Indeed, this morning, when American scouts first reported that the British Army was marching toward the rebel positions, Gates did absolutely nothing. Rather than sending men immediately to meet the British, he held them back. Gates himself is holed up in the small shed that constitutes his headquarters, protected by trenches, artillery, and improvised fortifications. There he awaits Burgoyne’s army.
But Benedict Arnold is not a man to wait.
A self-proclaimed “coward” as a child, Arnold is now thirty-six, a stocky five-foot-nine military genius with coal-black hair, piercing gray eyes, and a propensity for drunkenness and rage. The Connecticut native can be insecure and even needy in his personal life—yet rare is any man Arnold’s equal on the field of battle.
Arnold urges Gates to let him attack.
Gates refuses. He possesses an Englishman’s disdain for the sloppy appearance of the rebel soldiers, more impressed by the straight lines of battle and bright red uniforms of the Brits than colonial marksmanship and Indian-style ambush. Also, Gates longs to replace George Washington as the American army’s commander in chief, and has quietly lobbied Congress for such a promotion. He cannot afford to make a single mistake.
Arnold does not care about any of that. He simply wants to win the battle. He continues to badger Gates, pleading to lead his soldiers into the field and prevent the British breakthrough.
Finally, Gates agrees, but his decision is not based on battle tactics. Hoping that Benedict Arnold will be defeated, and therefore marginalized, Gates allows him to command a small harassing force comprised of several hundred of Daniel Morgan’s sharpshooting rangers and three hundred men from the First New Hampshire Regiment.1 Both Morgan and Henry Dearborn of the First fought under Arnold at Quebec, where they were taken captive.2 Only recently released in a prisoner exchange, they are now eager to get their revenge on the British.
In allowing the attack, General Gates adds one condition: there will be no reinforcements. Should Arnold and his men get into trouble, they must fight their way out or die. Privately, Gates hopes for the latter.
Arnold, however, likes his chances.
No other American commander has had more success against the British. Even his lone defeat was glorious, a bold midwinter march in 1775 through uncharted Maine wilderness to capture the English fortress at Quebec. Arnold failed in that attempt, but his tactical ambition earned him the nickname “American Hannibal.”3
While disciplined under fire, Arnold can be antagonistic and alienating off the battlefield. As the war finishes its second year and the Continental Army is transforming from a gang of untrained militia to a professional fighting force, the former merchant and smuggler has been regularly passed over for promotion in favor of more politically connected officers. So it is that Benedict Arnold is second in command here at Freeman’s Farm, answering to General Gates, who has a deep and abiding hatred for him, desirous that he not receive a shred of glory.
In the words of Lt. Col. James Wilkinson, “General Gates despises a certain pompous little fellow.”
Another American officer, Lt. Col. John Brown of Massachusetts, is far more scathing. Brown, who served under Arnold in Quebec, has written a handbill denouncing his former commanding officer. “Money is this man’s God,” he writes, “and to get enough of it he would sacrifice his country.”
* * *
As soon as he receives permission to attack, Arnold races his men onto the field, positioning them in forests and ravines where they remain unseen. Morgan’s Riflemen, many of whom acquired their prowess with a weapon as backwoods hunters, communicate through turkey calls. They settle into their firing positions just moments before the main column of Burgoyne’s army marches into view. With rehearsed precision, each American marksman chooses a target and awaits the command to open fire.
British officers are the first to die. In their clean bright-red uniforms, often accompanied by a sash, they are easy targets. Completely hidden from the redcoats, Morgan’s Riflemen inflict death from a distance of almost three hundred yards. The British consider this form of warfare cowardly, but Arnold does not care.
The artillery crews are the next to die, for their cannon can do far more damage than a single soldier with a musket.
To the British, the shots seem to come from every direction. Terrified, the men in Burgoyne’s advance unit turn and flee from the hidden attackers. They race back into their own lines—only to encounter more death. In the confusion and the obscuring musket smoke, they are mistaken for Americans and shot down by their own redcoat brethren.
“Come on, brave boys,” Arnold cries. “Come on!”
The Americans step from hiding and fearlessly race toward the British line. Arnold leads the way on horseback, exhorting and cheering the rebel force.
“Arnold rushed into the thickest of the fight with his usual recklessness, and at times acted like a madman,” Lt. Col. Alexander Scammell of the Third New Hampshire Regiment will recall, adding that the battle was “the hottest fire of cannon and musketry I ever heard in my life.”
But General Burgoyne is not easily defeated. His superior numbers allow him to push the rebels back, only to see Arnold lead another charge. Despite his earlier pledge not to allow reinforcements, Arnold’s initial success motivates Gates, who reluctantly sends more troops into the fray, swelling the rebel attacking force to three thousand men. Six thousand more Americans remain in reserve, just in case Burgoyne breaks through.
Hour after hour, the battle continues, a back-and-forth drama starring two armies fighting for superiority. The British are desperate, knowing their supplies are low and there is no fortification to protect them. The Americans are determined, well aware that a victory over such a large British force may turn the tide of the war.
One thing is certain: few will doubt the toughness of the American fighting men from this day forward.
The battle of Freeman’s Farm—or, the First Battle of Saratoga, as it will become known—ends in darkness. Burgoyne’s advance is stopped. The Americans suffer three hundred dead, the British six hundred. Bodies sprawl across the broad pasture, easy prey for the men from both sides who will sneak out in the night to loot the corpses of their earthly belongings.
As for Benedict Arnold, his bravery goes unmentioned when Horatio Gates sends Congress a report of the day’s battle. Instead, Gates takes all the credit for preventing the British breakthrough.4
The insult does not end there: inexplicably, Gen. Horatio Gates relieves Benedict Arnold of his command before the fight is determined.
Yet, Arnold cannot bring himself to go home. There is sure to be another big battle at Saratoga. Though he no longer has any role in Gates’s army, he remains in his tent a mile south of the battlefield, spending days and nights pacing restlessly. He refuses to leave, even when Gates issues him a pass that will permit Arnold to travel south to fight under George Washington.
Benedict Arnold longs for the moment when Gates will reconsider and, once again, allow him to wage war. There is no indication that this will happen, but that hope keeps Arnold in Saratoga.
* * *
On the British side, Burgoyne is having his own problems. General William Howe is not en route to Albany, nor is his army. Before the campaign even began, the War Office had ordered Howe on a different mission, to take Philadelphia, perhaps believing it could be done quickly enough that he could return to New York to help Burgoyne. But Burgoyne had not been informed of this change, and believed the main army to be in New York City, ready to come to his aid.
So, as George Washington knows, Howe is now in Germantown, Pennsylvania, almost three hundred miles south of General Burgoyne. The date is October 3, two weeks after the First Battle of Saratoga began. News of colonial success has just reached the American commander in chief, General Washington, and he is eager to spread the word to his troops, for tonight is the eve of battle and his army is in need of encouragement. At dusk, the rebels will begin yet another all-night march, hoping to surpr
ise the British with a predawn attack.
“The Commander in Chief has the satisfaction to inform the army,” Washington writes from the comfort of the small stone farmhouse now serving as his headquarters. The letter will be circulated and read aloud to all his troops.
“In a capital action, the left wing only of General Gates’ army maintained its ground, against the main body of the enemy, commanded by General Burgoyne in person; our troops behaving with the highest spirit and bravery during the whole engagement.… In short, every circumstance promises success.”
The news from Saratoga could not have come at a better time. For it is not just the Continental Army that requires an infusion of hope, but also General Washington himself. Over the last month, his enemy General Howe has shown himself to be the superior commander, outmaneuvering Washington’s troops and defeating them dramatically on two separate occasions.5
The humiliation intensified on September 26, when General Charles Cornwallis marched the British Army into Philadelphia unopposed—Washington was unable to position his troops to stop the British. It is often traditional in wartime for a nation to surrender if its capital falls to the enemy, but Philadelphia is a capital in name only. The new U.S. government fled just days ago. The Congress now does its business in York, Pennsylvania. In addition, many of the city’s prominent patriots also departed, choosing a life on the run rather than sure prosecution for treasonous behavior by the British. Even the Liberty Bell, which later became the very symbol of America’s freedom, was hastily carted out of Philadelphia.6
For every rebel victory, there has been a bumbling defeat. Many in Congress believe that Washington should be relieved of his command.
The news from Saratoga, however, is a true source of elation. If George Washington can defeat Howe the next morning at Germantown, and if Gates can force Burgoyne to surrender up north, the British Army will be through. The war will be over.
* * *
Thus, General Washington gets emotional and delivers a rare poetic speech to his troops:
This army, the main American Army, will certainly not suffer itself to be outdone by their northern brethren.… Let it never be said, that in a day of action, you turned your backs on the foe. Let the enemy no longer triumph. They brand you with ignominious epithets. Will you patiently endure that reproach? Will you suffer the wounds given to your country to go unrevenged? Will you resign your parents, wives, children and friends to be the wretched vassals of a proud, insulting foe—and your own necks to the halter?
General Howe … has left us no choice but Conquest or Death. Nothing then remains, but nobly to contend for all that is dear to us. Every motive that can touch the human breast calls us to the most vigorous exertions. Our dearest rights, our dearest friends, and our own lives, honor, glory and even shame, urge us to the fight.
And my fellow soldiers! When an opportunity presents, be firm, be brave—show yourselves men, and victory is yours.
Washington’s words are for naught. He marches his men sixteen miles from their encampment in southeastern Pennsylvania, splitting them into four columns in order to envelop the British. The distance is far enough that he is sure Howe will think an attack impossible.
The Americans have the numerical advantage: eleven thousand troops to Howe’s nine thousand. Portions of Washington’s army are able to find the enemy and attack at 5:00 a.m., but thick fog covers Germantown, making it difficult for the four columns to coordinate. One American major general, Adam Stephen, will later be court-martialed for drunkenness. In the end, Washington’s troops cannot defeat the British troops and must retreat, marching the sixteen miles back to camp.
Washington’s bold gamble to catch Howe sleeping almost paid off. Yet it failed because of poor weather, lack of communication, and the exhaustion brought on by asking thousands of men to march through the night and then fight as if completely rested.
Interestingly, Washington’s defeat will soon be the talk of Europe. Leaders such as the Prussian king Frederick the Great are amazed that an army could rebound from previous losses to attempt such a bold attack. “Such a people, under such a leader,” Frederick will later be paraphrased as saying, “would survive even greater trials and mischances than the loss of their capital city.”
In Paris, where Benjamin Franklin hastens to make much of the successes at Saratoga and the near miss at Germantown, French diplomats are now assured that the American fighting man is every bit the equal of the British. Slowly and cautiously, negotiations proceed to convince French military forces to enter the fray.
Most important, the loss at Germantown does not affect rebel morale. Officers and enlisted men alike marvel at how close they came to defeating the British. Writing to a friend one week after the battle, American general Israel Putnam says, “This action convinced our people that, when they attacked, they can confuse and rout the flower of the British Army.”
A footnote to the Germantown fight is the presence of a most unique British officer. His name is Capt. John André, and he will spend the next nine months living inside Benjamin Franklin’s British-requisitioned Philadelphia home. André is twenty-seven years old, speaks three languages fluently, and was recently returned to the British in a prisoner exchange after a year in American captivity.
General Washington and Captain André did not meet on the field of battle at Germantown, but their lives will become inextricably intertwined.
Also, unbeknownst to both men, a third soldier will play a role in the upcoming drama.
His name is Benedict Arnold.
* * *
Three days after Germantown, the smell of rum on his breath, General Arnold gallops his horse toward a small band of Hessian defenders. The Second Battle of Saratoga is a rout, and everywhere, the British and Germans sprint for their lives.
Arnold’s patience has paid off. At 2:00 p.m., as General Burgoyne attempted once again to break through the American lines to march on Albany, a desperate Horatio Gates finally ordered his best commanding officer to charge the British lines.
Benedict Arnold
“It is late in the day but let me have men and we will have some fun with them before sunset,” Arnold proclaimed happily. Then, drinking a large portion of rum to steady his nerves, the general saddled his horse and galloped into battle.7
Arnold’s success was almost immediate, with the British fleeing before him and the rebel army taking control of the battlefield.
It is only now, with the battle won, that a line of Hessian regulars fires one last volley before turning to flee. Arnold is hit. He feels the sickening snap of his femur as a Hessian musket ball pierces his thigh and shatters the bone.
The same round of Hessian gunfire strikes Arnold’s horse, killing it instantly. The animal collapses and rolls onto its left side, slamming its thousand-pound weight onto Arnold’s broken leg. The force snaps the bones again, in several places.
A wave of nausea and adrenaline washes over Benedict Arnold. He is on the verge of passing out, yet continues to call out commands. He even orders that one of the Hessians who fired the shot at him be spared the thrust of a bayonet, for the battle is already won.
This should be the defining moment of Benedict Arnold’s military career. His heroism should never be forgotten. The American victory at Saratoga, for which he can rightfully claim ownership, is about to effect a dramatic change in the war.
But for the rest of Arnold’s life, his left leg will be two inches shorter than the right. The bone will not be set properly during his many months in the hospital, causing the leg to mend in an awkward fashion. Far from seeing himself as an irrepressible force of nature, as he did just moments ago, Benedict Arnold will come to view himself as “crippled.” The shattered leg will make him unfit for battlefield command. He will become bitter and resentful, consumed with self-pity.
Thus, a single musket ball will soon put the quest for American freedom in a precarious predicament.
16
HOUSE OF LORDS
NOVEMBER 18, 1777
12:30 P.M.
King George III is losing control.
“My Lords and Gentlemen,” the sovereign begins his annual speech for the opening of Parliament. He speaks from the throne, his body rocking back and forth. The usual crowd of red-clad lords is arrayed before him. Ten massive but frail tapestries depicting Lord Howard of Effingham’s victory over the Spanish Armada in 1588 cover the walls. Once a symbol of England’s power, the now-deteriorating panels loom over the proceedings with foreboding.1
“The continuance of the rebellion in North America demands our most serious attention,” the king says, employing the usual rapid-fire patter that many are unable to make out.
This is an understatement. Word is beginning to reach London that all is not well in the colonies. There are reports that General Howe’s army is floundering in its attempt to crush George Washington; also, that Burgoyne’s advance on Albany has stalled.
This should be a time of joy for King George. Just two weeks ago, Queen Charlotte presented him with their twelfth child. And although he is still given to lengthy and rambling conversations, the king’s mental health issues appear to be under control for the moment.
However, the news from America has shaken him. This is the king’s third such address since the hostilities began—and will be by far the least well received. Truth be told, the king does not enjoy these ceremonial occasions, which often put him on the defensive. He prefers to meet individually with his ministers in a special room at the palace known as the King’s Closet.2 Each man must bow three times upon entering the presence of the sovereign, and never turn his back on him. George demands that each minister remain standing at all times, as a further sign of deference. These one-on-one meetings are designed to prevent the alliances against the king’s policies that could form if he met his subjects in a larger group setting.
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