by Ron Carter
Morgan faced Arnold. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Arnold looked at Dearborn, and behind him at Billy and Eli. “Come on over to the table. Daniel, Henry, this is Eli Stroud and Billy Weems. Stroud’s white, but was raised Iroquois. Weems is from Boston. They work together.”
Morgan turned critical eyes on both men, and they met his gaze evenly.
With the four of them gathered, Arnold wasted no time.
“Burgoyne’s sent a column of men over toward our left. These two men located them this morning. They’re a strong force, and have cannon. I don’t know what they’re up to, but it could mean trouble if Burgoyne sent them to circle clear in around our left and flank us. I intend engaging them before they ever get that far.”
Morgan spoke. “Located them in this fog?”
“Yes.”
Morgan looked at Billy and Eli again, then turned to the map. “Where are they?”
Arnold turned to Eli. “Show them.”
Eli pointed. “About four miles due north is a farm house, marked Freeman’s farm on this map, here. Just north, there’s a column of mixed redcoats, Germans, Canadians, Tories, a few Indians. They have cannon. They’re working this way, staying close to the woods off to the left. If they continue, they’re going to come out in a position to flank us.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Morgan turned to Arnold. “What does Gates say?”
“Send you and Dearborn.”
Dearborn’s eyebrows raised. “I thought we were going to sit here and let Burgoyne come to us.”
“Gates changed his mind.”
Dearborn grinned. “How long did it take you to persuade him?”
Arnold ignored the question. “Get your company ready to move. The minute the fog raises, you two go find that column. In your judgment, either engage them, or report back here. Morgan, use your riflemen as skirmishers. Dearborn, you wait in reserve if anything goes wrong.”
Morgan and Dearborn glanced at each other, then turned back to Arnold. “Anything else?”
“No.”
They both nodded to Billy and Eli and walked out the tent entrance.
Arnold spoke. “You two go on back to your company with Dearborn. You’ll be in action soon enough.”
Without a word they started for the door, when Arnold’s voice stopped them.
“Thank you.”
Notes
To make what history now calls the Battle of Saratoga manageable, the author has somewhat compressed the time element, since the events surrounding this pivotal battle began in August of 1777 and the final surrender of Burgoyne and his army occurred 17 October 1777. Thus, in this chapter few dates have been given, in an effort to maintain the flow, and reduce hundreds of pages of factual material to an acceptable number, and still maintain the integrity and authenticity of this event.
Congress recalled generals Schuyler and St. Clair, for a congressional inquiry into their failure to defend Fort Ticonderoga on 6 July 1777 and an explanation of their continual retreat for weeks thereafter. They were also to report to General Washington, likely to face courts-martial for their conduct. Most officers, including most generals, who were wise to the ways of the battlefield, understood what St. Clair had done, and why, and found his actions acceptable, even praiseworthy in saving his army to fight another day. It was the men St. Clair saved who became the core of the army that finally met General Burgoyne at Saratoga. Further, General Schuyler, even while retreating, was steadily wearing down Burgoyne’s army by blocking their roads, damming streams to stop them with floods, burning the crops to starve them, and constantly harassing them with snipers. Men who were there knew it was these actions of Schuyler that reduced Burgoyne’s effectiveness when the final battles were fought. General Nathanael Green, one of Washington’s best generals, commented, “The foundation of all the Northern success was laid long before Gates’s arrival there . . . he appeared just in time to reap the laurels and rewards.”
To replace General Schuyler, Congress commissioned General Horatio Gates to take command of all American forces on the Hudson River. On 19 August 1777, General Horatio Gates arrived at Albany to take command. He found morale terrible, men sick with smallpox and with what was called “camp disorder”—fever, and ague. August had been an extremely hot month, with unusually heavy rains. Because of their prior years of animosity and rancor toward each other, Gates refused to consult with Schuyler on any matters whatsoever, especially what Schuyler had done despite his weeks-long retreat, and this although Schuyler had extremely valuable personal knowledge of the countryside and the inhabitants that would have been immensely helpful to Gates. The Americans continued gathering at Stillwater and Saratoga, as Schuyler had previously ordered.
By the end of August, however, something had shifted. With the tremendous victory at Bennington, and the total collapse of the British effort at Fort Stanwix, and the disappearance of Colonel St. Leger’s forces and Brant’s Indians, the Americans sensed something was changing, as did Burgoyne and the British. Without Indians to serve as his scouts—eyes and ears in the forest—Burgoyne was marching almost totally blind as he proceeded south.
Albany was but forty-five miles south of Fort Edward; however, Fort Edward, where Burgoyne was located, was on the east side of the Hudson, and Albany on the west. Thus, Burgoyne had two choices: to cross the river at Fort Miller where it was narrow, just south of Fort Edward, where his cannon could cover the crossing, and march south on the west side of the river, or, march south on the east side of the river, and cross at Saratoga, or Albany, which is just south of Saratoga. However, if he crossed at Saratoga or Albany, where the river was wider, his bateaux and fleet would be under the muzzles of American cannon for a long period of time, and his cannon on the east bank could not reach the American guns. Hence, his bateaux and fleet would likely be nearly destroyed on the water. He chose to cross at Fort Miller and march down the west side of the river, despite the fact he would have to fight his way through the Americans now gathering at Stillwater and Saratoga. Once the decision was made, there was no turning back.
On 28 August, a troop of Connecticut cavalry arrived at Stillwater, and another on 1 September. On 30 August, Daniel Morgan and his riflemen arrived. On 31 August, Benedict Arnold and General Learned arrived from Stanwix. The gathering of a formidable American army continued.
In near despair, Burgoyne began to realize his true circumstances. Howe was not coming to meet him at Albany. St. Leger had abandoned him and was on his way to Montreal. General Carleton refused to send him any reinforcements. His men were exhausted, dispirited, hungry, and clearly showing the strain of their march through the sweltering, snake- and insect-ridden forest.
Before leaving Philadelphia to take command of the Northern army, Gates, the “darling of Congress,” had requested seven thousand seven hundred fifty men, and they began arriving. With those already present, including the twelve hundred Arnold brought back from Stanwix, and Morgan’s riflemen, the American army gathering for the great and final battle outnumbered the British.
Shortly after Arnold’s arrival, Gates appointed him commander of one division of his army, but Arnold soon discovered a very cool attitude from Gates, and quickly understood it was because two men he had on his staff, Livingston and Clarkson, were distant relatives of General Philip Schuyler, whom Gates detested. Gates suggested Arnold remove them from his staff, but Arnold, insensitive to such nuance, did not do it. As a result, Gates began distancing Arnold from himself, eventually not even notifying him of staff meetings, while bringing other men of inferior rank to such meetings, which was an open insult to Arnold. Arnold quickly realized that trouble lay ahead between himself and Gates.
Stillwater was not the place to force the next battle. It lay on flat, cleared land, which would accommodate the European style of fighting and favor Burgoyne. So Gates directed Udney Hay and Major James Wilkinson to go north three miles to a place owned by a citizen, Jotham Bemis,
which reportedly was an ideal place to bring the battle. Arnold asked permission to accompany them and did so.
There, on a hill to the west of the Hudson River and River Road, Arnold found the ideal place, called Bemis Heights. To the left were heavily forested ravines where Americans could fight well and the British could not, and to the right was the Hudson River. Straight ahead was rolling country, fairly open. By entrenching strongly on the top of the hill at Bemis Heights, American cannon could cover all the ground directly north, and, if the British survived the American cannon fire, they would be forced to climb Bemis Heights under tremendous musket and grapeshot fire. On the hilltop was a barn owned by a man named Neilson. About three miles due north, on another rise, was a second farm owned by a man named Freeman.
The Americans built a great, strong breastwork on Bemis Heights, where Gates established his headquarters and waited.
Burgoyne had to attack. The season was late, he could not turn back, and he either had to reach Albany or face the oncoming winter and certain annihilation (see Ketchum, Saratoga, pp. 336–448; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 389–426; Mackesy, The War for America, pp. 130–41; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 193–97).
Saratoga
September 19, 1777
CHAPTER XXXI
* * *
The fog lifted shortly after ten o’clock a.m., and Morgan and his riflemen headed west, into the forest, then turned north, rapidly working their way through the trees, moving like silent shadows. Dearborn’s command followed, Billy and Eli with them. At twenty minutes before one o’clock, with the sun directly overhead, Captain Van Swearingen, leading the company at the head of Morgan’s command, suddenly dropped to one knee, out of sight, on the southern edge of the clearing surrounding Freeman’s farmhouse. Instantly all three hundred men in the company disappeared while they waited for Swearingen’s order. Slowly he raised his head high enough to study the far northern edge of the field where a flash of red in the trees had caught his eye.
Quickly he counted, believed he was looking at the advance skirmishers of a British column coming into the open field, and gave a silent hand signal. The entire command worked forward, invisible in the high grass and trees, and within minutes some had reached an old log hut while others crouched behind a rail fence and the balance were hidden in the tall grass or were perched in oak and maple trees. They cocked their long Pennsylvania rifles and through slitted eyes started picking out the oncoming British, the ones wearing gold epaulets on their shoulders gleaming in the sun.
With patience borne of many battles, Van Swearingen calmly judged the distance from where he was to the dead branches of a gnarled old oak tree in the clearing. Sixty yards. Close enough. He settled his cheek against the smooth stalk of his rifle, partially closed his left eye, and lined the sights on a British major coming straight at him. The British officer was walking hunched forward, head swinging from side to side, sensing something he could not see. Cautiously he paused behind the bare limbs of an old oak snag standing in the field, then pushed on past.
Van Swearingen took up the last one-eighth inch of the trigger pull on his rifle, and the long barrel recoiled as it blasted flame three feet out the muzzle. The .60-caliber rifleball drilled through the place where the white belts crossed on the officer’s chest, and he went over backwards. At the crack of Van Swearingen’s rifle, three hundred more of the deadly long rifles cut loose, and a cloud of gun smoke two hundred yards long blossomed in front of the terrified British column. In the opening volley, more than two hundred British officers and regulars went down in the hail of deadly American rifleballs. Few of them moved after they hit the ground.
In shocked chaos the redcoats turned and ran in disorganized terror, wanting only to be away from those accursed Pennsylvania long rifles. Instantly Van Swearingen broke from his cover, shouting, “Follow me, boys, go get ’em!” The riflemen appeared as if by magic, from behind trees and fences, out of the tall grass—and they sprinted after the panic-stricken British, reloading as they ran.
The shouting Americans reached the center of the open field when suddenly, from their left, a volley of British musketfire came whistling. Startled, Van Swearingen slowed while he tried to grasp what was happening, and then came the blast of a cannon, and a hail of grapeshot tore into the Americans. Van Swearingen’s left leg buckled, and he grabbed his left shoulder and went down, shouting, “Fall back! Fall back!”
At the south end of the clearing, General Daniel Morgan watched, horrified when he finally understood. He had thought the oncoming British were but the point skirmishers, but they were not. He had committed his corps of riflemen against the entire center of Burgoyne’s army of three thousand crack British troops! The British skirmishers he had expected to meet were to his left, part of Fraser’s command, and had come to the sound of his rifles to catch his men by total surprise. It nearly broke his heart to see his beloved riflemen taking the unending roar of musketfire, and the thunder of cannon blasting grapeshot. With tears in his eyes, he cupped his hands around his mouth and sent out his call to his men to fall back, reassemble—the high, peculiar sound of a wild turkey gobble.
The battle in the open field of Freeman’s farm should never have happened. Neither side had planned for it, intended it to occur. It had been triggered by purest chance. As with many battles, perhaps most, it occurred on its own terms, with both sides committing brilliance and blunders so rapidly it was impossible for anyone to form a plan or give it shape and direction.
Within seconds British and American soldiers alike were running in all directions, sometimes into enemy gunfire, sometimes away from it. A British support company ran from the forest into the clearing and opened fire, only to find they were killing their own troops. Another British officer screamed, “Cease-fire!” and it stopped. Four redcoats seized the wounded Captain Van Swearingen and hauled him away to General Fraser, who remained on his horse to question the prisoner while musket and cannonfire erupted all around. With drawn sword he shouted at Van Swearingen.
“Who is leading the rebels?”
Van Swearingen calmly answered, “Generals Gates and Arnold.”
“What is their plan?”
Van Swearingen looked Fraser in the eye. “Generals Gates and Arnold are our commanders. I have nothing more to say.”
“Answer, or I’ll have you hung where we stand.”
Van Swearingen didn’t blink an eye. “You may, if you please.” Fraser shook his head in grudging admiration as he turned his horse back toward the battle. He paused to give orders to an artillery lieutenant.
“Take charge of that man, and see to it he is treated well.”
At the south edge of the clearing, Arnold shouted to Dearborn. “Get more men in to help Morgan!”
Dearborn bawled out instant orders. “Cilley, Scammel, get out to support Morgan.”
Three seconds later Cilley and Scammel were running north, out into the clearing, leading their commands into the hottest fighting. Clubs, swords, bayonets, rocks, muskets, rifles—hand-to-hand, face-to-face in the boiling sun, the armies clashed. The Americans pushed the British back and took possession of the British cannon, only to find the horses dead, strewn helter-skelter on the ground, and without them the Americans could not move the cannon. The incensed British rallied, turned, and came back shouting, shooting, and the Americans fell back, yielding up the prized cannon.
General Benedict Arnold could no longer restrain himself. He jammed his spurs home, and the big black horse lunged north, out onto the battlefield. With sword drawn, shouting like a man possessed, far above anything resembling fear, Arnold charged first one place, then another, shouting orders, sending one company to help another. Musketballs sang past his ears, nicked his clothing, cut hair from his horse’s mane, ricocheted off his sword, but none hit him. The Americans watching him held their breath, certain this wild man would draw enough British fire to kill him, but he did not go down. They drew courage from him, stopp
ed, dug in, then moved forward.
At the north end of the field, General John Burgoyne came galloping on his tall gray horse, resplendent in his tailored uniform, sword flashing, shouting orders to his men. American musketballs cut his cape, his collar, but he rode on, unharmed, rallying his men, shouting them to a standstill, then turning them to face the Americans.
Four miles south, General Horatio Gates sat in his headquarters, drinking coffee, listening intently to the unending roar of musket- and cannonfire. Not once did he leave his chair, or his quarters.
Then, with no signal from either side, and no reason anyone could define, the gunfire slackened and slowed, and then stopped. It was as though the mindless panic that had seized both sides had ebbed and disappeared, and each was groping to recover, take stock, bring some sense of order to their thoughts and their scattered army. For two hours the only sounds were the pitiful groans and cries of wounded and dying men in the field, begging for help, for a surgeon, for water. Strong men on both ends of the field turned their backs and bowed their heads, and wept, under orders not to go into the field to help. Too many good soldiers had been shot trying to reach their wounded and dying comrades.
In the undeclared lull, Burgoyne received the disheartening news with a somber face. Those accursed Pennsylvania long rifles had cut his officers to pieces. Most of those who had led his army on the open battlefield were dead, along with a catastrophic number of his regulars. He accepted it, considered, and gave orders to his aide. “Get over to Riedesel on our left, by the river. Tell him to keep enough men at the river to hold his position, but send all those he can spare to come reinforce our middle.”
