Saratoga (34 page)

Skoyles looked on with disgust. Desperately sorry for the loss of so many Brunswickers, he blamed Breymann for not arriving in time to save them and rebuked himself for his failure to make the colonel move at a faster pace. But his real fury was reserved for Burgoyne, who had treated the call for reinforcements as a polite request rather than an urgent summons. In telling Breymann that he was responding to good news from Baum, he had effectively
condemned a large number of people to death. For an instant, Jamie Skoyles felt ashamed to be wearing a red coat.

Battle was joined again in a number of places. Many of the militiamen were too busy drinking their rum to take much interest, but Stark quickly assembled the rest, and he was strongly supported by Colonel Seth Warner and the Green Mountain Boys. Skoyles was with the grenadiers who took up a position near the river and opened fire. They were too far away from the enemy for their volley to have any effect, but they reloaded smartly and fired again. Their main problem was one that they shared with Baum's men. Rebel soldiers did not stand still to return fire. Shooting from behind a tree, they would race to another hiding place in order to reload. And because their rifles had a longer range, they could pick off the grenadiers at will.

Having no men under his direct command, Skoyles could do little more than ride up and down the line to offer encouragement. When his horse was shot from beneath him, he rolled on the ground until he collided with a grenadier whose whole face had been shot away. Grabbing the man's musket, powder horn, and ammunition bag, Skoyles took his place among the others and shot at the first target that presented itself. The odds were heavily against the Germans, but they refused to give ground. Skoyles was proud to fight beside them.

The battle raged on into the evening and shadows began to fall. German resistance was fierce, but Skoyles knew that the outcome was never in any doubt. The enemy had more men, more ammunition, and a better knowledge of the terrain. In John Stark, they had a far better leader than Colonel Heinrich Breymann, who lagged at the rear trying to bring his artillery into action, a feat that was made impossible when the horses pulling the cannon were shot. When Skoyles exhausted his supply of musket balls, he took some from a wounded grenadier, continued firing, and had the satisfaction of bringing down more attackers.

The end, however, was in sight. Weary, embattled, and running out of ammunition, the reinforcements could hold out no longer in the fading light. Breymann finally accepted defeat and decided to parley. He gave the order to the band, and they beat out the appropriate drum call. But the untrained Americans did not recognize the signal and continued to fire regardless. They could not be stopped. It was a clear demonstration that each side was fighting
a different battle. While the Brunswickers adhered to the rules of engagement, the rebels improvised wildly. The drum call was meaningless to amateur soldiers. All that Colonel Breymann could do was to order a retreat. Abandoning their cannon, their carts, their dead, and their wounded, the Germans fled ignominiously from the field.

Skoyles fired a last deadly shot before joining them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
t was not until the following afternoon that the routed army limped back into camp at Fort Edward. Fatigued, downcast, and soaked to the skin by the rain, the Germans were a pitiful sight. Many carried injuries and wore bloodstained bandaging around heads, arms, or legs; all of them were nursing their wounded pride. Of the dragoons who had fought with Colonel Baum, a mere nine had survived, the rest were killed or captured. In all, some nine hundred men had been lost at Bennington, nearly all of them regular soldiers. Those who watched the bedraggled men trudge back into camp realized, with a jolt, that almost a sixth of Burgoyne's army had disappeared.

Colonel Breymann reported first to General Riedesel. It was left to Captain Jamie Skoyles to give an initial account of the disaster to General Burgoyne and Brigadier Simon Fraser. He met them at the house where his commander had set up his headquarters. Though he tried to be as objective as possible, there was a degree of implied criticism in Skoyles's report. Burgoyne was quick to allocate blame.

"Colonel Breymann was clearly at fault," he said. "His army was too slow and ponderous. He was leading a force of tortoises."

"We knew that before he left," Fraser pointed out. "That was why I opposed the notion of sending the Germans. British soldiers would have got to Bennington in half the time."

"That may be true, sir," said Skoyles, "but the importance of speed was never impressed upon Colonel Breymann. He believed that Colonel Baum was in no danger and therefore took his time. In that sense, he was only following orders."

"Baum must be censured here," Burgoyne decided, eager to shake off any
responsibility for issuing the wrong orders. "His dispatches were full of optimism. They did not call for immediate reinforcements."

"Too small a force was sent in the first place," Fraser argued.

"It's easy to say that in hindsight, Simon."

"According to all the evidence we have, the rebels were able to put almost two thousand soldiers in the field. Colonel Baum had no chance."

"He should have managed. His folly lay in advancing too close."

"Colonel Baum and his men fought with outstanding bravery," said Skoyles, keen to give them their due. "I've spoken to the handful of dragoons who managed to escape. They all praise their commander. The causes of their defeat were a shortage of ammunition and the superior number of the enemy. When it comes to false optimism," he went on, "the person we should single out here is Colonel Skene."

"I couldn't agree more," said Fraser.

"It was on his flawed advice that the Germans were sent to Bennington in the first place. Colonel Skene gave the impression that they would be sure to find an endless supply of horses, cattle, and new recruits—not to mention a magazine with only a light guard on it. Instead of bringing in more loyalists," said Skoyles with emphasis, "this misbegotten expedition has lost the ones that we already had."

"I could not foresee that, Captain," said Burgoyne. "Skene told me that Tory sympathies ran high in this part of New England."

"Rebel sentiments dominate, General. That's obvious from the speed with which the militia was raised and from the vigor with which they fought. It was one of the most distressing things we witnessed," Skoyles recalled. "When we reached the battlefield, we saw loyalist prisoners being dragged off, tied to a horse in pairs, and jeered at by their captors."

"They'll get no mercy when they're returned to their localities," said Fraser sadly. "Each and every one of them will be hanged."

"Nothing is served by dwelling on that," said Burgoyne testily. "The reality is that no army can get through a campaign without sustaining losses of some kind. We are still in good shape and of good heart. Albany is within striking distance."

"Do we have news of Brigadier St. Leger?" asked Skoyles.

"He is besieging Fort Stanwix."

"And you expect the fort to surrender?"

"Of course."

"We should take nothing for granted, General," Fraser suggested.

"The last dispatch was more than encouraging."

"I'm pleased to hear that," said Skoyles."

"And there's more good news for us," Burgoyne continued, seeking to divert attention from the tragic events at Bennington. "Congress has finally had the sense to replace General Schuyler."

"With whom, sir—Benedict Arnold?"

"No, Captain—with General Gates." He allowed himself a smile. "His mother was housekeeper to a duke's mistress, so you might say that he has aristocratic affiliations. He certainly has no blue blood of his own. He and I once served as lieutenants together in the Duke of Bolton's regiment. An honest fellow, if rather loudmouthed, but somewhat dull and limited when it comes to military affairs."

"He might have more support in New England than General Schuyler was able to garner," said Fraser worriedly. "This appointment may not be such good news, after all."

"You don't know the fellow as well as I do," said Burgoyne. "He's a disappointed man, a jaded soldier who sold his commission in the British army, then came to America and swallowed the deadly poison known as republican ideals. It has warped his judgment. Rely on me," he went on confidently, "we have no reason to fear a commander like Granny Gates."

Horatio Gates was so pleased to hear of the victory at Bennington that he went out of his way to visit Brigadier General John Stark, congratulating him on his success and assuring him that he had protested against the way that Stark was overlooked for promotion.

"There'll be red faces in Congress after this," said Gates, "and I daresay that General Schuyler will be embarrassed as well. They did not appreciate you, John. They realize what fools they were now."

"All that I wanted was my own command, General."

"And how well you deployed your men! It was exemplary soldiering and just the kind of success that we needed. You proved two things at Bennington. First, that the British are not invincible."

"Nor their hired German mercenaries," said Stark.

"Second—and this is more significant—that, if properly led, a militia can defeat regular soldiers in a pitched battle."

"It was the hottest fight I've ever been involved in," Stark confessed with a grin. "It was like a continual clap of thunder. There were moments when I felt we'd descended into the nether regions."

"What were your casualties?"

"Very light—around forty killed or wounded."

"Set against huge losses on the other side."

"Don't forget their weapons, General," said Stark. "We captured a horde of brass cannon, muskets, bayonets, sabers, and pistols. Horses, too, of course. There's also plenty of shot that can be used again. Our heavy guns were reduced to firing stones at the enemy."

"That must change, John," Gates confided. "Our men need proper equipment, better food and greater discipline. They also deserve some uniforms in which they can take pride. I'll procure some. Our uniforms may not be as flashy as those worn by Gentleman Johnny and his redcoats, but they'll signal that he's up against a real army."

Gates was a solid man of fifty with thinning hair, a pale, round face, and easy deportment. Stark admired him, and not only because the new commander of the Northern Department had ridden several miles to meet him. Gates had been popular in New England ever since he had championed their claim to the New Hampshire Grants in opposition to those of New York State, whose advocate had been none less than Philip Schuyler, the man he had replaced. Gates's appointment was bound to stimulate recruitment, coming, as it did, in harness with the cheering news about Bennington.

The two men were in Stark's tent in the militia camp. Waiting quietly in a corner was Ezekiel Proudfoot. Gates noticed a couple of sketches that were lying on a stool. He picked one up.

"I didn't know you were an artist, John," he said.

Stark laughed. "These hands were made for fighting," he said, extending his palms, "not for drawing pictures. No, that's the work of Ezekiel Proudfoot here," he said, beckoning the artist over. "He was with us at Bennington and made dozens of similar drawings. Ezekiel gave me those as souvenirs."

"I've seen and admired your work before, Mr. Proudfoot," said Gates, shaking his hand. "It's a potent weapon for us."

"Thank you, sir," said Proudfoot. "I did sketches of Ticonderoga and the
battle at Hubbardton as well, but they were confiscated by the British. This is one of my best, I think," he went on, indicating the last piece of paper. "It's my idea of what Jane McCrea must have suffered."

Gates took the sketch to study it. The scene was full of drama and menace. Against a dark background of trees, a beautiful young woman was kneeling on the ground, her arms outstretched in an appeal for mercy. Two seminaked Indians were holding her. One was about to strike her with his tomahawk, while the other, also armed with a tomahawk, had a firm grasp on her long hair. There was a deliberate contrast between the darkened bodies of the men and the pallor of Jane McCrea's face, arms, and exposed neck.

"Can I keep this?" asked Gates, struck by the drawing.

"If you wish, General."

"Good. I hope that you'll be staying around. I don't think it will be long before we can offer you some more action."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Proudfoot. "When I was held prisoner, the British took all my engraving tools. I'll need to go back home to Albany to get some more. But I won't miss any action, have no fear. I'm drawn to a battle like a bear to honey. I've a nose for it, General."

"So have I," said Stark.

"How long have we got, General?"

"Weeks yet, I'd say, Mr. Proudfoot," replied Gates. "Burgoyne has to build up his supplies before he moves on, and he gained neither horses nor forage at Bennington. His men have to build a bridge across the Hudson," he pointed out, "and that will take time. Once he crosses to the western bank of the river, of course, he'll have severed his supply line to Canada."

"That will put him in a very awkward position," noted Stark. "He'll be unable to retreat and unable to go forward without a fight."

"We have to be ready for that fight, John."

"How many men do you have?"

"Over seven thousand, at a guess—mainly Continentals, but with New York and Connecticut militia in support. Best of all, we have Daniel Morgan's Rifle Corps from Virginia."

Proudfoot was delighted. "Dan Morgan!" he exclaimed. "His name alone will loosen the bowels of the British army."

"He suffers from rheumatism, but that won't keep him away from a battle. He has a score to settle with the British," said Gates. "He was once give five
hundred lashes for striking one of their officers. A lesser man would have perished from such a flogging."

"Not Dan Morgan—he's an American phenomenon." Stark's joy was tempered by caution. "What's the enemy strength?"

"Since Bennington, they can't have more than five thousand able men."