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THREE:Retreat was now inevitable, and Burgoyne determined to attempt to reach Fort George, at the southern end of Lake George. He had but three days' provisions left, and his force was now reduced to three thousand five hundred men, and these had to make their way through a wilderness swarming with active and elate enemies. Gates, aware of the movement which Burgoyne was intending to make, sent troops up the river to occupy the banks of the Hudson, and to guard all[244] passages of escape. The distance to Saratoga was only six miles, but the rain fell in torrents, the roads were almost impassable, the bridges over the Fishkill were all broken down by the Americans. Burgoyne sent forward detachments of soldiers to repair the bridges and re-open the roads; but they found the woods swarming with riflemen, and that it was impossible to execute the task assigned them. On the 10th, when he arrived at the fords of the Fishkill, he found them obstructed by strong forces of Americans. He soon dispersed them with cannon, but they only retired to the Hudson, where still stronger bodies of troops were posted to oppose his crossing. He might, perhaps, have dispersed these too, but other bodies were seen already in line on the left bank, and to cross there appeared hopeless.A strong party, not satisfied with having destroyed Lord Mansfield's town house, set off to burn that at Caen Wood, near Highgate. They were met and turned back by a detachment of cavalry. They were equally disappointed in their intended sack of the Bank of England. They found this mine of wealth guarded by infantry, who had here orders to fire, and did it without scruple, killing and wounding a great many. They were more successful against the prisons. They broke open the King's Bench, the Fleet, the Marshalsea, and all the other prisons except the Poultry Compter, and set at liberty all the prisoners. Before the day had dawned, the whole sky was glaring with the light of conflagrations. The number of separate fires burning at the same time was counted up to thirty-six. Had the weather been stormy, the whole of London must have been laid in ashes; but, providentially, the weather was perfectly calm. The scene of the greatest catastrophe was at the distillery of a Mr. Langdale, on Holborn Bridge. This gentleman was a Catholic, and his stores of spirits were a violent temptation. They broke open his premises in the evening, and destroyed everything. They staved in his hogsheads of spirits, and others collected them in pails and in their hats, and drank voraciously. The kennel ran a mingled river of gin, brandy, and pure alcohol, and men, women, and children were seen on their knees sucking up the stream as it flowed! Fire was set to the premises, and catching the spirits which flooded the floors, the flames shot up to the sky like a volcano. The unhappy wretches, who had stupefied themselves with the fiery fluid, perished like flies in the raging element. No such scene of horror had been seen in all these spectacles of violence and crime. The loss of Mr. Langdale alone was estimated at one hundred thousand pounds.