by Ron Carter
In late dusk the decimated Germans, with redcoats and Tories mixed among them, ran blindly through the trees, stopping for nothing until they came to the road back to Sancoick, within sight of an occasional cabin. Exhausted, burning with thirst, half a dozen redcoats and Tories trotted to a small log meetinghouse for water, food if they could find it, and a few moments to drop to the floor and rest.
Inside, Mrs. Ebenezer Dewey, whose patriot husband was fighting with the rebels in Bennington, listened intently, then spoke in quiet urgency to the eight women and twelve children she had led there when the battle erupted in Bennington. “Not a word! Not a sound! I’ll take care of them.”
She reached for the single musket they had found when they entered the old building an hour earlier. The ancient weapon was unloaded, and she had no powder or musketballs. She pulled the ramrod from its receiver and dropped it down the barrel, then jerked the door open and strode boldly out to meet the oncoming enemy. With them barely twenty yards away she began working the ramrod up and down the barrel as though driving a ball home. Suddenly she paused, then turned and shouted over her shoulder, “It’s the enemy! Quick, men, load and fire!”
In an instant she whirled and ran back into the building, smashed out a window, and jammed the muzzle of the gun through it, pointing it at the leading man, now ten yards from the door.
The redcoats and Tories had seen enough of what stubborn Yankees could do with muskets from behind a wall. Without a word, they veered west and ran for the road. Inside the building, the women ran to the west window to watch, and as the last of the redcoats disappeared, they turned to cheer their savior, Mrs. Ebenezer Dewey, who was collapsed on a chair, barely clinging to the harmless musket, shaking like a leaf.
With dusk approaching, Stark issued orders, and the Americans began the work of seeking their dead, tending their wounded, counting the number of enemy who had fallen and those captured. Inside the walls of the redoubt atop the knoll, the searchers paused in surprise. Stacked beside the silent cannon were mounds of smooth stones. The Germans had run out of ammunition. They worked on into the night, searching through the woods and streams, silent, still hearing the wild shouts and screams and the unceasing din of muskets that had filled their world for three hours that seemed an eternity. The seasoned veterans, who had lived through engagements as far back as 1763, would forever remember the battle as the hottest they had ever seen.
A little past midnight the officers faced Stark with the numbers.
“Sir, it appears the Germans lost between nine hundred and one thousand men, killed or captured. We don’t know how many wounded. Baum died, along with nearly every man in his command. Breymann survived, but nearly half his column did not.”
Stark bobbed his head. “Very good.” His bushy brows were drawn down over his piercing eyes. “It appears we have returned the enemy a proper compliment for their Hubbardton engagement.”
* * * * *
For the fourth time in twenty minutes, General John Burgoyne looked at the clock inside his elaborate command tent. Fifteen minutes before four o’clock p.m. on the hottest day of the week. He reached for his quill, then tossed it aside. Something’s gone very wrong. Where’s Breymann? Has the earth opened and swallowed him?
Driven by the mounting conviction of a disaster, he stood and walked to the tent entrance, pivoted, and paced back. All Baum had to do was get horses and oxen and bring them here. And what happened? He got himself wounded and captured, according to those four beaten Germans who wandered in last night, but how many of his column did he lose? Breymann got there late, but where is he? What has happened to him? Fourteen hundred men! Four cannon! Enough to hold Fort Ticonderoga! And where are they?
He stopped his pacing long enough to take a deep breath. I should have this command well on its way south, toward Saratoga, but I can’t move without those horses! Where’s that son-in-law of St. Luc? Charles-Louis Lanaudiere? He and his Indians made it back, but all he knows is that he and his Mohawk ran like a pack of cowards when the fight started.
He stepped quickly to the entrance and spoke to the picket. “Send someone to get that son-in-law of St. Luc. Lanaudiere is his name. The one who came in from Bennington last night. Bring him here. I want to talk to him once more.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young lieutenant had moved only three steps when a commotion from the south end of camp stopped him. Burgoyne was halfway through the tent entrance when he heard it. Quickly, he turned and hurried into the clearing at the center of the camp, pensive, hoping. Relief flooded through him at the sight of Breymann, mounted on his horse, leading his column into camp.
Burgoyne called back to the lieutenant. “Go tell Breymann to come to my tent immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Breymann pushed through the tent flap, Burgoyne was standing behind his large, ornate desk, facing him, face intense, drawn. He spoke but one word. “Report.”
Dirty, exhausted, sweat showing through his uniform, Breymann drew himself to attention before the desk and began.
Rain delayed my march—arrived at Bennington yesterday at four o’clock—Baum’s column gone—all gone—Baum wounded—we engaged the rebels—their reinforcements arrived—too many of them—we retreated—they turned cannon on us—we left the battlefield—stopped to care for our wounded in the night—came directly here.
Breymann stopped. Burgoyne’s face was white.
“You stated Baum’s command is gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Dead or captured. All of them.”
“All of them?” Burgoyne blurted. “Baum, too?”
“Wounded, lying in a wagon, probably dying.”
“How many casualties in your column?”
“About half of us got back here. There are some—maybe many—who got lost in the forest and will probably make it here later.”
“Your cannon?”
“Abandoned.”
The signs were all too transparent to Burgoyne. He had seen too many battles not to grasp what had happened. A total, devastating, complete disaster.
His face was a blank as he spoke, and there was a bite in his words. “Very good. Make a complete written report before you do anything else.”
“Sir, my men need attention. They’re nearly finished.”
“Leave that to your subordinate officers. I want the written report.”
Breymann raised defensive eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Burgoyne followed Breymann to the tent entrance and spoke brusquely to the young, wide-eyed lieutenant: “Survivors of the Bennington affair will be coming in through the rest of the day, into the night. I want them to report to me before they speak to anyone else. Arrange it.”
“Yes, sir.”
They came in, exhausted, dirty, sweated out, some wounded, bandaged, a few carried on litters rigged with pine branches and military coats. Their eyes were dead, flat, expressionless. They were taken directly to the command tent, where Burgoyne interrogated them while he made notes. By ten o’clock the stack of paper was an inch deep. By midnight the bits and pieces were coming together. By dawn the picture was complete.
Burgoyne leaned back in his chair. His uniform was wilted, sweat-stained. He needed to shave, but he did not care. The expression on his face was that of a man who had just experienced his first taste of a fear worse than death. For Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne, the toast of London, the bon vivant of Paris, there could be no worse purgatory than failure in his conquest of the Hudson River valley. He sat slumped, head down, and he could not control his mind as it repeated over and over again the facts of the battle.
Baum, dead. Captain von Schieck left to die on the battlefield. Von Barner shot in the arm and chest. Captain von Bartling missing, presumed dead. Lieutenants Muhlenfeld, Gebhard, Meyer, d’Annieres, all dead. Hanneman shot in the neck. Spangenberg with a smashed shoulder. Breva, badly wounded, taken prisoner. Most cornets and color-bearers, killed, wounded, captured. Johann Bense, shot in the belly. Baum�
��s soldiers, nearly all dead, captured, or missing; a few had straggled in through the night, most mumbling incoherently. Half of Breymann’s column unaccounted for.
Burgoyne swallowed as his thoughts ran on. No horses. No oxen. No grain, food, supplies. I cannot move without them—cannot go on to Saratoga as planned. Must go on with what I have. Must go on.
A rustle at the tent entrance brought his head up.
“Sir, may I bring your breakfast?”
For ten seconds Burgoyne stared, unable to bring his mind back to his command tent and dawn approaching. He sat looking at the startled lieutenant in silence.
The young lieutenant’s eyes narrowed in question. “Sir, are you all right? Sir?”
Notes
For reasons yet unknown, General Burgoyne selected Colonel Friedrich Baum to lead a column of about six hundred German soldiers southeast from Fort Edward to obtain horses, grain, and other foodstuffs from the rich countryside surrounding the small village of Bennington. Colonel Baum spoke not one word of English, and, he took a German brass band with him, which played German songs as they marched along the road that passed Sancoick, followed the Hoosic River, then the Walloomsac River toward the town. By way of comic interest, the German band did include a tuba. Higgenbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 191.
Baum began his march with about six hundred men, but gathered nearly another five hundred Tories as he moved along, making a total above twelve hundred soldiers. Aware the Americans were scouting him, he dug his forces in atop a rise on the north side of the Walloomsac River, with a Tory redoubt or breastwork, on the south side. Feeling uneasy, Baum sent word back to Burgoyne for reinforcements.
American General John Stark came to meet him. After his scouts reported, Stark divided his command into three sections. One was to circle to the right, climb the hill and come into the cannon redoubt from the north, another was to circle the opposite direction and come in from the left. The third was to take the Tory redoubt. At that time, Tories often put white feathers, or white pieces of paper in their hatbands as a sign they were loyal to England. On this occasion, some of the local farmers who were fighting with Stark’s militia put white bits of paper in their hatbands to give the impression they were Tories, and were in among the Germans with their muskets and bayonets before the Germans understood they were not friendly.
After briefing his officers, Stark gathered his men and gave them a short but potent talk, ending with the words that have immortalized him. He concluded his speech by saying, “There are the redcoats, and they are ours, or Molly Stark sleeps a widow tonight!”
On his signal his men attacked, and the results were disastrous for the Germans. Stark’s men drove them from their hilltop redoubt, overran the Tory breastworks by the river, and chased them back up the road from which they had come.
The reinforcements Baum had requested entered the battle at that moment, when General von Breymann came in from the west with his column and a few cannon. For a moment it appeared he might turn the battle, but just as the Americans were falling back, Seth Warner and his New Hampshiremen came storming in from the east, hit Breymann’s command
head-on, and within minutes the battle became a rout, with the Germans running through the woods to escape.
The Battle of Bennington was a rousing success for the Americans. Baum lost nearly his entire column, Breymann about half of his. Baum died of the wounds he sustained in the battle. Altogether, it cost General Burgoyne about one thousand more of his best troops, and left him shocked, stunned, unable to comprehend how it could have happened. The recital of the names of the officers he lost or who were critically wounded, is accurate (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 291–319; Leckie, George Washington’s War, 397–98).
The incident involving Mrs. Ebenezer Dewey and the women she hid in the small meetinghouse, and then saved by bluffing the British soldiers with a single musket, is accurate according to the records of the town of Poultney, Vermont. Elaine Child, of Utah, graciously delivered to the author a copy of the book, A History of the Town of Poultney, Vermont, from Its Settlement to the Year 1875. The work was published by J. Joslin, B. Frisbie, and F. Ruggles, and printed by the Poultney Journal Printing Office in 1979. See pages 17–19. The author is grateful for the interest of Mrs. Elaine Child.
Saratoga
Late August, September, October 1777
CHAPTER XXX
* * *
The rain stopped at noon, and by one o’clock the sun had turned the dead air in the Hudson River valley into a stifling, sultry cauldron. Wisps of steam rose from countless streams, and from the dripping leaves and branches of the forest, and from the rolling waters of the great river.
Soaked, sweating, Billy and Eli moved silently through the dense tangle of wet foliage, speckled with points of sunlight filtering through the overhead canopy of trees. The river was four hundred yards to their left, Fort Ticonderoga nearly fifty miles behind, the tiny settlement of Saratoga with its neighboring settlement of Stillwater just ahead. Suddenly Eli raised a warning hand, and the two went to one knee, peering into the thick forest in silence. Seconds ticked by, and then the sound came again, close, from their right—the sound of something large moving through the sodden woods. Slowly Eli brought his rifle to bear, and Billy brought his musket in line.
The soft sound was twenty feet away when the ferns and tangled undergrowth moved. Silently Eli raised two fingers, and Billy read them—two men coming. An instant later the shadowy shapes emerged ten feet away, hunched slightly forward, muskets clutched before them. Billy and Eli remained silent, motionless as the two passed within five feet. Their dress was homespun, their battered, dripping hats colonial. One second later, Billy and Eli both stood and stepped out behind the two men, weapons raised.
Eli spoke quietly. “Stand easy. We’re friendly.”
At the sound of his voice both men pivoted, startled, thumbs reaching for the hammers on their muskets, and in the instant of their turning they saw the muzzles of the raised weapons four feet from their chests. Both men froze.
Billy spoke. “Put your muskets down.”
Both men set the butts of their muskets on the ground and grasped the barrels.
“Americans?”
“Yes. You?”
“American scouts looking for General St. Clair or General Schuyler.”
Relief showed in the faces of the two men as the one exclaimed, “St. Clair! Schuyler!” Suspicion clouded his face. “You’re Americans, and don’t know about what happened?”
“Tell us.”
“They’re gone. Called in by Congress. St. Clair gave up Fort Ti without a fight, and him and Schuyler lost about half their army wanderin’ around out in the woods, so Congress called ’em in and sent out a new general to take over.”
Billy broke in. “We know about Fort Ti. We were there three days ago. We’ve been tracking our army since. Where is it now?”
“Half an hour due south at Saratoga and Stillwater. We’re out to be sure the British aren’t sneakin’ up on us.”
“Who’s the new commander? The new general?”
“Gates.”
There was pain in Eli’s face as he spoke. “Horatio Gates?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The Gates that was at Trenton?”
“The same. Somethin’ wrong with that?”
Eli turned to look at the disgust in Billy’s face and ignored the question. “We’ve got to talk to him. Will you take us in, or do we go alone?”
“You got somethin’ to tell him?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“It’s for him.”
Eli and Billy started on, when the two men came hurrying after. “Hold on. We’ll take you on in, but don’t start tellin’ about gettin’ behind us.”
They fell into single file and moved south through the muggy heat, watching and listening. They broke from the gently rolling, wooded hills into a clearing with a few crude log homes that formed the place kn
own as Saratoga. A few American soldiers stopped to watch them pass as they continued on south to the tiny trading post and four cabins called Stillwater. Tents of every description, ragged, torn, patched, were scattered among the buildings and into the trees. Men and a few women slowed to look, and a few followed as the two scouts led Billy and Eli to the largest of the log buildings. The lieutenant at the door challenged, and they stopped.
The picket saluted the officer. “Two . . . uh . . . American scouts to see the general.”
“About what?”
“Won’t say.”
The picket turned to Billy. “Who are you? Why do you want to see the general?”
“Corporal Billy Weems and Private Eli Stroud. Under orders of General Washington. Reporting a scout to Fort Stanwix.”
A hush spread among those within earshot as the lieutenant’s eyes widened in surprise, and he disappeared through the door, then returned. “The general will see you.”
The two men entered the square room and waited a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. The walls were chinked logs, the fireplace made of rocks set in mud and mortar. Behind the plain desk, Major General Horatio Gates leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his paunch. His round, corpulent face was a mask of cool condescension as he silently studied the two men before him, dirty, trail-stained, wet, bearded.
His jowls moved as he spoke. “Yes, what is it?”
Eli stood loose and easy while Billy saluted and spoke. “Corporal Billy Weems and Private Eli Stroud reporting, sir. General St. Clair sent us to find Joseph Brant and his Mohawk Indians, and do what we could to help defend Fort Stanwix. We’ve returned to report.”
Gates nodded his head once. “I understand. You’re aware of the current circumstances of generals St. Clair and Schuyler?”
“We were just told.”
An almost undetectable smile passed over Gates’s face. “Regrettable. In any event, you’re back. What do you have to report?” He leaned forward casually, elbows and forearms on the desk, hands clasped as he waited.