10 The Sun of Saratoga

Dangers and troubles past have never prevented me from sleeping well, and when I awoke the next morning it was with Whitestone pulling at my shoulder.

“This is the third shake,” said he.

“But the last,” said I, getting up and rubbing my eyes.

I have seldom seen a finer morning. The fresh crispness of early October ran through the brilliant sunshine. The earth was bathed in light. It was such a sun as I have heard rose on the morning of the great battle of Austerlitz, fought but recently. A light wind blew from the west. The blood bubbled in my veins.

“It’s lucky that so many of us should have such a fine day for leaving the world,” said Whitestone.

The battle, the final struggle for which we had been looking so long, was at hand. I had not mistaken the preparations in the British camp the night before.

I have had my share, more or less humble, in various campaigns and combats, but I have not seen any other battle begun with so much deliberation as on that morning. In truth all whom I could see appeared to be calm. A man is sometimes very brave and sometimes much afraid—I do not know why—but that day the braver part of me was master.

We were ready and waiting to see what the British would do, when Burgoyne, with his picked veterans, came out of his intrenchments and challenged us to battle, much as the knights of the old time used to invite one another to combat.

They were not so many as we—we have never made that claim; but they made a most gallant show, all armed in the noble style with which Britain equips her troops, particularly the bayonets, of which we have had but few in the best of times, and none, most often.

They sat down in close rank on the hillside, as if they were quite content with what we might do or try to do, whatever it might be. I have heard many say it was this vaunting over us that chiefly caused the war.

The meaning of the British was evident to us all. If this picked force could hold its own against our attack, the remainder of their army would be brought up and an attempt to inflict a crushing defeat upon us would be made; if it could not hold its own, it would retreat into the intrenchments, where the whole British army would defend itself at vantage.

Farther back in the breastworks I could see the British gazing out at their chosen force and at us. I even imagined that I could see women looking over, and that perhaps Kate Van Auken was one of them. I say again, how like it was in preparation and manner to one of the old tournaments! Perhaps it was but my fancy.

There was no movement in our lines. So far as we could judge just then, we were merely looking on, as if it were no affair of ours. In the British force some one played a tune on a fife which sounded to me like “Won’t you dare?”

“Why did we take so much care to hem them in and then refuse to fight them?” asked I impatiently of Whitestone.

“What time o’ day is it?” asked Whitestone.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “but it’s early.”

“I never answer such questions before sundown,” said Whitestone.

Content with his impolite but wise reply, I asked no more, noticing at times the red squares of the British, and at other times the dazzling circle of the red sun.

Suddenly the British began to move. They came on in most steady manner, their fine order maintained.

“Good!” said Whitestone. “They mean to turn our left.”

We were on the left, which might be good or bad. Be that as it may, I perceived that our waiting was over. I do not think we felt any apprehension. We were in strong force, and we New Yorkers were on the left, and beside us our brethren of New England, very strenuous men. We did not fear the British bayonet of which our enemies boast so much. While we watched their advance, I said to Whitestone:

“I will not ask that question again before sundown.”

“I trust that you will be able to ask it then, and I to answer it,” replied he.

Which was about as solemn as Whitestone ever became.

Looking steadily at the British, I saw a man in their front rank fall. Almost at the same time I heard the report of a rifle just in front of us, and I knew that one of our sharpshooters had opened the battle.

This shot was like a signal. The sharp crackling sound ran along the grass like fire in a forest, and more men fell in the British lines. Their own skirmishers replied, and while the smoke was yet but half risen a heavy jerky motion seized our lines and we seemed to lift our selves up. A thrill of varying emotions passed through me. I knew that we were going to attack the British, not await their charge.

Our drummers began to beat a reply to theirs, but I paid small attention to them. The fierce pattering from the rifles of the skirmishers and the whistling of the bullets now coming about our ears were far more important sounds. But the garrulous drums beat on.

“Here goes!” said Whitestone.

The drums leaped into a faster tune, and we, keeping pace with the redoubled rub-a-dub, charged into a cloud of smoke spangled with flaming spots. The smoke filled my eyes and I could not see, but I was borne on by my own will and the solid rush of the men beside me and behind me. Then my eyes cleared partly, and I saw a long red line in front of us. Those in the first rank were on one knee, and I remember thinking how sharp their bayonets looked. The thought was cut short by a volley and a blaze which seemed to envelop their whole line. A huge groan arose from our ranks. I missed the shoulder against my left shoulder—the man who had stood beside me was no longer there.

We paused only for a moment to fire in our turn, and our groan found an equal echo among the British. Then, officers shouting commands and men shouting curses, we rushed upon the bayonets.

I expected to be spitted through, and do not know why I was not; but in the turmoil of noise and flame and smoke I swept forward with all the rest. When we struck them I felt a mighty shock, as if I were the whole line instead of one man. Then came the joy of the savage when their line—bayonets and all—reeled back and shivered under the crash of ours.

I shouted madly, and struck through the smoke with my sword. I was conscious that I stepped on something softer than the earth, that it crunched beneath my feet; but I thought little of it. Instead I rushed on, hacking with my sword at the red blurs in the smoke.

I do not say it as a boast, for there were more of us than of them—though they used to claim that they did not care for numbers—but they could place small check upon our advance, although they had cannon as well as bayonets. Their red line, very much seamed and scarred now, was driven back, and still farther back, up the hill. Our men, long anxious for this battle and sure of triumph, poured after them like a rising torrent. The British were not strong enough, and were swept steadily toward their intrenchments.

“Do you hear that?” shouted some one in my ear.

“Hear what?” I shouted in reply, turning to Whitestone.

“The cannon and the rifles across yonder,” he said, nodding his head.

Then I noticed the angry crash of artillery and small arms to our left, and I knew by the sound that not we alone but the whole battle front of both armies was engaged.

If the British, as it seemed, wanted a decisive test of strength, they would certainly get it.

For a few moments the smoke rolled over us in such volume that I could not see Whitestone, who was but three feet from me, but I perceived that we had wheeled a little, and nobody was before us. Then the smoke drifted aside, and our men uttered a most tremendous shout, for all the British who were alive or could walk had been driven into their intrenchments, and, so far as that, we were going to carry their intrenchments too, or try.

I think that all of us took a very long breath, for I still had the strange feeling that our whole line was one single living thing, and whatever happened to it I felt. The cannon from the intrenchments were fired straight into our faces, but our bloody line swept on. I leaped upon a ridge of newly thrown earth and struck at a tall cap. I heard a tremendous swearing, long volleys of deep German oaths. We were among the paid Hessians, whom we ever hated more than the British for coming to fight us in a quarrel that was none of theirs.

The Hessians, even with their intrenchments and cannon, could not stand before us nor do I think they are as good as we. Perhaps our hatred of these mercenaries swelled our zeal, but their intrenchments were no barrier to us. For a space we fought them hand to hand, knee to knee; then they gave way. I saw their slain commander fall. Some fled, some yielded; others fought on, retreating.

I rushed forward and called upon a Hessian to surrender. For answer he stabbed straight at my throat with his bayonet. He would have surely hit the mark, but a man beside him knocked the bayonet away with his sword, calling out at the same moment to me.

“That’s part payment of my debt to you, Dick.”

He was gone in the smoke, and as I was busy receiving the surrender of the Hessian and his bayonet I could not follow him. I looked around for more to do, but all the Hessians who had not fled had yielded, and the fight was ours. Burgoyne had not only failed in the pitched battle in the open field, but we had taken many of his cannon and a portion of his camp. His entire army, no longer able to face us in any sort of contest, lay exposed to our attack. I wondered why we did not rush on and finish it all then, but I noticed for the first time that the twilight had come and the skies were growing dark over the field of battle. I must have spoken my thoughts aloud, for Whitestone, at my elbow, said:

“No use having more men killed, Mr. Shelby; we’ve nothing to do now but hold fast to what we’ve got, and the rest will come to us.”

Whitestone sometimes spoke to me in a fatherly manner, though I was his superior. But I forgave him. I owed much to him.

The battle ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The long shadows of the night seemed to cover everything and bring peace, though the cries of the wounded reminded us of what had been done. We gathered up the hurt, relieving all we could; but later in the night the sharpshooters began again.

I was exultant over our victory and the certainty of a still greater triumph to come, I rejoiced that Albert had not forgotten his debt to me and had found a way of repayment, but I felt anxiety also. In the rush of the battle, with the bullets flying one knew not whither, not even the women and children lying in that portion of the British camp yet intact were safe.

The wounded removed, I had nothing more to do but to wait. Only then did I remember to be thankful that I was unhurt. I had much smoke grime upon my face, and I dare say I was not fine to look at, but I thought little of those things. Whitestone, who also was free from active duty, joined me, and I was glad. He drew his long pipe from the interior of his waistcoat, filled it with tobacco, lighted it and became happy.

“It has been a good day’s work,” he said at length.

“Yes, for us,” I replied. “What will be the next step, Whitestone?”

“The British will retreat soon,” he said. “We will follow without pressing them too hard. No use to waste our men now. In a week the British will be ours.”

Whitestone spoke with such assurance that I was convinced.

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