MUSKETS TO QUEBEC

By Earl N. Trickey, © 1975 last update: 4091 Being the progress of the Simeon Thayer Company of Rhode Island during the re-enactment of Colonel Benedict Arnold's Expedition to the City of Quebec! Comments, Corrections and Additions are Welcome! I am happy to hear from other AEQ-75 members. I would like to place yor story and images on the web (or else help you do your own site!). : All images are from the collection of Marty Dwyer, unless otherwise noted. Martyk9 @ webtv.net NOTE: To send me an e-mail, please delete the two spaces from the above address. Thanks!

Little toy soldiers stand in orderly lines along the crest of the green slope, their red uniforms and brass buttons resplended in the morning sun. Above them flies the blood red ensign of Britan and at their backs rise the gray stone walls of fortifications. But, they are not toy soldiers; there are distant shouts of commands, a bright flash shows along the line, a low cloud of smoke envelops them and then quickly dissipates in the gentle breeze.

This is the "thin red line" of Kipling; it could be Khyber Pass or Blenheim or Waterloo or Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham, but it is not. It is 1975. It is Quebec, the Plains of Abraham, and Benedict Arnold is risen, leading a desperate army against the redcoats again. At a half mile distance; A Quebec matron turns from her excited child and exclaims "Mon Dieu, I am seeing history!" Another by-stander says, "Better than a movie!" An elderly man murmers, "A painting come alive!" Yes we did it. We lived history., we brought it alive. We recreated the sights, the sounds, even the emotions of two centuries ago. We, the Arnold Expedition to Quebec, followed the trail, traced the footsteps, rowed the bateaux, fired the musket and knocked on the gates of Quebec, where Arnold's army had struggled and died in an epic venture in 1775, months before the Declaration of Independence. Why did we go to Quebec? To recreate history? For adventure? For glory? To reinforce or demonstrate our faith in the nation? To search for something idealistic not current in the 20th century? To march again to the fife and drum and the smell of black powder YES, for those reasons and more. We signed up by the hundreds, agreeing to provide our own uniforms and weapons, to obey all lawful orders, and in all ways to cooperate in recreating the march of Arnold's army.

Simply stated, Arnold would take his army up Maine's Kennebec River to where Flagstaff Lake is now, portage westward by means of the Carry Ponds, and join the Dead River in the vicinity of today's Flagsaf Lake. The army would go up that stream and the Chain-of-Ponds, then cross over the Height-of-Land to Lac Megantic. There the Chadiere River provides a highway down to the St Lawrence and Quebec. At the same time Geneal Richard Montgomery would take another army up the Lake Champlain route, capture Montreal and then join Arnold. Together, they would seize Quebec, rouse the French inhabitants against the British, and present the Continental Congress wth a fourteenth colony and the un-doing British strategy in a large part of North America. Montgomery's route was traditional, Arnold's was shrouded with unknowns. From Arnold's base at Fort Western (Augusta, Me.) there were a few miles of scattered settlers and three hundred miles of nearly uncharted wilderness before reaching the first French settlements in Canada. He left Fort Western with about eleven hundred men in late September, and despite desertions and casualties, appeared before Quebec with six hundred men in mid-November. It is sufficient to say that Arnold's trek was daring, foolhardy, and risky. And no man in the Continental Army could have done better. The most widely read source of infomation on this subject is Kenneth Robert's historical novel, "Arundel." Entranced by it in my youth, I read it again and signed up as a member of Simen Thayer's Rhode Island Company, being organized by Harold "Zeke" St. John of Newport. There was a musket in the family. Found clothing patterns and my womenfolk provided my unifrom. We bought a three-cornered hat, rented a camper van, and with my wife Mary, eleven year-old Priscilla, and my mother, WE headed for Fort Western to muster in !

September 20, 1775 This day was very pleasant, and with a gentle breeze we sailed and rowed 30 miles up the Kennebec River. By the evening tide we floated within six miles of Fort Western, where we were obliged to leave our sloops and take to bateaus.

September 21, 1775 This day we arrived at Fort Western, where we tarried until the 25th in order to make farther preparaton for our voyage up the river, and our march through the wilderness... Abner Stocking, "Journal," Magazine of History; Extra No. 75 pp 9 - 13.

The companies gather at Augusta, from their different rendezvous, under gray and lowering skies with slashes of rain. A camp kitchen is stalled on the major rotary, radiating shock waves of traffic problems down converging arteries like a pebble dropped in a pond. Army trucks, campers, trailers, station wagons and Volkswagens mix with local traffic and surge forward a car length at a time, while Expedition volunteers direct traffic. The troops mill around Fort Western, eating box lunches ( courtesy of the Daughters of the American Revolution ) avoiding puddles and looking for their company flags and Officers. Six hundred men, six hundred different uniforms, six hundred different combinations of weapons and accoutrements: Buckskin shirts over dungarees Fur hats and tricorners Rifle frocks and knee breeches Scottish tatans and forest greens Flintlock muskets and tomahawks, Halberds and spontoons Sabres and Kentucky rifles Hunting knives and powder horns Cartridge boxes and wooden canteens. A small fife and drum group, in the center of the grounds, is un-ceasingly and enthusiastically drowning out everything around them. Girls in eighteenth century dress, hang out the second story windows of the barracks, and scream with delight as one throws her mobcap to a buckskin hero below. A hatless young man pulls himself up by a rope, cast down by these amateur wantons, and to the applause of the crowd, steals a kiss, which is no theft at all. One-thirty, and the cries go out to muster, "Fall in," "Take your places," "Form up." Guidons and company flags thrash the air, "Morgan's Division to the front," "Greene's Divison form here." "Three ranks!" "Cover off," "Give way to the left." Quarter to two, and men are still looking for their places. Companies and platoons are drilling, cameras are snapping everywhere and the officers huddle like a football team getting their signals. Two o'clock comes and with it the word that the start will be delayed fifteen minutes. Companies stand at-ease and some disperse, driven by a sudden shower to seek the shelter of the wooden walls. Two kilted pipers take turns with one set of pipes, with the wild and monotonous, shrill and haunting notes of "Scotland the Brave" while a slim oriental girl holds a tape recorder up close. Tourists and families are shunted out of the area but, even so, Colonel Thornton McGlamery, as Benedict Arnold, is still being asked to pose evey few steps.

Two-thirty, and we're moving out: The US Army Band, the familiar drumbeat, the trumpets and cymbals, AND WE ARE A PARADE! The massed colors, the old flags, the state flags, the blues and golds, the reds and whites, and we don't need sunshine now. The first division turns into the street, Morgan's Division of Pennsylvania and Virgina riflemen proceed, and applause ripples through the crowd. As the head of Greene's Division hits the street, our own fife and drum corps sets the beat. The crowd is sparse but at every cluster of people there is clapping as each company comes past -- Ward's, Hubbard's, Thayer's and Topham's. We're marching in public, as the (whole) Arnold Expedition, for the first time now and the company Sergeants exercise the manual with caution, "Poise firelocks" "Advance firelocks" Down the main business street Up a long hill Try to keep the unfamiliar cadence of ninty steps to the minute Maintain the distance Platoon sergeants count the cadence Trot alongside to correct the angle of a gun Listen to the beat Close your ears to the band behind Watch the Captain's step Listen for the strange commands that all the drilling of a generation ago has not prepared you for Remember, it's your left shoulder your gun is on, not your right. "Yankee Doodle" drifts down the line and we're nearing the state capital. The executive manson, Blaine House, is on the right. You can glimpse the head of the column turning up ahead. Faces, faces, and cameras along the side, bicycles darting between the companies, and a televsion crew atop a truck. A loud clear call from the left, "WIN THIS TIME!" and there's my grinning daughter who sewed my shirt. "Left wheel and down into Capital Park, off the pavemet, onto the grass and under drippng trees. "Route step:" and you can step along to the drummer in your own head and slope your gun as you find it comfortable. Down across the soggy lawn, were the water collects in the footprints of a hundred men before you, down towards rows of white tents already in place, down towards the crowds huddled under the dubious protection of great trees lining the parking lot where National Guard trucks have our camp gear. Now halt and stand easy while the rest of the company marches past. "Well done, men, well done". And now the rain comes down steadily.

We worked until dark, getting up supplies from the foot of the quick water. Later sought out Captain Goodrich's company, so to share their supper. They had dawn cornmeal, salt pork and peas ... As we sat by the our fires and ate our rations I heard amazing tales of what lay ahead. There was a mountain ...... by Kenneth Roberts; ARUNDEL!

This is the first night the army has camped together as a whole, and there has been a lot of getting acquainted done. The rain has stopped, but the skies are not clear, and more rain is expected. Many men have gone to look the town over, or to attend a dance a couple of miles away, and there are only a few visitors from town wandering through the grounds. There's a great variety of tents from 1775 replicas to modern alpine tents. Camp lanterns within, cast grotesque shadows on The canvas and voices carry on the night air. Walking is hazardous because the tent stakes and supporting ropes create a small jungle around the company areas. Each divison's guard paces back and forth, muskets shouldered and flashlight in hand. Company flags hang limply from their staffs in the evening dampness. Beyond the grass are the parking lots for the motor homes, campers and trailers. Among them is the camp kitchen for Greene's Division, were the cook is making preparations for breakfast. People are gathered under awnings and around camp lanterns, conversing, singing or reading and writing. There is a steady trickle of people to and from the washroom, a piper steps along to the sad whining of a nameless highland melody, oblivious to all the world but his pipes. Mary and I join a circle around a gas lantern where a man with a harmonica is playing old favorites. For an hour we try our voices and memories on "Tavern in the Town," "On Top of Old Smokey'," "Daisy, Daisy," "A Captital Ship" and other ballads and hymns as fast as we can think of them. Our harmonica player never fails us, he even plays some none of us have ever heard.

There is music and singing from McCobb's Company and we find a guitarist there, leading a group in "Walls of Quebec," a song composed for the occason by a member of the company. It is a charming, haunting melody which they hope to have copyrighted. McCobb's company, a Maine group under David Holmes, has put much effort into making their organization an authentic cross-section of military life of two centuries ago and their encampment is a focal point for visitors. In the flickering light of torches and candles, the white row of tents, the uniforms and costumes, the stands of weapons and the complete absence of any sign of the twentieth century, easily transport one back to an age of simpler values and more basic virtues. In the distance, the lights from the statehouse shine through wet leaves, flickering as breezes move the limbs "Hope the wind dries up some of this water." "Hey, it's a lot better than last night -- I spent all night treading water." There is more music and laughter around a campfire in Morgan's Division two hundred yards away, but, that's two hundred yards too far in darkness and wet grass. It's been a busy day and tomorrow will be busier.

September 26th, 1775 This day we started very early and made our encampment at evening 4 miles below Fort Halifax. We began to experience great difficulty from increasing rapidity of the current, and the water becoming shoal. Stocking; "Journal"

Fort Halifax is touted as the oldest existing blockhouse in the US. It seems pretty well preserved, but at this moment it's completely overun with children, stamping up the stairs, peering out the gun slits and whooping for attention as children will. The four companies of Greene's Division stand easy along the dirt road below the blockhouse while the speaker's platform slowly fills with local notables -- mayors, representatives, oldest inhabitants, veterans, and the like. We're waiting for the bateaux. They were put into the river downstream an hour ago to row up to here were the Sabasticook joins the Kennebec. With all the trees along the riverbank we can't see how they're doing, but there's a commotion from that direction. 'Here comes the first one now!' Borne aloft by a dozen men, a dripping yellow bateaux comes in sight. Colonel Tony Walker of MIddletown, RI ( Colonel Christopher Greene ) isn't content to give directions, he gets his shoulder under the very bow and leads it to the spot he wants it amid cheering from the several hundred onlookers. A second and a third bateaux soon follow, but "where's the fourth one?" Of course, that's the one belonging to Thayer's Rhode Islanders. It's announced that they had a minor mixup and will be along shortly. To pass the time, the US Army Band beside the speaker's platform renders "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." That brings our boat in, to further cheering and applause. The gray skies are broken with patches of blue, but we still get flurries of rain even though we can see the sun behind the clouds. The speakers all wish us good weather, extol our patriotism, relate anecdotes of this area's contribution to the Revoloution ( One of the few places where Arnold retains stature as a "hero" ) and bestow their blessings upon our venture. We're warned against Indians, bears, bad spirits, and against telling French jokes. We're given the history of Fort Halifax, and the speaker tells us this was the last settlement Arnold's men saw. ( Five miles up river, Fairfield's Welcoming sign says, "Settled in 1774." ) Then the last speaker is ushered forward, a tottering little old man, reputed to be in his eighties, who has taught history to generations. We're prepared for mumbled congratulatons, but he brushes away the ineffectual microphone and in the style now nostalgically associated with Harry Truman, waving one fist, his voice getting stronger with every word, "Boys, you're the real thing! A thousand times better to be doing it than just talking about it. You are living history. Have fun and give'em hell! If I were ten years younger they couldn't stop me from being right there with you!"

After the cheers and laughter have subsided, it's our half of the inning. Colonel Benedict Arnold ( They still keep referring to him as "General" ), who is of course Colonel McGlamory, tell how, "It isn't the intention of the reenactment to glorify Benedict Arnold, but rather to commemorate the courageous thing these men did." Colonel Walker leads us in three volleys of "Hip, Hip, Huzzah." At first one thinks of "huzzah" as quaint and unnatural, but try it a few times. You'll find that, for the male voice anyway, you can put out more volume than with "hooray." We became quite expert at it during the reenactment and added a roaring "On to Quebec!" The place has been crawling with photographers -- in front of us, over our shoulders, between the ranks -- who believe themselves absolved of adhering to the courtesies expected for the national anthem or prayers. As I stand bareheaded, leaning on my musket during the benedicton, there's a photographer five feet away aiming along our rank. My ego tells me that if I mutter anything about "freedom from the press" I might not get my picture taken. The next morning's paper has a great picture of Ed McGrath who stood beside me! Firing cannons is supposed to encourage rain if there's any clouds around, but we work it differently. After the Officers finally clear the crowd from our front, we fire a musket salute as a finale, and the smoke has hardly drifted away towads the Kennebec before the sun is out in sufficient strength to show distinct shadows. The march back to our vehicles is lighthearted -- and slovenly -- under the distraction of the long-awaited sunshine.

September 25, 1775 Early this morning, we embarked on board our batteaus and proceeded on our way. We labored hard through the day and found ourselves at night about 7 miles from the place of our departure. The current began to be swift. We encamped at night by the edge of a cornfield and fared very sumptously. Stocking; "Journal"

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