Chapter 46
forty-six
If Ole England is not by this lesson taught humility, then she is an obstinate old slut, bent upon her ruin.
General Horatio Gates
Beneath overcast October skies atop Bemis Heights, Rhys faced General Gates’s adjutant, Colonel Wilkinson.
Down the road, the Freeman Farm was oddly quiet, the September battle there momentarily forgotten.
Now it served as the marker dividing the British from the Americans.
Behind it was Burgoyne’s reconnaissance force of some two thousand troops, ready to test the Americans’ positions and strength.
“General Gates is keen to act, sir. He said—” Wilkinson hesitated, clearly aware of the immensity of the moment. “Order on Harlow to begin the game.”
Game.
Rhys gave a nod, his demeanor calm though his heart sprinted so hard he felt its tick in his neck.
His Rifle Corps stood around him, hundreds strong, their weapons ready.
They were well-versed on what to do. Target officers.
Disrupt the chain of command. Drive the infantry back with all their firepower and force a retreat.
From a distance, the British drummers began to beat “To Arms.” With a wave of his hand, Rhys signaled his men to disperse.
They started down the hill and skirted a wheat field just as the British began their advance from the north.
Rhys entered the adjacent woods and took position, his heart now at a gallop.
The first to appear, General Simon Fraser anchored the enemy’s right flank atop his gray horse. The Scot seemed especially bold, riding before his troops to rally them like General Arnold was doing with the Continental line on the opposite side of the field.
Tense moments ticked by. Timing was critical.
Rhys’s order to fire was followed by thunderous volleys into the British lines.
Through the smoke he watched as Fraser stiffened then fell from his horse to the ground.
The Scot’s line broke and scattered while others made a harried run to carry him from the smoking field.
Redcoats began to retreat, running pell-mell across the dry grass, desperate to flee the Americans’ fire.
Flanked by his men, Rhys pursued the redcoats into the open, reloading on the run till they came to another wall of Germans.
Standing their ground by firing repeated volleys, the Rifle Corps finally drove them into retreat.
In every direction, bluecoats and redcoats lay thick as autumn leaves.
For those still standing there was little time to think, only react, as the fighting turned more ferocious.
Captured British cannons and the wounded and dying didn’t halt the Americans, who kept coming. When the British fell back behind a redoubt on the Freeman Farm, General Arnold wheeled his horse and advanced with another brigade against the Germans.
Dusk fell and it seemed they were fighting shadows.
Barely able to see or even breathe past the smoke, Rhys watched Arnold fall from his saddle.
His wounded horse also tumbled, pinning the general’s leg beneath its bulk.
A bayoneted British grenadier tried to thrust him through, but a shot rang out, blowing his attacker back.
Moving forward, Rhys covered Arnold with rifle fire as his men ran to remove him from the field.
At last the fifes and drums fell silent.
?????
Beneath General Gates’s sodden marquee tent, a cluster of American officers gathered just as they had for nine long days since the last battle.
Hanging lanterns pushed back the mid-October gloom, a double posting of sentries outside.
Rhys stood shoulder to shoulder with Generals Poor, Lincoln, Learned, and Colonel Wilkinson.
Only Benedict Arnold was missing, confined to the field hospital a stone’s throw away, his left leg shattered. Would he live?
None but General Gates was sitting in the camp chairs provided, all of them as tightly wound as clocks, ticking toward another imminent fight—or Burgoyne’s surrender.
The ruddy-faced general, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, turned bloodshot eyes on his adjutant. “How many British casualties all told?”
“At last tally, over eleven hundred, sir,” Wilkinson replied, breath pluming in the cold air.
“Burgoyne’s forces are significantly reduced,” Poor said. “Our numbers are far superior, with more militia arriving by the hour.”
“As for us,” Gates continued, “Arnold suffered the loss of over fifty men. Our combined losses number three hundred, though more are dying as we speak.”
Rhys listened to the conversation, wearied to his bones.
It didn’t feel like a victory or a celebratory moment.
Not with so much suffering on both sides, not to mention untold widows and orphans at home.
As for himself, he felt James’s absence keenly.
He should have been here to witness this. It wasn’t the same without him.
“Tomorrow will be the tenth day since the last engagement, and Burgoyne’s reinforcements have failed to appear.
” Gates reached for a decanter and poured them all brandy.
“With so many militia arriving on our behalf, the British’s depleted numbers make a future engagement suicide.
Even their horses are dying for lack of forage. ”
Poor removed his hat and set it by the brazier to dry. “They’re on reduced rations, both soldiers and camp followers, and the woods where they’re holed up are nothing but a swell of mud, misery, and excrement.”
“They can’t last in such conditions, especially given foul weather.” Even as Gates spoke, sleet tapped at the tent’s top. “Disease alone will drive out those left standing.” He gestured to the filled cups. “If a fire won’t warm us, brandy will.”
“We have them surrounded, unable to retreat and too weak to fight.” Rhys reached for a drink. “There’s nothing for them to do but lay down their arms.”
Gates’s gaze swiveled back to him. “Which you’re in charge of, Harlow, if that time comes.”
Rhys caught his uncertainty. If? For now, every soldierly instinct he had pointed to Burgoyne’s surrender.
“What are we to do with six thousand British and Hessian prisoners once that happens, sir?” Lincoln voiced the question they’d likely all been pondering silently. It would be no easy march with so many, and a great number wounded with winter coming on.
“That remains to be hammered out in negotiations.” Gates expelled a breath. “I suggest returning them to England, but Congress will likely have other ideas.”
Learned frowned. “Prison ships are out of the question with so many Loyalist women and children, to say nothing of Baroness Riedesel and her brood.”
“Enough war talk.” Gates poured himself more brandy, his good humor prevailing. “Here’s a story worth sharing.” He winked as he continued. “General Howe, bless him, couldn’t leave England without his pet fox terrier—”
“Lila,” Poor interjected with a half smile.
“Aye, a smart one, Lila. Even though all was fog and confusion at Germantown and Washington suffered a defeat, somehow Lila managed to get herself lost and wander into Washington’s camp.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Are you telling tales, General?”
“Truth.” Gates was obviously enjoying a bit of levity.
“Washington, ever the gentleman, returned Lila to the British with a note that read, ‘General Washington’s compliments to General Howe. He does himself the pleasure to return him a dog, which accidentally fell into his hands, and by the inscription on the collar appears to belong to General Howe.’”
Chuckling ensued, which sounded a bit grim to Rhys. He finished his brandy. “A lesser man would have shot the dog and refused the courtesy.”
Lincoln nodded. “Lucky for Howe, Washington has a fondness for dogs, even the enemy’s.”
The officers continued to talk in low tones and savor their drinks, but Rhys’s thoughts were far-flung.
His widening distress over Mae was unendurable.
If she and Lucy had gotten away safely from Fort Montgomery, how far had they gone?
And the baby? Were they well? The gnawing uncertainty knotted him like rope.
If they’d not parted so badly, would he be so torn up?
There’d been talk he and his Rifle Corps might be sent south to bolster the simmering if stagnant southern campaign, but Rhys took no comfort from hearsay. Being nearer Virginia seemed a hollow move. Would Mae be waiting? Again, the uncertainty tore at him.
Had he shaken her enough with his outburst that she’d return to Chatham instead?