Authors: David Garland
Skoyles was astonished when Burgoyne gave the order for his men to display, form a line, then sit down in double ranks with their weapons between their legs. Foragers, meanwhile, proceeded to cut the wheat or standing straw. Skoyles was bemused. Was this the object of their advance? A foraging expedition
did not need over two thousand men. Why send so many? Skoyles was apprehensive. With the majority of the soldiers in such an exposed position, they were—literally—sitting targets.
General Horatio Gates received the intelligence from James Wilkinson, his deputy adjutant general, a man who had once urged the evacuation of Fort Ticonderoga. Wilkinson had no thoughts of retreat now.
"They are foraging, General," he reported, "and endeavoring to reconnoiter your left. I think, sir, they offer you battle."
"What is the nature of the ground and what is your opinion?"
"Their front is open and their flanks rest on woods, under cover of which they may be attacked; their right is skirted by a lofty height. I would indulge them."
"Well, then, order Morgan to begin the game."
Gates had finally decided to attack.
Jamie Skoyles heard them coming before they appeared. Pouring down from Bemis Heights like a torrent, the rebel soldiers attacked the front and rear of the right wing. Within minutes, Skoyles and his men were fighting for their lives. Nor were they the only object of enemy ferocity. The whole British and German line was under assault by an army five or six times their number. Skoyles and the other officers deployed their men as best they could, but sheer weight of numbers drove them back into the woods. The British artillery was rendered less effective by the presence of stout trees that could shield the enemy, who had the advantage of fighting in a way that most suited them. Daniel Morgan's rifle corps and Henry Dearborn's light infantry were in their element. It was battle on their terms.
Volley firing from lines of British infantry could not hold back soldiers who emerged from cover to shoot, then darted behind a tree trunk to reload. Even the threat of a bayonet charge did not deter them. Both the Continental Army and the various militias had waited too long for battle to be cheated of victory. Skoyles was impressed with the courage and enthusiasm of their repeated charges. Whenever they were driven back, the rebels simply regrouped and came at the British again.
The noise was even more deafening than it had been at Freeman's Farm. Rebel soldiers howled for blood or screamed in pain as grapeshot raked them. The sound of artillery and musket fire was interspersed with the cries of dying men and wounded horses. Hooves thundered across the wheat field. Drums beat out their tattoos. Wheat and straw were forgotten now. Both sides were harvesting human blood.
As in earlier engagements, the rebels made a special effort to kill enemy officers. The letter of protest that Burgoyne had sent to Gates about this unacceptable conduct had been ignored. Americans were under no compulsion to abide by British rules of engagement. Victory was all to them. By killing or disabling officers, they weakened the whole structure of the opposing army and brought that victory nearer. Skoyles was made all too aware of rebel tactics. Shortly after his men were attacked, his hat was shot off and a bullet removed the heel of his boot.
His horse was the next to be hit, struck in the chest and rearing up so high that Skoyles was dislodged from the saddle. As he fell to the ground, he rolled swiftly away so that he was not crushed beneath the weight of the animal as it came crashing down after him. Skoyles got to his knees in time to defend himself against a rebel soldier who came racing through the trees at him. Intending to dash a British officer's brains out with the butt of his rifle, the man instead found his weapon deftly parried by a sword that flashed in Skoyles's hand to run him through with one clean thrust.
Bullets whistled all round him, but the greatest danger for Skoyles was directly behind him. It was only by chance that he glanced over his shoulder. Riding toward him, with murder in his eye, was Harry Featherstone, bristling with hatred and ready to exploit the confusion of battle. Skoyles had only a split second to take evasive action. Had he not dived out of the way, the slash of Featherstone's sword could have taken his head off. In fact, all that was detached was one of the epaulets on Skoyles's shoulder. Before he could get up to pursue Featherstone, the major had ridden off into the trees to continue the fight against the real enemy. Skoyles turned his own anger upon the rebels.
Ezekiel Proudfoot took to the trees once again. Since the only way he could get any view of the battle was from above it, he climbed the tallest oak he
could find and surveyed the field. Everywhere he looked the British and German soldiers were under severe fire, pressed back by Continentals and militia, who seemed to be reinforced time and again. In some part of the battlefield, Reuben Proudfoot would be hurling himself into the fray, but because his brother did not recognize the colors of each regiment, he was quite unable to decide where Reuben might be.
Disorder reigned supreme. It was a scene of violent struggle, random cruelty, and, in some places, mounting panic. Smoke billowed from the heavy guns. Charges were made, repulsed, then made again with greater commitment. Examples of outstanding bravery and intense suffering were everywhere. Blood stained the wheat field red.
All that Proudfoot could do was to rely on his memory, consigning images, incidents, advances, retreats, and untold gory deaths to the back of his mind for later use. His hand was shaking far too much for him to draw any sketches. He had witnessed battles before, but Proudfoot knew that this one was markedly different. What he was looking at was nothing less than a fight for American liberty, a decisive engagement that could turn the whole war in their favor. Such a battle needed a leader around whom the rebels could gather. He soon appeared, galloping toward the Brunswickers with suicidal audacity. It was the man whom Proudfoot had last seen in his commander's tent.
Drunk on rum and consumed with rage at the attempt to deny him a role in the battle, Benedict Arnold spurred his horse on and urged his men to follow him. When a redcoat tried to bayonet him, the American hacked him to death with his sword, then beat off two more British bayonets before riding to another part of the field. Arnold was brave, impetuous, foolish, dauntless, indefatigable, and utterly heroic.
It was a memory that Ezekiel Proudfoot would never forget.
The British army had its own heroes, none more prominent than Simon Fraser. Under fierce attack, the 24th Foot nevertheless managed to retain a semblance of order and hold the right flank. That was not the case with the redcoats on the left flank, who had been pushed back by the force of the rebel onslaught, their officers slain, their artillerymen and their horses shot dead, and their guns captured. The Germans under Riedesel fared even worse in the
center of the action. Though they fought with typical order and gallantry, they endured savage losses. Bullets that did not kill or wound them dented the shiny metallic fronts of their caps, adding a continuous series of pinging sounds to the general hullabaloo.
Simon Fraser could see the immense difficulties that the center faced. Rallying his men, he brought a detachment of them toward the harried Germans. Jamie Skoyles was among them, having acquired a stray horse whose rider had been killed. Sword held aloft, he followed the brigadier toward the part of the field that was bearing the brunt of enemy attack. Skoyles yelled orders to his men, but it was Simon Fraser who really inspired them. Riding back and forth in his brilliant uniform, he was a highly visible figure on his handsome gray mount.
While others were losing their nerve, Fraser was telling his men to form a second line and they were rushing to obey. He was leading by force of personality. Fraser did not go unnoticed by the enemy. Skoyles urged him to stay out of range of rebel sharpshooters but the brigadier spurned danger in order to encourage his men. Three shots were fired. The first hit the gray horse's crupper and the second went through his mane. Skoyles implored his commander to draw back. The third shot made the decision for him. Hit in the stomach, Fraser slumped forward in agony over the horse's neck.
Skoyles kicked his own animal into a canter at once, riding up to the wounded brigadier and supporting him with one arm as he carried him back behind British lines. No individual loss had such a lowering effect on others. The only man capable of organizing proper resistance against the rebels had been eliminated from the battle. General Burgoyne was utterly disheartened. Simon Fraser was his closest friend and confidant. When he saw the wounded Scot being taken from the field, he gave the order for retreat. With their tails between their legs, and leaving masses of dead or wounded redcoats on the battlefield behind them, the British army pulled back to their two redoubts. In just under an hour, Burgoyne's bold gamble had been revealed as an act of monumental folly.
With the help of an ensign, Skoyles took the stricken man from the field of battle as quickly as they could. When they reached his tent, they helped Fraser from his horse and carried him inside. Blood was still oozing from his wound. Skoyles was pleased that the first surgeon on hand was Tom Caffrey. Removing Fraser's jacket and undoing his shirt, Caffrey examined the wound. The
marksman's bullet had passed through the victim's stomach and penetrated the backbone. All that the surgeon could do was to stem the bleeding and dress the wound.
"Tell me, Sergeant," said Fraser bravely, "to the best of your skill and judgment, if you think my wound is mortal."
Caffrey glanced sadly at Skoyles then took a deep breath.
"I am sorry to inform you, sir," he said softly, "that it is, and that you cannot possibly live four and twenty hours."
"So be it."
Suffering intense pain, and tormented by the knowledge that the British army was losing the battle, Simon Fraser nevertheless accepted his fate with extreme dignity.
Elizabeth Rainham was in despair. She could not believe that so much pain could come on the heels of so much pleasure. Her nocturnal joy with Jamie Skoyles had been followed by a day of high anxiety as she fretted over the safety of her lover. The sounds of battle had been all too audible, and she resigned herself to the fact that there would be heavy casualties. When she saw Simon Fraser being carried on a stretcher into the little house occupied by Friederika von Riedesel and her family, Elizabeth was distraught. If the commanding officer of the 24th Foot had been wounded, what of those who fought beside him?
"Hope for the best, ma'am," Nan Wyatt counseled her.
"Injured men are being brought back every minute."
"Then that proves Captain Skoyles must have escaped injury."
"Unless he is lying dead somewhere," Elizabeth said softly.
"You've vexed yourself about him before, ma'am, and in vain."
"But this is a pitched battle, Nan, and the Americans will try to kill as many of our officers as they can. Captain Skoyles is a marked man. Truly, I fear for his life." Her maid enfolded her in a maternal embrace. "Where can he
be?
"
After the shooting of Simon Fraser, a mood of melancholy descended on the British officer corps. As they pulled back to the redoubts, there were somber
faces and slack shoulders. Not a glimmer of Gentleman Johnny's famous swagger remained. Jamie Skoyles responded in the opposite way. Heartbroken at the loss of his revered commander, he rode back to join the battle with an increased determination. Revenge was the only way to alleviate his grief, and he was eager to exact it. Fraser had been singled out for destruction. The brigadier had told Skoyles that he saw the man who shot him—a sharpshooter, perched in a tree, who aimed at him three times in a row. It was a deliberate assassination.
Skoyles got no farther than the Breymann Redoubt. Named after the colonel whose men constructed and held the fortification, it was a large breastwork, built of logs that had been laid horizontally between upright posts, and running to two hundred yards in length. It was equipped with several brass cannon and commanded a clearing across which any attack would have to come. By the time Skoyles reached it, the redoubt was already under fire from the Massachussets regiment led by Colonel John Brooks. The captain did not hesitate to join in the resistance.
Leaping from the saddle, he tethered his horse and rushed to the palisade. When a man close to him was shot in the mouth, he reeled backward and fell to the ground, a waterfall of blood gushing from between his shattered teeth. Skoyles relieved him of his musket, powder horn, and ammunition bag before taking up his position. Bullets thudded into the timber in front of him and sent splinters flying into the air. Poking his musket through a gap between the logs, Skoyles fired a first shot and downed an American infantryman.
Even a cursory glance told him that their situation was hopeless. They could not hold out indefinitely against such superior numbers. Colonel Breymann might roar at his men and threaten them with his sword, but they could not achieve the impossible. What they might do was to delay the enemy until retreating British soldiers could attack them from the rear, but even that would give them only a temporary respite. The rebels got closer and closer until they made a concerted effort to storm part of the redoubt. Skoyles had just reloaded his musket when he saw dozens of men trying to clamber over the breastwork.
He shot one of them, dislodged a second with a swing of his musket, then pulled out his sword to beat a third away. It was the fourth man who almost cost Skoyles his life. When his head appeared over the top of the palisade, the American's features were contorted with a mingled hatred and rage. Skoyles
nevertheless recognized him at once. It was Reuben Proudfoot, the brother of Ezekiel, bearing a striking resemblance to the engraver. For a brief moment, the battle seemed to stand still as the two men eyed each other. Skoyles even smiled as fond memories flooded back.
"Jamie?" asked Reuben, blinking. "Is that you?"
"Yes."