Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Quickly he counted, believed he was looking at the advance skirmishers of a British column coming into the open field, and gave a silent hand signal. The entire command worked forward, invisible in the high grass and trees, and within minutes some had reached an old log hut while others crouched behind a rail fence and the balance were hidden in the tall grass or were perched in oak and maple trees. They cocked their long Pennsylvania rifles and through slitted eyes started picking out the oncoming British, the ones wearing gold epaulets on their shoulders gleaming in the sun.

  With patience borne of many battles, Van Swearingen calmly judged the distance from where he was to the dead branches of a gnarled old oak tree in the clearing. Sixty yards. Close enough. He settled his cheek against the smooth stalk of his rifle, partially closed his left eye, and lined the sights on a British major coming straight at him. The British officer was walking hunched forward, head swinging from side to side, sensing something he could not see. Cautiously he paused behind the bare limbs of an old oak snag standing in the field, then pushed on past.

  Van Swearingen took up the last one-eighth inch of the trigger pull on his rifle, and the long barrel recoiled as it blasted flame three feet out the muzzle. The .60-caliber rifleball drilled through the place where the white belts crossed on the officer’s chest, and he went over backwards. At the crack of Van Swearingen’s rifle, three hundred more of the deadly long rifles cut loose, and a cloud of gun smoke two hundred yards long blossomed in front of the terrified British column. In the opening volley, more than two hundred British officers and regulars went down in the hail of deadly American rifleballs. Few of them moved after they hit the ground.

  In shocked chaos the redcoats turned and ran in disorganized terror, wanting only to be away from those accursed Pennsylvania long rifles. Instantly Van Swearingen broke from his cover, shouting, “Follow me, boys, go get ’em!” The riflemen appeared as if by magic, from behind trees and fences, out of the tall grass—and they sprinted after the panic-stricken British, reloading as they ran.

  The shouting Americans reached the center of the open field when suddenly, from their left, a volley of British musketfire came whistling. Startled, Van Swearingen slowed while he tried to grasp what was happening, and then came the blast of a cannon, and a hail of grapeshot tore into the Americans. Van Swearingen’s left leg buckled, and he grabbed his left shoulder and went down, shouting, “Fall back! Fall back!”

  At the south end of the clearing, General Daniel Morgan watched, horrified when he finally understood. He had thought the oncoming British were but the point skirmishers, but they were not. He had committed his corps of riflemen against the entire center of Burgoyne’s army of three thousand crack British troops! The British skirmishers he had expected to meet were to his left, part of Fraser’s command, and had come to the sound of his rifles to catch his men by total surprise. It nearly broke his heart to see his beloved riflemen taking the unending roar of musketfire, and the thunder of cannon blasting grapeshot. With tears in his eyes, he cupped his hands around his mouth and sent out his call to his men to fall back, reassemble—the high, peculiar sound of a wild turkey gobble.

  The battle in the open field of Freeman’s farm should never have happened. Neither side had planned for it, intended it to occur. It had been triggered by purest chance. As with many battles, perhaps most, it occurred on its own terms, with both sides committing brilliance and blunders so rapidly it was impossible for anyone to form a plan or give it shape and direction.

  Within seconds British and American soldiers alike were running in all directions, sometimes into enemy gunfire, sometimes away from it. A British support company ran from the forest into the clearing and opened fire, only to find they were killing their own troops. Another British officer screamed, “Cease-fire!” and it stopped. Four redcoats seized the wounded Captain Van Swearingen and hauled him away to General Fraser, who remained on his horse to question the prisoner while musket and cannonfire erupted all around. With drawn sword he shouted at Van Swearingen.

  “Who is leading the rebels?”

  Van Swearingen calmly answered, “Generals Gates and Arnold.”

  “What is their plan?”

  Van Swearingen looked Fraser in the eye. “Generals Gates and Arnold are our commanders. I have nothing more to say.”

  “Answer, or I’ll have you hung where we stand.”

  Van Swearingen didn’t blink an eye. “You may, if you please.” Fraser shook his head in grudging admiration as he turned his horse back toward the battle. He paused to give orders to an artillery lieutenant.

  “Take charge of that man, and see to it he is treated well.”

  At the south edge of the clearing, Arnold shouted to Dearborn. “Get more men in to help Morgan!”

  Dearborn bawled out instant orders. “Cilley, Scammel, get out to support Morgan.”

  Three seconds later Cilley and Scammel were running north, out into the clearing, leading their commands into the hottest fighting. Clubs, swords, bayonets, rocks, muskets, rifles—hand-to-hand, face-to-face in the boiling sun, the armies clashed. The Americans pushed the British back and took possession of the British cannon, only to find the horses dead, strewn helter-skelter on the ground, and without them the Americans could not move the cannon. The incensed British rallied, turned, and came back shouting, shooting, and the Americans fell back, yielding up the prized cannon.

  General Benedict Arnold could no longer restrain himself. He jammed his spurs home, and the big black horse lunged north, out onto the battlefield. With sword drawn, shouting like a man possessed, far above anything resembling fear, Arnold charged first one place, then another, shouting orders, sending one company to help another. Musketballs sang past his ears, nicked his clothing, cut hair from his horse’s mane, ricocheted off his sword, but none hit him. The Americans watching him held their breath, certain this wild man would draw enough British fire to kill him, but he did not go down. They drew courage from him, stopped, dug in, then moved forward.

  At the north end of the field, General John Burgoyne came galloping on his tall gray horse, resplendent in his tailored uniform, sword flashing, shouting orders to his men. American musketballs cut his cape, his collar, but he rode on, unharmed, rallying his men, shouting them to a standstill, then turning them to face the Americans.

  Four miles south, General Horatio Gates sat in his headquarters, drinking coffee, listening intently to the unending roar of musket- and cannonfire. Not once did he leave his chair, or his quarters.

  Then, with no signal from either side, and no reason anyone could define, the gunfire slackened and slowed, and then stopped. It was as though the mindless panic that had seized both sides had ebbed and disappeared, and each was groping to recover, take stock, bring some sense of order to their thoughts and their scattered army. For two hours the only sounds were the pitiful groans and cries of wounded and dying men in the field, begging for help, for a surgeon, for water. Strong men on both ends of the field turned their backs and bowed their heads, and wept, under orders not to go into the field to help. Too many good soldiers had been shot trying to reach their wounded and dying comrades.

  In the undeclared lull, Burgoyne received the disheartening news with a somber face. Those accursed Pennsylvania long rifles had cut his officers to pieces. Most of those who had led his army on the open battlefield were dead, along with a catastrophic number of his regulars. He accepted it, considered, and gave orders to his aide. “Get over to Riedesel on our left, by the river. Tell him to keep enough men at the river to hold his position, but send all those he can spare to come reinforce our middle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The young major mounted his horse, wheeled it around to the east, and was gone in a pounding of hooves.

  Two minutes later an American lieutenant stopped before Arnold, fighting for breath from a run. “Sir, Burgoyne just sent a messenger east, toward the river. General von Riedesel and his Germans are over there!”

&nbs
p; Arnold’s eyes opened wide. “Riedesel! He’s calling in reinforcements. We’ve hurt him worse than I thought.” He leaped on his horse and drove his spurs home. The sweated mount hit stampede gait in three jumps as Arnold reined him through the woods and fields, headed south. He hauled the lathered animal to a stiff-legged, sliding stop before Gates’s cabin headquarters, dismounted, and barged through the door, sweating, face streaked with stains from gunsmoke.

  Gates recoiled like he had been struck, voice high, angry. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Breathing hard, Arnold paid no heed. “We’ve got Burgoyne’s whole army in trouble. He’s sent for reinforcements. If we can hit him quick, on his left flank, we can get in behind his Germans that are coming to reinforce him, and he’s finished. We can end this thing now.”

  Gates stood silent, bewildered. Arnold plowed on.

  “I know where to hit him. I’m offering to lead Learned’s brigade. They’re waiting in the woods, fresh, and there’s enough of them. Burgoyne can’t fight what’s in front of him, and at the same time fight Learned’s men coming up behind. There’s no time to waste.”

  Gates licked dry lips, hating the fact that Arnold had been on the field of battle when he had not, hating the fact that he must now listen to a man he thoroughly detested, hating the fact that if Arnold’s request succeeded, it would be Arnold, and not Gates, who would receive the laurels.

  Gates straightened and raised his chin. “Very good. I shall order General Learned and his men to take the field immediately.”

  Stunned, Arnold stared for three full seconds. His voice was venomous as he nearly shouted, “To go where? He doesn’t know where Burgoyne is, or how to get in behind him!”

  Gates’s chin was still high, domineering. “He can find Burgoyne, and he can use his own judgment in how to flank him.”

  Arnold’s finger shot up, pointing, accusing. “You send him out there to engage Burgoyne, he’ll fail!”

  “Nonsense.” Gates strode to the door, threw it open, and stalked to the tent beside the cabin. He threw the flap aside and called to Major James Wilkinson inside. Wilkinson bolted from his chair and charged outside, facing Gates.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Major, go tell General Learned I’m ordering him to proceed north immediately. He’s to locate General Burgoyne, and move immediately on Burgoyne’s left flank. Stop the Germans coming to reinforce Burgoyne. Stay with the general and report back to me when he makes contact. Am I clear?”

  Wilkinson looked into Gate’s defiant eyes, and then at Arnold’s face, livid, red, ready to explode, and he understood.

  “Yes, sir.” Three minutes later Wilkinson left camp with his horse at a gallop, headed west toward the distant trees.

  Arnold threw up his arms in despair and strode to his mount. He had his foot in the stirrup when Gates’s voice came from behind.

  “General, you will remain here at headquarters.”

  Arnold dropped his foot to the ground and turned, incredulous. “The battle’s four miles north. I’m going.”

  Gates’s voice was cool, level. “I am ordering you to remain here. You may be needed here. Are you going to disobey a direct order?”

  A quiet voice reached through Arnold’s boiling anger. He’s baiting you. He wants a reason to put you in irons—report you to Congress—revoke your commission. Slowly Arnold brought his outrage under control. He said nothing. He reached for the cinch on his saddle, to remove it to get air to his sweated horse.

  Seldom had Arnold suffered the agonies he now endured. The crackle of musketfire and an occasional cannon drifted over the walls of the American headquarters, and Arnold closed his eyes to listen intently. That’s not from Burgoyne in the center. That’s off to the west. Learned! He’s in trouble! Arnold lost track of time as minutes became half an hour, then an hour. He saddled his horse once again, then tried to read the battle by the shifting of the sound. Learned was locked in a death struggle. Arnold’s hands were trembling when the sound of a galloping horse turned him, and he watched Major Wilkinson coming from the west, his horse lathered, laboring. Wilkinson pulled his mount to a stop before Gates’s quarters, leaped down, and pounded on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Wilkinson pushed through the door, Arnold right behind, standing in the door frame.

  “Sir,” Wilkinson cried, panting, “General Learned sent me to report. He got lost in the woods and was caught by light infantry, probably under command of General Fraser. He’s there now, sir, fighting his way out. He never did reach Burgoyne. He wanted you to know.”

  Behind him Arnold’s face filled with lightning. He could take no more. His voice filled the room like thunder. “By the Almighty, I’ll soon put an end to it.” He ran to his horse, swung up, and left Gates waving his arms in his doorway as he disappeared at a gallop, heading west.

  Gates grasped Wilkinson’s arm and bellowed, “Catch that man and tell him I’ve ordered him to return here at once.”

  One mile west of the big wall surrounding the American headquarters, Wilkinson shouted Arnold to a stop.

  “General Gates sent me with a direct order. You are to return to his headquarters at once.” He paused while his winded horse fought for air, throwing its head, stuttering its feet, and Arnold once more brought his wrath under control. Without a word he reined his horse around and started back to headquarters.

  * * * * *

  Four miles north, on a battlefield now strewn with the bodies of dead and dying men from both armies, in the silence of the lull that had lasted nearly two hours, the British once more loaded their cannon, and in the heat of the waning afternoon blasted round and grapeshot into the woods where the Americans had taken cover, regrouping, bracing for another attack. The Americans answered, and once again brave men from both ends of the field charged into the open, dodging as they came, firing, loading, firing.

  Within minutes the air was filled with the continuous concussion and blasts of cannon and the rattle of musketfire, so thick and heavy it was as an unending roll of thunder. General John Glover and his Marblehead Regiment drove straight north to meet the center thrust of Burgoyne’s army. The roar of the guns overrode all commands shouted by the officers, and the men were left to decide from moment to moment the direction and heat of the battle.

  Dearborn saw Glover’s regiment stop Burgoyne’s attack in its tracks, and instantly swung his command to his right, to support Glover. General Poor sensed they were about to turn Burgoyne’s center, flank them, trap them, and end the battle, and led his command in a headlong charge to their right, hot on Glover’s flank, and the Americans surged forward.

  In the leading company of Dearborn’s command, Billy and Eli were in the second rank when it closed with the red-coated British regulars, and they plunged into the midst of them, hand-to-hand, knocking aside bayonets, Eli swinging his tomahawk like a wild man, Billy using his musket like a scythe to clear men out before him. Billy scooped up the sword of a fallen British officer and with a battle cry surging from his throat, swung it like an avenging angel. The Americans behind the two men leaped to follow, cutting a hole in the British line, widening it, and Dearborn’s command poured through, then angled right to rip into the side of Burgoyne’s center command.

  From the American’s left came the sound of cannon, then the first volley from Brown Bess muskets, and the patriots paused for one second to peer to their left. From the woods, a company of redcoats was charging straight at them, cannon blasting, the British firing in volleys, one rank at a time. They were just over one hundred yards distant—too far for accuracy with their muskets, but they did not care. They came shooting, and the random musketballs reached the Americans to knock some stumbling.

  Billy saw the British officer leading them, astride a tall, brown gelding. He was young, taller than usual, sword drawn and waving above his head as he led his men forward, shouting them on, uniform showing battle stains, with the epaulets of a captain bright on his shoulders. With their lea
der five yards in front of them, lifting them, inspiring them, the regulars drove on, coming in like a horde to break the American charge.

  With grapeshot and musketballs whistling from every quarter, Billy’s arm shot up and he shouted, “Eli!” as he pointed.

  Eli was already slamming his ramrod down his rifle barrel against a rifle ball seated on a linen patch when Billy shouted. He had seen the young British captain leading his men, and in the wild chaos of the battle, he went to one knee. He tapped powder from his powder horn into the pan of the rifle, slapped the frizzen closed, and settled his left elbow onto his knee as he brought the thin blade of his foresight squarely into the center of the notch of the rear sight. He eared the hammer back and brought the sights to bear on the incoming British officer. He gauged the distance—ninety yards—and in the instant the gunsights lined perfectly he squeezed off his shot in the dead air. He moved his head to the left to avoid the white cloud of rifle smoke, and he saw the hit, squarely through the cross made by the two white belts on the officer’s chest. The impact of the .60-caliber rifle ball jolted the young captain in the saddle, sent him reeling, grasping for the horse’s mane to stay mounted. He lost his reins, tried to regain them while keeping his sword high, and turned to shout his men onward. Then, slowly, his arm lowered, his sword fell from his hand, his head bowed, and he went slack in the saddle. He rolled from his horse to land heavily on his head and shoulder, and lay motionless on the ground.