by Ron Carter
Take the redoubts! The Balcarres redoubt and the big Breymann redoubt. Once you’ve taken the redoubts you are in behind Burgoyne’s headquarters and those breastworks will do him no good because they’ll be on the wrong side.
Time became meaningless as Arnold listened, watching the clouds of white gun smoke and black smoke reach higher into the clear blue heavens, but the center of the battle was not moving. It was being fought in Barber’s wheat field, where the two opposing armies had collided nearly two hours earlier.
Arnold turned to look at Gates, sitting at a table outside his office door, with messengers coming and going while Gates casually issued orders. Arnold turned once more toward the smoke, and the thought came welling up inside. He’s killing them! Those good men out there, and Gates is killing them! Three more hours of this, and they’ll all be gone!
Something inside Arnold gave way. He ran to Warren, his tall black horse, vaulted into the saddle, and spun the animal around to face Gates, still sitting at his table. Gates raised his head and stared full into Arnold’s face. In that instant each man knew what was in the mind of the other: Arnold was going to the sound of the guns, and Gates could strangle on it; Gates would have Arnold in chains if he could catch him.
Arnold sunk his blunted spurs into Warren’s flanks, and the horse lunged forward. Gates stood, shouting, as Arnold disappeared in a cloud of dust. Frantic, Gates turned to the nearest officer he could see, Major Armstrong. “Major, catch that man and bring him back! Use whatever force necessary, but bring him back!”
For a split second Major Armstrong stared in disbelief, then leaped on his horse and kicked it to a high gallop after General Arnold, who was out of sight.
Arnold followed a faint, old wagon track that wound through the tall trees, scarcely slowing in his headlong run. The horse, Warren, held the pace, quick, sure-footed. One mile from camp, Arnold came on a cluster of men from Learned’s command, separated, lost, drinking from a brook. “Come on, good men, follow me!”
For an instant they hesitated. They had heard what Gates had done to Arnold, and for a moment they were confused, knowing he had been stripped of all command. But there he was, General Arnold at his best, sword drawn, urging them on, leading them to the sounds of the battle. As one man, they grabbed up their muskets and broke into a run behind him, shouting as they reloaded. Arnold cantered his horse onward, shouting to others who had become separated from their units, and they melded into the growing command behind him. The men broke from the trees into the open wheat field, and for the first time Arnold saw the entire field of battle. In twenty seconds he knew where the Americans had to strike, and he drove his spurs home. The big black horse lunged forward once again, headed straight for an entrenched and determined German line. As he swept past the command led by General Learned, Arnold shouted, “Follow me!”
No one, including Learned, paid heed to the tremendous breach of military protocol as Arnold spontaneously took over Learned’s column. Stunned at the sight of Arnold charging past, shouting them on, it took two seconds for Learned’s men to decide, and they sprinted from cover to follow him, shouting, straight into the middle of the Germans. The Hessians were among the best in the world, and with their tall, copper-fronted hats they doggedly stood their ground, firing, reloading, watching the Americans drop before their cannon and muskets.
To Arnold’s left, Morgan and Dearborn suddenly jerked erect, startled at the sight of the big black horse leading the charge, and in an instant their commands were on their feet, shouting, rising above themselves, charging into the side of troops led by the German general, Balcarres, to overwhelm them, scatter them. With the Balcarres company gone, the flank of the Hessians facing Arnold was exposed, and Morgan did not hesitate. With Dearborn beside him, he tore into the blue-coated troops, flanked them, divided them, turned them.
Ahead, Burgoyne, dressed in a scarlet coat with gold epaulets, conspicuous above all other men, rode his horse back and forth, shouting orders. To Burgoyne’s left, Simon Fraser spurred his tall gray horse onward, leading the light infantry and the Twenty-fourth Regiment in a desperate drive to check Morgan’s surging command and save the Hessian line.
Through the confusion of the battle, Arnold saw Fraser, one hundred fifty yards ahead and to the right, and knew the man had the bravery and leadership to crack the American attack. Instantly Arnold raised his sword, pointing at Fraser, and shouted, “That man is a host unto himself! He must go!”
Morgan heard the shout, saw the point, and in a heartbeat turned and raised his old wagonmaster’s bellowing voice. “Tim!”
Three hundred yards to Morgan’s left, Private Timothy Murphy, frontiersman, seasoned Indian fighter, and the best shot in Morgan’s select riflemen, heard the shout of his leader and froze, searching. In one second he picked out Morgan, waved, and Morgan waved back, then turned to point with his sword.
With understanding born of years together, and battles unnumbered, Timothy Murphy understood. In three seconds he was perched on the limb of an oak tree, his long Pennsylvania rifle resting over a branch before him. From his position he had a clear field of vision above the heads of the two clashing armies. He calmly cocked his rifle, studied the movement of the cannon smoke in the faint breeze, judged the distance at four hundred sixty yards, and lined the sights. At that distance, Fraser was but a speck on the back of a gray horse when Tim squeezed off his first shot. At the crack of the rifle he moved his head to peer past the smoke to watch. Half a second later the rifle ball grazed the sleeve of Fraser’s coat and clipped hair from his horse’s mane.
Instantly Fraser’s aides shouted, “General, get back! Get out of range! A marksman is trying to kill you!”
Fraser shook his head. “I’m needed here.”
Twenty seconds later Murphy shoved the ramrod into its receiver, laid the long barrel over the branch once again, made the tiniest adjustment for the soft crosswind, and squeezed off his second shot. With the queer knowledge of a born rifleman, he knew at the crack of the rifle that the second shot was going to hit. He set his teeth and half a second later involuntarily grunted as the slug punched into Fraser, dead center in his stomach.
The whack of the slug and the gasping grunt from Fraser came just before the general buckled forward. His sword fell from his hand, and his head drooped forward onto the neck of his horse. Immediately, his aides were on either side of him, grasping his arms, holding him in the saddle while they turned and retreated through their own men to get the general out of range, away from the battle.
For a few seconds the British in Fraser’s command stood stock-still, mindless of the raging battle. Fraser was down! Simon Fraser, their leader! He who had won their hearts and their loyalty with his selflessness, bravery, courage, and his unending devotion to his beloved army and England! They watched the two aides working back through the lines, Fraser between them, limp, head slumped forward, feet dangling outside his stirrups. They saw it and they faltered. Their inspiration, their reason for going on, was down, dying, gone.
Five hundred yards distant, Burgoyne saw Fraser rock in his saddle and slump forward. Simon, his confidant, his best friend, his trusted right arm, down! He closed his eyes and his head rolled back with the unbearable pain in his heart. With the instincts of a field general he knew that his army was done. Finished. Quickly he sent runners to both Phillips and Riedesel to cover the retreat, and then he shouted his orders.
“Back! Back! Return to headquarters!”
The red-coated British and blue-coated Germans began their retreat, backing away from the Americans, giving ground more rapidly with each passing minute. They came streaming in behind the fortifications and breastworks on the south side of Burgoyne’s headquarters, bringing the wounded they could carry, leaving their dead behind on a battlefield littered with the bodies of those who had fallen.
They flocked around the two aides who guided Fraser’s horse in, and they didn’t stop until they came to the hut where Baroness Fredericka von Riede
sel had set up her tiny hospital. Strong, gentle hands lifted the general down and carried him inside. A table was thrown out to make way for a bed, and they tenderly laid the general down. Moments later they had his clothing stripped to the waist and their faces fell. None spoke, but they all knew. The general was dying.
The Baroness took charge. Get water. Get bandages. Get carbolics. Get his boots off—cut them off if you have to. She did all she could for Fraser, but no one could remedy the pain of a .60-caliber rifleball in the middle of his stomach.
Back on the battlefield, Arnold did not waste one minute celebrating the monumental victory over Burgoyne’s regulars. He shouted orders to the gathered Americans.
“Follow me, boys!” He stood tall in his stirrups and pointed with his sword. “We’re going to take those two redoubts. With the Breymann redoubt in our hands, we control the path in behind Burgoyne’s headquarters, and by the Almighty, before the sun sets this day, they will be ours!”
He set his spurs and once more Warren lunged forward, straight toward the nearest redoubt, held by a regiment commanded by Major Alexander Lindsay, Sixth Earl of Balcarres.
Far behind Arnold, Major Armstrong sat his horse, hidden in a clump of oak trees, peering at Arnold as he led the charge against the entrenched Germans. He had watched Arnold make his wild plunge into the middle of Burgoyne’s army, and he had gaped when the Americans followed Arnold, shouting like wild men, to turn Burgoyne, drive him from the field. Now he was watching Arnold again leading an attack against entrenched cannon and muskets. The man’s insane! If Gates thinks I’m going in there to tell Arnold to return to headquarters, then General Gates is mightily mistaken! Armstrong held a tight rein on his horse and remained hidden.
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 no
t 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 four of the drummers stomped the heads out of their drums before throwing them onto the growing stack.
