Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  He looked Fraser in the eye. “I sent a letter to both Howe and Clinton reminding them that this expedition required that I receive support from St. Leger’s command from the west, and Howe’s command from the south. Had I known I was going to get neither, I would never have left England.”

  Burgoyne leaned back in his chair and dug a thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He sat thus for a time, forehead wrinkled in deep thought.

  “My latest scouting reports say militia are coming to Saratoga and Stillwater in droves, from as far away as Massachusetts.” A cynical smile stole across his face. “It seems our plan has worked out exactly backwards. I was to have additional support, the rebels less. Now it appears I will have no support at all, and they will be flooded with it.”

  He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “There’s nothing to be gained by sitting here brooding. One good thing—we’ve stockpiled food and stores for thirty days.” He smiled his standard, jaunty, Gentleman Johnny smile. “I imagine we can find a way to move from here to Albany within thirty days.”

  Fraser nodded.

  “Simon, thank you for coming. As always, I’m in your debt. Return to your men. Give me some time to think, and we’ll hold a war council. I’ll send for you and the others when I’m ready.”

  * * * * *

  “Good morning, General. Have a seat.” A smiling Horatio Gates sat at his desk and waited for Benedict Arnold to take a seat opposite him.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I trust your men are settled.”

  “They are.”

  “Had breakfast?”

  “Yes, with my officers.”

  “Good.” Gates sobered. “There are a number of matters needing attention. The first one is a proposal regarding yourself.” Gates paused for a moment. “I propose that you should take command of a division of the army. Included will be Major Dearborn’s light infantry, and two brigades of New Hampshiremen under Ebenezer Learned and Enoch Poor. Those two regiments are composed largely of veterans in the regiments of Joseph Cilley and Alexander Scammel. If we get the New York and Connecticut militia I’ve been promised, they’ll also be assigned with those regiments.” Again Gates paused, and a slight smile formed. “You’ll also be getting Daniel Morgan and his company of riflemen.”

  No company of soldiers in the American cause stood higher than Morgan’s riflemen. They were gathered from the forest, where they had mastered their long Pennsylvania rifles and the art of surviving and thriving indefinitely in the wilderness. They wore buckskins and long hair, trusted the man next to them with their lives, shared the good and the bad, and revered Daniel Morgan. They would follow their intrepid leader wherever he led.

  Arnold eased back in his chair with his thoughts running. A strong corps. Good leaders. “Thank you, sir.”

  Gates nodded. “I take it you’ll accept command of the division?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have your staff picked?”

  “I’ve asked Henry Brockholst Livingston and Matthew Clarkson to join me. I’ll have others as soon as we get organized.”

  A cloud passed over Gates’s face. “Wasn’t Livingston on Schuyler’s staff? Isn’t he going to be leaving soon to join Schuyler in Albany?”

  “Yes. I’ve asked him to join my staff until he goes. Good man.”

  “Isn’t Clarkson, Livingston’s cousin?”

  Arnold’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of it, but you’re right. He is.”

  Gates’s eyes narrowed for a moment while he slowly nodded his head. “I see.” He continued, and a coolness crept into his voice. “General Schuyler has been relieved of command, for good reason. He surrendered Fort Ti, and his army was all but annihilated. I have no use for his policies, and I have deep reservations about having someone from his staff close to anyone on my war council. Would you reconsider those two? Livingston and Clarkson?”

  Gates’s signal to Arnold was wide open, clear, blunt. Two years of relentless acrimony between Schuyler and Gates had left each man detesting the other. With Schuyler fallen from grace, Gates found himself with the unbelievable, incredible gift of replacing him at precisely the time when the tides of war had subtly shifted in favor of the Americans. No man was going to stand between himself and his one golden chance to humiliate Schuyler, and put himself within striking distance of the one goal that had come to dominate his mind, his heart, his life. Whatever it took, he would find a way to replace George Washington. The name Horatio Gates, and not George Washington, would be forever enshrined in American history.

  Arnold shrugged. “They’re both good men. I’ll look around, but until I find someone as capable, I think I’ll have to use them.”

  Gates’s mind snapped shut. He’s a Schuyler spy—calling in Schuyler men to assist—they’ll make trouble—can’t trust them.

  Arnold, the pure warrior, direct, unsophisticated, hating politics and politicians, had almost totally failed to grasp what Gates had so plainly laid before him. The distancing that instantly began between himself and Gates went unnoticed by him, as did the chill that now quietly settled between them.

  Gates continued. “Before leaving Philadelphia, I petitioned Congress for seven thousand seven hundred fifty men. Congress consented. Most of them have arrived. I have Enoch Poor with a brigade five miles up the Mohawk River. They were waiting for St. Leger, but with him now gone they’re on their way here. More than half the command is on Van Schaick’s Island. With your twelve hundred, and General Morgan’s riflemen, we’re close to eight thousand. When the militia arrives from New York and Pennsylvania we should have ten thousand.”

  Arnold bobbed his head. “Good. What condition are these men in? Clothing, food, morale?”

  “Excellent. I demanded fresh vegetables and meat and substantial shoes and clothing for my men. Congress obliged. On my orders, the camp and hospital were cleaned up. We began holding inspections every morning, drilling every day, and started conducting courts-martial for the laggards. It took some doing, but discipline is high, morale is excellent, the men are in good health, with good clothing. I believe we’re ready.”

  Arnold sensed the well-deserved pride in Gates’s voice. “Do you know the condition of Burgoyne’s command?”

  “Not entirely. We know their uniforms are in poor condition, and they were running low on food. They were eating roots and porcupines and raccoons for a time, but Burgoyne stopped long enough to stockpile supplies at Fort Edward. Perhaps enough for a month. His men are approaching exhaustion from clearing trees to unblock roads, digging out dams, replacing bridges, rebuilding burned causeways.”

  Arnold interrupted. “That’s Schuyler’s work. Even when he was retreating, he was doing everything he could to eat away at Burgoyne’s army—slowing them, wearing them down, using up their food, their oxen, their horses. He provided us time to gather our forces. He set the stage for what’s now happening.”

  For an instant hostility flared in Gates’s face at the suggestion that Schuyler was in any way responsible for depleting Burgoyne’s army. The truth of it was lost in the abhorrence Gates felt for the man. He brought himself under control and went on.

  “The critical fact is, it is becoming obvious that the condition of his army is such that he must make a choice. He can no longer sit where he is. He must retreat back to Quebec, or he must move on to Albany. I’ve known Burgoyne since we were lieutenants together years ago. My personal judgment is that his pride will not let him retreat. That means he must go on to Albany, and to do that he must first get past my command, here, at Stillwater and Saratoga.”

  The truth of it seized Arnold. “What is the plan?”

  Gates spread a large map on his desk and anchored the corners. He scanned it for a moment, then tapped a finger and moved it as he spoke. “We’re here. Burgoyne’s here, at Fort Edward. We don’t know how he intends getting past us, but we do know he has but two choices. Either he crosses the river at Fort Edward and comes down this side to Albany,
or, he comes down the far side of the river, the east side, and crosses just above Albany, here, near Half Moon. His problem is, the river is fairly narrow at Fort Edward, but not at Albany. At Half Moon and Albany it’s wide.”

  Arnold was totally absorbed in the map.

  “He can cross at Fort Edward quickly, and under cover of his own cannon. But if he tries to cross at Half Moon, where it’s wide, his men will be on the river for a much longer time. With very little preparation, we can place our cannon out of range of his, and sink most of his bateaux and boats before they even come close to the western banks of the river, without so much as a single British cannonball to stop us.”

  Arnold raised his eyes. “Burgoyne won’t commit his army to a river crossing he can’t control. He’ll cross at Fort Edward and come down our side of the river.”

  Gates’s eyes were glowing. “I’m sure of it. That brings us to the question, where is the best place for us to prepare to meet him?”

  Arnold’s response was instant. “Not here. This whole area is too flat, too open. Perfect for the way the British fight. We need to meet them in the hills and woods, where our men are at their best, and his are at their worst.”

  “Precisely. I’ve asked some of the locals about it. They say there’s such a place three or four miles north, near the river. Owned by a man named Jotham Bemis. Called Bemis Heights. There’s a tavern where the road forks, and a farm there, and another close by, some fields, hills, wooded areas.”

  “Has anyone gone to look?”

  “Not yet. I plan to send Major Wilkinson and Udney Hay in the next day or so. Perhaps the engineer, Thaddeus Kosciuszko.”

  “Good. The sooner the better.”

  * * * * *

  General Simon Fraser used the iron cleat on the doorstep to scrape mud from his boots, rubbed both boot soles briskly on the heavy bristle of the doormat, shook rain from his hat, then stepped into the parlor of the elegant, two-storied Duer house. He followed Burgoyne’s aide to the large, glass library doors, waited until he was announced and invited, then walked into the library. Burgoyne rose from behind the great maple desk. Seated on his left were generals Phillips and von Riedesel, to his right, General Breymann.

  “General, thank you for coming.”

  Fraser nodded. “Sorry to be late. We had a disturbance. I had to stay for a few minutes.”

  Burgoyne asked, “A disturbance?”

  “Two enlisted men. One drew a knife.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No. Nothing serious. Tempers flared. It’s settled.”

  “What was the disturbance about?”

  Fraser hesitated for a moment, then grunted a laugh. “An argument over a pair of socks. But that wasn’t the real problem. The men are becoming alarmed. Frightened. They know the rebels are gathering all around us by the thousands, and the forces we were promised haven’t come. They’re starting to think they’ve been lied to. It boiled over half an hour ago. It’s taken care of.”

  “Good. Be seated, there, by General Breymann.”

  As Fraser sat, Burgoyne spoke. His face was a mask of discipline, his voice steady, devoid of emotion. The men at the table quieted, sensing something had reached deep inside Burgoyne, far past the charismatic Gentleman Johnny.

  “As some of you might know, Colonel St. Leger is not coming. Brant was here only long enough to inform me that he and his Mohawk Indians are returning to their home grounds on the Mohawk River. They believe George Washington cannot be defeated.” He paused. No one stirred in the silence. “It has become clear to me that General Howe does not intend coming to meet us in Albany. He wants Philadelphia. General Carleton has refused to send men to relieve the one thousand I left to occupy Fort Ti. We lost another one thousand at Bennington. We lost more at Hubbardton and Fort Anne, and sickness and desertions are serious, and ongoing. This morning’s duty roster shows less than four thousand effectives.”

  He paused long enough to draw and slowly release a huge breath. “Without Indians to act as scouts and advance skirmishers, we are blind. We don’t know where the enemy is, or their numbers. If we march, it is without eyes and ears ahead of us, or beside us, or behind us. The moment the enemy discovers we’ve lost our Indians, we are vulnerable.”

  A murmur arose around the table and died.

  “At this moment the militia from nearly every state to the east of us is gathering like a great, dark cloud on our left flank, and behind us. Ahead of us, the rebels have gathered about eight thousand men, with more coming every hour.”

  He selected a map and began unfolding it. “It is clear to me we cannot remain here. Our choice is simple. We retreat back to Quebec, or we push on to Albany alone.”

  He stopped, and his eyes flicked from man to man. The next moment he stunned them. “I’ve decided we march on to Albany.”

  Fraser stiffened. No questions—no discussion—no suggestions—simply decided it without us and that’s the end of it! Something’s wrong! He glanced at the other generals at the table. They all sat staring, faces a blank.

  Burgoyne flattened the map on the desk and droned on, indicating with his finger as he spoke. “Here we are, at Fort Edward. Gates is gathering his forces down here, in and around Saratoga. To reach Albany, here, we have to get past Gates’s forces.” He raised his head. “We can do that by going down this side of the river and crossing the Hudson just above Albany, or we can cross the river here, and go down the west side.”

  Again he paused while the generals methodically put the building blocks in place in their minds.

  “If we cross the river here, at Fort Edward, we will not be on the water very long, we’ll be in control, and they will have no cannon to sink our bateaux and boats. If we cross down here, at Albany, we’ll be on the water much longer, and if they place their guns right, they’ll be able to reach our bateaux and boats, while we won’t have a gun that can reach them. In short, it will be a massacre.”

  Once again he raised his head, asked no questions, and delivered his decision. “We cross the river here, at Fort Edward.”

  Phillips leaned back in his chair, brain approaching deadlock. Precisely what does he think he’s doing? War council? This is no war council! This is a case of pure dictatorship!

  Burgoyne went on. “When we conclude here, order your men to pack their baggage at once, and load all tents, munitions, food—everything—into shipping crates for the crossing. We leave nothing—absolutely nothing—here.”

  Riedesel reached to wipe at a dry mouth. He intends breaking all connections with our supply base. When we leave here, there is no returning! We succeed in getting past the rebels at Saratoga, or we are defeated! Von Riedesel turned to look at Breymann and read the identical thoughts in his startled eyes.

  Burgoyne spoke with cold finality as he folded the map. “Thank you for coming. Take charge of your troops for the river crossing and march to the south. You are dismissed.”

  * * * * *

  The picket pushed aside the flap at the entrance of the command tent of General Benedict Arnold. “Sir, the two men you sent for are here. Weems and Stroud.”

  Arnold finished pulling on his boot, then stood and stamped his foot hard to settle his foot inside. “Good. Send them in.”

  A minute later Billy and Eli stood facing Arnold. Billy saluted. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Arnold smiled. “Glad to see you two again. I heard some things about Brant and his Mohawk. After that trick with that deranged man—what was his name—Han Yost—I wanted to hear from you two what happened over at Oswego, after Yost scared the Indians into running away from Stanwix. Were you at Oswego?”

  Billy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Eli walked into Brant’s camp with a wampum belt and told him the British were going to lose the war. If Brant was with them, he’d lose, too.”

  Arnold’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Just walked into his camp and told Brant he’s going to lose?”

 
Billy turned to Eli, and Eli spoke.

  “Indians respect a wampum belt. Billy and I made one, and it got us into their camp. Brant’s an honorable man. I reminded him of a story—sort of a prophecy—made by an old Indian a long time ago. The old chief tried to kill Washington in a battle and found out his men couldn’t hit him with their muskets. He prophesied Washington could not be killed in battle, and would live to become the father of a great nation. Brant knew about that prophecy. What he didn’t know about was the times I saw Washington in battle. Washington should have been killed at least six times, but wasn’t. I told Brant. He believed it. We left.”

  “You persuaded Brant and his Indians to quit the war?”

  Eli shrugged. “It appears so.”

  Arnold shook his head in amazement. “That’s the most remarkable thing I ever heard.” He stopped for a few moments, his thoughts running. “With both St. Leger and Brant gone, Burgoyne’s going to have about three thousand fewer men than he planned on.” He stopped for a moment to consider, then raised startled eyes. “You’ve crippled the British army! Remarkable. I thought that trick with Han Yost was unbelieveable, but what you did at Oswego is far beyond that. I owe you. This country owes you.”

  Eli shrugged. “We were lucky.”

  Arnold shook his head. “That wasn’t luck.” He turned to pick up his tricorn from his desk. “I was on my way to General Gates’s quarters. Some business that won’t wait. I’ll see if I can get a full report of what you’ve just told me into the army records.” He stopped, then suddenly thrust out his hand. “It was my privilege to work with you over there at Fort Stanwix. I want you to know that.” He shook their hands, then led them to the door. “I wish we had a little more time, but General Gates won’t wait. Come on. I’ll walk part way with you.”

  The three stepped out of the tent into the heat of the day, and half a dozen soldiers slowed at the sight of a general striding through camp with enlisted men. Arnold said his thanks, nodded, and angled away, toward the small building with Gates’s name on the sign above the door. On his approach the picket opened the door, spoke to General Gates, and waited for Arnold to enter before he closed it.