Saratoga by David Garland Page A

of us. He'll either be killed or taken prisoner."
    "I dispute that," said Proudfoot as he saw a shadow of doubt fall across St. Clair's face. "We may well hold out here. The French had a very small garrison when General Abercromby tried to take the fort, and they still scattered the British army. We'll do the same."
    "Supposing we fail?" asked Wilkinson.
    "Then we earn recognition for our courage."
    "There's nothing courageous in being overrun by superior forces," reasoned the other. "That's arrant folly. General Burgoyne has only to lay siege to Ticonderoga and we're at his mercy."
    "That's not true, Colonel. He'll suffer his share of casualties. My feeling is that he'll launch an assault as a matter of honor. When we withstand it, he'll simply march around us and continue south."
    "I'm inclined to agree," said St. Clair.
    "Why should he do that?" Wilkinson argued. "Gentleman Johnny has more men, more firepower, and every advantage. British and German soldiers have been honed to perfection. They're not a ragbag army like ours. And think of those Indians," he added, running a hand across his skull. "I don't know about you, General, but I'm very fond of my hair. I'd prefer it to stay attached to my head. I don't want my scalp dangling from an Indian's belt."
    "Indians are fair-weather warriors," said Proudfoot with contempt. "They only fight on if victory is in sight. Look at the way they vanished when that volley was fired earlier on. They ran away in complete panic."
    "What I remember was the way that our men fired willy-nilly before they'd been given the command," said Wilkinson. "They lost all discipline. That would be a catastrophe in a battle."
    "Their nerves need to be steadied, that's all."
    "And how do we do that, Ezekiel? When they see the size of the British army, they're going to be shaking in their boots—those lucky enough to
have
any boots, that is."
    St. Clair turned away, conscious of the immense problems that a defense of the fort would entail but reluctant to yield it to the enemy without offering stern resistance. Colonel Wilkinson was not the only senior officer who would advise an evacuation of the fort, but there would be others to whom such a course would be anathema. Their task was to halt the British advance in its tracks for as long as possible, not to assist it by deserting their posts. He reached his decision.
    "Ezekiel is right," he said. "We must stay."
    "That's suicide!" cried Wilkinson.
    "He's here to record our actions for posterity."
    "So?"
    "Whatever we do will one day appear in a popular print for all to see. Do you want to be portrayed as a brave officer, fighting for your cause to the last bullet? Or would you rather let Ezekiel show the world the coattails of your uniform as you run away in fear?"
    "That kind of print would inspire nobody," Proudfoot observed tartly. "Unless you think your backside is a good advertisement for our cause, Colonel."
    "I resent that comment," said Wilkinson hotly. "It's not fear that makes me want to leave—it's common sense. I have my faults, I concede that, but nobody has ever questioned my bravery."
    "Nor do I, James," St. Clair said, holding up a conciliatory hand. "You've shown your true colors often enough. I'm vain enough to believe that I've done the same. No coward would dare to take up arms against the British, as we've done. Ticonderoga is full of brave men."
    "Then save their lives by withdrawing them from the fort."
    "There'd be no hint of bravery in my sketches, if you do that," Proudfoot warned. "I'll draw what I see—an undignified retreat. Leaving the fort without even firing a token shot. I'd call it blatant cowardice."
    "I see it as a sensible tactic."
    "One that would delight Burgoyne."
    "General Washington has employed that strategy on a number of occasions. He'd rather quit the field than fight a pitched battle to the finish against a much bigger army. As a result," said Wilkinson, "he's reduced the number of losses in