With Ethan Allen at Ticonderoga

Halpen did not hear him; or, if he heard, he would not believe. He tore himself from Enoch’s grasp, and as the youth tried to seize him again he struck out wildly and his fist found lodgment against Enoch’s jaw. The blow stunned the latter and he sank. Halpen strove to reach the overturned canoe. It was too far away. He felt himself going down for a third time and his lungs were already half filled with water. A fearful scream rent the night–the last cry of a terrified soul going to its end–and he sank. He never rose to the surface after that third plunge beneath the lake.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DAWN OF THE TENTH OF MAY

Enoch Harding, after a moment of breathless agony beneath the water, struggled to the air again. The blow he had received so dulled his senses that, had the canoe not fortunately been within the reach of his arm, he would have a second time gone down into the depths of the lake and possibly shared the fate of his enemy. But when his hand, flung out in that despair which is said to make a drowning person catch at even a straw, came in contact with the boat he seized it with a grip that could not be shaken. He had not the strength necessary to turn it over and to climb into the craft; but fortunately rescue was near.

The sentinel had heard the voices out upon the water, and Simon Halpen’s despairing scream as he went down for the last time, echoed from the wooded bluffs and reached the ears of the other Green Mountain Boys in the neighborhood. The sentinel leaped into the big canoe which Enoch had that morning secured from the Tory farmer up the lake, and paddled rapidly toward the mouth of the cove. He suspected at once that the escaped spy was trying to cross the lake and that some one of his brother scouts had discovered him.

Suddenly the rescuer saw the upturned canoe and the almost exhausted boy clinging to it. He drove his own craft alongside and reaching quickly seized Enoch’s shoulder, bearing him up as the youth’s own hands slipped from their resting-place on the keel of the canoe. “Courage–courage!” cried the scout, heartily. “You are not goin’ down yet, Nuck Harding! Where’s the other?”

“Gone–gone!” gasped Enoch, horrified by the death of Simon Halpen.

“Who was it?”

“The spy.”

“Ah! I thought so. Well, we can’t help the poor wretch now. Can you aid yourself at all? Brace up, man!”

“I’m–I’m all right,” the youth declared, finally shaking off the feeling which had numbed him. “Let me get a grip on your boat–there! Now you can paddle ashore. I’ll not lose my hold this time.”

“Right it is, then.” The rescuer paddled slowly toward the bateaus. When he came to the shore with the boy dragging behind him, Bolderwood and several other members of the company had arrived in answer to the expiring scream of the drowned Yorker. Upon hearing the explanation of the affair the chief scout’s face became grave indeed. “The poor wretch has gone to his just desarts, I don’t doubt,” he said. “But so sudden–so sudden! It seems a turrible thing, friends, for a man to live the life he lived and then to go before his Maker without no preparation. He murdered poor Jonas Harding as sure as aigs is aigs, an’ he tried twice ter kill the boy here, an’ burned the widder’s home. Yet I’d wished him time to make his peace with God. It’s an awful affair… But come!” he added, recovering himself, “there’s something else to do now. We’ve got word from Colonel Allen. The troops are almost here. An’ as good as we’ve done, there ain’t ha’f enough boats to transport our boys across the lake.”

“There may be more comin’ from the north, ’Siah,” suggested Brown. “Y’ know ye sent some of the boys up that way this arternoon.”

“Small hope o’ their gettin’ anything – ”

The chief scout’s words were interrupted by a shout from one of the others. Around the point which defended the little cove a boat was appearing–or, rather, a lantern which betrayed the approach of a boat. “Here’s another!” was the cry. “Here’s Major Skeene’s big bateau–an’ Major Skeene’s nigger, too!” as the loud and angry voice of a black man was heard across the calm water.

“The boys are having a hard time with our black-and-tan friend,” said Bolderwood with a chuckle. Then he held up his hand for silence. “Hark! there’s the ring of a horse’s hoof–and the tramp of feet. The troops are coming.”

With a rattle of accoutrements a cavalcade of horsemen descended the bluff to the tiny cove. Enoch recognized Colonel Allen, Major Warner, the stranger, Arnold, and Colonel Easton, the commander of the Massachusetts and Connecticut forces. “Praise the Lord, ’Siah!” cried the hearty voice of the Green Mountain leader. “We’re arrived at last. ’Twas like a task of Hercules to get here. And the night is already far gone. Where are your boats, man?”

“The bulk of ’em are right here, Colonel. We ain’t got what I wished; but we’ve taken ’em from friend and foe, and here comes the last of my boys with Major Skeene’s big raft and, if I ain’t mighty mistaken, with a bag o’ charcoal aboard that must ha’ caused ’em consider’ble trouble.”

The voice of the negro, who was the property of one of the wealthiest royalists on the lake, became more and more vociferous as the bateau approached the shore. “Wot de goodness youse shakaroons doin’ yere? We ain’t goin’ land yere–no, sir! Dis ain’t no place fur us. Who yo’ t’ink capen ob dis craft, anyway?”

“Oh, come along, old man! we wanter see ye!” shouted Bolderwood from the shore. “We won’t eat ye up.”

“Dis ain’ no place for us, I tells yo’!” cried the darky, and as the outline of the bateau and the objects upon it were now visible, they could see the whites of his rolling eyes. “I ain’ got nuttin’ ter do wid yo’ shakaroons.”

“Come on, there!” shouted Allen. “Gag that black rascal if he doesn’t talk less and use his sweeps well.”

“Who dat say fur ter gag me?” demanded the black, his teeth chattering. “D’you knows who I is, sah? I’se Major Skeene’s nigger, an’ dis Major Skeene’s bateau, an’ we gotter load o’ freight fo’ de castle.”

“We’ve got another sort of freight for you, my man,” said the Green Mountain leader. “So come ashore here and have no more words about it.”

“But dese yere gemmen say dey goin’ fishin’ an’ git me ter lend ’em passage!” cried the darky, in despair.

“And so we are going fishing,” cried Ethan Allen. “And you shall go, too, my black friend. But it will be different fishing from any that you’ve experienced before. Out with you, now!” he added, as the bateau grounded on the shore. “Get that freight off, men. What boats we have we must use at once. Perhaps they can be returned for another party to cross after us. I’ll never forgive myself if this oversight makes a wreck of our expedition.”

At that moment the man who, earlier in the evening, had crossed the lake from the fort, came and spoke to Ethan Allen. The leader of the Americans listened attentively, slapping his thigh now and again with evident satisfaction as he heard the report of this faithful patriot who, as Allen had previously said, dared enter the lion’s jaws. He had gone to Ticonderoga as a trader, had spent parts of two days in the fort, learning much that encouraged Allen in this desperate game he was playing. Although expecting additions to the garrison, Captain De la Place had not yet received the reinforcements. The buttresses of the fort, too, were in a sad state of repair. Indeed, since the British had swept the French from the lake, and with them driven the Hurons and Algonquins into the northern wilderness, few if any repairs had been made upon Ticonderoga. The British had simply held it as a storehouse and the garrison was small. If the American troops now gathering upon the eastern shore of Lake Champlain could once cross the water and approach the fort unperceived, there was hope in the hearts of all that the stronghold would be captured and the garrison overcome without any great loss of life.

“The God of Battles has been with ye!” exclaimed Allen, when the man had finished his report. “And if He is with us, as I believe, yonder fort and all it contains shall be ours before sunrise… But hasten! Tell Baker to bring up his troops. Bolderwood, you and your scouts must go over first with us. Colonel Arnold, you will come in my boat if you wish. Major Warner, I leave you to assist our good friend Easton. The boats shall return as soon as we have landed. Count the men who enter these boats, gentlemen. The lake is calm; but do not overload the craft. We desire no accident to delay our landing on the other side.”

Enoch Harding kept close to his friend, the old ranger, and was therefore in one of the foremost boats. He was near Colonel Allen when word was passed to that brave leader that those in the boats numbered but eighty-three. “Eighty-three!” exclaimed the Green Mountain hero. “And every man worth three red-coats. Once we get within those walls and I’ll answer for them. Yet, sirs, I would that we had not been so long delayed on the road, or that there were more bateaus to our hand.”

“Shall the attack be given up–postponed till a more fitting occasion–if we cannot get more across?” asked Arnold.

“Postponed!” cried Allen, his face darkening. “And pray tell me, sir, how can it be postponed? With the dawn our troops will be observed upon both sides of the lake by those in the fort, or by Tories who will gladly run with warning to the red-coats. A blind kitten could see what we are about. Nay, Colonel Arnold; we have put our hands to the plough and we’ll cut a deep furrow or none at all!”

The bold courage of their leader inspired the handful of men with actual belief in the successful outcome of the attack. There were no doubts expressed during the voyage across the lake. But when the landing was made, at the foot of the bluff on which the fort was built, the east was already streaked with pink. The dawn of the tenth of May, 1775–a day as marked in American history as any which we celebrate–was at hand. Less than a hundred patriotic Green Mountain Boys had disembarked from the boats under the shadow of Ticonderoga. With the rising of the sun their presence would be discovered by the garrison of the fort, and once warned of their approach, the British could easily defend the works from any attack of infantry. Circumstances seemed to presage at that moment the defeat of the cause and utter humiliation of the participators in the proposed attack.

The boats had left the shore and were no longer to be descried, for a light fog covered the water. There was no retreat. To hide this party on the New York shore of the lake would be impossible. There were too many Tories about. Allen turned to his men. His voice was low, but intense, so that not only those around him, of which Enoch was one, but those at a distance heard every word uttered.

“Friends! we have come here for a single purpose. It is to advance upon yonder fortifications and capture them. We already outnumber the garrison; I have certain information upon this point. But our companions await on the other shore to be transported to this spot and join in our glorious work. In the east, however, is a warning we can all read. Before our friends can join us it will be day. We shall be observed here; the garrison will be called to arms; our opportunity be lost. So, my brave companions, we cannot wait.

“I shall attack the fort at once. I force no man to an act which caution forbids. If any of you doubt, fall out of the ranks and make good your escape. But I am going forward and those who trust in God and to my leadership will advance at once!” He drew his sword and advanced a long stride before the column of anxious patriots. “Forward!” he cried, and inspired by the same spirit which animated their gallant leader, every Green Mountain Boy obeyed the command. They would have cheered, but the moment for anything of that kind was not opportune. The rising mist scarcely concealed the fortress above them.

With Colonel Arnold by his side the indomitable Allen climbed the slope and approached the covered way which led into the fort. Not a word was spoken. The sullen tramp of the column was all that broke the stillness of the dawn. The sentinel placed here to guard the entrance–a matter of military rule rather than of precaution–leaned half asleep upon his musket. Had he been alert the approach of the troops must have been discovered ere they were visible. But Providence willed that he, together with all the garrison, should be totally unsuspicious of the planned attack of the provincials.

Suddenly, through the curling mist, appeared the head of the column. The sentinel started from his dream and, scarce understanding what he saw, advanced his musket, crying: “Halt! who goes there?”

The Americans accelerated their pace while Ethan Allen, whirling his sword above his head, shouted: “Forward!” The attacking force reached the mouth of the covered way at a double-quick. Repeating the command to halt the sentinel darted back, raised his weapon to his shoulder, and aiming full at the head of the commander of the Green Mountain Boys, pressed the trigger!

CHAPTER XXIV

THE GUNS OF OLD TI SPEAK

The fate of more than a brave man hung in the balance at that moment. The ultimate happiness and secure footing of a state was at stake when the sentinel pressed the trigger of his weapon. Had the ball reached its mark, the establishment of Vermont as a free state might have been postponed for many years. Ethan Allen’s diplomacy in later dealing with the British agents who sought to wean Vermont from her federation with the struggling colonies, doubtless saved the Green Mountains from being overrun by a horde of Hessians and Indians who would have brought death and disaster to the patriotic settlers.

But Providence had other work for the leader of the Green Mountain Boys to do. The musket missed fire and flinging down the piece the sentinel turned and ran through the passage into the fort, shrieking that the enemy was at hand. With a cheer the little band of patriots followed, and before the garrison was awake to its situation, the Green Mountain Boys had reached the parade. Instructed by their captains what to do, the men ran hither and thither to seize the guns whose threatening muzzles peered through the embrasures of the walls, and to guard the entrances to the barracks where the garrison slept.

’Siah Bolderwood, seizing an axe, attacked the door of the ammunition cellar; for the American spy who had spent the previous day within the works had explained to the ranger the situation of this important compartment. The ringing blows of the woodman’s axe doubtless awakened many of the sleeping soldiery. In half a minute the stout oak door was down. “There, Nuck Harding!” cried the long ranger, “I leave you to guard that ’ere. If they show fight, fire your rifle into the place. If so be, we’ll all go up together; but Old Ti is ourn and if we’re driven forth we’ll wreck the fortifications as we go.”

Meanwhile Ethan Allen, knowing well the sleeping quarters of Captain De la Place, having received his information from the same source as Bolderwood, leaped up the stairway to the apartment of the commander of the fort. His shoulder burst in the door without the loss of an instant, and he found the astounded captain sitting up in bed. “What is this, sir? Who are you?” cried the British officer.

“I call on ye to surrender, Captain De la Place!” cried the Green Mountain leader.

“In whose name do ye make this demand, sir?”

“In the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!” replied Allen, sternly. Then, describing a circle about his head with his sword, he added in a tone not to be mistaken: “I demand the surrender of your fort and all the stores and goods it may contain; and, sir, unless you comply with my demand and parade your men without arms at once, I’ll send your head, sir, spinning across this floor!” and the whistling steel blade was advanced until the British officer shrank in fear.

“I surrender! I surrender!” he cried, and word was passed at once to both the garrison and the Americans on the parade below. And thus the strongest British fortress within the borders of the disaffected colonies, capitulated to the American arms without a gun being fired. What if, when the news of the remarkable feat reached Philadelphia where the Continental Congress was in session, the act of Ethan Allen and his brave Green Mountain Boys was deplored, and a considerable party was for returning the stronghold to the king, while others wished to withdraw the American garrison, believing that the Champlain forts were too far on the frontier to be held successfully against the enemy? These suggestions were but the result of over-cautiousness on the part of some members of Congress. Happily their wishes were overborne and Ticonderoga remained an American fort until the cowardly St. Clair abandoned it before the advance of Burgoyne.

At the moment, however, the satisfaction of Ethan Allen and his brave companions was unbounded. While the British soldiers were being paraded without their weapons before their conquerors, a second body of Green Mountain Boys under Major Warner entered the fort. The tall Connecticut man came to Allen with considerable chagrin expressed in his countenance. “Colonel, you have selfishly seized all the honors this time!” he cried, yet congratulating his friend with a warm handclasp. “You are a regular Achilles; there is nothing heroic for the rest of us to do.”

“Nonsense–nonsense, Seth!” cried Ethan Allen, yet unable to hide his delight at the outcome of the attack. “There is glory enough for every officer and every man Jack in the ranks. There is yet Crown Point to capture and you, Major, shall command that expedition. Take Bolderwood and some of his scouts with you and approach the other fortress by water–and good fortune and my blessing go with you!”

A moment later the great guns of Old Ti began to speak. And they spoke a new tongue that morning. The Voice of Liberty as expressed by the resonant thunders of the old cannon echoed and reëchoed from height to height. The promontory which had been the scene of the bloody struggle between Champlain and the Iroquois, and the site of two fearful battles of the British and French, was at length sanctified by the presence of this band of liberty loving men destined, through the next few years, to offer their lives and possessions on the altar of their country.

Then Warner and his men again embarked in the boats and sailed down the lake. Enoch Harding went with the expedition and saw the bloodless capitulation of the other British stronghold. Later, Benedict Arnold with a small command captured a British corvette farther down the lake and with that act the supremacy of the Americans on Champlain was assured. A garrison was placed in each fortress and then the Green Mountain Boys dispersed to their homes having accomplished the object for which they had been gathered by their leader. Enoch and the old ranger returned to the ox-bow farm where their welcome can be better imagined than narrated.

Yet the Widow Harding during the struggle which followed the capture of Ticonderoga made many sacrifices more noble even than that of allowing her eldest son to join in this expedition, but pioneer mothers were called upon so to do. Lot Breckenridge’s mother had allowed her son to march away to Boston where, under Israel Putman, he saw most active service during the campaign which finally drove the red-coats out of the Massachusetts capital. Robbie Baker was with his father when, while reconnoitering outside St. Johns, the Green Mountain sharpshooter was killed by an Indian ally of the British.

Enoch Harding, too, joined that ill-fated expedition into Canada where the rash attempt of Ethan Allen and his followers before Montreal resulted in the capture and imprisonment of the intrepid leader. Enoch, returning with the broken columns of the American army, but with a lieutenant’s commission, was sent south and took no further part in the struggles about Lake Champlain. But Bryce, two years after the capture of Ticonderoga, well sustained the family name and honor while fighting with Stark at Bennington.

The girls and young Henry became their mother’s sole support in her work of tilling the farm which Jonas Harding had cleared, and throughout the uncertain years of the Revolution the family continued to sow and reap, like so many other patriotic folk, that the army might be clothed and fed while fighting the King’s hirelings. Perhaps the part played by the “non-combatants” in the Revolution was not the least loyal nor the least helpful to the cause of liberty.

The war between the confederated states and Great Britain did not end the controversy regarding the rights of the settlers in the Hampshire Grants; it simply postponed the vexing matter. But in the end the freedom of Vermont as a state was brought about. After the war, and while the Thirteen States were endeavoring to bring order out of the chaotic conditions which had been the legacy of the great struggle, it was really New York herself that urged the admittance of Vermont into the Union. Even at that early date the supremacy of the South was feared, and when Kentucky applied for entrance to the Union, Vermont was made a state also to counteract the addition of another of southern sentiment.

During the war, however, the condition of Vermont was very precarious. It was due to Ethan Allen, as much as to any one man, that the Green Mountains and the Champlain Valley were not overrun with foes both white and red. While imprisoned in the hulks in New York Bay Allen was approached by agents of the crown who strove to buy his good-will by presents and promises. They did not understand the rugged honesty of the Green Mountain Boy; but he, knowing the exposed situation of his friends and neighbors, craftily led his captors to believe that they might obtain Vermont and her sturdy people on their own side.

When Ethan Allen was exchanged and came back to the Green Mountains, he still, with other leaders, carefully watched the British agents and thus saved the rich farming lands of the Otter and Wonooski from bloodshed, that the patriot farmers might continue to plant and reap the grain which was truly “the sinews of war.” It is true therefore that few leaders of the Revolution deserve greater commendation, for none displayed more consecrated courage, nor was more beloved by his followers, than the hero of Ticonderoga.