by Ron Carter
Sweltering in the muggy late morning heat, the officers silently nodded.
“Just across the river, on that high knoll, the Hessians have built a redoubt with cannon, and off to the right, two breastworks. You can see the south wall of the redoubt from here.”
Again the officers nodded.
“The commander of the enemy force is a German colonel named Friedrich Baum.” Stark paused to look into the faces of his men, his face drawn into a puzzled frown. “Burgoyne sent him to get horses and oxen from the farmers, but Baum doesn’t speak a word of English! He came marching up the road from Sancoick with a German brass band banging! They had a tuba you could hear for three miles!”
He shook his head at the hilarious, comical thought of a column of blue-coated German soldiers marching through the rich farms spread for miles around the small, prosperous village of Bennington to his right, with a German brass band blaring, a tuba pumping out the beat, snare drums rattling, and every horse and ox within a mile running away from the road in terror. Stark could not make his practical, commonsense, hard New Hampshire head understand the stupidity of Burgoyne in sending a commander to buy or commandeer horses and oxen from the farmers to pull the British wagons and cannon, when the man didn’t have the slightest notion of local customs or temperament and couldn’t speak a single word of English. Stark shook his head and continued.
“Our scouts report the roads are drying after that cloudburst yesterday and last night. By afternoon we should be able to move quickly. And this, gentlemen, is what we’re going to do.”
He hunkered down to clear the twigs and growth from the ground at his feet and began to draw in the dirt with a stick.
“Here’s the Walloomsac River.” He drew a line from the west, curving southward, then arcing back up to the east.
“Bennington’s over here,” he made a line pointing east, “and Sancoick’s over here,” he made a line pointing west.
“The Tory redoubt is right here on this side of the river, and the German redoubt and breastworks are here, and here, atop that knoll on the other side.” He dug holes with his stick and glanced at his officers, then went on. “Our camp is over here to the east, just around the bend in the river. Is everyone clear?”
“Yes.”
“This afternoon, as soon as the roads are dry enough, we’re going to hit every one of their positions at the same time.”
He waited for comments to rise and dwindle, then looked at Lieutenant Colonel Moses Nichols of New Hampshire. “You’re going to take your command of men from our camp, here, and move around the bend in the river, circle up to the north, and come in on the German redoubt and breastworks from the north side, here, here, and here. Any questions?”
Nichols shook his head. “Clear.”
Stark turned to Colonel Samuel Herrick of Vermont. “Your three hundred men will move across the river, here, next to our camp, and move west over to this point. From there you’ll angle north to the river, cross it again, and hold your men, here, at the foot of that high knoll where the Germans have their redoubt. That will put the Germans between your force at the bottom of that little knoll, and Nichols’ men, up on top. If the Germans try to retreat down the hill, you engage them. If they don’t, go on up and give support to Nichols.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to colonels Thomas Stickney and David Hobard of New Hampshire. “You two will take your commands north, turn west where the river bends, cross the river, here, and take the Tory breastworks, here. Any questions?”
“None, sir.”
“That will leave about three hundred men. I will lead them across the river, here, where we’ll charge straight up the center, over the top of their camp, not far from Herrick’s men.”
He studied his drawing for a moment, then asked, “Can everyone here draw this map for their men?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stark continued. “The Reverend Thomas Allen’s back at camp, and he’s put me on notice that if he doesn’t get his Massachusetts boys into this, he’ll never come to support us again. Wherever he goes, put his men where they’ll get a strong taste of a good fight.”
He rose to his full height, shoulders square, his face as stern as that of an eagle. “One never knows about the fortunes of battle. I doubt we’ll need help, but I sent word back two days ago to Seth Warner. I’m sure the rain slowed him down yesterday, but he’s due in any time. Seth will know what to do when he gets here.”
Stark used his toe to scuff away his marks in the dirt. “Our scouts say Baum has about eight hundred troops: fifty British sharpshooters, a hundred German grenadiers and light infantry, three hundred Tories and Canadians and Indians, about one hundred seventy German cavalry without horses, and a handful of local loyalists.”
He waited for a moment to let his officers digest the strength of their enemy.
“With the fifteen hundred that came with us, and the five hundred that Allen and the others brought from Massachusetts and Vermont, we outnumber them more than double. If we follow the plan, this shouldn’t take long. Let’s get back to camp. Each of you take charge of your command and give your orders. I’ll want to talk with all the men just before the attack.”
The officers left the oak thicket in single file, and as they emerged, Stark paused to look back across the river at the high knoll. I wonder what that German up there is thinking by now. He’s had his scouts out—knows our numbers and where we are. Has he called for reinforcements? We’ll know soon.
* * * * *
In his command tent, Colonel Friedrich Baum paced, pensive, nervous, hands clasped behind his back, lower lip thrust forward, perspiration shining on his forehead. His entire life had been devoted to the military. It was all he knew. He made no pretense of brilliance; his rise to the rank of colonel was built on self-discipline, tough work, and complete dedication to duty. What he lacked in sharp mental acuity he made up for in bulldog grit and determination.
Where is Breymann? He has had time to march here with two days to spare. Have the rebels engaged him? Beaten him? Is he not coming at all? The rebels have been moving in the trees for two days, taking up positions first one place and then another. They have two men for each one of mine. We cannot withstand an all-out attack.
He stopped pacing long enough to seize a cloth from his desk and wipe at his sweating face.
Major von Meibom is becoming a nervous wreck. He peeks over the wall of the redoubt and he thinks he sees hundreds of rebels sneaking to attack. He knows our Indian scouts are out looking for rebels, and they are seeing none. Only a few farmers with white bits of paper in their hatbands to show us they are friendly loyalists. He does not think they are loyalists, and that a few rebel farmers make an army, so he wants a cannon. He does not need a cannon. He needs to find a little courage, but he will not do that, so I will have to send him a cannon.
Baum jumped at the opening of his tent flap.
“Colonel, it is past noon. Shall I bring your meal?”
Baum waved the lieutenant off and continued his pacing.
They will come today. They will attack, and we will be overrun—lose all our men, killed or prisoners. Has von Riedesel forgotten us? Burgoyne? When they come, do I commit all my men to a battle we will surely lose, or do I withdraw now and retreat, or do I surrender immediately?
He stopped pacing and squared his shoulders. I am becoming like Meibom. I must take charge of myself. I must remember discipline. I cannot lead if I cannot discipline myself. Breymann will come to support us. If we are attacked first, we will fight, and we will hold until Breymann arrives. We shall succeed. We shall win.
By force of will he sat down at his desk, and as he reached for a document he glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes before two o’clock.
To the south, across the river, General John Stark removed his tricorn and wiped out the sweatband with a soiled handkerchief. He held the black hat in his hand for a few minutes, waiting for the last of his men to assemble in the small
clearing, shielded from the telescopes of the Germans on the knoll two miles to the northwest.
Colonel Nichols counted the last of them, then said, “They’re all here, sir.” Stark settled his tricorn back on his head, walked out into the center of the men, and raised his voice.
“I won’t take much time. You’re all here to fight for what’s yours: your wives, your children, your homes. But more than that, for freedom and liberty for your children. I don’t need to remind you what Burgoyne did when he turned his Indians onto us. All of you have heard of the murders and scalpings. Most of you know someone who they massacred. Some of you lost part of your family to them. You all remember what they did to Jane McCrae, and she was one of their own.”
He stopped and a murmuring spread for a few moments.
“We came here to defend our land, and that’s what we’ll do. I’m proud to be among you. It is a privilege and an honor to lead you. I and my command will march right up the middle of their fortifications, and with you beside us, and the Almighty watching over us, we’ll own that nest of Germans before we finish.”
Again voices rose in support. He waited until they quieted, then turned to point to the northwest, toward the walls of the redoubt two miles distant, faintly visible in the distance.
“There they are, boys. There is the enemy, and they are ours, or Molly Stark sleeps a widow tonight.”
A shout drowned him out as he dropped his arm and turned on his heel to march away, chin high, back ramrod straight. Officers Nichols, Herrick, Stickney, and Hobard followed him to his command tent. He did not enter, but stopped outside the front flap.
Nichols spoke. “General, I think my command’s going to be a little thin if we have to attack the redoubt and the breastworks at the same time. Can you spare a few more men?”
Stark pondered for a moment. “I can spare one hundred men. Enough?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Each of you take charge of your command now. Get them into place as quickly as you can, and keep them out of sight. Colonel Nichols, we’ll be waiting for your signal from up on top. Attack when you’re in place, and the ground is dry enough to move fast. Remember, success is going to depend on our hitting them from three sides at once. Be ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
On the rim of the knoll, a blue-coated German private started, adjusted his telescope to look again, then leaped to his feet. Minutes later he careened around the corner of Colonel Baum’s command tent and stopped before the picket.
“I have information about the rebel movements. Important.”
Inside the tent, Baum mopped his face and listened to the excited private.
“Sir, I’m sure I saw a large column of rebels moving north from their camp. They were armed, moving fast. If they continue on their course, then turn west, they can come in behind us, from the north.”
Baum leaned forward. “What’s this? More stories of rebels moving around? Why have I not heard this from our Indian scouts?”
“I do not know, sir. I only know what I saw.”
Baum flipped a hand and leaned back in his chair. “Go back to your post. I will send out a patrol in a few minutes.”
Dejected, the private turned on his heel and left the tent. Baum glanced at the clock. Two minutes before three o’clock. He waved flies from his face and reached for the duty roster for the day, searching for a few men he could send out on a quick scout to the northeast. His finger was halfway down the first page when the first crackle of musketfire rolled through camp from the north. His head jerked up, and he sat frozen, wide-eyed, stunned, shocked. Seconds later the silence was shattered by the second sustained volley of muskets, this time from the south. The echoes had not died in the forest when the sound of two thousand American voices raised in full battle cry filled the German fortifications as the four segments of Stark’s command came shouting from hiding, bayonets mounted and flashing as they reloaded on the run. They were less than fifty yards from the redoubt when they burst from the trees, and Meibom’s blue-coated German scouts sprinted for the entrance with musketballs ripping into them.
The German regulars inside the walls stood fast and fired their first return volley. Americans stumbled and went down, but the charging line did not stop. In one minute Nichols’s men were at the entrance, and then they surged inside, swinging their muskets, lunging with their bayonets, knocking Germans and terrified Indians backward in a wild hand-to-hand battle within the confining walls. Baum’s coveted cannon were forgotten, useless in the close-quarter, face-to-face chaos. The Indians ran out the back doors, or climbed the walls, or leaped through the small windows, and then the Germans broke and followed them.
They ran pell-mell away from the redoubt, and Herrick’s riflemen were waiting. Their first volley took the panic-stricken Germans by total surprise and opened great holes in the fleeing lines. Germans and Indians dropped everywhere, finished. Others threw up their hands in surrender, and still others tried for the trees, only to be cut down by the second volley from Herrick’s command.
At the sound of Nichols’ first volley up on the knoll, Stickney and Hobart led their men plunging into the river, muskets held high as they waded through water up to their chests, to emerge dripping five hundred yards from the breastworks where the Tories crouched, waiting. Stark jerked his sword from its scabbard and led his men forward at a run, and the charging Americans never stopped. They spread out into a battle line, and when the Tories raised from behind their breastworks to fire, the Americans fired first. They continued in their headlong charge through their own musket smoke, loading as they ran, screaming at the top of their lungs. They plowed into the breastworks, leaping over the walls, lunging with their bayonets, swinging riflebutts, firing at point-blank range. The Tories threw down their muskets, turned, and sprinted for the river, with the Americans right behind them. They leaped into the water, and when they refused to stop on command, they were shot as they scrambled up the far bank.
Up on the knoll, Nichols had cleaned every German, every Indian, out of the redoubt and the breastworks. Below, Herrick and Stark had captured or killed most of them as they tried to escape. To the south, Stickney and Hobart had captured or killed nearly every Tory who had been at their breastwork.
It was not yet half past three o’clock.
Three miles to the west, Colonel Heinrich Breymann and his command of six hundred heard the rattle of the distant muskets, and Breymann turned to shout orders.
“Colonel Baum is under fire! Forward at double-time!” Twenty minutes later he slowed his horse to stare at a man staggering toward him, bloodied, limping, sweating, dirty. Baum reached for his pistol as the man stumbled up to his horse.
“Who are you?” Breymann demanded.
The man was gasping for air as he turned and pointed back up the road. “Americans. Shooting. They’ve killed us all.”
Breymann turned to his aide. “Give him a canteen.” To his men he shouted, “Forward, at the double!” With Philip Skene at his side, followed by six light cavalrymen, he raised his horse to a canter. As he rounded the last bend in the road and came into full sight of the battlefield, he reined in his mount, unable to understand what lay before him.
The battle was over. Baum’s command of eight hundred was gone, either dead or captured. Baum himself was lying in the bed of a wagon, mortally wounded. Colonial farmers with their shirtsleeves rolled up and bits of white paper in their hatbands were running toward him, shouting words in English that Breymann did not understand. He raised his hand to his men to hold their fire, certain the white bits of paper in their hatbands identified the incoming farmers as friendly loyalists. He was stunned when the leaders stopped, leveled their muskets, and blasted their first volley into his column. He shook his head to recover, then turned to call out orders.
His two cannon were wheeled around near a small log hut, and opened fire on the charging Americans, while his first two regiments ran forward and went to one
knee to deliver their first volley before the Americans could recover from the grapeshot. Quickly his troops formed a solid battle line around their cannon as the cannoneers touched off their second blast of grapeshot at the Americans, who began falling back. Exhausted from two hours of close fighting, drained by the terrible heat, Stark’s command was moving back, trying to gain time to recover from the unexpected cannon, rally, and get organized to meet the fresh German column that had appeared from nowhere. Stark had his sword raised, shouting, “Rally ’round me, boys, rally ’round me!”
At that moment a voice from the east rose above all other sounds to bellow, “Fix bayonets! CHARGE!”
Every American turned his head to see, and they raised their voices once more in a rousing shout.
Colonel Seth Warner! Long overdue, like a warrior from heaven, he was leading his regiment of Vermonters at a run, sword flashing in the blistering afternoon sun. Beside him, old Major Rand with ninety more robust men held the pace. They came streaming in, straight at Breymann’s battle line, shouting, shooting, bayonets thrust forward. The Germans fired one hasty musket volley, too high, and suddenly broke to run away. Their cannoneers were only seconds from firing their next load of grapeshot when Warner’s command overran them, knocked aside the gunners, grabbed the trails to turn the cannon, and touched off two loads of grapeshot into the fleeing Germans before they had covered fifty feet.
Still mounted, Breymann shouted, “Fall back! Fall back!” The German retreat became a frenzied rout as the Germans dropped their muskets to run for the woods. The Americans stormed after them, shooting, lunging with their bayonets. Breymann, fighting his rearing horse, watched in horror as more than one-third of his command was cut down while they ran. The Americans followed them a short distance into the woods, then slowed, listening as the sounds of the German stampede died. They wiped at their sweaty faces before they marched back to the road in early dusk in the peculiar quiet that settles when the guns of battle have fallen silent.