by Ron Carter
The closing sentence was clear, direct, the strongest words Arnold could find.
“I therefore request permission to return to General Washington with my aides, where I might serve my country, since I am unable to do so here.”
Arnold stormed back to his quarters to wait for Gates’s reply. When it came, it was a copy of a brief, casual note sent by Gates, not to Arnold, but to John Hancock, president of the Congress, in which Gates professed total surprise at Arnold’s outburst and gave him permission to leave. Again Arnold wrote to Gates, demanding he address a letter to himself, Arnold, giving him permission to leave. This time Gates responded with a brief written statement of total innocence, stating he had no idea what Arnold was excited about and granting Arnold what Gates called a “common pass” to go to Philadelphia. No one ever knew what was meant by “a common pass.”
News of the unbelievable, vitriolic confrontation went through the entire camp instantly. Every enlisted man and every soldier knew what had happened in the battle. It was Arnold, and Arnold alone, who had swept through the cannonfire and musketballs time and again to lead the Americans on, inspire them, lift them above themselves. Insensible of danger, his reckless leadership and courage and his innate sense of where to be and what to do had been their guiding star. And every man knew that while Arnold was becoming the greatest warrior in the battle, Gates had sat behind closed doors, drinking coffee, and never leaving his office.
Incensed, fearful that Arnold was going to leave, every officer in the American camp, except for Gates himself and Lincoln, drafted a petition, signed it, and delivered it to Arnold. In it they begged him, pleaded with him, to stay. They knew what he meant to the American army. If he were to leave, the spirit they had fought so hard to gain, would go with him.
Gates learned of the petition, and in his political mind he sensed that if he pushed his corps of officers too far, they might mutiny. Should that happen, it would be aired out in Congress, and Gates had no stomach for having men of the quality of Morgan, Dearborn, Poor, and Learned all standing before that body, all repeating the truth. He had no choice. He relented. Arnold could remain, but he would have no command.
* * * * *
Morgan dropped his hands from his face and heaved his body onto his feet. Soldiering had taken its toll on joints and muscles, and he stood for a moment, letting his frame take his two-hundred-pound weight, while his thoughts ran.
Burgoyne’s going to have to make a move. Winter will lock him in soon if he doesn’t either go back to Canada or try to come past us. He shook his head. If he comes past us, we’ll have a battle, and if that happens, what will Gates do without Arnold?
He could not force a conclusion in his mind, and he reached for his buckskin breeches, feeling a rising sense of frustration, nearly anger. He was on his way to the officers’ mess when the crackle of distant musketfire from the north reached him. He slowed for a moment to consider. The pickets and scouts are under fire. His pace quickened as he turned toward Gates’s command hut. As he approached, eight other officers came striding, including Learned and Poor. They all slowed when they saw Benedict Arnold hurrying toward them, and they stopped to wait. With Arnold among them, Morgan rapped on Gates’s door. Gates opened it and stood facing them, fully dressed except for the top few buttons on his tunic.
“Yes?” he said.
Morgan spoke. “Sir, we all heard musketfire from the north. Sounds like the beginning of an engagement.”
The sound of a horse coming in at stampede gait turned all their heads, and they watched Wilkinson come charging through camp like the devil himself was nipping at his hocks. He brought his mount to a sliding halt and hit the ground in the cloud of dust, ten feet from Gates.
“Sir,” he panted, “there’s a major British force coming down toward our left. I’d guess close to two thousand regulars and Germans.”
Gates’s eyes widened. “You saw them?”
“Yes, sir.” His report tumbled out, one word on top of another. “They’re up in that field—the Barber wheat field—next to the Freeman farm. They’ve got troops out cutting grain for the horses. Burgoyne and two other officers climbed onto the roof of a barn up there and used a telescope to locate our scouts and pickets. They know we don’t have any force up there. I think this is the attack we’ve expected.”
Gates replied, almost casually, “Well then, let General Morgan begin the game.”
Arnold broke in, and every man among them fell into instant silence, eyes wide, bracing for what could become an historic confrontation.
“I request permission to go see what’s happening.”
Hope leaped in the heart of every man present, except Gates, Lincoln, and Wilkinson. Every man turned his eyes to Gates, hard, cold, flat, waiting for his reply.
He sensed the ugliness in their mood, and he fumbled for words. “I am afraid to trust you, Arnold.”
Arnold’s reply was instant. “I give you my word. I will go, look, return, and report. Nothing more.”
Gates dared not impugn Arnold’s promise in front of his officers. “Then do so.” He turned to Lincoln to deliver his blow. “Go with him. See that he does as ordered.”
A dead silence among the officers hung heavy for a moment before Lincoln answered. “Yes, sir.”
Arnold took the monumental insult, turned, and ran to get his horse.
One half hour later he galloped back into camp, Lincoln following, and the officers came quickly out of their mess hall to join him for his report to Gates.
“There’s a large force coming this way. They’ll hit our left flank hard, and unless we meet them, they’ll roll our left into our center, and likely take us all down.”
Lincoln interrupted. “General Arnold is right. It will take a large force to stop what we saw coming. If we fail, our left will fold, and we’ll be in danger of total collapse.”
Gates’s response was immediate. “I’ll send Morgan and Dearborn out to our left. They can get west of the British and hit them from the side.”
Arnold shook his head violently. His eyes were cold flecks of flint, his words sharp, ugly. “Not enough. This will take a major force.”
Gates lost control. His face flushed, and the veins in his neck extended, red. With eight of his officers standing within ten feet of him, he nearly shouted at Arnold. “I have nothing for you to do! You have no business here! Go to your tent, and don’t come out until I send for you!” His arm shot up, pointing toward Arnold’s distant command tent.
For a moment Arnold stood, shaking with rage. Then, fearing he would lose control and throttle Gates, Arnold turned on his heel, and the generals opened a path for him to march away, still trembling.
Gates brought himself under tenuous control and faced his officers. “General Morgan and Major Dearborn, prepare your men to march. Report to me when you’re ready.”
“Sir.”
Gates turned to look at Lincoln. “Respectfully, sir, if just those two companies go to engage what I saw, we’re going to suffer terrible casualties. I highly recommend at least three regiments will be required.”
Gates’s voice came loud in the silence that followed Lincoln’s bold request. “Very well. Three regiments. General Poor, you accompany General Morgan and Major Dearborn. General Learned, you follow for support where needed.”
In his tent Arnold listened to the three regiments march out. By force of will he sat on his cot, sweating, calculating time and geography. He was still sitting when the first sound of distant cannon reached his tent. Instantly he was on his feet, pacing, listening, trying to read the battle from the sounds. Musketfire became a continuous rattle, mixed with the sharp crack of Morgan’s rifles. He jerked aside the flap of his tent and strode out into the compound, facing north. A low, white cloud of gun smoke rose to hover above the tree tops, and then the black smoke of something burning. The firing became hot, heavy, and it did not let up. In his mind he was seeing the Americans, charging, falling back, advancing once again, caught up
in the chaos of a battle being fought hand-to-hand.
Take the redoubts! The Balcarres redoubt and the big Breymann redoubt. Once you’ve taken the redoubts you are in behind Burgoyne’s headquarters and those breastworks will do him no good because they’ll be on the wrong side.
Time became meaningless as Arnold listened, watching the clouds of white gun smoke and black smoke reach higher into the clear blue heavens, but the center of the battle was not moving. It was being fought in Barber’s wheat field, where the two opposing armies had collided nearly two hours earlier.
Arnold turned to look at Gates, sitting at a table outside his office door, with messengers coming and going while Gates casually issued orders. Arnold turned once more toward the smoke, and the thought came welling up inside. He’s killing them! Those good men out there, and Gates is killing them! Three more hours of this, and they’ll all be gone!
Something inside Arnold gave way. He ran to Warren, his tall black horse, vaulted into the saddle, and spun the animal around to face Gates, still sitting at his table. Gates raised his head and stared full into Arnold’s face. In that instant each man knew what was in the mind of the other: Arnold was going to the sound of the guns, and Gates could strangle on it; Gates would have Arnold in chains if he could catch him.
Arnold sunk his blunted spurs into Warren’s flanks, and the horse lunged forward. Gates stood, shouting, as Arnold disappeared in a cloud of dust. Frantic, Gates turned to the nearest officer he could see, Major Armstrong. “Major, catch that man and bring him back! Use whatever force necessary, but bring him back!”
For a split second Major Armstrong stared in disbelief, then leaped on his horse and kicked it to a high gallop after General Arnold, who was out of sight.
Arnold followed a faint, old wagon track that wound through the tall trees, scarcely slowing in his headlong run. The horse, Warren, held the pace, quick, sure-footed. One mile from camp, Arnold came on a cluster of men from Learned’s command, separated, lost, drinking from a brook. “Come on, good men, follow me!”
For an instant they hesitated. They had heard what Gates had done to Arnold, and for a moment they were confused, knowing he had been stripped of all command. But there he was, General Arnold at his best, sword drawn, urging them on, leading them to the sounds of the battle. As one man, they grabbed up their muskets and broke into a run behind him, shouting as they reloaded. Arnold cantered his horse onward, shouting to others who had become separated from their units, and they melded into the growing command behind him. The men broke from the trees into the open wheat field, and for the first time Arnold saw the entire field of battle. In twenty seconds he knew where the Americans had to strike, and he drove his spurs home. The big black horse lunged forward once again, headed straight for an entrenched and determined German line. As he swept past the command led by General Learned, Arnold shouted, “Follow me!”
No one, including Learned, paid heed to the tremendous breach of military protocol as Arnold spontaneously took over Learned’s column. Stunned at the sight of Arnold charging past, shouting them on, it took two seconds for Learned’s men to decide, and they sprinted from cover to follow him, shouting, straight into the middle of the Germans. The Hessians were among the best in the world, and with their tall, copper-fronted hats they doggedly stood their ground, firing, reloading, watching the Americans drop before their cannon and muskets.
To Arnold’s left, Morgan and Dearborn suddenly jerked erect, startled at the sight of the big black horse leading the charge, and in an instant their commands were on their feet, shouting, rising above themselves, charging into the side of troops led by the German general, Balcarres, to overwhelm them, scatter them. With the Balcarres company gone, the flank of the Hessians facing Arnold was exposed, and Morgan did not hesitate. With Dearborn beside him, he tore into the blue-coated troops, flanked them, divided them, turned them.
Ahead, Burgoyne, dressed in a scarlet coat with gold epaulets, conspicuous above all other men, rode his horse back and forth, shouting orders. To Burgoyne’s left, Simon Fraser spurred his tall gray horse onward, leading the light infantry and the Twenty-fourth Regiment in a desperate drive to check Morgan’s surging command and save the Hessian line.
Through the confusion of the battle, Arnold saw Fraser, one hundred fifty yards ahead and to the right, and knew the man had the bravery and leadership to crack the American attack. Instantly Arnold raised his sword, pointing at Fraser, and shouted, “That man is a host unto himself! He must go!”
Morgan heard the shout, saw the point, and in a heartbeat turned and raised his old wagonmaster’s bellowing voice. “Tim!”
Three hundred yards to Morgan’s left, Private Timothy Murphy, frontiersman, seasoned Indian fighter, and the best shot in Morgan’s select riflemen, heard the shout of his leader and froze, searching. In one second he picked out Morgan, waved, and Morgan waved back, then turned to point with his sword.
With understanding born of years together, and battles unnumbered, Timothy Murphy understood. In three seconds he was perched on the limb of an oak tree, his long Pennsylvania rifle resting over a branch before him. From his position he had a clear field of vision above the heads of the two clashing armies. He calmly cocked his rifle, studied the movement of the cannon smoke in the faint breeze, judged the distance at four hundred sixty yards, and lined the sights. At that distance, Fraser was but a speck on the back of a gray horse when Tim squeezed off his first shot. At the crack of the rifle he moved his head to peer past the smoke to watch. Half a second later the rifle ball grazed the sleeve of Fraser’s coat and clipped hair from his horse’s mane.
Instantly Fraser’s aides shouted, “General, get back! Get out of range! A marksman is trying to kill you!”
Fraser shook his head. “I’m needed here.”
Twenty seconds later Murphy shoved the ramrod into its receiver, laid the long barrel over the branch once again, made the tiniest adjustment for the soft crosswind, and squeezed off his second shot. With the queer knowledge of a born rifleman, he knew at the crack of the rifle that the second shot was going to hit. He set his teeth and half a second later involuntarily grunted as the slug punched into Fraser, dead center in his stomach.
The whack of the slug and the gasping grunt from Fraser came just before the general buckled forward. His sword fell from his hand, and his head drooped forward onto the neck of his horse. Immediately, his aides were on either side of him, grasping his arms, holding him in the saddle while they turned and retreated through their own men to get the general out of range, away from the battle.
For a few seconds the British in Fraser’s command stood stock-still, mindless of the raging battle. Fraser was down! Simon Fraser, their leader! He who had won their hearts and their loyalty with his selflessness, bravery, courage, and his unending devotion to his beloved army and England! They watched the two aides working back through the lines, Fraser between them, limp, head slumped forward, feet dangling outside his stirrups. They saw it and they faltered. Their inspiration, their reason for going on, was down, dying, gone.
Five hundred yards distant, Burgoyne saw Fraser rock in his saddle and slump forward. Simon, his confidant, his best friend, his trusted right arm, down! He closed his eyes and his head rolled back with the unbearable pain in his heart. With the instincts of a field general he knew that his army was done. Finished. Quickly he sent runners to both Phillips and Riedesel to cover the retreat, and then he shouted his orders.
“Back! Back! Return to headquarters!”
The red-coated British and blue-coated Germans began their retreat, backing away from the Americans, giving ground more rapidly with each passing minute. They came streaming in behind the fortifications and breastworks on the south side of Burgoyne’s headquarters, bringing the wounded they could carry, leaving their dead behind on a battlefield littered with the bodies of those who had fallen.
They flocked around the two aides who guided Fraser’s horse in, and they didn’t stop until they
came to the hut where Baroness Fredericka von Riedesel had set up her tiny hospital. Strong, gentle hands lifted the general down and carried him inside. A table was thrown out to make way for a bed, and they tenderly laid the general down. Moments later they had his clothing stripped to the waist and their faces fell. None spoke, but they all knew. The general was dying.
The Baroness took charge. Get water. Get bandages. Get carbolics. Get his boots off—cut them off if you have to. She did all she could for Fraser, but no one could remedy the pain of a .60-caliber rifleball in the middle of his stomach.
Back on the battlefield, Arnold did not waste one minute celebrating the monumental victory over Burgoyne’s regulars. He shouted orders to the gathered Americans.
“Follow me, boys!” He stood tall in his stirrups and pointed with his sword. “We’re going to take those two redoubts. With the Breymann redoubt in our hands, we control the path in behind Burgoyne’s headquarters, and by the Almighty, before the sun sets this day, they will be ours!”
He set his spurs and once more Warren lunged forward, straight toward the nearest redoubt, held by a regiment commanded by Major Alexander Lindsay, Sixth Earl of Balcarres.
Far behind Arnold, Major Armstrong sat his horse, hidden in a clump of oak trees, peering at Arnold as he led the charge against the entrenched Germans. He had watched Arnold make his wild plunge into the middle of Burgoyne’s army, and he had gaped when the Americans followed Arnold, shouting like wild men, to turn Burgoyne, drive him from the field. Now he was watching Arnold again leading an attack against entrenched cannon and muskets. The man’s insane! If Gates thinks I’m going in there to tell Arnold to return to headquarters, then General Gates is mightily mistaken! Armstrong held a tight rein on his horse and remained hidden.