Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  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 Burgoyne’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 hundre
d 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.

  Morgan faced Arnold. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Arnold looked at Dearborn, and behind him at Billy and Eli. “Come on over to the table. Daniel, Henry, this is Eli Stroud and Billy Weems. Stroud’s white, but was raised Iroquois. Weems is from Boston. They work together.”

  Morgan turned critical eyes on both men, and they met his gaze evenly.

  With the four of them gathered, Arnold wasted no time.

  “Burgoyne’s sent a column of men over toward our left. These two men located them this morning. They’re a strong force, and have cannon. I don’t know what they’re up to, but it could mean trouble if Burgoyne sent them to circle clear in around our left and flank us. I intend engaging them before they ever get that far.”

  Morgan spoke. “Located them in this fog?”

  “Yes.”

  Morgan looked at Billy and Eli again, then turned to the map. “Where are they?”

  Arnold turned to Eli. “Show them.”

  Eli pointed. “About four miles due north is a farm house, marked Freeman’s farm on this map, here. Just north, there’s a column of mixed redcoats, Germans, Canadians, Tories, a few Indians. They have cannon. They’re working this way, staying close to the woods off to the left. If they continue, they’re going to come out in a position to flank us.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Morgan turned to Arnold. “What does Gates say?”

  “Send you and Dearborn.”

  Dearborn’s eyebrows raised. “I thought we were going to sit here and let Burgoyne come to us.”

  “Gates changed his mind.”

  Dearborn grinned. “How long did it take you to persuade him?”

  Arnold ignored the question. “Get your company ready to move. The minute the fog raises, you two go find that column. In your judgment, either engage them, or report back here. Morgan, use your riflemen as skirmishers. Dearborn, you wait in reserve if anything goes wrong.”

  Morgan and Dearborn glanced at each other, then turned back to Arnold. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  They both nodded to Billy and Eli and walked out the tent entrance.

  Arnold spoke. “You two go on back to your company with Dearborn. You’ll be in action soon enough.”

  Without a word they started for the door, when Arnold’s voice stopped them.

  “Thank you.”

  Notes

  To make what history now calls the Battle of Saratoga manageable, the author has somewhat compressed the time element, since the events surrounding this pivotal battle began in August of 1777 and the final surrender of Burgoyne and his army occurred 17 October 1777. Thus, in this chapter few dates have been given, in an effort to maintain the flow, and reduce hundreds of pages of factual material to an acceptable number, and still maintain the integrity and authenticity of this event.

  Congress recalled generals Schuyler and St. Clair, for a congressional inquiry into their failure to defend Fort Ticonderoga on 6 July 1777 and an explanation of their continual retreat for weeks thereafter. They were also to report to General Washington, likely to face courts-martial for their conduct. Most officers, including most generals, who were wise to the ways of the battlefield, understood what St. Clair had done, and why, and found his actions acceptable, even praiseworthy in saving his army to fight another day. It was the men St. Clair saved who became the core of the army that finally met General Burgoyne at Saratoga. Further, General Schuyler, even while retreating, was steadily wearing down Burgoyne’s army by blocking their roads, damming streams to stop them with floods, burning the crops to starve them, and constantly harassing them with snipers. Men who were there knew it was these actions of Schuyler that reduced Burgoyne’s effectiveness when the final battles were fought. General Nathanael Green, one of Washington’s best generals, commented, “The foundation of all the Northern success was laid long before Gates’s arrival there . . . he appeared just in time to reap the laurels and rewards.”

  To replace General Schuyler, Congress commissioned General Horatio Gates to take command of all American forces on the Hudson River. On 19 August 1777, General Horatio Gates arrived at Albany to take command. He found morale terrible, men sick with smallpox and with what was called “camp disorder”—fever, and ague. August had been an extremely hot month, with unusually heavy rains. Because of their prior years of animosity and rancor toward each other, Gates refused to consult with Schuyler on any matters whatsoever, especially what Schuyler had done despite his weeks-long retreat, and this although Schuyler had extremely valuable personal knowledge of the countryside and the inhabitants that would have been immensely helpful to Gates. The Americans continued gathering at Stillwater and Saratoga, as Schuyler had previously ordered.

  By the end of August, however, something had shifted. With the tremendous victory at Bennington, and the total collapse of the British effort at Fort Stanwix, and the disappearance of Colonel St. Leger’s forces and Brant’s Indians, the Americans sensed something was changing, as did Burgoyne and the British. Without Indians to serve as his scouts—eyes and ears in the forest—Burgoyne was marching almost totally blind as he proceeded south.

  Albany was but forty-five miles south of Fort Edward; however, Fort Edward, where Burgoyne was located, was on the east side of the Hudson, and Albany on the west. Thus, Burgoyne had two choices: to cross the river at Fort Miller where it was narrow, just south of Fort Edward, where his cannon could cover the crossing, and march south on the west side of the river, or, march south on the east side of the river, and cross at Saratoga, or Albany, which is just south of Saratoga. However, if he crossed at Saratoga or Albany, where the river was wider, his bateaux and fleet would be under the muzzles of American cannon for a long period of time, and his cannon on the east bank could not reach the American guns. Hence, his bateaux and fleet would likely be nearly destroyed on the water. He chose to cross at Fort Miller and march down the west side of the river, despite the fact he would have to fight his way through the Americans now gathering at Stillwater and Saratoga. Once the decision was made, there was no turning back.

  On 28 August, a troop of Connecticut cavalry arrived at Stillwater, and another on 1 September. On 30 August, Daniel Morgan and his riflemen arrived. On 31 August, Benedict Arnold and General Learned arrived from Stanwix. The gathering of a formidable American army continued.

  In near despair, Burgoyne began to realize his true circumstances. Howe was not coming to meet him at Albany. St. Leger had abandoned him and was on his way to Montreal. General Carleton refused to send him any reinforcements. His men were exhausted, dispirited, hungry, and clearly showing the strain of their march through the sweltering, snake- and insect-ridden forest.

  Before leaving Philadelphia to take command of the Northern army, Gates, the “darling of Congress,” had requested seven thousand seven hundred fifty men, and they began arriving. With those already present, including the twelve hundred Arnold brought back from Stanwix, and Morgan’s riflemen, the American army gathering for the great and final battle outnumbered the British.

  Shortly after Arnold’s arrival, Gates appointed him commander of one division of his army, but Arnold soon discovered a very cool attitude from Gates, and quickly understood it was because two men he had on his staff, Livingston and Clarkson, were distant relatives of General Philip Schuyler, whom Gates detested. Gates suggested Arnold remove them from his staff, but Arnold, insensitive to such nuance, did not do it. As a result, Gates began distancing Arnold from himself, eventually not even notifying him of staff meetings, while bringing other men of inferior rank to such meetings, which was an open insult to Arnold. Arnold quickly realized that trouble lay ahead between himself and Gates.

  Stillwater was not the
place to force the next battle. It lay on flat, cleared land, which would accommodate the European style of fighting and favor Burgoyne. So Gates directed Udney Hay and Major James Wilkinson to go north three miles to a place owned by a citizen, Jotham Bemis, which reportedly was an ideal place to bring the battle. Arnold asked permission to accompany them and did so.

  There, on a hill to the west of the Hudson River and River Road, Arnold found the ideal place, called Bemis Heights. To the left were heavily forested ravines where Americans could fight well and the British could not, and to the right was the Hudson River. Straight ahead was rolling country, fairly open. By entrenching strongly on the top of the hill at Bemis Heights, American cannon could cover all the ground directly north, and, if the British survived the American cannon fire, they would be forced to climb Bemis Heights under tremendous musket and grapeshot fire. On the hilltop was a barn owned by a man named Neilson. About three miles due north, on another rise, was a second farm owned by a man named Freeman.

  The Americans built a great, strong breastwork on Bemis Heights, where Gates established his headquarters and waited.

  Burgoyne had to attack. The season was late, he could not turn back, and he either had to reach Albany or face the oncoming winter and certain annihilation (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).

  Saratoga

  September 19, 1777

  CHAPTER XXXI

  * * *

  The fog lifted shortly after ten o’clock a.m., and Morgan and his riflemen headed west, into the forest, then turned north, rapidly working their way through the trees, moving like silent shadows. Dearborn’s command followed, Billy and Eli with them. At twenty minutes before one o’clock, with the sun directly overhead, Captain Van Swearingen, leading the company at the head of Morgan’s command, suddenly dropped to one knee, out of sight, on the southern edge of the clearing surrounding Freeman’s farmhouse. Instantly all three hundred men in the company disappeared while they waited for Swearingen’s order. Slowly he raised his head high enough to study the far northern edge of the field where a flash of red in the trees had caught his eye.