‘The Noble Train of Artillery’ from an Epic Poem by Andrew Benson Brown

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The Noble Train of Artillery

—from Legends of Liberty Volume 3

The cold, gray dawn illuminated flakes
Of snow dusting an elevated hill
Where a falling star had crashed, between two lakes:
Fort Carillon, still sharp enough to kill
With its five points, coated in frost and twinkling.
Nearby, the rapids of a river chimed.
Icicles broke from sagging branches, tinkling.
Winds, ringing through the silver birches, climbed.
A timeless place, this valley: no tick-tock.
And then its fortress, still as death, was stirred. Knock-knock.

“Who goes there?” said a voice above. A wan
And sickly soldier peered down, standing sentry
On the grim wall. The bearded, portly man
Below said, “Colonel Henry Knox.”—“No entry!”
“Washington sent us. Trudging for three weeks.”
“So watcha want?”—“Open your gate?”—“Hmm—nope!
Fat colonel? Spy, more likely.” Henry’s cheeks
Were red and huffing. Reaching down, he groped
A letter, raising it. “Me eyesight’s weak.”
—“Orders.” The sentry groaned. The gate began to creak.

A gaunt commander greeted Henry. Swaying,
He eyed the letter (upside down), then cussed
And gave it to an aide, who shivered, saying:
“W-Washington is order-er-ing us
To give them our artillery.”—“Malarkey!”
Said the commander. “How’s is we defend
Arselves?” Henry reviewed the hierarchy
Of chaos: sagging ramparts (needing a mend),
Walls (cracking), crew of skeletons (all sickly).
“You’re indefensible already. Don’t get prickly.”

Through a parade ground (with no trace of tread),
Past some old barracks (rickety and musty),
Up to a storage room, Henry was led.
A creaking door: a wall of cobwebs, misty.
Pulling apart the ghostly threads, he entered:
Cannons! More cannons than he’d ever seen.
Knox struck one with a saber: from its center,
A ring-a-ling. He struck another. Soon
He was striking down the line, a boy at play,
A one-man choir ringing bells on Christmas Day.

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Infernal Engines

A rusty ting. A blackened tang. The clang
Of iron skipped and sprang. And with each cling
And clang, this carillon of cannons rang.
No xylophone or glockenspiel could wring
Such sounds: a symphony of martial slang,
A dialect of death and pain, a thing
That yet bore freedom’s sound, where goodness sprang
From evil’s ground. He drummed: each ringing ding
Was light—an angel’s wing: cling clang ting tang.
Salvation sang. The real test: would they go bang?

More guns than he had ever seen—and older.
The mortars, rusty. Iron cannons, dry
And dusty. Howitzers, entrenched like boulders,
Not fired for—how long? Moreover, why?
A hundred-fifty pieces—less than half
Were good. The rest just couldn’t be exhumed.
Then, from a dark corner, Knox felt a draft:
One cannon, larger than the others, loomed.
Henry’s jaw quite nearly hit the ground:
A Big Bertha? Must weigh at least five thousand pounds.

Some writing at the base? He couldn’t tell.
Knox scraped some rust off with his kerchiefed hand
And read a faded label: ‘Made in Hel.’
“Hmm.” He was unfamiliar with that brand—
But leave it to the Dutch to pull a hoax
Like this! Those traders, with their floppy brims
And their ruff collars—always playing jokes!
This ‘Hel’ must be one of their synonyms.
Whoever built this had a lot of wealth
To burn—what craftsmanship! “It must be made in Delft.”

Then rising up, Knox slipped and knocked his head
Against the barrel. Visions crowded sleep:
Of demons forging in the dark, the dead
Reducing sulfur and nitrous foam to heaps
Of blackest grain, then belching iron globes
Through Heaven’s gates and rushing through the breach…
And now Orlando: sailing as he probes
An ocean where no anchor’s rope can reach,
He flings a cannon into the abyss,
Back to its Maker languishing in deepest Dis.

Or so Orlando thought. The cannon sunk
Through an ocean vent, forgotten for an eon…
Until a sailor found a piece of junk
Just lying on a beach one day. The peon
Reported it—infernal engine! Spat
Up on the harbor of New York and hauled
Away, so old and rusty. There it sat
At Fort Ticonderoga. It’s been held
Since then, but never fired. Would it—Brrr!
(A water bucket ended Henry’s snoring.) “Sir?”

A blurry face was forming between blinks:
Brown eyes, the red of weathered cheeks, thick beard.
“Sorry about the water—but you’ll stink
Less now. The team’s across the lake—to be steered
Upon your orders.”—“Team?” said Henry, dazed.
“Yessir—you sent for oxen? Sleds? They’re here.”
—“And you are…?”—“Becker. John.” As Henry raised
His head, he saw a small boy peeking near.
“My son, John Junior. ‘Scuse him, he’s just shy.”
Approaching, the child scribbled on a notebook: Hi!

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Crossing Lake George

They lowered sixty cannons over the wall.
“Steady!” —A rope was fraying. Then it snapped.
Two thousand pounds of iron crushed the will
(And body) of a man who had been wrapped
In dreams of dinnertime. A steaming stew
Of blood and bones went trickling down to pool
Upon Lake George’s crusted edge. The crew
Began to load the guns on boats as poles
Broke up the ice. Then pushing off the shore,
They paddled towards an open channel, oar to oar.

Knox squinted through the headwind: balls of wet
Snow eyecicled his furry brows; two blue
Horizons blended in a sopping white
Blanket. He paddled blind—the water, glue.
A gondola flipped over like a pancake
And sunk into the syrup. A handsome youth,
The boat’s cleanshaven rower (such a manscape!),
Bobbed to the top—a pristine ice cube. Smooth.
The men lamented: such unsullied grooming!
They pulled up cannons, paddled on—the water, glooming.

A tired Henry leaned his cannonball
Paunch in a muzzle’s frosted ring—both weighed
His boat down, filling it just like a bowl
Of cold potato soup as water strayed
Over the gunnels. Feet, submerging. Shins.
He paddled faster, seeing nothing, sinking—
Then bumped into dry land. Saving the skins
And iron of his men, he—groping, blinking—
Beached a boat and grasped a shoulder. “Comrade!”
The man was frozen to his oar, a statue. “Conrad?”

You may have heard somewhere that no one died
On this excursion—well, I’m telling you
Those scholars got it wrong, the frauds. They lied.
The version that you’re reading here is true—
Faithful to my poetical sincerities.
“The good ol’ days,” turns out, are pretty boring
When they stay fixed in data-driven verities.
Go read a textbook if you’re fond of snoring.
The epic myths are greatest—second to none.
Suspend your disbelief … or don’t. My way’s more fun.

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The Noble Train Departs

A hundred-sixty oxen, forty sleds:
John Junior jumped up, yoking beasts with square
Knots, hitches, bowlines. As his fingers sped,
The soldiers all began to gripe and glare:
“This journey ain’t no place for boys. He’ll curse
Our cause! The wilderness is too unkind.”
The child scowled and wrote: Be off, you curs!
The burly, Elder Becker spoke his mind:
“My son’s a teamster just as much as you—
He’s seen more things at his age than you’d care to view!”

Young Becker, it was said, had a bad start:
Born on the night the Stamp Act was approved,
A tyrant’s law imprinted on his heart.
Firm spankings followed. Butt-embossed, he grooved
His first word onto smuggled paper: freebum.
Just shy of his fifth birthday, he received
A gift: his street become a mausoleum
When redcoats massacred five men. Bereaved,
From there on out, he lost his powers of speech.
He seethed in silent rage, which only ink could breach.

That date was seared in youthful Becker’s brain:
The fifth of March. He whipped an ox, dad yelling,
“Giddy up!” And then the Noble Train
Set out. While perching on a wagon, spelling
The winter landscape, Junior looked up at
His father sitting there and smiled. Strong
John Senior gave his knowing head a pat
With a rough and gentle hand, singing a song.
The boy continued writing in his journal,
Racked with reveries of sunshine, warm and vernal.

December twentieth. The wilds, raw.
The weather, disagreeable. Roads bad.
The snow has stopped and given way to thaw.
Vexatious business. Wish I was a bird.
A luckless urchin, I—an unpretending,
Although not useless, waggoner. They’ve thrust
My father forward: in demand for sending
Urgent and rapid stores, he’s earned the trust
Of every man. The leader gave him charge
Of a gun that’s pulled by eight stout oxen. Very large.

It’s strange, this cannon doesn’t gather bits
Of frost like all the rest. It takes the numb
Feeling away—I like to press my mitts
Against the barrel. Others fancy rum
For warmth—but not the leader. Big and plump,
He’s always laughing. Don’t know why. A gay ol’—
His pencil slipped—the wagon hit a bump.
Ahead, along the steep and narrow trail,
Some hooves gave way in mud and started sliding.
A man was trampled as he belted joyful tidings.

Oblivion’s a welcome Christmas bonus
In the cold dark, when bellies groan unfed.
The sled rolled over, off the trail. With slowness,
Knox waddled up to Becker’s side and led
The loud heave-hoing. Becker Junior, watching,
Began to suffer freezing hands again.
He took his mittens off, and a bewitching
Sensation overcame his body when
His bare hands pressed the bore. A warmness spread
Into his brain. Then nightmares danced in flaming red:

His father falling into darkness. Bones
Of teamsters scattered round a mountain. Ox
And stallion buried with each cannon. Zones
Beyond the known—an evil rising. Knox
Defeated, kneeling in a blizzard. Engines
Reunited with their maker. Fear
Reviving old rebellions—ill intentions
Were scattered through a future dim yet clear.
Small hands grew hot against the barrel, burning.
John pulled them off. The visions stopped—plain sight, returning.

His blurry eyes re-focused on their chief—
The fat man looked up, staring in his face.
“What happened?” (Knox.) “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
The boy put on his gloves. It’s just a case
Of shivers—from the cold, Young Becker wrote.
Eyes darted towards the cannon. Henry nodded
With warmness. “Then don’t lose your mitts! The route
Is long.” The train moved forward. As they plodded,
The melt exposed abyssal mud. A twerp
Fell in, head-first. The earth received the offer: ‘slurp.’

They crossed the Hudson’s width—the ice, too thin.
Men went ahead to cut some holes and freeze
More water. One fell through, then rose up—skin
All blue, grim smile preserved forever. (Cheese!)
Young Becker sketched his likeness (for the fam).
Beneath a sled, the ice began to crack
And ripple outward. Bearded Becker ran
Up, axing ropes to free the horses. The slack
Went tense—a cannon plunged into the chill.
A horse was pulled down with it, neighing high and shrill.

John Junior wrote: Air penetrating vitals.
The snowstorm, recommencing. Twenty miles
A day. The teamsters crooned, singing recitals
As rations dwindled—dying beasts, their meals.
A caterpillar moves across a clump
Of earth by stretching out and then contracting.
Just so, this expedition made a hump
In its middle as the rear came up, compacting
A group of men in snow. This odyssey
Was now withdrawing quite a steep transaction fee.

Yes, yes, I see the parallels. Don’t fret.
There won’t be Sirens, Cyclopês, or Scyllas
Making appearances to show my debt
To the blind bard who entertained the villas
Of Ancient Greece. I’ll try avoiding all
Allusions to the greatest epic ever
Told—and I’m sorry if my contrasts fall
On flummoxed brows. I’ll try to be less clever.
But epics aren’t for museless, lowbrow sissies,
And Henry Knox is (clearly) nothing like Ulysses.

Young John was like that really wimpy hobbit
Who found an evil ring and left the shire,
Taking a break from pipe weed, food, and habits
Of drink to wade through snow and swamp and fire
With fellows, till their paths branched out in forks—
Though one stayed true who helped him into Mordor,
And heading towards Mount Doom disguised as orcs
(With little thought of earning a reward or
Staying alive), they left the marching column…
Then Frodo got his finger bitten off by Gollum,

Showing us, through it all, his hidden spark
Of heroism, though not many got
To see (it mostly happened in the dark)—
Oh, what? You think I’m going to say it’s not
Like that? Well, friend, you’re wrong—that is exactly
What Becker Junior’s like. It’s such an apt
Comparison, in fact (not just abstractly),
That other epics are left handicapped
Without it. Since the Odyssey was authored,
This simile’s the best the Muse has ever offered.

Knox waddled forward, peeping through his layers,
A blubbered penguin, sinking deeper in
The snow with every step and sending prayers
Out to his unborn child as Lucy and kin
Sat warm beside a fire far away.
Old burly Becker perched his son up on
His shoulders, trudging waist-deep near a sleigh.
Young Becker glanced behind—more men were gone.
Blue uniforms: now clear and crisp, now blurry,
Now white, were swallowed by the overnourished flurry.

“Johnny!” his father said. “These oxen will
Be yours someday—if any live. I know
You’ll do things right. You’ll find your voice and fill
The world with it, loud and proud. You’ll show
Your worth to all, making the Becker name
Famous, respected. You’re a teamster, son!
Don’t let mere passengers and spongers tame
Your drive or tempt you with debasing sums—
Those sneaky city slickers!—hauling goods
That are beneath you. Find your path through streams and woods.”

They came upon a sight, then—Cohoes Falls.
Knox paused and sat, turning his tallied diary
Of weights and falling figures, costs and scrawls,
A new nun awed to reach her nestled priory:
Sunbeams reflecting off the frost, like silk.
Icicles, hanging pendant near the spew
Of water pouring like a stream of milk.
He turned to see young Becker writing, too—
The theme, his inner landscape. Father said
To find my voice. I can’t let go. Can’t count the dead.

Beyond the Falls, the Berkshires—blue, foreboding—
Pierced the sky. “We have to scale that?”
One teamster groaned. “Impossible!” Eroding
Confidence started gnawing like a rat
Upon frostbitten heels in soleless shoes.
Big Becker whipped an ox: “Come on, let’s go!
Iron won’t haul itself—no time to lose!”
The men are griping more, Knox noticed—low
Whispers were growing louder, gaining force.
He didn’t have a choice. They had to stay the course.

Like when Napoleon traversed the Alps
With elephants, eager to conquer Gaul
And Britain, then subdue those Roman whelps:
Crossing the Rubicon, he made that small
Speech on “the better artists of our nature”
Right after being stabbed by John Wilkes Booth,
Lee Harvey Oswald, sundry legislature
Members, and then John Wick (who still, in truth,
Believed the emperor had killed his dog)—
So Henry climbed the Berkshire mountains, into fog.

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Mutiny

Winching the sleds to trees and rocks, they heaved.
Some oxen lost their footing, breaking legs.
Wind blew one man straight off a cliff. They grieved.
A horse and soldier tumbled—rolling logs.
When going down, sleds got ahead of beasts
And pulled them to their death, towards warmer climes
Where they would thaw for crows, digest as feasts.
The howling cold turned screaming men to mimes.
The grumbling grew till some could take no more.
Confronting Knox, they shouted on the wind and swore.

One of the men—John Allen—flared his nostrils,
Freezing and famished, tired of this place.
A Massachusetts man, he’d fought with hostiles
Before, but didn’t sign up for a case
Like this. He spoke up: “Hefty Henry! Fat-
Brained Knox here has been leading us astray.
No hope of getting home from where we’re at.
You’re getting us all killed—and soon you’ll pay!
You’ll be the mountain’s next unlucky victim.”
The mutineer, approaching Henry gravely, kicked him.

Another man—let’s call him Ebenezer—
Came limping up behind, blowing his nose
Where mucus dripped like honey— “Achoo!” (a sneezer).
Teeth chattering, he slurred some broken prose:
“I suh-s-say we doss the cannons, durn
Back now. Suh-save what’s left of us fuh-few.
My cabin’s dat lil’ light down dere! Fires burn
All night. You’re welcome to my pot—achoo!”
Knox gave the man the kerchief that concealed
His marred, three-fingered hand. Red nasal pathways squealed.

The voice of Henry boomed above the storm:
“My friends! My fellow soldiers, teamsters, men
Of principle—don’t turn back now! The warm
Fires of your hearths will welcome you again,
And soon. A few more climbs, then the home stretch!
Just think of Washington, beleaguered, broke.
Recall enlisted pals, surrounded. Sketch
In your mind your families who bear the yoke
Of tyranny—would you have Howe enslave them?
Just follow me a little farther. You can save them.”

The mutineers looked at their feet. Some chose
To trudge on. Ebenezer nosed his sleeve.
John Allen, wiggling his unfeeling toes,
Said, “No—I’d rather kill you now and leave.”
He pulled a knife, advancing. Henry clenched
His fists. Big Becker stepped between them, towering—
And then they heard a rumble. “Avalanche!”
All turned: a tidal wave of white came showering.
As Becker pushed his son behind a rock,
Knox climbed a tree. The rest were flattened into chalk.

Young Becker poked his head above the snow.
“Father?” he cried. A voice called out: “I’m here!”
The boy—digging, climbing, scrambling—saw
A body dangling from a cliff face, sheer
And high. His little hand reached out to pull
The larger one that held on tight … but, slipping
Free from his grip, his little fingers full
Of air, the youngster felt his childhood ripping
Away, powerless, looking on in fright
As his mighty father fell into the misty night.

Just as the clapper of a broken bell
That hangs around a calfling’s neck will flail
Against the silver wall, but never knell
To warn the calf’s been lost, the youngster’s frail
Arm dangled, reaching over the cliff’s edge,
Mouth gaping in a fit of silent screaming.
He sat there, frozen, welling with the urge
To follow father into deep dark dreaming—
And then an elbow pulled him from the brink.
He swiveled into Knox’s eyes, murky as ink.

Worn Henry turned to scan the barren slope:
The teamsters dead, all buried to a man.
Beasts frozen stiff, one strangled by its rope
In flight. Some barrels peeking through white sand.
Knox, tired and trembling, fell onto his knees,
Tears freezing on his tingling cheeks like quartz.
The noble train had failed. There’d be no news
To bring, no help from men, no nearby forts.
He wondered what the journey had been worth
While gazing over all the kingdoms of the earth.

Shy Morning didn’t smile, self-effacing—
As if her horses, Old Dobbin and Nag,
Lame and arthritic from their endless racing,
Just couldn’t mount into the sky; so their hag,
Aurora, spread her frazzled mane of gray
Above the heads of mortals, never climbing
From bed, toes tapping to her chirping play-
Thing—wee Tithonus—and his steady timing
While shaded underneath her wrinkled sheet,
A goddess aged by lamplight. Dawn was obsolete.

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Poet’s Note

l. 169. The boy continued writing in his journal. John Becker Jr.’s Reminiscences of the American Revolution (Albany, NY: Leopold Classic Library, 1806) is the only primary source document for the Noble Train adventure other than Knox’s own journal. But where Knox’s account is full of logistical problems—weights, costs, and calculations—Becker’s account is more reflective and narrative-driven, telling the human story of the journey. For purposes of dramatic interest, this mock-heroic adaptation imagines the 12-year-old detailing the events as they happened, rather than from memory as an adult. Becker wrote of his childhood:

“The year of my birth was that of the introduction of the stamp act. What advantage a piece of paper possessed, because it bore certain marks upon it, more than any other piece without them, seemed quite a problem with the honest yeomanry of the day…My father told me that I had commenced my career in a stormy period, and that the unsettled times, would probably have an injurious effect upon my prospects.” (10)

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Andrew Benson Brown‘s epic-in-progress, Legends of Liberty, chronicles the major events of the American Revolution. He writes history articles for American Essence magazine and resides in Missouri. Watch his Classical Poets Live videos here.