken from them, to be plundered and murdered by the Indians in the French service, led by M. St Luc le Corne.
One of the survivors, Captain Carver, wrote very pathetically of his escape. Being first robbed of his coat, waistcoat, hat, buckles, and the money from his breeches pocket, he ran to the nearest French sentinel and claimed his protection, who only called him an English dog and thrust him back with violence among the Indians. He was next struck at with clubs and spears, most of which he dexterously dodged, though a spear grazed his side, and some other weapon caught his ankle. When he took refuge among a party of his countrymen, the collar and waistband were all that remained of his shirt. The war-whoop then sounded and a general murder began, with the scalping of these defenceless men, women and children; yet French officers were observed walking about unconcernedly at some distance, shrugging and smiling. The circle of the British becoming greatly thinned, Captain Carver burst out from it, but was caught at by two stout chiefs, who hurried him to a retired spot where they could dispatch him at their leisure. He had almost resigned himself to his fate, when an English gentleman of some distinction, as Captain Carver could discover by the fine scarlet velvet breeches he wore, his only remaining covering, happened to rush by; and one of the Indians relinquished his hold, intent on this new prize. The velvet breeches showed fight, and Captain Carver broke away in the bustle; glancing around, he saw the unfortunate gentleman dispatched with a tomahawk – which added both to his speed and desperation. To be brief, after many similar hazards, the Captain escaped to the briary forest and, after three days in the cold dews and burning sun without sustenance, and with the loss of a shoe, reached Fort Edward at last more dead than alive.
Heaven evidently avenged the massacre by striking down Monsieur de Montcalm at Quebec and finally driving the French from Canada. As for the Indians, they perished of smallpox, which they took from the French, almost to a man; for while their blood was in a state of fermentation and Nature was striving to throw out the peccant matter, they checked her operations by plunging into cold water, which proved fatal to them. The reason that the French were held in such esteem by the Indians was that they interfered little with tribal customs, not even acknowledging the unwritten law of Christendom that all innocent and defenceless persons of whatever nationality, and especially women and children, must never in any circumstances be deliberately resigned to the barbarity of savages. They even winked at the practice of cannibalism, for about this same time Monsieur de Carbière’s Ottawan Indians drank British blood from skull-goblets, and ate British flesh broiled, as Father Roubaud, a Jesuit priest, has testified in his history.
In avoiding the road, I made a circuit through the woods which brought me past a broad sixty-foot waterfall to the very pond near which the massacre took place. It was now called Bloody Pond. Dark had fallen and the dews were chill. The shallow waters of the pond were covered with beautiful white lilies. I was greatly fatigued by this time, and withdrawing from the pond to a deep part of the wood, lay down to sleep under a tree. The night dews awakened me shivering with cold about two hours later, and I resumed my march. I was no Indian, and had from drowsiness lost my sense of direction. By three o’clock in the morning I had no notion where I might be. Happening to see a light on my left, I cautiously approached it and perceived that it came from the open door of a log-house, against which was outlined the figure of a man wearing a large round flopped hat.
As I stood there, wondering what he might be, whether rebel or loyal, I heard a sudden shivering cry and a few unintelligible words, as if some woman or ch
ild were being put to the torture. Confused thoughts of Bloody Pond still crowding my head, I strode forward with my piece primed and cocked, resolving to take instant vengeance on the villains, come what might.
I called to the man: ‘Hold up your hands, I have you covered’ – with which summons he complied. Coming close, I found him to be a man of sturdy frame with unpowdered dark hair cut short and hanging around a white hat; his face was of a wild, melancholy cast. He smiled at me and asked in a smooth, wheedling, yet not unpleasant voice: ‘What dost thou here with that weapon of murder, Friend?’
I pushed him aside and burst into the room – and there saw at once that I had absurdly mistaken the cry: the agony was not that of death, but of birth. A woman lay on a wooden bed in the corner of a plain, neat room, her face covered with her hands, her knees drawn up; and another woman, wearing a little black bonnet, was ministering to her in the capacity of midwife. I checked my impetuous career, and turned back in shame to the man in the doorway. ‘Forgive my foolishness, sir,’ I said. ‘I was confused. I had thought it was the Indians at work.’
‘Have no fear of the Indians. They are an honest and well-conducted folk, unless they are abused, or partake of ardent spirits and so become tired.’ (‘Tired’ I found to be his term for ‘intoxicated’.) ‘They have shown me and my family much kindness, for the sake of William Penn, who was their friend.’