Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “General, thank you for coming.”

  Fraser nodded. “Sorry to be late. We had a disturbance. I had to stay for a few minutes.”

  Burgoyne asked, “A disturbance?”

  “Two enlisted men. One drew a knife.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No. Nothing serious. Tempers flared. It’s settled.”

  “What was the disturbance about?”

  Fraser hesitated for a moment, then grunted a laugh. “An argument over a pair of socks. But that wasn’t the real problem. The men are becoming alarmed. Frightened. They know the rebels are gathering all around us by the thousands, and the forces we were promised haven’t come. They’re starting to think they’ve been lied to. It boiled over half an hour ago. It’s taken care of.”

  “Good. Be seated, there, by General Breymann.”

  As Fraser sat, Burgoyne spoke. His face was a mask of discipline, his voice steady, devoid of emotion. The men at the table quieted, sensing something had reached deep inside Burgoyne, far past the charismatic Gentleman Johnny.

  “As some of you might know, Colonel St. Leger is not coming. Brant was here only long enough to inform me that he and his Mohawk Indians are returning to their home grounds on the Mohawk River. They believe George Washington cannot be defeated.” He paused. No one stirred in the silence. “It has become clear to me that General Howe does not intend coming to meet us in Albany. He wants Philadelphia. General Carleton has refused to send men to relieve the one thousand I left to occupy Fort Ti. We lost another one thousand at Bennington. We lost more at Hubbardton and Fort Anne, and sickness and desertions are serious, and ongoing. This morning’s duty roster shows less than four thousand effectives.”

  He paused long enough to draw and slowly release a huge breath. “Without Indians to act as scouts and advance skirmishers, we are blind. We don’t know where the enemy is, or their numbers. If we march, it is without eyes and ears ahead of us, or beside us, or behind us. The moment the enemy discovers we’ve lost our Indians, we are vulnerable.”

  A murmur arose around the table and died.

  “At this moment the militia from nearly every state to the east of us is gathering like a great, dark cloud on our left flank, and behind us. Ahead of us, the rebels have gathered about eight thousand men, with more coming every hour.”

  He selected a map and began unfolding it. “It is clear to me we cannot remain here. Our choice is simple. We retreat back to Quebec, or we push on to Albany alone.”

  He stopped, and his eyes flicked from man to man. The next moment he stunned them. “I’ve decided we march on to Albany.”

  Fraser stiffened. No questions—no discussion—no suggestions—simply decided it without us and that’s the end of it! Something’s wrong! He glanced at the other generals at the table. They all sat staring, faces a blank.

  Burgoyne flattened the map on the desk and droned on, indicating with his finger as he spoke. “Here we are, at Fort Edward. Gates is gathering his forces down here, in and around Saratoga. To reach Albany, here, we have to get past Gates’s forces.” He raised his head. “We can do that by going down this side of the river and crossing the Hudson just above Albany, or we can cross the river here, and go down the west side.”

  Again he paused while the generals methodically put the building blocks in place in their minds.

  “If we cross the river here, at Fort Edward, we will not be on the water very long, we’ll be in control, and they will have no cannon to sink our bateaux and boats. If we cross down here, at Albany, we’ll be on the water much longer, and if they place their guns right, they’ll be able to reach our bateaux and boats, while we won’t have a gun that can reach them. In short, it will be a massacre.”

  Once again he raised his head, asked no questions, and delivered his decision. “We cross the river here, at Fort Edward.”

  Phillips leaned back in his chair, brain approaching deadlock. Precisely what does he think he’s doing? War council? This is no war council! This is a case of pure dictatorship!

  Burgoyne went on. “When we conclude here, order your men to pack their baggage at once, and load all tents, munitions, food—everything—into shipping crates for the crossing. We leave nothing—absolutely nothing—here.”

  Riedesel reached to wipe at a dry mouth. He intends breaking all connections with our supply base. When we leave here, there is no returning! We succeed in getting past the rebels at Saratoga, or we are defeated! Von Riedesel turned to look at Breymann and read the identical thoughts in his startled eyes.

  Burgoyne spoke with cold finality as he folded the map. “Thank you for coming. Take charge of your troops for the river crossing and march to the south. You are dismissed.”

  * * * * *

  The picket pushed aside the flap at the entrance of the command tent of General Benedict Arnold. “Sir, the two men you sent for are here. Weems and Stroud.”

  Arnold finished pulling on his boot, then stood and stamped his foot hard to settle his foot inside. “Good. Send them in.”

  A minute later Billy and Eli stood facing Arnold. Billy saluted. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Arnold smiled. “Glad to see you two again. I heard some things about Brant and his Mohawk. After that trick with that deranged man—what was his name—Han Yost—I wanted to hear from you two what happened over at Oswego, after Yost scared the Indians into running away from Stanwix. Were you at Oswego?”

  Billy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Eli walked into Brant’s camp with a wampum belt and told him the British were going to lose the war. If Brant was with them, he’d lose, too.”

  Arnold’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Just walked into his camp and told Brant he’s going to lose?”

  Billy turned to Eli, and Eli spoke.

  “Indians respect a wampum belt. Billy and I made one, and it got us into their camp. Brant’s an honorable man. I reminded him of a story—sort of a prophecy—made by an old Indian a long time ago. The old chief tried to kill Washington in a battle and found out his men couldn’t hit him with their muskets. He prophesied Washington could not be killed in battle, and would live to become the father of a great nation. Brant knew about that prophecy. What he didn’t know about was the times I saw Washington in battle. Washington should have been killed at least six times, but wasn’t. I told Brant. He believed it. We left.”

  “You persuaded Brant and his Indians to quit the war?”

  Eli shrugged. “It appears so.”

  Arnold shook his head in amazement. “That’s the most remarkable thing I ever heard.” He stopped for a few moments, his thoughts running. “With both St. Leger and Brant gone, Burgoyne’s going to have about three thousand fewer men than he planned on.” He stopped for a moment to consider, then raised startled eyes. “You’ve crippled the British army! Remarkable. I thought that trick with Han Yost was unbelieveable, but what you did at Oswego is far beyond that. I owe you. This country owes you.”

  Eli shrugged. “We were lucky.”

  Arnold shook his head. “That wasn’t luck.” He turned to pick up his tricorn from his desk. “I was on my way to General Gates’s quarters. Some business that won’t wait. I’ll see if I can get a full report of what you’ve just told me into the army records.” He stopped, then suddenly thrust out his hand. “It was my privilege to work with you over there at Fort Stanwix. I want you to know that.” He shook their hands, then led them to the door. “I wish we had a little more time, but General Gates won’t wait. Come on. I’ll walk part way with you.”

  The three stepped out of the tent into the heat of the day, and half a dozen soldiers slowed at the sight of a general striding through camp with enlisted men. Arnold said his thanks, nodded, and angled away, toward the small building with Gates’s name on the sign above the door. On his approach the picket opened the door, spoke to General Gates, and waited for Arnold to enter before he closed it.

  For a moment Arnold stood s
till, 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 for a moment while his war council accepted the f
act 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.