Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  With Arnold leading, parts of General John Glover’s command, along with men from Paterson’s command, fell in behind him to run straight at the Balcarres redoubt. The Germans inside gritted their teeth and stayed to their guns, firing as fast as they could load. The grapeshot was taking its toll, and the American attack slowed while the men ducked behind trees and rocks to escape the flying lead balls. Arnold looked eight hundred yards to his left, to where Morgan’s riflemen were crouched behind anything that would give cover, maintaining a deadly fire at anything that moved in the Breymann redoubt.

  The Breymann redoubt! The fortification that controlled access to the back side of Burgoyne’s headquarters! Morgan was already there! Then, from out of the trees, Arnold saw Learned’s command surge out of the forest, running toward the north end of the redoubt.

  Mindless of his own safety, Arnold reined his horse left and kicked him to a stampede gait. The black horse responded, and the crouched rider flashed in front of the entire length of the Balcarres redoubt, with half the Germans inside shooting at him. No one understood how he survived, but survive he did! He held his horse to a high gallop across the open space to the south end of the Breymann redoubt, past Morgan’s men, to the north end of the redoubt. Hauling Warren to a sweaty halt before Learned’s men, he shouted, “Follow me, boys! We can take this redoubt!”

  Among Learned’s command were parts of other commands, including Billy and Eli. They stormed into the first cabins where Canadians had taken cover, and cleaned them out. With the Germans concentrating on their battle with Morgan’s men, Arnold’s charge from their far right caught them by complete surprise. Too late they turned to face him. With Billy and Eli in the leading ranks, Learned’s men swept into them like demons. For ten minutes the fighting was brutal, hot, chaotic, face-to-face inside the redoubt. The Germans tried to back their cannon away from the ramps and turn them to fire at the incoming Americans, but there was no time. With his high, warbling Iroquois battle cry Eli cut a swath with his tomahawk. To his right Billy was swinging his musket like an ax handle, knocking the Germans right and left as he plunged forward. A German officer appeared in front of him, loading a pistol. Billy swept a German musket from the ground, cocked it, and fired it point-blank a split second before the pistol fired. The officer threw his hands high and went over backward, finished. When he fell, the Germans turned and ran for any way they could find to get out of the slaughter within the walls of the redoubt. Shouting, Arnold led his men after them.

  He had reached the south end of the redoubt when he heard the whack and felt his horse shudder as Warren took a .75-caliber musketball through the neck. The mortally stricken horse stuck its nose into the ground and went down. At the instant the heavy ball slammed into Warren, a second musketball bored into Arnold’s left leg, midway between his knee and his hip, and with the numbing shock he felt the bone break. He tried to throw himself clear of the falling horse, but he could not, and they went down in a heap. He did not know how long he lay dazed before he shook his head and tried to rise. It took him ten seconds to understand his broken right leg was pinned beneath the dead horse.

  Men came swarming. They lifted the horse, and as gently as they could, they moved Arnold’s broken, twisted leg, while he groaned through gritted teeth and clenched eyes. With sweat running in a stream, he opened his eyes to peer up at Learned, who spoke.

  “Don’t you move. You let us move you. Hear?”

  Arnold grasped Learned’s arm. “Ebenezer, the redoubt. Did we get it?”

  “We got it. We’re in behind Burgoyne’s headquarters, and they haven’t got enough men left to move us. It’s over.”

  Arnold tried to rise, and a great paw of a hand settled onto his shoulder. He turned to look up into the big, square face of Daniel Morgan. “General, you stay still. We’ve got men rigging a stretcher right now. We’ll get you back home. You’ll be all right.”

  Billy and Eli, with four other men, lifted Arnold high enough to slip a stretcher fashioned of pine limbs and a blanket beneath him. They slipped a belt between his teeth when they straightened his leg, and then they lifted him. Two hours later they settled him onto a table in the hospital, and the surgeons ordered them to leave. Generals Learned, Morgan, Glover, and Poor quietly told the surgeons they would remain there until they knew Arnold would be all right.

  Major Armstrong walked into the room, and all eyes turned to him. He swallowed, and approached Arnold. “Sir, General Gates has sent a direct order. You are to return to headquarters at once.”

  Half unconscious with pain, bleeding from a shattered right leg, weakening from loss of blood, Arnold gaped at Armstrong. Then he laid his head back on the operating table, and he laughed.

  Armstrong glanced around, embarrassed, and without a word he quietly turned and walked out.

  The chief surgeon slit the pant leg wide open and washed the wound before he spoke to Arnold. “Sir, I’m afraid the leg is too badly damaged. It will have to come off.”

  Arnold looked him in the eye. “It stays on. See to it.”

  * * * * *

  In somber silence Burgoyne waited behind the desk in his command tent. He did not want to endure the agony of repeating his message twice; every officer to the rank of major was coming to attend a solemn council of war. They came in groups, quiet, subdued, to stand inside the log structure, waiting. By ten o’clock those still alive were present, and Burgoyne rose and motioned.

  “Be seated, gentlemen.”

  They took their proper places, and for a moment Burgoyne glanced at the empty chairs, among them those belonging to Fraser and Breymann. He raised his chin, took a deep breath, and began.

  “I will not keep you long. Our position is indefensible. We have lost some officers who are irreplaceable. You know about Fraser and Breymann, and there are others. We have no more food. No more horses. I have just received word that General John Stark—the militia general who led the Americans at the Bennington catastrophy—has marched in north of us with more than one thousand of his men from New Hampshire and Vermont. We are sealed off, both north and south. We cannot return to Fort Ticonderoga, nor can we fight our way through to Albany.”

  He cleared his throat. “We can fight on, but at the cost of most of the men we have left. I will not sacrifice them in such a futile way.” He paused for a moment, fighting to maintain control, and could not. He bowed his head and for a time his shoulders shook in silent sobs. Then he straightened, wiped at his eyes, swallowed, and continued. “I have resolved that the only honorable course left is to seek terms of surrender from General Gates. I sent him a message. He has sent me a proposal.”

  * * * * *

  Dawn broke cool and foggy. The formalities of the surrender were to be conducted at ten o’clock in the morning, on the banks of Fish Creek, at Saratoga. Gates had issued firm orders that only those Americans directly involved were to be present at the surrender, in an effort to avoid further humiliation for Burgoyne and his army.

  At a little past nine, the fog lifted, and in bright sunshine, dressed in the immaculate, crimson, tailored uniform he had brought from England to be worn at his triumphant entry into Albany, Burgoyne rode at the head of his army. A great feathered plume attached to his tricorn fell over one shoulder. Behind came his men in their tattered, faded uniforms, pieced together the best they could. Heads high, chins set, with battle-torn colors flying, drums rolling, and pipes playing, the remnants of the Ninth, Twentieth, Twenty-first, Twenty-fourth, and Sixty-second regiments marched to the surrender ceremony. The Royal Artillery under General Phillips followed, and behind came the chaplains, surgeons, quartermasters, adjutants, and engineers. General von Riedesel led the blue-coated Germans, with the wagons and women and children in the van.

  The artillerymen parked their cannon and turned and walked away, and did not look back. Infantrymen emptied their cartridge boxes, then laid their muskets on the growing stacks. A few smashed the stocks of their own muskets before flinging them on the pile, and fo
ur of the drummers stomped the heads out of their drums before throwing them onto the growing stack.

  The American army gathered at the Saratoga church meetinghouse and slowly walked to line the road to Dovegat and beyond. Following the surrender, Burgoyne’s army would march down that road, and the Americans wished to see them as they passed.

  Burgoyne abided the formalities. He handed his sword to Gates, who accepted it, then returned it. The articles of surrender were signed. Burgoyne remounted his horse and led his men forward onto the Dovegat road, stretching ahead for miles. The British marched with chins high, at first ignoring the Americans. The Germans marched with arms swinging, anger and disgust on their faces. An American band struck up “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and the impudent little English folk song with American words floated out over the valley as the somber procession moved on.

  Then, an unexpected feeling crept into both armies. The Americans remained silent. There was not a smile, nor a grin, nor a catcall among them. It seemed they had gathered to pay their respect to an enemy who had fought well. They nodded from time to time at someone as they made eye contact. Some removed their hats.

  The British and Germans looked at the Americans for the first time, not as an enemy, but as men, and they were startled. Their clothing was tattered, torn, shoes nearly nonexistent. Their weapons were whatever they had brought with them. The men were generally taller than average, sinewy, hardy. And they had fought like demons. They had brought down eight thousand of the finest fighting men in the world. The defeated British and Germans looked at them, and they wondered.

  Burgoyne commented to Gates, “I commend your men for their discipline. It almost seems they are here to honor us. I congratulate you.”

  The long column continued south, moving down the rutted road leading to Boston, where they would be held pending transportation to their homelands across the Atlantic, all according to the terms of surrender. The Americans watched, and when the column had passed and disappeared in the dust, they left the road in small groups to make their way slowly back to their camp.

  As they walked back toward their own camp, Billy spoke. “Want to go find General Stark’s camp and ask about your sister? He’s camped just north of here. Might be your last chance for a while.”

  The two shouldered their weapons and walked along the twisting wagon track leading north. The afternoon sun was warm on their shoulders as they wound through the spectacular colors in the trees. For a time they walked in silence, each working with his own thoughts, trying to comprehend what the Americans had done. They struggled, then put it away in their minds to be brought out another day, when they would better understand how far-reaching the defeat of General John Burgoyne would be.

  It was midafternoon before they came upon the camp of the New Hampshiremen, who were dressed in fringed buckskin breeches and hunting shirts, with moccasins made from the leather of the neck of a bull moose. The men were subdued, thoughtful, reflective, pondering how it could be that the great John Burgoyne had fallen—beaten by farmers and fishermen and blacksmiths and storekeepers.

  Billy and Eli walked among them, asking. Does anyone know of a man named Cyrus Fielding? Might be a reverend, or a preacher? Has anyone heard of him? Or of a blue-eyed girl that was given to his family a long time ago?

  The day wore on with heads shaking no. With the sun dropping low in the west, the two men reached the far end of the camp, and Billy walked to a small group of men setting a tripod and cooking kettle for their supper.

  “Anyone heard of a man named Cyrus Fielding? An older man, might have been a preacher?” Billy asked.

  A sergeant with a graying stubble beard turned to him. “Who wants to know?”

  “We’re looking for him. He might know of a girl, an orphan, who was given to his family eighteen years ago.”

  The sergeant pursed his mouth for a moment. “I don’t know a Cyrus Fielding, but you might ask Cap’n Ben. He stands yonder.” He raised a hand to point to a man ten yards away. He was taller than Billy, dressed in buckskins and moccasins, wearing a battered tricorn. He was broad in the shoulders and moved with the grace of one raised in the forest. His features were regular, hair dark, brows heavy over cavernous eyes.

  “Captain Ben who? What’s his last name?”

  “Cap’n Ben Fielding.”

  Billy’s heart leaped as he strode to the man. “Are you Ben Fielding? Captain Ben Fielding?”

  The man turned and raised steady eyes to Billy. “I am. New Hampshire militia. Might I know who you are?”

  “Billy Weems. Massachusetts regiment. I’m here looking for anyone who might know of a man named Cyrus Fielding. An older man. Might be a minister, or a reverend.”

  The man stared hard into Billy’s eyes, searching, and then spoke evenly. “Cyrus Fielding was my father. He passed on eight years ago.”

  Billy’s breath came short for a moment. “Eighteen years ago, was a four-year-old girl brought to your father’s home? Blue eyes, light hair? An orphan named Stroud?”

  “Yes.”

  Billy turned and called to Eli. “Come here.”

  Eli heard the urgent ring in Billy’s voice and came running.

  “Eli, this is Captain Ben Fielding, New Hampshire militia. His Father was Cyrus Fielding. I believe your sister was brought to his home.”

  Eli started. He stared into Ben Fielding’s face, afraid to believe, afraid to ask. He licked dry lips and said, “Her name was Stroud? Iddi Stroud?”

  Fielding’s eyes narrowed for a split second, and then widened in shock as understanding broke clear in his mind. “Iddi? Did you say Iddi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you Eli?”

  “I am! Eli Stroud.”

  “Her name is Lydia, not Iddi. But her infant brother couldn’t say Lydia. He called her Iddi!”

  Eli choked it out. “Is she alive?”

  “Alive? My family raised her. I married her four years ago. She’s my wife! She’s at our place now, three days march north and east of here. She’s the mother of our two children, our daughter, Hannah, and our son, Samuel.”

  Eli tried to speak, and could not, nor could Billy. Fielding went on.

  “She’s never given up on you. We’ve asked everywhere we could—travelers, hunters, Indians—anyone who might know. She’s prayed every day for eighteen years, waiting for this.”

  Eli found his voice. “Is she all right? Healthy? Strong?”

  “A handsome, strong, good woman. A blessing in our home.” Fielding paused only long enough to see that Eli could not speak, and he continued. “We’re breaking camp in the morning, heading for home. You’ll come, won’t you? You’ve got to come see her.”

  “Yes. We’ll come. We have to go report back to our company, and then we’ll come back here at dawn.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  For several seconds the two men looked at each other, lost in the moment, only beginning to believe that the search and the pain and the waiting for eighteen years had come to an end. Eli bobbed his head and turned, and Billy followed as they walked back south to find Dearborn’s regiment and request permission to leave for a time. Eli stopped once to look back, and Fielding was standing still, feet slightly apart, watching him.

  Billy walked beside him in silence, giving him time to get hold of what had happened. Ten minutes passed before Eli quietly said, “Lydia. I remembered the minute he said it. Lydia. Two children. Hannah, and Samuel. I have a niece, and a nephew. A good woman, he said. Healthy. Strong. A blessing. My sister. Lydia.”

  He shook his head, and there was a radiance in his face.

  In deep dusk they found Dearborn’s regiment gathered within the walls of the fortifications on Bemis Heights, along with Morgan’s riflemen, and Learned’s command, and most of the others. They ate warm mutton stew with dark bread and drank cool water from a bucket, then moved among the men, looking for General Dearborn. Strangely, talk was light among the men. It had happened too suddenly. The grinding, soul-d
estroying weeks and months of running, retreating, and then the bloody, frantic battle, and then it was over. The men were quiet, groping to comprehend what they had done. Hundreds of them sat cross-legged near campfires, paper and pencil in hand, writing, pondering, writing again, to wives, mothers, fathers, loved ones.

  Billy walked past Private Oliver Boardman, a young soldier with a Connecticut regiment, who had camped next to Billy, who had befriended him. Boardman raised his head from his writing to speak.

  “Billy, what is the date today?”

  Billy reflected. “October 17, 1777.”

  “How do you spell ‘providence’?”

  Billy dropped to his haunches and carefully spelled it while Boardman laboriously wrote it. Billy asked, “Writing home?”

  “To mother. How does this sound? ‘It was a glorious sight to see the haughty Brittons march out and surrender their arms to an army, which but a little before they despised and called paltroons.’”

  Men slowed and stopped, listening in the firelight as Boardman read on.

  “Surely the hand of Providence work’d wonderfully in favour of America.”

  More than fifty men had gathered to listen as Boardman concluded.

  “I hope every heart will be affected by the wonderful goodness of God in delivering so many of our enemy into our hands, with so little loss on our side.”

  Boardman raised his eyes back to Billy, and for the first time realized he was surrounded. The men peered down at him, sitting beside his campfire. They wiped at their eyes, then nodded to him as they moved on.

  Boardman watched them go, and turned back to Billy. “Was it too much? Did I say it too strong?”

  Billy stared at the fire for a moment. “No, it wasn’t too strong. It was fine. It was fitting. The hand of Providence was with us.”

  Billy and Eli found General Dearborn at the hospital. He came outside to talk with them, and Billy made their brief report.