Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Even in the tumult of the battle, in an instant his men were around him, straightening his legs and his right arm, and his crooked left one—the one that had been broken by a rebel musketball in the retreat from Concord two years before. They wiped the sweat and smoke stains from his face and closed his vacant eyes. They retrieved his sword and slipped it into his scabbard, straightened his tunic, and covered the bullet hole directly over his heart. Some wiped at their eyes while others stopped to take their last look at the young face of their fallen leader. They studied the prominent nose, the square jaw, the build of a face that was at once plain and handsome. But most of all, they looked for the last time at the deep scar that divided his left eyebrow. The scar he had taken years ago in his desperate attempt to save some of his beloved comrades from a burning warehouse filled with munitions.

  The relentless heat of battle gives no time to mourn the fallen. The charge of the company led by the fallen British captain came to a standstill, and with the threat of his attack gone, Billy and Eli had not one second to ponder who he was. They turned their faces back toward Burgoyne’s stalled army, and they ran on with Dearborn’s command, reloading, firing, knocking redcoats back with tomahawk and sword.

  The American officers caught it like a scent in the air. We can win! We’ve got Burgoyne’s center turned! We can beat him! It lifted them above themselves, and they raised their voices in a shout that caught among their men, and they raised their voices as one. They were no longer an army. They were a horde, surging forward like a tide, rolling over everything in front of them.

  Three hundred yards—two hundred—just two hundred more yards and they are ours!

  At one hundred yards, the first blast of grapeshot ripped into the right side of the screaming mass of rebels, knocking men down, rolling, stumbling. An instant later the second blast, and grapeshot opened a hole in the American right. They faltered, stunned, looking east, unable to grasp what had happened. They saw the white smoke from the cannon and in the same instant saw the blue-coated Germans under General von Riedesel surge out of the forest, bayonets gleaming. On command, the first rank of Germans went to one knee, aimed, and fired. They rose and reloaded while the second rank moved in front of them and went to one knee to deliver the second volley. Both volleys tore into the American right, and the startled rebels broke to their left, away from the timed firing. Instantly the Germans sprinted forward, raising a battle cry, and the surprised Americans fell back. They were fifty yards from flanking Burgoyne, folding his command in on top of itself, beating him, when the howling charge of von Riedesel’s crack German troops broke their forward momentum, turned them west, slowed them, stopped them. In the chaos, the Americans fell back, gave ground, retreated, stumbling over the bodies of those who had fallen, both British and American. Within minutes the tremendous victory that had been within their grasp was turned into a rout as they pulled back across the open field. Far to the west, in the woods, General Learned was still locked in a running fight, trying to escape the advance skirmishers of Fraser’s command.

  Only a few ever understood that had Gates granted Arnold his request to lead the regiment to trap Burgoyne, Arnold would have intercepted von Riedesel, spoiled his surprise, blunted his attack, and taken down Burgoyne’s entire command. Burgoyne’s expedition to take the Hudson River corridor would have ended in the afternoon of that day.

  But Gates, the politician, had allowed his animosity toward Arnold, the warrior, to blind him, and he had sent Learned instead—Learned, who had become lost in the woods and never did reach von Riedesel, the man he had been sent to stop.

  Their charge and momentum broken, the Americans fell steadily back, and the British and Germans surged forward. Sweating, smoke-stained, bloodied, the two armies struggled desperately on, giving ground, regaining it, the blasting of cannon and muskets making a rolling thunder that reached Gates’s headquarters four miles to the south, and Burgoyne’s headquarters to the north. The sun touched the western trees, and then it was gone. In the purple of dusk the cannon and muskets blasted their last volleys of the day, with flame and smoke leaping from their muzzles, and then they stopped.

  In the eerie silence the Americans withdrew from the battlefield with what wounded they could carry, leaving their dead, and in late dusk the British gathered their wounded and backed away. Baroness Frederika von Riedesel, petite, beautiful, caring, the wife of General von Riedesel, opened her quarters for the wounded. She put her three small children beyond harm, then spent the night tirelessly gathering bandages, persuading other wives to come, nursing, tending the wounded.

  In full darkness Burgoyne’s officers came to report their losses, and Burgoyne took the figures in dead silence. More than six hundred of his best troops, dead, wounded, missing. One general forced a grin, tried to put a bold face on the battle. “But we won, sir. We drove them from the field.”

  Burgoyne nodded, said nothing, and waved the general on. In his heart he knew. They had not driven the Americans from the field. The Americans had simply left the field first. As for the casualty count, it was clear that the Americans had lost far fewer men than Burgoyne. And one thing he sensed from every officer who reported to him: the Americans, without uniforms, understanding nearly nothing of military protocol, dressed in homespun, carrying the rifles and muskets they had used for years to feed their families and survive in the wooded frontier, had met the best the British army had to offer. Met them in a fair fight, in the forest, and in the open fields, and had given the British better than they got. For the first time the British army sensed that this rabble, who came from farms and forges and shops, with no pretense of military training or skills, had something inside of them that rose above all else to drive them on. The red-coated officers shook their heads in wonder. With king and God and right clearly on their side, what was it these rebels had?

  Few understood that they were not fighting men. They were fighting an idea, a feeling. Freedom. Liberty. And no cannon, no musket, had yet been invented that could kill the idea once it had taken root in the heart of a free man.

  In the American camp Billy and Eli stripped to the waist, and one poured water from a bucket while the other washed away the battle stains of the day. With the stars and a quarter moon overhead, they sat on their blankets, gnawing on crisped sowbelly and brown bread and raw turnips. They tried not to hear the sound of hundreds of wolves in the forest, and on the open battlefield, prowling among the dead and wounded, howling, snarling, fighting as they attacked the bodies.

  Billy spoke. “We were close. We could have ended it if the Germans hadn’t come in.”

  Eli nodded. “Did you get a feeling out there today?”

  Billy looked at him, waiting.

  “Something happened to our side. I think they started to believe they could really beat Burgoyne. A strange feeling.”

  “I felt it. And I think the British caught the notion we could do it.”

  “They did.”

  Billy reached for his pouch and took out the packet of letters, his pencil stub, and the few badly wrinkled sheets of paper that were left.

  Surprised, Eli asked, “Going to write home?”

  “No. Just wanted to be sure I hadn’t lost them.”

  With the campfire casting its flickering yellow glow, the two men laid down on their blankets, weapons at hand, staring into the flames while their thoughts drifted.

  Inside his small, austere office, Gates laid down his quill and reread his written report of the battle. The battle he had not seen. The carefully worded document smacked of confidence, was replete with incidents of American genius and bravery, painted a picture of smashing the British attacks in open battle. He smiled broadly in the lantern glow, knowing that when Congress received it, there would be crowing and backslapping, and his name would become the word of the day. He folded the document and laid it on his desk. He would send it by messenger at first light. He began unbuttoning his tunic, and again the broad smile split his jowled face. The name
Benedict Arnold did not appear once in his official report.

  * * * * *

  It was well past midnight when the picket at the flap of Burgoyne’s command tent pushed the flap aside. Burgoyne was inside, sitting alone in the stillness, staring at the glowing wick of the lantern on his desk.

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, a messenger. Says he’s from General Clinton.”

  Burgoyne started. Clinton! Could it be? Burgoyne lunged from his chair. “Send him in.”

  The young major, exhausted, dirty, stepped into the dim lantern glow and saluted. “Sir, General Clinton sends this written message.” He thrust a sealed document forward.

  Burgoyne snatched it and with trembling hands broke the wax seal, opened the paper, and held it toward the lantern, scarcely breathing while he read it. It was a full paragraph, rambling, nearly meaningless. Quickly Burgoyne snatched up his quill, and drew the hourglass figure through the central part of the writing, according to the code he had worked out with Clinton months earlier. Within the hourglass the message emerged, and Burgoyne read every word.

  “You know my good will and are not ignorant of my poverty of troops. If you think two thousand men can assist you effectually, I will make a push at Fort Montgomery in about ten days. But ever jealous of my flanks if they make a move in force on either of them I must return to save this very important post. I expect reinforcement every day. Let me know what you would wish.”

  Never had Burgoyne felt the rush of relief that surged through his being. Clinton! Coming up the Hudson! Reinforcements! Two thousand fresh troops! Relief! Blessed relief! His shoulders sagged, and for a moment his breathing constricted. He walked back to his desk and sat down, once again reading the words.

  The young major cleared his throat. “Sir, are you all right?”

  Burgoyne raised his face. “Yes. Thank you. You need food and rest. Let me take you to my aide.”

  He walked the young major to the tent next to his quarters, gave orders, and returned to his own desk. For long minutes he reflected on the message, and his mind settled.

  We will not engage the rebels again until Clinton and his two thousand men arrive. We will entrench ourselves here where we are, and we will wait. With time to regroup and rest our men, and build defenses, and with two thousand fresh troops, we will overrun the Americans and end this thing.

  We wait for Clinton.

  * * * * *

  “Be seated, gentlemen.” Burgoyne waited while generals von Riedesel, Phillips, and Fraser took their chairs at his council table. Four lanterns burned, casting huge, distorted shadows on the tent walls. Outside, the pickets tied the officers’ three saddled mounts to hitching posts, then resumed their position at the tent entrance. For a moment the horses moved, nervous in the darkness, eyes glowing wine-red in the dull light of the tent walls.

  Inside, Burgoyne wasted no time on protocol. “Gentlemen, it has been fifteen days since I received General Clinton’s message. I do not believe he is coming.” He paused and pursed his mouth for a moment. “We’ve had frost. Cold weather will close in on us within days. As you know, the Americans have given us no rest, no peace, day or night. Those long rifles have driven in our pickets, killed our scouts, killed our officers, without letup. Our men have not slept three hours a night in fifteen days. They’ve lived on sowbelly and flour too long. They need fresh meat, vegetables, fruit. They’re starving, exhausted, fearful of venturing twenty yards from camp because of American patrols and rifles. We cannot remain here.”

  He paused. Every word he had spoken was but an echo of what each of the three generals had said to themselves over and over again in the past forty-eight hours.

  Burgoyne continued. “We’ve completed our defenses here. The Breymann redoubt at the northwest end of our defenses is in place. It’s well-positioned, strong, big, able to withstand anything the Americans care to try. South of it is the Balcarres redoubt, and it is also unassailable. The breastworks just south of headquarters are finished, and they will hold against any attack. We’ve finished the floating bridge across the river, and can move back and forth.”

  He paused, cleared his throat, and went on. “The Americans have built their bridge south of ours. They too can cross the river at will. They remain as they were two weeks ago, behind their breastworks five miles south of us. Their forces have been vastly expanded by militia and continentals coming in every day over the past two weeks. Their strength now is above fourteen thousand.”

  Silence settled around the table as each general accepted what they had already silently calculated over the past fifteen days. Burgoyne’s decision to wait for Clinton had given them time to build strong defenses, but it had also allowed the Americans to gather men from all over the northeastern section of the continent. Numerically, the Americans now outnumbered them four to one, and with the catastrophic imbalance in their favor, the Americans were waiting for one of two things: winter to arrive and starve Burgoyne out, or, Burgoyne to mount an attack and try to break out. The sole question they had not been able to answer was how long would Burgoyne wait before he faced the terrible decision.

  Burgoyne went on. “I am ordering a full reconnaissance to move south—three thousand five hundred men. It is my intent to attack the American left and break their defenses. Once that has occurred, we will move on down to Albany.”

  Von Riedesel jerked erect, shock plain on his face. “That will leave less than eight hundred to defend our headquarters if the Americans counterattack. Our supplies, munitions, medicines, food, all at risk. If our attack fails, we could fall into a trap of our own making.”

  Fraser watched Burgoyne’s face intently. He’s not thinking right! He’s in trouble!

  Burgoyne sat down on his chair, and for long minutes they could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around the lamp chimneys, and see the moths being drawn to the flame. Burgoyne stood once more.

  “I think you are right. I will send fifteen hundred south, the balance of our force to remain here to protect our stores and defenses. The fifteen hundred will be divided into three equal commands, under generals Fraser and von Riedesel, and Major Acland. They will proceed west from here, then turn south to cross a wheat field not far from the house on Freeman’s farm. They will proceed directly south to engage and defeat the American left.”

  Fraser interrupted. “Sir, sending out a reconnaissance of that size will give the appearance of an all-out attack. If Gates sees it that way, he may send out half his forces to stop it. If that occurs, we will have no chance in an open battle.”

  Burgoyne shook his head. “I do not think Gates will send out a sizable force. I think he will send out a small one, to feel out our strength. When they realize what’s happening it will be too late.”

  He drew a deep breath and slowly let it out. “The reconnaissance will leave tomorrow morning.”

  * * * * *

  The first purple of dawn approached in the spectacular beauty of the reds and yellows of leaves that had been nipped by October frost. As far as the eye could see, the forest was a rolling carpet of breathtaking colors that brought men to a standstill, staring, awed by the incomparable power and glories of nature.

  In the gray preceding sunrise, a young lieutenant rode clattering through camp to halt his laboring horse before Gates’s office. He rapped on the door and waited, breathing hard. The door swung open and Gates stood before him barefooted, wrapped in a royal blue robe. His hair was awry, and he was squinting in the light.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s movement to the north. A force of British is coming this way.”

  Gates pointed to the tent next to his hut. “Get Major Wilkinson. Tell him to report here, now.”

  Three minutes later, still buttoning his tunic, Wilkinson stood before Gates’s desk. Gates spoke from his chair. “A scout just reported that the British are moving this way. Go find out what they’re up to and report back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Five minutes later Wilkin
son reined his horse west and galloped out of camp. The young lieutenant who had made the report looked at Gates’s closed door, then at Wilkinson disappearing to the west, shrugged, and started toward the officers’ mess, leading his horse.

  In the officers’ section of the camp, General Daniel Morgan swung his feet from his cot inside his command tent. For a time he sat, elbows on knees, square face buried in his big, callused, scarred hands. Never had he been part of an army camp in which every enlisted man, every officer, was cowed, quiet, withdrawn, divided.

  Fourteen days earlier, Gates had sent to Congress his written report of the battle at Freeman’s farm, but had dealt General George Washington, his commander in chief, the highest insult anyone had ever heard of when he did not send a copy to him. Inevitably it became known that the written report not only failed to include the name of Benedict Arnold, but did not even mention the companies that Arnold had commanded in the battle at Freeman’s farm, nor the fact that it was Arnold’s men who had led the American army into battle, and very nearly taken Burgoyne down. And there was no mention of the fact that had Gates granted Arnold his request to go cut off von Riedesel to prevent the German attack that turned victory into a retreat, the vaunted Gentleman Johnny and his entire army would now be American prisoners.

  The despicable report burst like a bombshell when it became known in the American camp. For a time Arnold stood in disbelieving shock, then stormed into Gates’s office and left the door wide open. Never had any man in the American army heard anything faintly comparable to the shouting, cursing, accusatory acrimony that flooded out of the door into the open compound. Men stopped in their tracks, staring wide-eyed, silently asking each other for anything that would explain the ferocity of the confrontation in the office of their commanding officer. And when Arnold came storming out, face white with anger, lightning leaping from his eyes, men backed up to give him free passage as he stalked back to his own command tent.

  Two hours later Arnold marched back to Gates’s office and once more burst through the door, strode to his desk, and slammed down a four-page letter. On those four pages was a truthful, accurate recital of every slight, every rotten thing Gates had done to Arnold since his arrival. The last paragraph included the ultimate insult Gates had heaped on Arnold only that morning when they had their monumental, head-on collision. Gates had reassigned Arnold’s men, including Daniel Morgan’s riflemen, to General Lincoln. Arnold was a general with no command!