Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  * * * * *

  It was well past midnight when the picket at the flap of Burgoyne’s command tent pushed the flap aside. Burgoyne was inside, sitting alone in the stillness, staring at the glowing wick of the lantern on his desk.

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, a messenger. Says he’s from General Clinton.”

  Burgoyne started. Clinton! Could it be? Burgoyne lunged from his chair. “Send him in.”

  The young major, exhausted, dirty, stepped into the dim lantern glow and saluted. “Sir, General Clinton sends this written message.” He thrust a sealed document forward.

  Burgoyne snatched it and with trembling hands broke the wax seal, opened the paper, and held it toward the lantern, scarcely breathing while he read it. It was a full paragraph, rambling, nearly meaningless. Quickly Burgoyne snatched up his quill, and drew the hourglass figure through the central part of the writing, according to the code he had worked out with Clinton months earlier. Within the hourglass the message emerged, and Burgoyne read every word.

  “You know my good will and are not ignorant of my poverty of troops. If you think two thousand men can assist you effectually, I will make a push at Fort Montgomery in about ten days. But ever jealous of my flanks if they make a move in force on either of them I must return to save this very important post. I expect reinforcement every day. Let me know what you would wish.”

  Never had Burgoyne felt the rush of relief that surged through his being. Clinton! Coming up the Hudson! Reinforcements! Two thousand fresh troops! Relief! Blessed relief! His shoulders sagged, and for a moment his breathing constricted. He walked back to his desk and sat down, once again reading the words.

  The young major cleared his throat. “Sir, are you all right?”

  Burgoyne raised his face. “Yes. Thank you. You need food and rest. Let me take you to my aide.”

  He walked the young major to the tent next to his quarters, gave orders, and returned to his own desk. For long minutes he reflected on the message, and his mind settled.

  We will not engage the rebels again until Clinton and his two thousand men arrive. We will entrench ourselves here where we are, and we will wait. With time to regroup and rest our men, and build defenses, and with two thousand fresh troops, we will overrun the Americans and end this thing.

  We wait for Clinton.

  * * * * *

  “Be seated, gentlemen.” Burgoyne waited while generals von Riedesel, Phillips, and Fraser took their chairs at his council table. Four lanterns burned, casting huge, distorted shadows on the tent walls. Outside, the pickets tied the officers’ three saddled mounts to hitching posts, then resumed their position at the tent entrance. For a moment the horses moved, nervous in the darkness, eyes glowing wine-red in the dull light of the tent walls.

  Inside, Burgoyne wasted no time on protocol. “Gentlemen, it has been fifteen days since I received General Clinton’s message. I do not believe he is coming.” He paused and pursed his mouth for a moment. “We’ve had frost. Cold weather will close in on us within days. As you know, the Americans have given us no rest, no peace, day or night. Those long rifles have driven in our pickets, killed our scouts, killed our officers, without letup. Our men have not slept three hours a night in fifteen days. They’ve lived on sowbelly and flour too long. They need fresh meat, vegetables, fruit. They’re starving, exhausted, fearful of venturing twenty yards from camp because of American patrols and rifles. We cannot remain here.”

  He paused. Every word he had spoken was but an echo of what each of the three generals had said to themselves over and over again in the past forty-eight hours.

  Burgoyne continued. “We’ve completed our defenses here. The Breymann redoubt at the northwest end of our defenses is in place. It’s well-positioned, strong, big, able to withstand anything the Americans care to try. South of it is the Balcarres redoubt, and it is also unassailable. The breastworks just south of headquarters are finished, and they will hold against any attack. We’ve finished the floating bridge across the river, and can move back and forth.”

  He paused, cleared his throat, and went on. “The Americans have built their bridge south of ours. They too can cross the river at will. They remain as they were two weeks ago, behind their breastworks five miles south of us. Their forces have been vastly expanded by militia and continentals coming in every day over the past two weeks. Their strength now is above fourteen thousand.”

  Silence settled around the table as each general accepted what they had already silently calculated over the past fifteen days. Burgoyne’s decision to wait for Clinton had given them time to build strong defenses, but it had also allowed the Americans to gather men from all over the northeastern section of the continent. Numerically, the Americans now outnumbered them four to one, and with the catastrophic imbalance in their favor, the Americans were waiting for one of two things: winter to arrive and starve Burgoyne out, or, Burgoyne to mount an attack and try to break out. The sole question they had not been able to answer was how long would Burgoyne wait before he faced the terrible decision.

  Burgoyne went on. “I am ordering a full reconnaissance to move south—three thousand five hundred men. It is my intent to attack the American left and break their defenses. Once that has occurred, we will move on down to Albany.”

  Von Riedesel jerked erect, shock plain on his face. “That will leave less than eight hundred to defend our headquarters if the Americans counterattack. Our supplies, munitions, medicines, food, all at risk. If our attack fails, we could fall into a trap of our own making.”

  Fraser watched Burgoyne’s face intently. He’s not thinking right! He’s in trouble!

  Burgoyne sat down on his chair, and for long minutes they could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around the lamp chimneys, and see the moths being drawn to the flame. Burgoyne stood once more.

  “I think you are right. I will send fifteen hundred south, the balance of our force to remain here to protect our stores and defenses. The fifteen hundred will be divided into three equal commands, under generals Fraser and von Riedesel, and Major Acland. They will proceed west from here, then turn south to cross a wheat field not far from the house on Freeman’s farm. They will proceed directly south to engage and defeat the American left.”

  Fraser interrupted. “Sir, sending out a reconnaissance of that size will give the appearance of an all-out attack. If Gates sees it that way, he may send out half his forces to stop it. If that occurs, we will have no chance in an open battle.”

  Burgoyne shook his head. “I do not think Gates will send out a sizable force. I think he will send out a small one, to feel out our strength. When they realize what’s happening it will be too late.”

  He drew a deep breath and slowly let it out. “The reconnaissance will leave tomorrow morning.”

  * * * * *

  The first purple of dawn approached in the spectacular beauty of the reds and yellows of leaves that had been nipped by October frost. As far as the eye could see, the forest was a rolling carpet of breathtaking colors that brought men to a standstill, staring, awed by the incomparable power and glories of nature.

  In the gray preceding sunrise, a young lieutenant rode clattering through camp to halt his laboring horse before Gates’s office. He rapped on the door and waited, breathing hard. The door swung open and Gates stood before him barefooted, wrapped in a royal blue robe. His hair was awry, and he was squinting in the light.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s movement to the north. A force of British is coming this way.”

  Gates pointed to the tent next to his hut. “Get Major Wilkinson. Tell him to report here, now.”

  Three minutes later, still buttoning his tunic, Wilkinson stood before Gates’s desk. Gates spoke from his chair. “A scout just reported that the British are moving this way. Go find out what they’re up to and report back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Five minutes later Wilkinson reined his horse west and galloped out of camp. The you
ng lieutenant who had made the report looked at Gates’s closed door, then at Wilkinson disappearing to the west, shrugged, and started toward the officers’ mess, leading his horse.

  In the officers’ section of the camp, General Daniel Morgan swung his feet from his cot inside his command tent. For a time he sat, elbows on knees, square face buried in his big, callused, scarred hands. Never had he been part of an army camp in which every enlisted man, every officer, was cowed, quiet, withdrawn, divided.

  Fourteen days earlier, Gates had sent to Congress his written report of the battle at Freeman’s farm, but had dealt General George Washington, his commander in chief, the highest insult anyone had ever heard of when he did not send a copy to him. Inevitably it became known that the written report not only failed to include the name of Benedict Arnold, but did not even mention the companies that Arnold had commanded in the battle at Freeman’s farm, nor the fact that it was Arnold’s men who had led the American army into battle, and very nearly taken Burgoyne down. And there was no mention of the fact that had Gates granted Arnold his request to go cut off von Riedesel to prevent the German attack that turned victory into a retreat, the vaunted Gentleman Johnny and his entire army would now be American prisoners.

  The despicable report burst like a bombshell when it became known in the American camp. For a time Arnold stood in disbelieving shock, then stormed into Gates’s office and left the door wide open. Never had any man in the American army heard anything faintly comparable to the shouting, cursing, accusatory acrimony that flooded out of the door into the open compound. Men stopped in their tracks, staring wide-eyed, silently asking each other for anything that would explain the ferocity of the confrontation in the office of their commanding officer. And when Arnold came storming out, face white with anger, lightning leaping from his eyes, men backed up to give him free passage as he stalked back to his own command tent.

  Two hours later Arnold marched back to Gates’s office and once more burst through the door, strode to his desk, and slammed down a four-page letter. On those four pages was a truthful, accurate recital of every slight, every rotten thing Gates had done to Arnold since his arrival. The last paragraph included the ultimate insult Gates had heaped on Arnold only that morning when they had their monumental, head-on collision. Gates had reassigned Arnold’s men, including Daniel Morgan’s riflemen, to General Lincoln. Arnold was a general with no command!

  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 f
lank 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.