I traveled with Paul Stevens, our esteemed sergeant, arriving early Friday evening.
After a long car ride, it was a relief to see the sunny fields and forests
of Crown Point, especially after encountering some not-so-sunny weather on the
way up. We arrived just as many others in the company were setting up for the
weekend, and it felt good to stretch my legs while setting up tents and
unpacking gear. Surprised by the heat, I kept my canteen close at hand
for the most part. Once the camp was up and running and I had changed,
George Bougher was so kind as to invite Paul, Sarah, Dave, and I to the King's Inn,
a delightful place hidden away in the hills outside of town.
Saying it was exquisite would hardly do the place justice. We ate merrily,
enjoying the gourmet food and fan-cooled interior, knowing it would be some
time before we felt a modern fan on our faces. After consuming far too much,
we bid good night to George (for the lucky man was staying the night in the upstairs
of the inn, so we went upstairs to investigate and found the
bathroom was bigger than a wedge tent!) and went on our way back to
camp, stopping a supermarket from closing for a few moments to pick up some provisions.
Upon returning to a dark and resting camp, I was dismayed to discover that my canteen
had disappeared. Knowing that things couldn't get much worse than that, I laid down
my blanket next to the company's mess tent and enjoyed a brilliant, clear sky.
I recall seeing at least seven shooting stars. Although sleeping was somewhat
difficult with the small party going on just five feet away under the mess fly,
it was a good feeling to nod off listening to the laughing and joking of
my fellow rangers.
The night was not entirely pleasant. I remember waking up much later, when
it was still dark and the camp really had gone entirely to sleep. Sleeping
after that was difficult, what with the heat that still permeated the camp
and the one mosquito that had fallen in love with my ears. I can tell you,
it is a difficult decision of whether to roast with a blanket over your head
or listen to the whining of tiny wings. At any rate, I did thankfully make it
back to sleep.
The next morning was easy and relaxed. I awoke to see Ed Gagnon tending a fire and
warming up some water for coffee. Waking up right next to one's breakfast is
one of the great joys of life. Happily roasting a sausage, I wondered when the
first action of the day would commence. Groggy greetings and good mornings were
exchanged as rangers trickled in from their tents, quick to grab breakfast and
relax by the fire. The tranquility of the morning was only broken by the discovery
that Pvt. Chauncey Goodrich had taken sick. We did the best we could to support
our comrade, hoping for his safe recovery.
Later that morning, the call was given out for volunteers to participate in a
tactical. Jumping at any chance for a good fight, I rushed to my equipment and
readied myself for what would be a fierce battle. Restlessly waiting through
inspection and the empty minutes spent waiting and doing not much else, I eventually
ended up at the British briefing.
About 50 men were there, but Jack and Bill were the only rangers I recognized.
Thinking with dismay that the rest of the rangers had forgone the obvious joys
of volunteering or were helping our ill ranger, I realized that the few men of my
company would probably be attached to another unit. Dreading this, I remembered
an invitation extended to me by the traitor and erstwhile ranger, Blake, who seems
to have entirely gone over to the French Indians. He had said that I was
welcome to join the savages in combat against the English. Taking Jack and Bill
along, I prepared to betray the English for one battle and see what happened.
Dumping most of the symbols of my ranger uniform, I was warmly greeted and accepted
along with my two companions. It was a strange experience, to walk among the
painted men that I had fought against on so many other occasions.
Following them into
the woods, I spent the next several hours sneaking through the forest, hunting
my former allies and having a great time. The action culminated in an ambush
we set for Gorham's followed by a chase through the brush. Although it wasn't
a powder burner (I only fired four shots) it was great fun, and the change in
tactics was welcome and entertaining.
After returning, I spent some time searching for an escape from the heat.
Waiting for the next battle, I browsed the sutlers' goods. On the Indian's
suggestions I purchased a breechcloth and tried it on. Although inaccurate for
most British forces,
I would highly recommend one if the day is hot for Rangers and others who can
get away with it.
The afternoon's battle was also exciting, though I must admit I was feeling some
desire to fight in the style of my Indian friends once more. Racing to the shouted
commands of the sergeant, we met the French on an open hill, pushing them back
towards the tree line in a frantic action. Before long, the French requested a
parlay and terms were agreed. I was glad for the finish, as I had shot
almost all of my cartridges. Shortly after, I also received news that Pvt.
Goodrich was on his way to the emergency clinic in Ticonderoga. We were all glad to
hear that he would be in good hands.
That evening, the Rangers enjoyed an excellent meal prepared by the PA boys.
After dinner, we saw a presentation of the news shows concerning the Death of
Lord Howe event, put together by Bob Bearor. The rest of the night was spent
in the usual way, with much talking, partying, and drinking of liquor by some.
I had the pleasure of accompanying the savages during their merry-making, and
was surprised to meet John Soule while I was there. Several times, I thought
I saw the elusive and mysterious Squire Raner, making his way among the
common soldiers.
Far too late into the night, I wandered back to my blanket, in a different spot
from last night. Bill and I had scouted out an excellent camping spot up on the
ruins of the English ramparts earlier that day. Carefully picking my way up the
rocks by the light of my lantern, I collapsed onto the ground and instantly fell
asleep. The next morning was spent much like the first one, although I was happy
to learn that Pvt. Goodrich had returned and was in swift recovery. Regretting the fact
that a tactical wasn't scheduled for that day, I guarded the camp with my fellow
rangers until the battle that afternoon.
It was at that time that yet another invitation to become a traitor was extended
to me by that Blake. Jumping at the chance, I changed clothes again and snuck off
with the savages, hoping the rangers wouldn't realize what I had done. Although
I felt somewhat guilty, the next hour erased all doubts I had. The savages and
I snuck onto the battlefield ahead of the other forces, scouting out a good
position in the forest at the edge of the hill. Waiting in the bushes, I reveled
in the tense silence.
Without much warning, Gorham's rangers appeared on the field and marched on us.
For some unknown time we fought fiercely, pushing in and out of the trees and
engaging in some deadly close-quarters fighting. By and by, we succeeded,
forcing the rangers back and out onto the field.
Following the retreating British, we charged out into the open. The battle was
a vision of chaos. Shots and yelling were heard everywhere. In the distance,
I could see my own company of rangers apparently being shot to pieces. Charging and
whooping with the other Indians, we cut off what was left of Gorham's and
routed them completely. It was satisfying and exciting despite the fact that
I had betrayed my friends. In reality, though, few shots were fired by my own
Rangers as the French muskets kept misfiring, and the British (scheduled to lose
the battle that day) quietly retired from the field.
After the battle, forces on both sides were quick to break camp and move out for
home. I returned to my company of rangers, glad to see that my actions were to
be forgiven, as long as they were never repeated. It was a hard promise to make.
Although I am a ranger, I wish in every battle that we could break ranks and
fight in the woods, in the style of the savages.
We quickly commenced taking down tents and flies, packing belongings, and changing
back into the clothes of the 20th century. It was a quick and strange
transformation. Amazingly quick, the rows of tents had disappeared and were replaced
by cars and trucks loaded up for a long journey. Bidding farewell to my fellow rangers,
I followed the sergeant to his car and left. Exhausted, happy, and listening to the
music of Last of the Mohicans, I said goodbye to Crown Point, hoping to return as
soon as possible.
Yr. Friend and Servant, &c.
Pvt. Ian Fiedler
Rogers' Rangers
Rogers' Own Coy.