Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Then Burgoyne learned that General John Stark, with more than a thousand men from New Hampshire, had sealed off all roads to the north. It was obvious to Burgoyne that he had no chance of victory. He exchanged negotiations with Gates, terms of surrender were agreed upon, and on 17 October 1777, in formal proceedings at Fish Creek, near Saratoga, Burgoyne surrendered his sword, and what remained of his tattered army, to General Gates.

  This time, when Gates wrote his report to Congress, he had no choice but to give Benedict Arnold his due. Too many other generals, such as Dearborn, Learned, and Morgan, knew what had happened. The report was glowing with Arnold’s bravery and courage.

  The surrender of Burgoyne’s army was reported to King George on 2 December 1777, and Horace Walpole, famed London sage and newspaper writer, reported that “the king fell into agonies.”

  When the news reached Benjamin Franklin in Passy, the small town where he lived, near Versailles, he used it effectively in a meeting on 12 December 1777 with Comte de Vergennes, the French foreign minister, to persuade Vergennes, and then King Louis, to enter the war on the side of the Americans. On 6 February 1778, the long awaited treaty between the United States and France was signed, bringing France into the war with a promise of men and ships to fight the British. On 13 March 1778, France declared war on England, and on 13 June 1778, open shooting warfare occurred between a French ship and two British ships near Ushant, a small island off the Brittany coast.

  France had become America’s ally in America’s quest for liberty (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 336–448; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 389–426; Mackesy, The War for America, pp. 130–41; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 193–97).

  The reader will recall the incident after the battle was over wherein Billy spoke with young Oliver Boardman. Oliver Boardman was an American soldier who did write the letter to his mother. The letter as it appears in this book is quoted verbatim from that actual letter. The American soldiers believed with all their hearts that “the Hand of Providence” had “work’d wonderfully in Favour of America” (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 436–37).

  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 known 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.

  “Colonel St. Leger and Joseph Brant placed Fort Stanwix under siege. General Nicholas Herkimer came from O
riskany to give support to Colonel Gansevoort at the fort. He was ambushed by Brant and Sir John Johnson, and the militia took heavy casualties. They retreated back to the settlement. Herkimer died of his wounds. Brant and Johnson went back to the siege. Then General Benedict Arnold arrived with a column of militia and continentals. Eli and General Arnold tricked Brant and St. Leger, and two weeks ago, St. Leger lifted the siege, then went back to Oswego to get more men and heavier guns. On the way, Brant’s Mohawk went wild and murdered some of St. Leger’s regulars. Eli and I followed St. Leger and Brant to Oswego. St. Leger and his army left for Montreal, and they’re not coming back. Eli parlayed with Joseph Brant and his warriors to persuade them to quit the British. Most of Brant’s men left him to go home. Brant gathered up what Indians he had left and came this way to get more as he came down the Mohawk Valley. Most of his men have left the British, and it looks like Brant is going to leave, too. All that comes down to the fact that almost none of the men Burgoyne expected to get from the west will be coming to join him.”

  Gates reached to tug at his long nose and pursed his mouth for a moment before he spoke. “Where’s Arnold now?”

  Billy glanced at Eli, puzzled. When one general referred to another in the presence of enlisted men, the protocol was to use the term “General.” Gates had not.

  “He went on to Fort Stanwix, then left to return here. He’s leading a column of men. Should be here any day.”

  Gates brushed flies from his face. “You say he tricked Brant?” Amusement filled Gates’s face. “What trick?”

  Eli answered. “Sent a demented man with a message.”

  Gates looked at Eli. “A demented man?” He chuckled. “Well, we’ve got enough of those around. Why a demented man?”

  “Indians think they’re special—touched by Taronhiawagon.”

  Gates eyebrows arched. “Who’s this Taron person?”

  “The Great Spirit.”

  “What was the message?”

  “That Dark Eagle was coming with a great army.”

  “Who’s Dark Eagle?”

  “Arnold. The Indians call him that.”

  Gates brows dropped. “And the Indians believed this demented person?”

  “Yes. They were running west within an hour.”

  “Who told Arnold about this ‘trick,’ as you call it?”

  “Me.”

  Gates ran his eyes over Eli’s buckskin hunting shirt and breeches, and his eyes came back to the tomahawk and knife in his weapons belt, then his long rifle. “How did you know about it?”

  “Raised Iroquois.”

  Gates quickly covered his surprise. “I see.” He turned back to Billy. “Is there anything else, Corporal?”

  For a moment Billy stood in silence, startled that Gates had asked not one word about conditions at Fort Stanwix, Colonel Gansevoort, his men, Oriskany, Herkimer’s death, his men, or even the route by which the two of them had returned. “No, sir, not unless you have some questions.”

  Gates shrugged. “I have no questions. You are dismissed.”

  Billy blinked in surprise. “Uh, sir, do you have further orders? What regiment should we report to?”

  A look of irritation flitted over Gates’s face. “To the regiment you left.”

  “That was with General Washington.”

  “Then find my aide, Major James Wilkinson. Tell him I said to assign you wherever he sees fit.”

  “Sir, is that the Major Wilkinson that was at Trenton and Princeton?”

  “Yes. It is.” Suddenly Gates realized the implication, and instantly he became focused. “Were you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both Billy and Eli saw the defensive flash in the general’s eyes as he drew in his chin and thrust his chest out slightly. “Then you know Major Wilkinson. Report to him. That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

  Billy saluted, and the two had reached the door before Gates’s voice stopped them. “I might mention, it is customary for enlisted personnel to salute an officer when making such a report. One of you failed to do so.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. “I trust that will be corrected in the future. That’s all.” He waved a hand and turned his attention to paperwork on his desk.

  In the split second it took Eli to understand what Gates had said, Billy grasped his elbow and steered him out the door, closed it, and walked him splashing through the muddy water into the streets of the tiny hamlet. He kept his iron grip on Eli’s elbow and didn’t slow until they had covered ten yards. He looked at Eli’s face and could see ridges along his jawline and lightning in his eyes.

  “Let it go,” he said. “The man has too much on his shoulders.”

  Billy felt Eli’s arm slowly relax, and he watched the fire leave his eyes as he regained control of his anger. Eli said nothing as they continued walking through the muddy street, looking for an officer. To their left, a captain and a lieutenant ducked through the flap of a tent to stride toward Gates’s office, eyes downcast as they picked their way through the muddy puddles.

  Billy raised a hand. “Sir, General Gates ordered us to find Major James Wilkinson. Could you direct us?”

  The captain peered at the two men for a moment, searching for recognition that would not come. “What regiment are you with?”

  “Massachusetts.”

  The captain slowed. “There is no Massachusetts regiment here.”

  “Is Major Wilkinson nearby?”

  The captain pointed. “At the quartermaster’s tent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The two men angled northward, toward a large tent with two posts driven in the ground near the entrance. A tall, black gelding was tied to one, two brown mares to the other, standing hip-shot in the mud. The mares moved as Billy and Eli approached, and the picket at the entrance flap stopped the two men.

  “What’s your business here?”

  “Is this the quartermaster’s tent?”

  “Yes. Do you have orders—”

  The sounds of distant voices came from their right, north of the camp, and the clamor grew with each passing moment. Every eye in camp turned to look. Within seconds militiamen came running from the forest, past the trading post and houses and tents, into the clearing. They held their muskets high, shouting as they ran into the crooked streets, mud flying.

  “Gen’l Arnold’s comin’ in, leading a relief column! Hundreds! Thousands!”

  Billy and Eli broke to their right, trotting toward the influx of jubilant militiamen. They slowed to a walk, peering into the forest north of the clearing. Minutes later they heard the first sounds of a large body of men working through the trees, and then they saw the first flashes of movement. Within seconds they made out the shape of four horsemen coming on the crooked trail, and behind them, a single file of soldiers with muskets slung, striding through the trees. Eli and Billy slowed and stopped, watching as the horsemen broke out into the sunlight, and they recognized the stocky man in the lead.

  Brigadier General Benedict Arnold, riding a showy, high-blooded sorrel gelding with four stockinged feet. He held a tight rein, and the horse arched its neck against the pressure of the bit. A rousing shout erupted from hundreds of voices as Arnold paced his horse through the scattered buildings and tents into the clearing, with his aide and two officers on horseback beside him. He stopped, reined the horse around, and as his column came in, he pointed and called orders. The different companies went to the right, or the left, according to his point, stopped, and waited while the others came in, with the militiamen and a few families crowding around, gesturing, pointing, exclaiming. With his command assembled in the small hamlet, Arnold dismounted as Major James Wilkinson strode up to salute smartly.

  “General Arnold! May I bid you welcome. I am Major James Wilkinson, aide to General Gates. He’s in command here.”

  Arnold returned the salute, eyes wide in surprise. “General Gates? What happened to General Schuyler?”

  “Very unfortunate, sir. Generals Schuyler and St. C
lair have been ordered to report to Congress. Something about the Fort Ticonderoga incident.” He turned and pointed to Gates’s building. “I’m certain the general would welcome a call from you.”

  “Wait a moment,” Arnold exclaimed. “I’m just coming in from Fort Stanwix. What happened at Fort Ti?”

  “You haven’t heard? General St. Clair abandoned it to the British. The entire Northern army is scattered. General Gates was sent to gather it again, and to prepare to meet Burgoyne.”

  Arnold was incredulous. “Abandoned it? Why?”

  “His letters state the British positioned cannon on top of Mount Defiance. With their guns up there, St. Clair claimed they could reduce Fort Ti to rubble within two days, and that he abandoned it to save his men.”

  Arnold bit down on himself to cover the flare of anger. Schuyler and Gates had both been at the council within the walls of Fort Ticonderoga one year ago, when engineer John Trumbull warned that guns on top of Mt. Defiance could reach both Fort Ticonderoga and Mt. Independence. They both knew Arnold and Wayne had scaled the back side of the mountain to prove guns could be moved to the top. He gritted his teeth, said nothing of the tragic failure of the American generals, and nodded to Wilkinson.

  “I would appreciate visiting General Gates.”

  Wilkinson bowed, Arnold gave orders to his officers, handed the reins of his horse to his aide, and fell in beside Wilkinson to walk to Gates’s office. Wilkinson rapped on the door, waited for the invitation, then opened it and entered while Arnold waited outside.

  “Sir, General Arnold just arrived with a column of men. I suggested it would be appropriate if he made a call on you.”

  Gates hoisted his bulk out of his chair to stand behind his desk for a moment, face a blank. “General Benedict Arnold?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  For an instant an unsettling feeling surged through Gates, and he fumbled for words. He steadied his thoughts and said, “By all means, bring the general in.”