Saratoga

by David Garland

  "I asked you a question," he said.

  "I know."

  "Do you still care?"

  "I care for anyone who's about to fight in a battle," she said.

  "That's not what I want to hear, Elizabeth. Don't you realize what I'm telling you? The enemy has a huge advantage in numbers. If we do take them on, you may never see me again."

  "I'll pray that that's not the case."

  "I was hoping for more than prayer."

  "You have my full sympathy, Harry."

  "There are better ways of expressing sympathy," he said, reaching out to stroke her hair. "Let's put our differences behind us, shall we? I know that I've let you down in some ways and I'm profoundly sorry about that, but I feel that none of that matters now. Let's forget it."

  "If you wish."

  "Try to remember what brought us together in the first place. To me, you were never just a replacement for Cora. You were so much more than that. You were your own woman and I loved you for it." He took her by the shoulders. "Be mine again, Elizabeth. Just for tonight—be mine again."

  "No, Harry."

  "Even though I may be killed tomorrow? Please—let me stay. We may not have that wedding in Albany, or even in Canterbury Cathedral, but we can spend just one night as man and wife, can't we?" He pulled her close. "I want you, Elizabeth. I've earned you, surely."

  "No," she said, breaking away. "You can't ask that of me."

  "Isn't it why you came all this way from England?"

  "I came to be with the man I love, Harry, not to be tricked into bed like this. It's wrong of you to ask," she chided. "I expected better of you."

  He needed time to compose himself and to change his approach. Seeing that he blundered, Featherstone tried to make amends.

  "I apologize," he said. "It was foolish of me to think that I could snatch a few hours of pleasure before I go off tomorrow. It was unfair to you, Elizabeth, and I hope that you'll forgive me."

  "I will if you leave me alone, Harry."

  "Just tell me that you still care—then I'll go."

  He took her by the hand and looked deep into her eyes. Elizabeth felt threatened. She did not want to lie but it was the only way to get rid of him. She even conjured up a smile.

  "Yes, Harry. I still care."

  He kissed her hand, gave her a token bow, then left the tent. She felt so dizzy that she had to sit on the edge of the camp bed. It was a long time since she and Featherstone had been alone together and the rift between them had widened. After his conduct that night, it had widened even more. Elizabeth cared for him enough to hope that he would come through any battle unscathed but she feared having to face him again.

  With a deliberate effort, she cleared her mind of Harry Featherstone and thought only of the person who had replaced him in her affections. While she waited for him to come, Elizabeth whiled away the time reflecting on the changes that he had wrought in her life. Having left England in order to be with one man, she could only envisage her future with someone else now. Captain Jamie Skoyles had none of the prospects or social advantages enjoyed by Harry Featherstone, but that did not matter. In every way, Skoyles was the better man—more honest, more honorable, more interesting, more reliable, and much more able to make her feel like a real woman. While Featherstone was more acceptable to her parents, she knew that she had made the right choice.

  Long before he arrived, Elizabeth had reached her decision. Given the fact that Skoyles might be involved in hostilities on the following day, it was tempting Providence to make too many plans for a future together. He was hers, here and now. She had to seize her opportunity. It was a huge and dangerous step to take. Elizabeth would be flouting convention and doing something that she had been taught to regard as anathema. She would also be committing an act of betrayal against the man to whom she was betrothed and whom she had sworn to love forever.

  Notwithstanding all that, she was still ready to follow her heart. In circumstances like the present ones, her upbringing counted for nothing. Rules of behavior during a war were instinctive rather than imposed. Elizabeth was ready to brave disapproval and surrender to her emotions. When Skoyles finally arrived, she ran to his arms.

  "You got my letter?" he asked.

  "Yes, Jamie. It upset me very much."

  "Why?"

  "Because you may be fighting another battle."

  "Not until tomorrow, Elizabeth. In fact—"

  "Don't say anything else," she said, putting a hand to his lips. "We may only have tonight. Let's not waste a moment of it."

  She clung to him for a moment with an element of desperation. Then she stepped back, looked lovingly up at him, and began to unhook her dress. Jamie Skoyles smiled and stared in wonder at her. Elizabeth Rainham was his at last. She was no longer beyond his reach. He felt an upsurge of love that swept aside all other considerations.

  Maria Quinn was not even a faint memory.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Are you sure, Ezekiel?" he asked, grabbing his brother anxiously by the arm. "Is that what General Gates said?"

  "Word for word. I was in his tent, Reuben."

  "He's forbidden Benedict Arnold to join in any battle?"

  "I'm afraid so," said Proudfoot.

  "Then he's lost all my respect. What's wrong with Gates?" said Reuben, upset at the confirmation of his worst fears. "Has he never heard of Arnold's trek to Canada? How he built a navy to take on the British on Lake Champlain? Has he forgotten who raised the siege at Fort Stanwix?" He released Proudfoot's arm. "And don't remind me that it was renamed after General Schuyler," he went on, angrily, "because he's another useless commander who should be taken out and shot."

  "You're being unfair to Schuyler. It was he who persuaded the Iroquois to join us. More importantly," Proudfoot continued, "the general responded to Gates's urgent call for more ammunition by sending out men to strip the lead from the windows of Albany, so that it could be melted down and poured into bullet molds. He deserves thanks."

  "Perhaps," said the other grudgingly.

  "You might even learn to use the name of Fort Schuyler."

  "That's too much to ask of me, Ezekiel. I'll not forgive him or Granny Gates for letting General Arnold down. Don't they recognize genius when they see it?"

  The brothers were strolling near the edge of the camp at Bemis Heights. It was the morning of October 7, 1777, and Reuben Proudfoot was even more irritated by what he assumed was the unwillingness of General Gates to meet the enemy in battle again. Ezekiel Proudfoot took a more rounded view of affairs. Having met both Gates and Benedict Arnold—and having committed both of their portraits to paper—he had his own opinions of the two men.

  "Arnold's genius is plain for all to see," said Proudfoot. "The problem is that he's only too aware of it himself. It makes him arrogant."

  "He's entitled to be arrogant."

  "Not in the presence of his commander."

  "You are surely not taking Gates's side here?" Reuben challenged him.

  "I take no side at all. I'm simply saying that Benedict Arnold can sometimes be his own worst enemy."

  "Horseshit!"

  "He is, Reuben. He's wild and undisciplined."

  "That's what makes him such a great leader."

  "Even great leaders must learn to obey orders."

  "What orders?" cried Reuben. "All we've done since we got here is to sit on our hands. Gates hasn't even allowed us to go out on patrol. How can we fight for liberty if we're penned up here on Bemis Heights?"

  Proudfoot had no answer. He loved his brother but had never shared his pugnacity. Even as a boy, Reuben had enjoyed a fight for its own sake and he hated to be kept away from any action. Conquest of the British army did not just mean a military victory to him. It would herald a Republic of the United States of America, and Reuben was more than ready to lay down his life in that cause.

  Drums began to beat in the distance. Reuben identified the sound.

  "That's a call to arms from our advance guard!"<
br />
  "Are you sure?"

  "I should be, Ezekiel," he said, embracing his brother. "I've been waiting to hear it for weeks now. The British are coming. Granny Gates will have to let us fight now."

  Serious doubts about the reconnaissance expedition had afflicted Jamie Skoyles beforehand. When the men set out late that morning, his doubts had hardened into fears. Skoyles was worried by the size of the force that General Burgoyne led out of the camp. If the sole aim was to reconnoiter enemy positions, a hundred men would suffice and draw far less attention to themselves. As it was, the fifteen hundred soldiers were supplemented by Canadians, Indians, and loyalists, taking the total to over two thousand, and making it impossible for them to move with any stealth. Apart from the creaking of the ammunition wagons and the sounds of the heavy guns being hauled over the crisp, dry leaves in the woodland, there was the steady beating of drums to alert the enemy.

  Taking so many men away also weakened the defenses at the camp, and that also disturbed Skoyles, because it left the remaining soldiers vulnerable to enemy attack. Burgoyne's decision to move forward was a colossal gamble, but Skoyles—a seasoned gambler himself—felt that it was doomed from the start. On a personal level, the expedition robbed him of any chance to revel in his memories of a blessed night spent in the arms of Elizabeth Rainham. There was an added poignancy Elizabeth's twenty-first birthday fell on October 7, and he would not be there to help her celebrate it. Instead, he would be following the orders of a man whose judgment he—and many others—considered to be ruinously defective.

  Gentleman Johnny was untroubled by any doubts. Leading an army of British and German professional soldiers, he felt capable of taking on any opposition. Yet the men who had cheered him before they departed from the camp were not fresh troops. They were tired, hungry, and exasperated. Regular attacks from rebel skirmishers at night meant that they were deprived of sleep, and their meager rations were barely enough to sustain them. They were no longer the well-drilled army that had left Canada on a wave of optimism, but a ragged collection of individuals who had difficulty in dressing their lines.

  As at the battle of Freeman's Farm, the British army was divided into three elements. Brigadier Simon Fraser occupied the right with the 24th Foot, supported by the light infantry under the Earl of Balcarres. General Riedesel was situated in the center with some of Colonel Breymann's grenadiers and four artillery pieces. Major Acland and the British grenadiers marched on the left flank, with heavy artillery in support. The three columns advanced beyond the two British redoubts that had been constructed. When they emerged from woodland into a wheat field, they were spread out over a wide area.

  Skoyles was astonished when Burgoyne gave the order for his men to display, form a line, then sit down in double ranks with their weapons between their legs. Foragers, meanwhile, proceeded to cut the wheat or standing straw. Skoyles was bemused. Was this the object of their advance? A foraging expedition did not need over two thousand men. Why send so many? Skoyles was apprehensive. With the majority of the soldiers in such an exposed position, they were—literally—sitting targets.

  General Horatio Gates received the intelligence from James Wilkinson, his deputy adjutant general, a man who had once urged the evacuation of Fort Ticonderoga. Wilkinson had no thoughts of retreat now.

  "They are foraging, General," he reported, "and endeavoring to reconnoiter your left. I think, sir, they offer you battle."

  "What is the nature of the ground and what is your opinion?"

  "Their front is open and their flanks rest on woods, under cover of which they may be attacked; their right is skirted by a lofty height. I would indulge them."

  "Well, then, order Morgan to begin the game."

  Gates had finally decided to attack.

  Jamie Skoyles heard them coming before they appeared. Pouring down from Bemis Heights like a torrent, the rebel soldiers attacked the front and rear of the right wing. Within minutes, Skoyles and his men were fighting for their lives. Nor were they the only object of enemy ferocity. The whole British and German line was under assault by an army five or six times their number. Skoyles and the other officers deployed their men as best they could, but sheer weight of numbers drove them back into the woods. The British artillery was rendered less effective by the presence of stout trees that could shield the enemy, who had the advantage of fighting in a way that most suited them. Daniel Morgan's rifle corps and Henry Dearborn's light infantry were in their element. It was battle on their terms.

  Volley firing from lines of British infantry could not hold back soldiers who emerged from cover to shoot, then darted behind a tree trunk to reload. Even the threat of a bayonet charge did not deter them. Both the Continental Army and the various militias had waited too long for battle to be cheated of victory. Skoyles was impressed with the courage and enthusiasm of their repeated charges. Whenever they were driven back, the rebels simply regrouped and came at the British again.

  The noise was even more deafening than it had been at Freeman's Farm. Rebel soldiers howled for blood or screamed in pain as grapeshot raked them. The sound of artillery and musket fire was interspersed with the cries of dying men and wounded horses. Hooves thundered across the wheat field. Drums beat out their tattoos. Wheat and straw were forgotten now. Both sides were harvesting human blood.

  As in earlier engagements, the rebels made a special effort to kill enemy officers. The letter of protest that Burgoyne had sent to Gates about this unacceptable conduct had been ignored. Americans were under no compulsion to abide by British rules of engagement. Victory was all to them. By killing or disabling officers, they weakened the whole structure of the opposing army and brought that victory nearer. Skoyles was made all too aware of rebel tactics. Shortly after his men were attacked, his hat was shot off and a bullet removed the heel of his boot.

  His horse was the next to be hit, struck in the chest and rearing up so high that Skoyles was dislodged from the saddle. As he fell to the ground, he rolled swiftly away so that he was not crushed beneath the weight of the animal as it came crashing down after him. Skoyles got to his knees in time to defend himself against a rebel soldier who came racing through the trees at him. Intending to dash a British officer's brains out with the butt of his rifle, the man instead found his weapon deftly parried by a sword that flashed in Skoyles's hand to run him through with one clean thrust.

  Bullets whistled all round him, but the greatest danger for Skoyles was directly behind him. It was only by chance that he glanced over his shoulder. Riding toward him, with murder in his eye, was Harry Featherstone, bristling with hatred and ready to exploit the confusion of battle. Skoyles had only a split second to take evasive action. Had he not dived out of the way, the slash of Featherstone's sword could have taken his head off. In fact, all that was detached was one of the epaulets on Skoyles's shoulder. Before he could get up to pursue Featherstone, the major had ridden off into the trees to continue the fight against the real enemy. Skoyles turned his own anger upon the rebels.

  Ezekiel Proudfoot took to the trees once again. Since the only way he could get any view of the battle was from above it, he climbed the tallest oak he could find and surveyed the field. Everywhere he looked the British and German soldiers were under severe fire, pressed back by Continentals and militia, who seemed to be reinforced time and again. In some part of the battlefield, Reuben Proudfoot would be hurling himself into the fray, but because his brother did not recognize the colors of each regiment, he was quite unable to decide where Reuben might be.

  Disorder reigned supreme. It was a scene of violent struggle, random cruelty, and, in some places, mounting panic. Smoke billowed from the heavy guns. Charges were made, repulsed, then made again with greater commitment. Examples of outstanding bravery and intense suffering were everywhere. Blood stained the wheat field red.

  All that Proudfoot could do was to rely on his memory, consigning images, incidents, advances, retreats, and untold gory deaths to the back of his mind for later us
e. His hand was shaking far too much for him to draw any sketches. He had witnessed battles before, but Proudfoot knew that this one was markedly different. What he was looking at was nothing less than a fight for American liberty, a decisive engagement that could turn the whole war in their favor. Such a battle needed a leader around whom the rebels could gather. He soon appeared, galloping toward the Brunswickers with suicidal audacity. It was the man whom Proudfoot had last seen in his commander's tent.

  Drunk on rum and consumed with rage at the attempt to deny him a role in the battle, Benedict Arnold spurred his horse on and urged his men to follow him. When a redcoat tried to bayonet him, the American hacked him to death with his sword, then beat off two more British bayonets before riding to another part of the field. Arnold was brave, impetuous, foolish, dauntless, indefatigable, and utterly heroic.

  It was a memory that Ezekiel Proudfoot would never forget.

  The British army had its own heroes, none more prominent than Simon Fraser. Under fierce attack, the 24th Foot nevertheless managed to retain a semblance of order and hold the right flank. That was not the case with the redcoats on the left flank, who had been pushed back by the force of the rebel onslaught, their officers slain, their artillerymen and their horses shot dead, and their guns captured. The Germans under Riedesel fared even worse in the center of the action. Though they fought with typical order and gallantry, they endured savage losses. Bullets that did not kill or wound them dented the shiny metallic fronts of their caps, adding a continuous series of pinging sounds to the general hullabaloo.

  Simon Fraser could see the immense difficulties that the center faced. Rallying his men, he brought a detachment of them toward the harried Germans. Jamie Skoyles was among them, having acquired a stray horse whose rider had been killed. Sword held aloft, he followed the brigadier toward the part of the field that was bearing the brunt of enemy attack. Skoyles yelled orders to his men, but it was Simon Fraser who really inspired them. Riding back and forth in his brilliant uniform, he was a highly visible figure on his handsome gray mount.