Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  For a moment Arnold stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight. Gates laid down his quill, leaned back in his chair, and interlaced his fingers across his paunch. “Be seated, General. There’s something you wanted to discuss?”

  Arnold sat facing Gates across the desk. “I understood I was to be assigned three New York companies. I found out late yesterday that Major Wilkinson assigned them to General Glover’s regiment. Did Wilkinson make a mistake?” Arnold’s manner was direct as always.

  Gates looked at him steadily. “No, Wilkinson did not make a mistake. The error was mine. I shall correct it.”

  For several moments Arnold stared at Gates, struggling to believe that a general whose entire military career had been an example of office work could make such a monumental blunder. Gates the paper shuffler. That he could misplace three companies of New York militia was unthinkable. A question rose nagging in Arnold’s thoughts. Is he trying to hurt me because I didn’t replace Livingston and Clarkson as my aides?

  A voice of alarm sounded in the back of his head, and he moved past it. “I thought those men were under my command, and I gave them orders. They ignored me. It was humiliating when they said I wasn’t their commanding officer.”

  “I’ll take care of it. By the way, have you found anyone to replace your two aides? Livingston and Clarkson?”

  At that moment a disquieting assurance took root in Arnold’s brain. It is Livingston and Clarkson. He’s punishing me! An almost indiscernible edge crept into his voice. “Not yet.” He took a breath and moved on.

  “There’s another matter. I understand John Brown is now a lieutenant colonel in Benjamin Lincoln’s command. John Brown has spread vicious lies about me and others. Totally unreliable. I take it as a personal affront that he’s been lately coming to war councils, when I haven’t been notified to attend. He’s a colonel, I’m a general. I don’t understand it.”

  Gates’s answer was casual. “He’s been called in regarding matters on which he has certain knowledge. Nothing more than that.”

  “The other generals were invited.”

  Gates shrugged. “If you were not notified, I was unaware of it. I sent my aides.”

  “Wilkinson?”

  “And others. I’ll see to it they make certain you’re notified in the future. My apologies for the error.”

  “There’s one more thing. I understand today is the day Wilkinson and Udney Hay, and maybe Colonel Kosciuszko, are going north to look for a better place to meet Burgoyne.”

  “They are. They’re going to the place the locals mentioned. Bemis Heights, three miles north of here.”

  “I’d like to go along.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “If we pick the right place, we can take down Burgoyne’s whole army.”

  Gates shrugged. “As you wish.” He fixed Arnold with a dead stare, waiting.

  Arnold rose. “That’s all I had. If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”

  “Report back when you return from your tour with Major Wilkinson.”

  Arnold turned to leave, and as he closed the door, the thought struck him: Is he trying to provoke me into an act of insubordination? This matter of John Brown—Wilkinson assigning three companies of my men to Glover’s division—failing to notify me of war councils? Would he do that to provoke me? Slowly, thoughtfully, he walked through the morning sun to his own command tent and ordered his tall, black horse, Warren, to be saddled for his ride north.

  With Arnold leading, the four men cantered their horses from Stillwater, north on the River Road that followed the meander of the Hudson River, flowing south one hundred yards to their right. They were sweating beneath a fierce sun, moving slowly, critically studying the rise and fall of the hills and valleys to their left, seeking a place where the build of the land would give them the high ground, with little chance the British could reach their flanks. The sun was three hours high before Arnold pulled in his mount, wiping sweat from his eyes as he peered at a rise just ahead, to his left.

  “That might be the place.” They spurred their horses left, from the River Road onto a dim wagon track skirting the base of the hill. They passed the Bemis Tavern, in the fork of the road, and minutes later left the wagon track to circle to their right, upward, until they crested out on top. With an eye made wise by the successes and mistakes of countless battles, Arnold turned his horse facing north and sat still, going over every inch of the ground, from the east where the River Road skirted the Hudson River, to the west, where thick, dense woods covered the hills and sharp ravines. The other three men fanned out beside him, each sitting his horse in the sun, sweating, also studying the lay of the land.

  Several minutes passed before Arnold broke the silence. “This will do.” For a moment he sat in sober reflection, pondering his strained relations with Gates. He turned to Wilkinson and Hay. “You better get General Gates to come inspect it. I’ll stay here with Colonel Kosciuszko to ride further north to be sure what’s there.”

  It was past four o’clock in the afternoon before Gates and his staff sat their horses on the top of Bemis Heights, listening intently as Arnold laid out the field as he saw it, Kosciuszko beside him.

  “If Burgoyne is going to succeed, he’ll have to take this hilltop. So, here, on this high ground, is where we build our strongest breastworks. This is where our headquarters should be.” He pointed to his right, toward the Hudson. “There, down between the River Road and the river we’ll put a battery of cannon with breastworks to stop anything coming down the river.” He shifted his point to his left, where steep ravines broke the land nearly a mile distant, with maple, pine, and oak so thick it was nearly impassable. “The British will not want to come through those ravines. They know our woodsmen will pick them apart in those trees.” He changed his point once again, due north. “Directly ahead is Mill Creek. It runs nearly due south, and has three branches, all coming in from the west. Near the headwaters of Mill Creek is a farm owned by a man named Freeman. He’s gone, but a man named Leggett has taken over the farm. Leggett left when he found out we were coming.”

  He paused, then again raised his pointing hand. “About a mile past Freeman’s farm is a big ravine. Steep, rocky sides, with a creek in the bottom. Burgoyne’s going to have trouble crossing it if he comes that way, but it can be done.”

  He stopped to consider, then went on. “The building west of us is a barn. It sits on a small farm owned by John Neilson. Neilson’s joined us. We can reinforce the barn and use it as part of our breastworks.” He dropped his hand and turned toward the group of men. “If we build solid breastworks here, and dig in with cannon, they’ll have trouble dislodging us.”

  He pointed again. “With the river to the right, and that broken ground to the left, that leaves but one place the British can come. Straight at us, across that open ground in the middle. My guess is Burgoyne will come somewhere close to Freeman’s farm. There’s some rolling ground there, away from the trees, and it’s not as exposed as the ground a little further east, directly ahead of us. If he does, we can meet him right around Freeman’s farm. There are patches of woods there, and some fences that can hide our men. We should be able to either stop him, or slow him down. If he gets past Freeman’s farm, he’ll come on to this place, and we’ll be waiting with cannon and our reserves.”

  There was no man among them, including Gates, competent to dispute a thing Arnold had said. Gates turned to Wilkinson. “Draft orders for me to sign.” He turned to Kosciuszko. “Can you see to it the proper fortifications are built?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  In the lamplight of Burgoyne’s command tent, no one spoke or moved as Burgoyne finished giving orders. “Our scouts tell us the rebels are entrenched on Bemis Heights. To defeat them, we’ll have to push them off. I remind you again, their strength is now reported to be above nine thousand. We have less than six thousand, so there is no room for error.”

  He paused fo
r a moment while his war council accepted the fact that Burgoyne’s decision to sit for four weeks at Fort Edward collecting supplies had allowed the Americans to regroup, send out messengers, and gather militia and continentals from nearly every New England state. None had dreamed they would come flocking, outraged at the horrors inflicted by Burgoyne’s Indians, waiting for the day they could avenge the brutal killing of Jane McCrae. Now they outnumbered the British, who were only too keenly aware that the entire rebel army could hardly wait to tear into their red-coated ranks, win, lose, or draw.

  Burgoyne continued. “You all understand? General Fraser, you take our right wing, with cannon. You will turn their flank and push them east toward the river. I will be with Brigadier Hamilton and General von Breymann in the center, moving straight south toward Bemis Heights. General von Riedesel will command our left wing, over by the river. Once General Fraser turns their flank, we drive them to the river where we trap them and destroy them.”

  Each of his generals nodded their head. “Yes, sir.”

  Burgoyne glanced at the clock on the worktable. Ten minutes past ten o’clock p.m. “It’s late. Go back to your troops and get some rest. We march south in the morning as soon as the weather permits. Good luck to each of you.”

  * * * * *

  Dawn was little more than a change of color in the thick, wet fog that lay heavy on the Hudson River valley. It collected on the brows and hair and beards of the men to leave their faces glistening, their clothing damp. They sat shivering at their battle stations, eating cold, sliced mutton and cheese, and gnawing on hardtack. They lifted the frizzens on their muskets to check the gunpowder in the pans again and again.

  From far to the north the ghostly clanking of moving cannon reached them queerly in the drifting gloom. They closed their eyes to listen, and tried to count, but could not. They wiped at their beards and brows, checked their gunpowder once more, and waited. In their breasts smoldered a need for the battle they had been denied at Fort Ticonderoga, and they were counting minutes, anxious to finally come face-to-face with those who had sent Indians into their farms and settlements to commit their unthinkable atrocities.

  At the west end of the American breastworks, under command of General Benedict Arnold, Billy and Eli sat with their backs against the thick, two-mile long, dirt-filled log wall that Kosciuzsko had designed and the Americans had built at the crest of Bemis Heights, facing north. Gates had established his battlefield headquarters inside the three-sided fortress, and with cannon batteries covering all approaches, Gates was certain of one thing: all he had to do was wait for Burgoyne to throw his army against the breastworks. The rebel cannon crews would leave half of the British dead on the open ground stretching before the foot of the hill, and the remainder of them on the slope beneath the cannon muzzles. Gates had his entire command inside the walls, waiting to see how Burgoyne would proceed to attack, for one thing was certain: Burgoyne had to attack. He had to take the American breastworks on the ridge of Bemis Heights or forever be denied reaching Albany.

  Odd thoughts arise in the minds of men while waiting for a battle. The probability of killing, and the possibility of being killed, lurk continuously in the far, dark recesses of their consciousness to color every thought, while a source beyond their control feeds common things to their brain, disconnected, unrelated. Is Sarah all right?—with the baby six months along—did the calf get over the colic?—did Jeremy fix the leak in the well bucket?—the pigs are going to be ready by fall—ham and bacon for the winter—got to find a way to keep the rats out of the corncrib—wish I could write to Martha and the children—must learn to write.

  Billy shifted his musket and moved his legs. “Fog’s bad for this time of morning.”

  Eli spoke without moving. “Makes people edgy.”

  Billy rested his head back against the log wall. “Thought much lately about your sister?”

  “When this is over, I’m going to talk to some of the people from up there. Vermont, New Hampshire. Maybe someone will know.”

  “I hope you—”

  A voice came calling in the fog. “Weems and Stroud! If you’re there call out. Weems and Stroud!”

  “Here!” Billy called, and both men stood, waiting.

  Two soldiers appeared, shrouded in the fog. “You Weems and Stroud?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on. Gen’l Arnold wants to see you.”

  They followed the two dark forms more than a hundred yards before they came to Arnold’s command tent. One man pushed the flap aside, entered, and returned immediately. “Go on in. Gen’l’s waiting.”

  A lamp cast the room in yellow gloom. Arnold stood beside his desk, impatient, anxious. He wasted no words.

  “Stroud, you ever scout in the fog?”

  Eli nodded.

  “Can you go find those redcoats and report back to me?”

  “I think so.”

  “How do you keep from getting lost in fog this heavy?”

  “Walk in straight lines and count steps. Helps if you know the country. The landmarks, like rivers and mountains.”

  “You know this country well enough to do it?”

  “Yes, after working on these breastworks for a week, I know the country.”

  “You go alone, or does Weems go with you?”

  “That’s up to Billy.”

  “I’m going.”

  Arnold nodded. “Burgoyne’s no fool, and I have a feeling he’s trying to flank us. I have to know. Any reason you can’t leave from here, right now?”

  Eli shrugged. “No.”

  “Get back here as soon as you can.”

  At twenty-five minutes past nine o’clock, Arnold stopped pacing when his aide pulled back the tent flap. “Weems and Stroud are back, sir.”

  “Get them in here!”

  Eli spoke. “You were right. There’s a strong force off to our left, about four miles north, moving this way. Redcoats, Germans, some Indians, Canadians, and a few Tories. They have cannon. If they come on in the direction they’re moving now, they’ll be out there on our left.”

  Arnold’s chin thrust forward. “Go on.”

  “There’s another big force directly in front of us, coming right up the middle. Mostly British. Some cannon.”

  “And the east? Anyone coming from the east?”

  “They’re Germans, but I don’t know about cannon, or how many, because we ran out of time. Somebody better pay attention to that bunch coming in from our left. If they get in behind us with a cannon, we could have trouble.”

  Arnold bobbed his head once. “Just as I thought. Stay here.” He grabbed his tricorn off his worktable and hurried out into the fog. Three minutes later, without knocking, he barged through the door into General Gates’s small office. Gates jerked upright in his chair, startled.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “This couldn’t wait on all the formalities. There’s a strong column of British working their way around our left. They have cannon. If they flank us, we’re going to have trouble.”

  Gates asked, “How do you know all this? We have no scouts out in this fog.”

  “I sent two out.”

  “Without notifying me?”

  “I didn’t think I had to notify you. The question is, what do we do about it?”

  Gates still had his feathered quill in his hand. “Nothing. We wait. The fog will lift soon. We can attend to them after that.”

  Arnold took an iron grip on himself. “Sir, when the fog lifts, may I recommend we send out some of my command to find that column coming on our left?” He paused to weigh his words, threw caution aside, and plunged on, voice rising. “Battles are won by those who take the initiative. Strike first. If we let Burgoyne pick the time and place to attack, we’ll be giving away some of our advantage.”

  Gates’s eyes sharpened and he shook his head decisively. “This breastwork was designed to withstand any attack. I’m not going to waste time or men, out trying to engage a small part of Burgoy
ne’s army, when all we have to do is wait for him to attack.”

  Arnold’s answer came hot. “Don’t underestimate Burgoyne. He’s vain and pompous, but in a fight like this one, he’s shrewd and tough. If he flanks us with enough good men, he can hurt us. Bad.”

  Gates abruptly stood and tossed his quill on his desk, tenuously clinging to his temper. “All right. Send out some men from Morgan’s command, and from Dearborn’s, and remember, what comes of it is on your head, not mine. Morgan’s and Dearborn’s, and none others. Not one more man in this . . . futility.”

  For a moment the two men stood still, facing each other, eyes blazing, nearly trembling. In a single stroke what had been festering between them for weeks was laid wide open, raw, ugly. Arnold, the warrior, knew in his soul that the battle that would likely turn the entire revolution was but hours away, and he knew just as surely that Gates, the politician, was incapable of fighting it. And he knew with deadly certainty that at this moment it would shatter the American army if he forced an open, bitter split with Gates. Divided within itself, the army would fail, and above all else, Arnold would not let that happen if he could avoid it. Shaking, with every fiber of his being crying to strike out at Gates, Arnold clamped his jaw tight, turned on his heel, and strode from the tent. He did not slow as he stalked through the fog back to his own command tent and turned to his aide. Billy and Eli stood quietly to one side.

  “Get Morgan and Dearborn over here.”

  Arnold selected a map, unfolded it, anchored the corners, and was studying it when the aide opened the door. “They’re here, sir.”

  General Daniel Morgan entered first, Dearborn following, Billy and Eli right behind. Six feet tall, thick-shouldered and necked, strong face, Morgan had run his own freight wagons before he joined the British army in their war against France. Strong, agile, a born rifleman, leader, and forest fighter, it was Morgan who had defied ridiculous orders from a pompous young British captain. The captain made the mistake of reaching for his sword, and with one blow of his fist Morgan knocked him rolling into a corner, unconscious. When the officer regained his senses he ordered Morgan punished with five hundred strokes of the lash. Forever after, Morgan claimed he only got four hundred ninety-nine strokes—that they still owed him one—and he had joined the rebels when they rose against the British. Dearborn was average in build, round-faced, tended to be quiet.