Free Guns for General Washington by Seymour Reit Page B

hamlet of Otis and the village of Blanford. Their next goal was Westfield, on the east slope of the Berkshire range. From Westfield the path would be easier, but right now they were on the rim of a steep chasm that dropped straight down for hundreds of feet.
    The travelers were at a dead halt. They’d met up with bad terrain before, but never anything this dangerous.
    Standing at the edge looking over, the drivers shook their heads and grumbled to each other. Finally an old-timer named Thorne spoke up. “’Tain’t any way to get down
this
cliff, Colonel. No sir! Not a man among us says it can be done.”
    Henry frowned. “I know it’s bad. But the ridge runs south clear into Connecticut. There’s no way round—not for miles. We’ll have to take a chance.”
    Thorne grunted. “All of us is strong for the cause, Colonel, but we didn’t sign on for suicide.”
    Another driver chimed in. “Just gettin’ the animals down is nigh impossible. And if a load ever broke loose, there’d be blue ruin for sure.”
    The argument went back and forth. For almost three hours Henry coaxed and pleaded, but the men wouldn’t budge. Will began to think that the mission was doomed; all their work had been for nothing. But the colonel refused to quit, and finally his stubbornness—plus some practical new ideas from Will—saved the day; the men agreed at last to tackle the chasm, though few of them expected to succeed.
    William’s plan of action matched the one they’d used before. But this time he added many safeguards. The animals were unhitched, then they were led, sliding and slipping, down the steep incline. Meanwhile the vehicles were rigged with heavy ropes which were looped around big trees. Drag chains and guy ropes were added to help the crews steady the loads as they went downhill.
    Now, under the colonel’s sharp eye, each gun was lowered little by little. Every fifty feet, fat logs were wedged under wheels and runners to hold the loads in place. Then the men ran ahead and shifted the heavy ropes to trees farther down the slope. The tricky process was then repeated.
    J. P. Becker, working alongside the older hands, kept an eye on his hero, Will. In spite of his bad knee, the colonel’s brother was everywhere, limping along the ridge, giving orders, testing ropes, making sure that every gun moved safely. The troopers and drivers, remembering the runaway cannon, worked hard and took no foolish chances. There were a few snags and tense moments, but no accidents.
    As the long hours passed the men’s confidence grew, and even Thorne had to admit that the colonel had been right. They were beating the chasm.
    By nightfall the whole artillery train was safely at the foot of the great hill. Not a single gun had been lost nor a man injured—and at that point, Henry called a halt.
    â€œI’m right proud of us all,” he said to the crew. “Let’s eat supper and get a night’s rest.”
    It was
one
decision over which there were no arguments.

21
On to Westfield
    At dawn the horses and oxen were hitched up, and the convoy started off. They followed a dry streambed to a dirt trail Henry knew from his map that the trail would take them straight to Westfield.
    For a long while they had moved over hard frosty ground coated with snow—a smooth surface for the sled runners. But now the sun began beating down, melting the snow and turning the trail to mud. This made it slow going for the patient animals, who plodded along dragging their heavy loads. As usual, Colonel Knox fretted about losing time, but even
he
realized that the weather was something he couldn’t give orders to.
    Mr. Becker’s shoulder was now healed, and he took over the reins of their wagon. J. P. was a little disappointed at losing his job, but Will saw this and invited the boy to ride with him on the big sled. Will’s vehicle, hauled by eight