Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Wilkinson walked out the door to return instantly. “Sir, I believe you are acquainted with General Arnold.”

  Gates smiled warmly as Arnold saluted him. Gates returned the salute and spoke. “General! What an unexpected pleasure.” He gestured to a chair.

  Arnold bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine, sir. I trust I find you in good health.”

  “Excellent. And you?”

  “Doing well, thank you.”

  Gates looked at Wilkinson. “Thank you, Major. You may carry on with your other duties.”

  For a moment, disappointment showed in Wilkinson’s face. He had learned the value of knowing everything that was going on, especially between officers of the rank of colonel or above. He had risen to the highly prized position of aide to General Gates by quickly learning the art of listening to everything, and adroitly using what he learned to skewer one officer, or patronize another. One never knew what choice tidbit could be casually dropped at the right moment to get ahead in the infighting by which too many incompetents rose to the top at the expense of their betters, who refused to play the game. This conversation between these two generals promised to be a gold mine of darts and arrows, and Wilkinson would have given a month’s pay to quietly remain and absorb it all.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned on his heel to walk smartly out and close the door.

  Arnold sat down facing Gates’s desk. Arnold saw no need for further banter. His voice was casual, his manner amiable. “I was ordered by General Schuyler to gather what men I could between here and Fort Stanwix and go help Colonel Gansevoort. I was just told generals Schuyler and St. Clair were relieved of duty here and you are in command. I’m glad you’re here, sir. I’ve come to report and receive any orders you might have.”

  In the year since he had dealt with Arnold, Gates had forgotten that the art of overpowering a man with the politics of warmth, smiles, graciousness, and subtle compliments was totally lost on Arnold. The man was impervious to such blandishments. Gates, the paper shuffler, the major general who had not gone to the field of battle to command men for years, knew more keenly than any other man alive that Arnold was as far from him as a man could get. Arnold the pure warrior; Gates the pure politician.

  Gates masked his thoughts with a smile. “Delighted to have you here. Are your men cared for?”

  “Outside. My officers will see to it.”

  “How many men?”

  “Twelve hundred.”

  Gates eyes widened. “You brought in twelve hundred men?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remarkable.” He paused for a moment. “Less than an hour ago two men reported to me. Said their names are Billy Weems and Eli Stroud. They claimed to have had dealings with you at Stanwix. They said a battle was fought at Oriskany and that General Herkimer died of wounds. St. Leger’s men and Brant’s Indians were tricked into leaving for Oswego, and the whole British force has gone.” He stopped to look Arnold squarely in the eye. “How much of that is true?”

  Arnold’s response was instant. “All of it. St. Leger and Brant won’t be coming here. Brant might show up with a few Indians, but not enough to make a difference.”

  Gates pursed his mouth for a moment, brow pulled down in deep thought. Arnold waited in silence until Gates spoke again, smiling, congenial.

  “We have a lot to talk about. Why don’t you get yourself and your men settled in and take a night’s rest. Then report back here. I need your talents.”

  * * * * *

  The large, two-storied, ornately designed home of William Duer stood like a castle among the lesser homes that were scattered outside the walls of Fort Edward. To the west was the Hudson River; to the east a beautifully wooded hill. Fraser had set up his quarters and office inside the home when the British occupied the Fort, but the moment Gentleman Johnny saw the lush pavilions surrounding the structure, and inspected the rich interior, Fraser had deferred, and the Duer home had become Burgoyne’s headquarters. The oak-paneled library, dominated by a one-ton maple wood desk and massive upholstered chair, with a monstrous fireplace on one wall, shelves on another, and grand murals on another, had become his personal office.

  Simon Fraser dismounted his bay gelding, tied the reins to a stone hitching post, and walked onto the broad porch. The picket at the door nodded recognition, stepped aside, and twisted the large, polished brass door handle. The door swung inward, and Fraser entered the spacious parlor, boot heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor.

  “Sir, may I help you?”

  Fraser nodded to the captain behind the desk. “I need to see General Burgoyne. Urgent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two minutes later the captain held the door while Fraser walked into Burgoyne’s office. Burgoyne glanced up, then stood. “Simon. Good to see you.” He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes before eight, and a look of puzzlement crossed his face. “What brings you here so early?”

  Fraser took a deep breath. “Sir, I have disturbing news.” He paused, then came straight to it. “Brant and his Indians are gone. All of them.”

  A blank look crossed Burgoyne’s face, and for a moment it was as though he did not understand. Then his eyes became large, intense, and he leaned forward on stiff arms, palms planted flat on his desk top. “Repeat that.”

  General Simon Fraser cleared his throat. “Sir, you know Joseph Brant arrived two days ago with a handful of his Mohawk Indians, maybe eighty or a hundred. They’re gone. I don’t think we have an Indian left in this command.”

  Burgoyne’s face flushed, and then he exploded. He raised one hand to slam it down on the desk, voice strained, raised too high. “When did they leave? Can we catch them? I’ll have the lot of them shot for desertion.”

  Fraser shook his head. “They left in the night—no one knows when. And it’s certain we aren’t going to catch them in the forest.”

  With clenched fists Burgoyne strode from behind his desk, halfway to the door, then back again. The veins in his neck were extended, his chest heaving as he battled to bring his raging emotions under control. He stopped beside the large, leather-covered chair behind his desk, paced away, and whirled, jaw clamped closed, eyes blazing.

  “All right! So be it! Better we find out now that the great Joseph Brant and his Mohawk are deserters, than during battle! If any of them show up, arrest them on the spot. There’ll be a wholesale hanging!”

  Fraser remained silent, unmoving, watching Burgoyne. Gradually he stopped pacing, his breathing slowed, and the red flush left his face. He slumped into his chair, shoulders sagging, head down, arms hanging loose. For a time he sat without moving, then raised his hands onto his desk and spoke. His voice was subdued, thoughtful.

  “Our destination is Albany, forty-five miles south of here. Halfway there are two settlements, Saratoga and Stillwater. That’s where the rebels are starting to gather. To reach Albany, we’ll have to either go through them, or around them. To do either one, I need Indians more than ever before. Without Indian eyes and ears out in those woods to tell us where the rebels are, we’re marching blind. All we’ve been through could be lost.”

  He stopped for a moment. “You already know that St. Leger has taken his command to Montreal. I have received a second letter from Carleton in Quebec. For a second time he’s refused to send any men to replace those I had to leave at Fort Ti. Nearly one thousand of my fighting force is tied up back there, useless when I need them most. And now Brant and his Indians are gone.”

  Fraser started. “I didn’t know about Carleton.” He stopped for a moment, searching his memory. “Isn’t Clinton just south of us? Doesn’t he have men he can send to help? What about Howe?”

  Burgoyne slowly shook his head. “I got a letter from Clinton. He said he knows Howe is intent on taking Philadelphia this season, and doubts Howe ever intends coming to meet us at Albany. I haven’t heard from Howe since the seventeenth day of July. I have no idea where he is. Clinton’s been ordered to occupy and hold the highlands nort
h and west of New York to support Howe. He hasn’t got a man to spare at this moment, but there’s a chance he will have in time. I’ll send him another request.”

  He looked Fraser in the eye. “I sent a letter to both Howe and Clinton reminding them that this expedition required that I receive support from St. Leger’s command from the west, and Howe’s command from the south. Had I known I was going to get neither, I would never have left England.”

  Burgoyne leaned back in his chair and dug a thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He sat thus for a time, forehead wrinkled in deep thought.

  “My latest scouting reports say militia are coming to Saratoga and Stillwater in droves, from as far away as Massachusetts.” A cynical smile stole across his face. “It seems our plan has worked out exactly backwards. I was to have additional support, the rebels less. Now it appears I will have no support at all, and they will be flooded with it.”

  He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “There’s nothing to be gained by sitting here brooding. One good thing—we’ve stockpiled food and stores for thirty days.” He smiled his standard, jaunty, Gentleman Johnny smile. “I imagine we can find a way to move from here to Albany within thirty days.”

  Fraser nodded.

  “Simon, thank you for coming. As always, I’m in your debt. Return to your men. Give me some time to think, and we’ll hold a war council. I’ll send for you and the others when I’m ready.”

  * * * * *

  “Good morning, General. Have a seat.” A smiling Horatio Gates sat at his desk and waited for Benedict Arnold to take a seat opposite him.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I trust your men are settled.”

  “They are.”

  “Had breakfast?”

  “Yes, with my officers.”

  “Good.” Gates sobered. “There are a number of matters needing attention. The first one is a proposal regarding yourself.” Gates paused for a moment. “I propose that you should take command of a division of the army. Included will be Major Dearborn’s light infantry, and two brigades of New Hampshiremen under Ebenezer Learned and Enoch Poor. Those two regiments are composed largely of veterans in the regiments of Joseph Cilley and Alexander Scammel. If we get the New York and Connecticut militia I’ve been promised, they’ll also be assigned with those regiments.” Again Gates paused, and a slight smile formed. “You’ll also be getting Daniel Morgan and his company of riflemen.”

  No company of soldiers in the American cause stood higher than Morgan’s riflemen. They were gathered from the forest, where they had mastered their long Pennsylvania rifles and the art of surviving and thriving indefinitely in the wilderness. They wore buckskins and long hair, trusted the man next to them with their lives, shared the good and the bad, and revered Daniel Morgan. They would follow their intrepid leader wherever he led.

  Arnold eased back in his chair with his thoughts running. A strong corps. Good leaders. “Thank you, sir.”

  Gates nodded. “I take it you’ll accept command of the division?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have your staff picked?”

  “I’ve asked Henry Brockholst Livingston and Matthew Clarkson to join me. I’ll have others as soon as we get organized.”

  A cloud passed over Gates’s face. “Wasn’t Livingston on Schuyler’s staff? Isn’t he going to be leaving soon to join Schuyler in Albany?”

  “Yes. I’ve asked him to join my staff until he goes. Good man.”

  “Isn’t Clarkson, Livingston’s cousin?”

  Arnold’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of it, but you’re right. He is.”

  Gates’s eyes narrowed for a moment while he slowly nodded his head. “I see.” He continued, and a coolness crept into his voice. “General Schuyler has been relieved of command, for good reason. He surrendered Fort Ti, and his army was all but annihilated. I have no use for his policies, and I have deep reservations about having someone from his staff close to anyone on my war council. Would you reconsider those two? Livingston and Clarkson?”

  Gates’s signal to Arnold was wide open, clear, blunt. Two years of relentless acrimony between Schuyler and Gates had left each man detesting the other. With Schuyler fallen from grace, Gates found himself with the unbelievable, incredible gift of replacing him at precisely the time when the tides of war had subtly shifted in favor of the Americans. No man was going to stand between himself and his one golden chance to humiliate Schuyler, and put himself within striking distance of the one goal that had come to dominate his mind, his heart, his life. Whatever it took, he would find a way to replace George Washington. The name Horatio Gates, and not George Washington, would be forever enshrined in American history.

  Arnold shrugged. “They’re both good men. I’ll look around, but until I find someone as capable, I think I’ll have to use them.”

  Gates’s mind snapped shut. He’s a Schuyler spy—calling in Schuyler men to assist—they’ll make trouble—can’t trust them.

  Arnold, the pure warrior, direct, unsophisticated, hating politics and politicians, had almost totally failed to grasp what Gates had so plainly laid before him. The distancing that instantly began between himself and Gates went unnoticed by him, as did the chill that now quietly settled between them.

  Gates continued. “Before leaving Philadelphia, I petitioned Congress for seven thousand seven hundred fifty men. Congress consented. Most of them have arrived. I have Enoch Poor with a brigade five miles up the Mohawk River. They were waiting for St. Leger, but with him now gone they’re on their way here. More than half the command is on Van Schaick’s Island. With your twelve hundred, and General Morgan’s riflemen, we’re close to eight thousand. When the militia arrives from New York and Pennsylvania we should have ten thousand.”

  Arnold bobbed his head. “Good. What condition are these men in? Clothing, food, morale?”

  “Excellent. I demanded fresh vegetables and meat and substantial shoes and clothing for my men. Congress obliged. On my orders, the camp and hospital were cleaned up. We began holding inspections every morning, drilling every day, and started conducting courts-martial for the laggards. It took some doing, but discipline is high, morale is excellent, the men are in good health, with good clothing. I believe we’re ready.”

  Arnold sensed the well-deserved pride in Gates’s voice. “Do you know the condition of Burgoyne’s command?”

  “Not entirely. We know their uniforms are in poor condition, and they were running low on food. They were eating roots and porcupines and raccoons for a time, but Burgoyne stopped long enough to stockpile supplies at Fort Edward. Perhaps enough for a month. His men are approaching exhaustion from clearing trees to unblock roads, digging out dams, replacing bridges, rebuilding burned causeways.”

  Arnold interrupted. “That’s Schuyler’s work. Even when he was retreating, he was doing everything he could to eat away at Burgoyne’s army—slowing them, wearing them down, using up their food, their oxen, their horses. He provided us time to gather our forces. He set the stage for what’s now happening.”

  For an instant hostility flared in Gates’s face at the suggestion that Schuyler was in any way responsible for depleting Burgoyne’s army. The truth of it was lost in the abhorrence Gates felt for the man. He brought himself under control and went on.

  “The critical fact is, it is becoming obvious that the condition of his army is such that he must make a choice. He can no longer sit where he is. He must retreat back to Quebec, or he must move on to Albany. I’ve known Burgoyne since we were lieutenants together years ago. My personal judgment is that his pride will not let him retreat. That means he must go on to Albany, and to do that he must first get past my command, here, at Stillwater and Saratoga.”

  The truth of it seized Arnold. “What is the plan?”

  Gates spread a large map on his desk and anchored the corners. He scanned it for a moment, then tapped a finger and moved it as he spoke. “We’re here. Burgoyne’s here, at Fort Edward.
We don’t know how he intends getting past us, but we do know he has but two choices. Either he crosses the river at Fort Edward and comes down this side to Albany, or, he comes down the far side of the river, the east side, and crosses just above Albany, here, near Half Moon. His problem is, the river is fairly narrow at Fort Edward, but not at Albany. At Half Moon and Albany it’s wide.”

  Arnold was totally absorbed in the map.

  “He can cross at Fort Edward quickly, and under cover of his own cannon. But if he tries to cross at Half Moon, where it’s wide, his men will be on the river for a much longer time. With very little preparation, we can place our cannon out of range of his, and sink most of his bateaux and boats before they even come close to the western banks of the river, without so much as a single British cannonball to stop us.”

  Arnold raised his eyes. “Burgoyne won’t commit his army to a river crossing he can’t control. He’ll cross at Fort Edward and come down our side of the river.”

  Gates’s eyes were glowing. “I’m sure of it. That brings us to the question, where is the best place for us to prepare to meet him?”

  Arnold’s response was instant. “Not here. This whole area is too flat, too open. Perfect for the way the British fight. We need to meet them in the hills and woods, where our men are at their best, and his are at their worst.”

  “Precisely. I’ve asked some of the locals about it. They say there’s such a place three or four miles north, near the river. Owned by a man named Jotham Bemis. Called Bemis Heights. There’s a tavern where the road forks, and a farm there, and another close by, some fields, hills, wooded areas.”

  “Has anyone gone to look?”

  “Not yet. I plan to send Major Wilkinson and Udney Hay in the next day or so. Perhaps the engineer, Thaddeus Kosciuszko.”

  “Good. The sooner the better.”

  * * * * *

  General Simon Fraser used the iron cleat on the doorstep to scrape mud from his boots, rubbed both boot soles briskly on the heavy bristle of the doormat, shook rain from his hat, then stepped into the parlor of the elegant, two-storied Duer house. He followed Burgoyne’s aide to the large, glass library doors, waited until he was announced and invited, then walked into the library. Burgoyne rose from behind the great maple desk. Seated on his left were generals Phillips and von Riedesel, to his right, General Breymann.