He’d thought about discussing Rudyard’s drinking problems with Arnold, but decided against it. For all his flaws, Rudyard was the closest thing to a friend Danforth had. Arnold was also drinking heavily, apparently depressed by the fact that his attempts to find glory and wealth had so far eluded him.
The hell with Arnold, the hell with Rudyard, and the hell with the rebels, Danforth finally decided. He rolled into a blanket and quickly went to sleep.
* * *
Only a couple of miles upriver, Brigadier John Glover and the remnants of his Marblehead Regiment waited. At first they’d been shocked when the British began to sail up the river they’d chosen as a point from which to attack the rear of Arnold’s Armada as it passed. They had arrived in canoes, which were not their craft of preference, but they were justifiably confident that they could handle anything that floated.
Still, they’d had to paddle furiously to stay ahead and out of sight of a very slow moving British patrol probing up the river that was clearly wary of an ambush. When they’d gotten far enough ahead, Glover had sent scouts downstream who had reported that the British had stopped and pulled back to a point closer to the mouth of the river.
When scouts confirmed that the British defenses faced west towards the lake and not up the river, Glover realized that he’d been handed a golden opportunity. He’d stroked his broad jaw and finally smiled. He had fewer than two hundred men and was outnumbered and outgunned, but then, the damned British didn’t know he was here.
Glover waited until night was almost dawn, the time when everyone would be either asleep or groggy. Then silent as a mild breeze, his canoes moved down the dark river, hugging the north shore. A mist hovered over the water and provided more protection. A campfire’s dim glow told him that the handful of British sentries on the shore were as stupid as he’d been told.
Glover signaled and several canoes peeled off and landed softly. Their men slipped into the water and moved through the woods while Glover waited and watched. The anchored sailing barges were dim shapes only about a hundred yards away. He could rush past the guards, but didn’t want them in his rear.
A scream was followed by the sound of a musket. Glover cursed. His men were magicians on the water but lumbered like elephants on land. Surprise was lost. “Go!” he yelled and his men paddled their canoes with desperation and fury.
* * *
At first Danforth was uncertain whether he’d actually heard the sound of gunfire or he’d dreamed it. He stood up and looked around. Like everyone else, his gaze was towards the lake which was empty.
“What the devil is that?” Rudyard screamed and pointed upriver where shapes could be discerned behind the barges.
Boats, Danforth realized with a sinking feeling. He grabbed his sword and pistol and raced to the shore. Not boats, he corrected himself, canoes. And they were alongside the barges and men were pouring onto the precious craft. Rudyard lurched to the water and drunkenly fired his pistol at nothing in particular. This was a signal for his alleged British infantry to start firing at their own barges.
“Fire at the canoes,” Danforth screamed as Rudyard fell face first into the river. I hope the bastard drowns, Danforth thought. Rudyard had failed to patrol and protect their rear.
“No!” Danforth heard General Arnold sob as he saw the glow of flames on the barges that quickly became raging fires. A moment later, the powder on one exploded, raining burning embers on its neighbors.
The barges were made of poorly seasoned wood that caught fire quickly despite their being immersed in water. Worse, the wind was from the east, blowing flames from the rear of the column of barges towards its head. Now, however, many of the rebels were silhouetted against the growing flames and British fire increased in accuracy. The Americans returned fire and several men near Danforth fell to the ground. Rudyard had managed to pick himself out of the mud and was just about to say something when a musket ball struck his skull and blew his brains out, splattering Danforth with gore. This demoralized his men who stopped firing and backed away.
It didn’t matter, Danforth realized sadly. The anchored barges had become an inferno and the remaining rebels were climbing back in their canoes. They were paddling furiously for their lives as yet another cache of ammunition cooked off, taking two canoes with it.
* * *
John Glover was one of the first men out of the canoes and onto the barges. He heard the sounds of men screaming and realized that his voice was one of them. An astonished-looking British sentry was suddenly in front of him. Before Glover could respond, one of his men shot the man in the face.
“Gotta be quicker, General,” the soldier said.
“Indeed,” Glover murmured as more men sped past him and jumped lightly onto the other barges. By this time, the British were awake and alarmed and bullets from wildly fired muskets splattered around the barges. One of his men howled in pain as a shot found home.
“Grenades,” Glover hollered and pulled a pair of them from his coat. They were not the grenades used by the British soldiers which contained explosives. These were clay and glass containers filled with flammable liquid and with a cloth wick that had just been immersed in that same liquid. They were fire bombs.
Glover lighted the fuse from the flint on his pistol, held it until it was burning brightly and dropped it down the hatch of the barge. A few second later, the fire grenade exploded and the barge shuddered. The barge’s hull was cracked and water began to pour in. He grinned with satisfaction and threw the second one down the same hatch. Others were also hurling their grenades and explosions began to rip the air.
Several barges in front of him, a store of gunpowder exploded, sending flaming debris over the ships around it and killing several of Glover’s men. Glover had to duck as pieces of burning wood fell around him.
British musket fire had become more accurate and organized. Another of his Marbleheaders fell, and then another. Glover looked around. Every barge was burning and flames were racing through their heavily tarred rigging. It was time to go and he signaled the retreat. Whooping happily, his men ran back to their canoes and began to push off. Glover was happy. He had won a great victory.
It was his last thought as the second grenade he’d thrown down the hatch a moment before exploded next to several barrels of gunpowder, utterly destroying the barge and Brigadier John Glover.
Chapter 16
Danforth walked along the edge of the river as the rising sun revealed the totality of the disaster. Not a single one of the barges remained intact. Most had sunk or disintegrated after burning down to their water lines, the weight of their cargo dragging the shattered boats to the bottom. Those with ammunition on board had exploded and the only things remaining on the surface were a handful of masts and a great deal of charred debris along with a number of burned and mangled bodies.
A handful of the barges had broken loose or had their lines cut and had beached themselves on the shore of the river. But these too were burned hulks.
They retrieved a number of bodies from the river and most of them were American, including one which Arnold identified as John Glover’s. That should have made Danforth feel good, but didn’t. The price the British had paid had been far too high. At least thirty-nine rebels had died in the attack, but it was scant comfort for the utter destruction of the barges and their precious cargo.
Benedict Arnold stood ashen-faced and stared at where his armada had once been. Danforth thought the term “armada” was singularly appropriate. Just as the Spanish Armada had been destroyed, so too had Arnold’s. Along with it had gone any hope of glory for Benedict Arnold.
“How many men did we lose?” Arnold asked.
“Maybe a dozen, General,” Danforth said, “Twenty at the most.”