Authors: David Garland
"Only this, General," said Skoyles doggedly. "When the colonel rode off just now, I overheard a remark he made to Major Maiborn. There was a note of alarm in it. The rough translation is this: How can they be expected to forage
and
mount an attack on Bennington?"
"Because I wish to kill two birds with one stone."
"Supposing that they meet heavy resistance?"
"The rebels have insufficient numbers."
"That situation could change."
"My intelligence indicates otherwise."
"How reliable is it?"
"Don't be so impertinent, man!"
"But if they
were
to encounter problems at Bennington—"
"Who is in command of this damned army, Captain Skoyles?" said Burgoyne, irritably, silencing him with a gesture of his hand. "When I require your counsel, I shall ask for it."
"Yes, General. My sincere apologies."
"In future, please refrain from making any comments that pertain to military decisions taken by your superiors."
"I will, sir."
"Good day to you, sir!"
Pulling his horse's head round with a tug of the reins, Burgoyne rode off at a brisk trot. Skoyles was smarting from the rebuff. A genial commander who had always solicited advice before was now haughty and irascible. Having taken the pains to work out a detailed plan for Colonel Baum and his men, Burgoyne had canceled it without warning and sent them off on a totally different expedition, one for which they were neither prepared nor equipped. As he nudged his own horse forward, Skoyles wondered what had happened to make the general behave in a way that was so untypical of him. It was troubling.
The unquestioning confidence that Skoyles had once had in his commander was eroded even more.
General Stark was not a man for delay. As soon as he caught wind of the approaching enemy force, he rushed his militia to Bennington in order to defend the magazine there, and sent out patrols to hinder Colonel Baum and his
men. Reports came in every day. One of them made him burst out laughing. Ezekiel Proudfoot was curious.
"What's the joke, General?" he asked.
"It's one that was played on these flat-faced Germans who are bearing down on us. It seems that Philip Skene is with them."
"Yes, I heard a lot about Colonel Skene when I was held prisoner."
"
Colonel
Skene now, is it?" said Stark with amusement. "He was only a major in the militia when he lived at Skenesborough. Whatever his rank, he's no judge of character. When some of our men joined them, claiming to be loyalists, Skene urged that they be accepted and gave them slips of white paper to wear in their hat so that the Indians would know they were on the British side."
"Except that they weren't," Proudfoot conjectured.
"No, Ezekiel. When the Germans next came under attack, the so-called loyalists gathered at their rear so that they could shoot some of the officers in the back." Stark slapped his thigh. "They not only killed a number of men, they frightened off some of the Indians."
"That still leaves a sizable force, General."
"We have double their number."
"But they are practiced mercenaries," Proudfoot reminded him. "You've not had time to train your men, let alone supply them with proper weaponry and uniforms."
"Yes," Stark conceded, "that's true, but it will not stop me from giving battle. Look at the faces all around you, Ezekiel. These men came to fight, none more so than John Stark."
Proudfoot could see what he meant. As he gazed around the camp, he could sense a confidence he had not felt at Hubbardton. The militiamen wore a bewildering variety of dress—loose coats of every possible color, homespun shirts and vests, garments that fastened below the knee, buckskin breeches, or long linen trousers. Calfskin shoes, ornamented with buckles, were the favored footwear, and Proudfoot noticed that nearly everyone wore a broad-brimmed hat with a round crown. Each man carried a powder horn, a bullet bag, and a flask of rum.
"No two of them seem to have the same gun," Proudfoot said.
"As long as it works," said Stark, "I don't care what weapon they carry.
The Germans will face British, French, Spanish, and American muskets. There're even a few Kentucky rifles."
"But no bayonets."
"A handful."
"That's where the enemy does have the advantage."
"Only if they get close enough to use them," said Stark. "The same goes for their dragoons. They're used to fighting on horseback with sabers. It's a fearsome way to die. We need to keep those swords at bay."
"How many horses have they collected along the way?"
"Not nearly enough to put those dragoons back in the saddle. The Indians captured some horses at Cambridge, but when Colonel Baum refused to pay for them, they killed the animals outright."
"The dragoons must have been livid at that."
"Fit to bust with fury, Ezekiel. Cavalrymen hate to walk, especially if they have to carry those heavy sabers."
"They may well find horses between Cambridge and here."
"Let them," said Stark, gazing around his weird assortment of men. "I have no fears. The enemy may
look
much more like an army—but our militia will fight like one."
Jamie Skoyles had neither seen nor heard of Elizabeth Rainham for days, but he was able to gauge how things stood between her and Harry Featherstone by studying the latter's behavior. The major was brusque and detached, spurning any company and refusing every invitation to an evening of cards. When the occasion presented itself, he took out his anger on the lower ranks. A rift had clearly been opened between him and Elizabeth. Judging by the way Featherstone glowered at him whenever they met, Skoyles could see that he was being blamed. He hoped for an opportunity to speak alone to Elizabeth but it was denied him. Returning from a patrol with Brigadier Fraser, he learned that he would not even remain in camp.
General Burgoyne sent for him. Skoyles was relieved to find that his commander had recovered his characteristic buoyancy. He detected a faint smell of alcohol on his breath when Burgoyne spoke.
"I've an assignment for you, Skoyles," said the general.
"Indeed, sir?"
"Since you expressed some worries about Bennington, I've decided to send you there." He handed a letter to Skoyles. "Deliver these orders to Colonel Breymann and translate anything that he does not fully understand. Colonel Baum has asked for reinforcements. You are to accompany them to Bennington."
"Does that mean Colonel Baum is in difficulties?" asked Skoyles.
"Not at all," replied Burgoyne airily. "He is holding a position near the town where some fifteen hundred or so rebel militia have gathered."
"That's almost twice as many as the colonel has at his command."
"Do not presume to teach me arithmetic, sir. I can count. The real difference between the two forces is one of character, not number. Our men are battle-tried professionals; theirs are ignorant farmboys who scarcely know which end of the musket the ball comes out of."
"You're being unfair to them, sir," said Skoyles. "Some of those men have to shoot game in order to eat. They know how to hit a target."
"So do we—especially with our artillery. I've ordered Breymann to take two six-pound cannon with him. The rebels have nothing to compete with those."
"May I ask a question, General?"
"Of course."
"Why send a German corps instead of a British one?"
"Question of pride, man," said Burgoyne with a touch of arrogance. "I wouldn't send my own troops on a secondary action like this when I have Brunswickers here. It's exactly the kind of mundane exercise for which they're well fitted."
"Must it be Colonel Breymann who is dispatched?" said Skoyles. "It's common knowledge in the German camp that he and Colonel Baum are anything but friends."
"All the more reason they should fight beside each other. That's the way to forge a bond. There's no room for petty differences in combat." He snapped his fingers. "Give my compliments to Colonel Breymann and deliver my orders."
"Yes, General."
"One moment," said Burgoyne as the other man turned to go. "I know that you had doubts about this whole expedition, but it seems to have been a signal success. Baum has not only found enough horses to mount his dragoons, he is sending hundreds of oxen back to camp. I hope you'll have the grace to admit that you were wrong."
"I do so without hesitation."
"When you reach Baum, give him my congratulations."
"I will, sir."
"That is all."
Skoyles paused. "May I ask who is in command of the rebels?"
"Does it matter?" asked Burgoyne complacently.
"I think so, General."
"Well, I don't. We have the measure of their best commanders. Whoever is in charge at Bennington, he and his men will be swept contemptuously from the field and you, Captain Skoyles—be grateful to me for this—will be there to witness their humiliation."
Ezekiel Proudfoot had never seen such carnage. Wherever he looked, men were lying dead or suffering from horrific wounds that condemned them to a slow and agonizing end. The crackle of gunfire was constant, underscored by the booming of cannon and the neighing of injured horses. Smoke hung over parts of the battlefield like a pall. Though he carried a sketchbook, he found it difficult to know on which piece of action to concentrate, and he resorted to drawing whatever caught his eye at any particular time, abandoning one place to rush to another in search of a new subject. At Hubbardton, he had remained stationary on the ridge. Bennington, he soon discovered, was a very different battle.
Colonel Baum had made a strategic error, unwisely dispersing his forces among several locations. His dragoons commanded the position on a stone-covered hill behind a log breastwork, and 150 loyalists were sent across a river to build a breastwork there. The rest of his army was scattered piecemeal, taking what cover they could find. General John Stark was quick to exploit the folly of the enemy commander. Troops from the New Hampshire militia circled to the right of the dragoon redoubt while a force of Vermonters worked its way around to the left to take on Baum's rear guard. With Stark at its head, the main American assault hit the redoubt itself, lapping around the base of the hill and enveloping the Germans.
The loyalists, Canadians, and Indians soon lost their nerve. After holding their positions for a short while, they took to their heels and fled the scene, several of them cut down by rebel bullets as they did so. All the action now
shifted to the hill, and Proudfoot got as close to it as he dared. Outnumbered and outmaneuvered, the Germans did not give in. In spite of their heavy casualties, they held their position for two hours until their ammunition ran out, a fact signaled with dramatic suddenness by the explosion of their reserve wagon.
Leaping up, Colonel Baum drew his sword and ordered his men to cut their way out with their cavalry sabers. Within a minute of issuing the order, he was dropped to the ground by a musket ball. The loss of their leader deprived the Brunswickers of the urge to fight on. Raising their arms, they walked forward in an attitude of surrender. Proudfoot saw them coming down the hill under armed guard. Now that the fighting had at last stopped, he had a subject for his next engraving.
Captain Jamie Skoyles had heard the faint sounds of battle in the distance and he encouraged Colonel Heinrich Breymann to make more speed. It was a request that he had made at every stage of the journey. The march from Fort Edward had been painfully slow. With nearly six hundred men and two cannon mounted on carts, Breymann had, for the most part, managed no more than half a mile an hour. Continuous rain pelted them, mud clutched at their feet, and they had great difficulty hauling their carts uphill. Crossing a river ate up even more precious time as the men had to wade through the water in single file. When the ammunition carts overturned, there were more delays.
What maddened Skoyles most of all was the German addiction to marching in formation. Every so often, they would pause to dress ranks as if appearance were more important than making progress toward the beleaguered force of Brunswickers. There was a worrying lack of urgency about the whole expedition. When Skoyles tried to complain, he was firmly admonished by Breymann, a curt individual with a well-earned reputation for bullying.
One of the other officers confided to Skoyles that, in his orders, Burgoyne had said that he was sending the reinforcements out "in consequence of good news received from Baum." How the awkward situation in which Colonel Baum found himself could be construed as good news, Skoyles did not know, but at least he was able to understand why Breymann was so unhurried. In
conveying no sense of crisis, Burgoyne had unwittingly slowed the relief column down. With reluctance, Skoyles was forced to entertain serious doubts about his commander's judgment yet again.
They were miles from Bennington when the shooting was first heard and—to Skoyles's relief—they did quicken their step a little. The sounds of conflict grew steadily in volume as they got closer, and they were all struck by the intensity of the fighting. Gunfire was unceasing. The cries of dying men and the anguished neighing of horses soon reached their ears. Then they heard a massive explosion, far louder than that from a single cannon. Shortly after that, the noises gradually faded away, to be followed by an eerie silence.
Riding with a battalion of light infantry and grenadiers, Skoyles had to quell the impulse to kick his horse into a gallop. Desperate as he was to get to Bennington, he realized that one man could make no difference on a battlefield. Only the arrival of a sizable force would have any impact. Breymann did not disguise their approach. He ordered the band to strike up so that everyone would know that they were coming. To the captured Brunswickers, the music had a decidedly hollow ring to it. Reinforcements had come too late.
The battlefield was a sorry sight. Scattered across the hill were the uniformed bodies of dozens of German soldiers. More corpses lay in the other positions that had been taken up. Hundreds of prisoners were being marched away through a taunting crowd. General John Stark had inflicted something close to a massacre. While his rustic rifleman had beaten a professional army with their daring, accuracy, and mobility, those same men had now lost all discipline. With so many dead soldiers on the ground, the temptation for plunder was too great to resist. Weapons were being seized, jackets stripped from their owners, money, watches, rings, and anything else of value snatched by the scavengers.