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Captain’s Log
Armed Boat HORNET
Lake George, 2001

Monday, 8 October
Having an obligation to my friend Pierre Marques, I set out along with Franзois Iafrate to meet him and the French camp on Lake George.  Loaded with military stores and provisions for two weeks, we set course sailing south beating into a southwesterly wind for a group of islands located in the narrows.  The wind blew erratically for the first hour, conjuring up two-foot seas topped with white caps.  It took us an hour to beat clear of Hulett's, but once out in mid-channel we were able to tack well to windward and make all speed toward our destination. 

Just as the sun set behind the western peaks we saw St. Sacrament Island.  The wind began to lessen, and when we were within two cables length of the island’s northern shore the breeze died altogether.  Despite the calm of evening, the heavy seas of the past two hours gave us nine inches of water in the boat.  To our credit everything was stowed well and our gear remained dry and undamaged.

We piloted the HORNET through the shallows off St. Sacrament and beached near the western shore of Mother Bunch Island, a stone's throw west of St. Sacrament.  Franзois and I disembarked with our firelocks and set about securing the island for that evening’s camp.  

Soon we were quietly hailed by and Indian who whistled the call of a whippoorwill.  Once he knew we saw him he called out quietly to us “Francais?”, to which we replied “Oui, Francais.”  The red man led us quietly to the other side of the island where another of his kind was waiting in a canoe.  Through some rough French, English and sign language, we ascertained that these Indians, known as the Abenaki, were camped for the night on St. Sacrament.  They did not invite us to follow them, and we set about in what little light was left to setup camp.  The temperature, although in the fifties all day, was dropping quickly.  We warmed ourselves in front of a fire, reheated some cooked chicken and made coffee that we brought with us from Pennsylvania before settling in for a cold night.

Tuesday, 9 October
We awoke at dawn and rekindled our fire.  The weather was clear and cold.  After Franзois and I tore down the camp, I consulted our charts and was confident of our position in relation to the rest of the French forces on the Lake.  Our orders were to rendezvous with the French on Phenita Island, which was less then half a mile to the south.  Looking in that direction the islands seem to run together as one.  What a truly a beautiful place this is.  A crescent moon hangs high in a new blue sky, and the leaves on the hardwoods that punctuate the pine forests are turning orange and red. 

While we enjoyed some hot coffee and dried cereal we were hailed in French from across the water by a man standing on St. Sacrament's southern point .  He asked if he might share our fire with us and we beckoned him to come over, all the while looking forward to some civility and companionship of another white man.

The Frenchman, named David, arrive with an Indian woman who I believe called herself Juta.  They were both armed with short-barreled fowling pieces that had the sturdy appearance of cut-down muskets.  They said they had been on this part of the lake for three days and were planning to venture further south that afternoon.  The day before they had skirmished with a handful of English scouts along the Lake's eastern shore, and their route home was taking them south into the wind and into what we believed was English held territory.  We had not seen anyone else on the Lake up to this point, aside from the Abenaki and David, and our immediate task was to find the French camp.

We set about loading our gear onto the HORNET.  In doing so, we found that the painter tied to boat's bow became entangled with the keel the previous evening when we landed, requiring some pulling and manipulating on our part to get it free.   As we prepared to leave, we saw David and Juta depart in their canoe and  head south.  Soon after the Abenaki loaded up their canoes and silently paddled past us, also heading south.  The Indians in the first canoe ignored us.  As the second canoe came past I called out to the Indian in the stern and asked “Red Man…..Phenita?” and pointed to the south.  He replied “Oui, Phenita.”  I nodded, thanked him and turned to pass the news on to Franзois.  These Indians were French allies, and we were going to follow them to Phenita Island.

We left the dock and poled our way with oars through the shallow water.  Once past St. Sacrament and into the eastern channel we were able to row again.  A breeze was freshening from the southwest, but not nearly as strong as the previous day.  Keeping in close to the islands also kept us out of the wind, and rowing the boat to Phenita was a relatively easy task. 

As we approached Phenita, we heard a loud “Whoooooop” emanate from somewhere on the island, telling us the Indians were there.  A second “Whoooooop” told us that we should go there too.  We piloted the HORNET back into the shallows where we were instructed by a Frenchman on shore to navigate to the cove facing Duran Island.  This we did and soon saw over half a dozen canoes tied up around a dock.  As we tied off and secured our boat and we were greeted by a group of French trappers.  They were rugged individuals, with a look about them that spoke of long stays in the wilderness.  An Indian came up to me and without speaking offered Franзois and me some rolled tobacco.  We accepted graciously and shared some French brandy in return.  The brandy warmed many of the men there that day, and we soon became a band of friends anxiously awaiting the arrival of the French commander and his men.  Of particular interest to me was the arrival of Pierre Marques, a friend through correspondence that I had known through correspondence these past six years, but circumstance up until now had prohibited us from ever meeting face to face.  This was to be our first meeting, and being that he had provided our boat with its new canvas sails, we were indebted to him and sailed the HORNET here at his request.

Pierre arrived an hour or so after us, as did several other canoes of Indians and French militia.  The French commander appeared in a bateaux with a canoe in tow, and despite loud calls from the Indians and the bangs of musket shots into the air, the commander continued south past Phenita.  This vexed many of us, as we were awaiting orders and news of the English.  A man named Renard was anxious to begin a new campaign against the English, and to this there was general consent and agreement among all the men.  The Frenchmen and some of the Indians held a council and decided to ready the canoes to follow the French commander and see what he was about. 

We took this opportunity to scout the Lake to the south, and we set sail around the north side of Duran Island and into the main channel, tacking back and forth past Floating Battery Island and on to Black Mountain Point.  We had passed the main body of the French forces and saw them beach their canoes along the eastern shore at a place they called Ranger Bay.  Knowing this, we continued south and made it as far as Hazel Island before turning to run with the wind.  It took us two and a half hours of beating into the wind just to get a mile or so down the lake, and with a ten-knot breeze and the jib and main drawing exceedingly well, I ordered Franзois to load the swivel with grape.  We stood off from the shoreline by two boat lengths and quietly made our way northward along with eastern shore.  In fifteen minutes we were at the entrance to Ranger Bay.  Smoke floating up through the pines marked the camp, and we found the bay to be a well-protected refuge from the Lake winds.  We were greeted by our friends from earlier that day and then set about building shelter for the night.  A hot meal was on our mind, and we took full advantage of the marinating beef that my wife had preserved for us several days before.

We sat around a low burning fire and discussed our position.  The peninsula on which we were camped was well defended.  Sixteen men, Franзois and I included, made up the forward French position.  The Abenaki had their own camp just north of us, and the French commander was north of the Abenaki and farthest from the English.  No one had yet seen the commander since he arrived, and the fact that we were unaware of any organized plan to attack the English began to weigh on our minds.  

This was not an inactive group, and while Franзois and I were patrolling to the south Pierre and several other Frenchman and Indians skirmished with the English.  Some thought they knew where the English camp was, and at dawn tomorrow had planned to find out once and for all. 

We settled in for the night around ten that evening.  Guards were posted at the neck where a stockade wall was built from laid logs, and the fires were doused and lanterns covered.  Several men had gone to sleep when a loud explosion filled Ranger Bay.  Two English canoes had quietly positioned themselves around the point, one at the mouth to Ranger Bay and the other just off the peninsula’s western shore.  The explosion sounded like a blunderbuss or swivel gun, and it succeeded in taking us all by surprise.  One of the English yelled out from the canoe “See you before morning, Francais,” and several men yelled back and fired blindly at the canoes as they slipped away into the darkness.

A short time later we heard the Abenaki camp being attacked to the north, and following that the French commander’s camp.  We knew that the canoes would likely make their way south upon returning, and there was a chance that they would come past us if only to harass us one more time.  Our expectations proved correct, and we saw the dark silhouettes of the two canoes long before they reached us.  This gave us time to prepare a warm reception for them, and I sent Franзois to fetch a couple of grenades from the arms chest.  With a piece of slow match glowing softly in my hand we waited for the canoes to come into range.  As the first canoe approached I lit a grenade and threw it.  Overhanging tree limbs brushed the grenade as it flew, showering a cascade of orange sparks down onto the Lake.  Someone muttered “Stupid Frenchman, throwing his grenade into the water.”  We couldn’t see any sign of the fuse, and Pierre and I had just remarked to each other about the fuse going out when it exploded.  The flash lit up the Lake, and fragments of the grenade launched skyward into the night sky.  Immediately both canoes picked up their pace and began to race south past our camp.  I lit the other grenade and threw it side-armed under the trees to land ten feet from the second canoe.  This one exploded with far better effect, and water rained down all around the retreating English.  Most in our camp doubted that we’d be visited again by the English before morning.

Wednesday, 10 October
We spent three hours that night on guard duty at both the neck and at the point.  At first light we got a fire going and set about making some eggs and heating dried sausage.  After eating we unloaded the remaining gear from the  HORNET and set off to patrol south.  The French commander had not yet sent us orders, and having been paid a visit by the English the night before, we felt compelled to return their hospitality.

Pierre set off on foot with several scouts and worked his way south along the Lake’s eastern shore.  Franзois and I readied the HORNET and left Ranger Bay around eleven that morning, again beating into a strong southwesterly wind.  In less than two hours we had beaten south past Red Rock and were near where we thought the English were camped.  

Rumour spoke of a large English gunboat in this region, and we were determined to smoke it out.  We landed on Fork Island and after a quick but thorough search we secured it for the French.  Then with the wind in our favor, we left Fork Island and headed east into Red Rock Bay.  Seeing no canoes or bateaux, we tacked and headed downwind along the eastern shore.  With the swivel gun loaded with grape, I ordered the jib struck and for Franзois to begin raking the trees along the shoreline as we passed.  With the main sheet let out, the mainsail boom swung nearly perpendicular to the mast off the starboard beam.  The wind was still strong and we moved quickly down the Lake.  The swivel belched fire and smoke, and the sound of the report and the shot ripping through the trees echoed northward along the mountains.  After firing five rounds in this manner, we found ourselves rapidly approaching Black Mountain Point.  We were disappointed that no one fired back and that no boats came out to pursue us.  It took a mere fifteen minutes to get from Red Rock Bay back to the French camp, and when we returned we were greeted with stories of skirmishes that had taken place along the eastern shore that morning.

Pierre had succeeded in making it to the English camp, and he confirmed that they had taken up a fortified position off of Hazel Island just north of Red Rock.  We were correct in our assumption of their position, and felt confident that we shook them up with our cannonade.

Early in the afternoon a handful of English scouts made their way to within fifty yards of our camp.  They were noisy and we heard them coming some way off.  The alarm was raised and we gathered at the stockade wall to repel the attack.   Franзois tossed two grenades into the trees to push back the less cautious of their group, and the explosions at close quarters seemed to have the desired effect.  Several of the rangers took shots at us from across the bay and from behind a row of fallen trees.  One appeared about eighty feet away with his head and backside clearly visible from behind a large pine.  I reprimed my Jaeger rifle and took careful aim, engaging the set trigger as I sighted the front blade on him.  The Jaeger jumped into my shoulder and the ranger fell.  Many Kills, a Kahnawake Indian standing to my right, laughed and yelled into the woods “We have Jaeger, Englais.”  Two more English were killed before they retreated, but not before one of them got a shot off at Franзois.  He had been coming back from the HORNET where he went to get more cartridges for our guns when one of the English shot him.  The ball grazed his left thigh, and he managed to make it safely away where upon we cleaned and dressed the wound.  He was sore for the next few days, but refused to retire from the action.

That evening we mounted a waterborne attack to the south.  We removed the sail rig from the HORNET and readied her for a cutting out expedition.  Pierre led the way in his canoe, and Franзois mustered four volunteers to row for us.  Three of the  men were young Indians, and the fourth was a Frenchman named Blu.  We promised to pay them in rum for their hard work, to which they were all too happy to provide the necessary labor.

When we set out from Ranger Bay at eight that evening, the water on the Lake was calm like glass.  As we reached Black Mountain Point the wind picked up again out of the south, making our work more difficult.  We saw Pierre and Renard waiting for us at a dock near the point and we steered to meet them.  Franзois, the three Indians and I left the boat with Blu and met up with Pierre to go over the plan.  Nothing seemed to be moving near Hazel Island.  We expected to see something – a lantern, fire, smoke, sentries.  But we didn’t see or hear a thing.  The wind began to freshen even more, and our chances of making it to their camp by water were diminishing with the weather.  Pierre decided to cancel the attack, and he and Renard scouted a bit further south before returning to meet us at camp.

A lone canoe was spotted by lookouts leaving Black Mountain Point shortly after we returned.  It headed west across the Lake and was lost in the darkness.  Franзois suspected that this canoe might turn north once it crossed the Lake and then descend upon us from that direction.  We heard several shots fired from the French commander’s camp, and despite heightened anticipation, nothing came our way.  We supped light and set about preparing for another night of guard duty. 

Around eleven that evening movement was observed outside the stockade.  The entire camp was awake and we stood for the next two hours peering into the darkness.  Many Kills was on watch and he called out into the darkness “We can hear you Englais,” but no one made a reply.  Lance, a mountain man from the western territories, was next to me on the wall.  After another hour of hearing nothing I sat down on the ground with my rifle beside me.  Lance sat down and we both discussed in whispered tones what the chances were of us being stalked by a party of squirrels.  By midnight we were all tired and with no movement being seen or heard in the last hour, many of us turned in.  Franзois and I took guard duty from two-thirty until four-thirty and found it very hard to keep awake.

Thursday, 11 October
The Rangers attacked at first light.  Many Kills was back at the fortification when they fired their muskets and rushed the stockade.  They threw themselves over the wall, taking part of it down with them as they leapt.  Blu was nearly killed when an English musket went off inches from his face.  Luck was with him and he made it through the wave of attackers.  Franзois and I came out of our tent with our guns loaded and watched as several English overran our camp.  The chaos of surprise dissipated quickly and we realized that the English had not reloaded their muskets.  They quickly regrouped and took off running from our camp with several of our scouts in pursuit.  A small skirmish ensued, and the main body of the English moved south.

We regrouped and assessed the damage to our camp.  There were some wounded, but no one was killed or taken and the boat and canoes were all accounted for.  We knew that we had to break camp and move, and it weighed on our minds the fact that the English waited silently outside our camp for six hours before attacking.  It was a bold move, one that took skill and discipline to achieve.  Why they didn't reload their weapons perplexed me.

It was agreed that Pierre, Renard and the rest, now fifteen in all, would set off on foot and counterattack the English camp at Hazel Island.  Franзois carried a haversack with the remaining grenades, and in just over an hour we were split into three parties and quietly approaching the English camp.  As we came up over a rise and crossed the fortifications we found the camp deserted.  The fire pit was wet, and a message was scrawled onto a rock with charred wood that said “See Ya!”  We stood there incredulous at the possibility that the English had left.  We moved to Red Rock and searched for a second camp but found none.  They had run!  Standing there where they had bedded down it all began to make sense why there were no sentries or pickets along the path to Red Rock.  No one challenged us the entire way southward.  No boats came out to meet us on the Lake.  The English were gone, and it was Thursday morning.

We took our time walking back to camp.  Once there we shared the news with the rest of our garrison that the English had left the Lake.  We now controlled the waterways from Fort William Henry in the south all the way north to Lake Champlain, but the victory somehow seemed a disappointment. 

Everyone was quiet as we broke camp.  Franзois and I loaded our gear aboard the HORNET and under jib alone sailed northward following a line of canoes.  Renard, Blue and some of the Indians decided to leave and headed north that day, leaving half our original number to make camp that night.  We retired to Duran Island where I offered up a fine ham, fresh corn and the remaining French brandy and rum to any who wished to share.  We feasted like the Frenchmen we were, and somewhere along the way we lost Lance.  Later that night Franзois, Pierre and I sat on a rock on Duran’s northern shore and for two hours watched the Aurora Borealis light up the northern sky with spires of red and green.

Friday, 12 October
In the morning we found Lance.  We breakfasted light, broke camp and began loading our gear.  The wind was blowing from the north for the first time that week, and we knew that our journey home would take longer than we had planned.  We said goodbye to Pierre, Many Kills, Lance, Harry, Bow Hunter and Ryan and began the arduous task of beating northward through the narrow eastern channel.  We saw the canoes quickly leave us behind as they kept close to shore and out of the wind.  It took us an hour to clear the channel, and in less than three hours we arrived at Hulett's where we docked the HORNET and prepared for our journey home to Pennsylvania.

Captain Damian Siekonic
Armed Boat HORNET