Saratoga Read online

  What irked Proudfoot most was that he had been deprived of an opportunity to commemorate American resolution during a prolonged siege. The sight of an entire garrison scurrying away like rats from a sinking ship was hardly a fit subject for one of his prints, and would certainly not arouse the patriotic instincts of his countrymen. A once unassailable stronghold had been yielded to the British without even a semblance of resistance. Ezekiel Proudfoot felt so ashamed that he voiced his disgust to General St. Clair.

  "I never thought to see such a thing," he complained. "The mighty Fort Ticonderoga, abandoned in haste by a whole army."

  "That army was more apparent than real," said St. Clair briskly. "We had barely two thousand men fit for duty, a corps of artillery and fewer than a thousand militiamen. If the enemy launched a simultaneous attack from both directions, there was no way that we could hold them off."

  "How do you know if you wouldn't even try?"

  "My hand was forced, Ezekiel."

  "Even though we might have—"

  "And I'll brook no criticism," said the other, interrupting him with a peremptory glance in his direction. "Not even from a friend."

  "My apologies, General," said Proudfoot through clenched teeth.

  "Better to lose a fort than sacrifice a whole garrison."

  "That's your opinion, sir."

  "I'm not interested in yours."

  "That won't stop me from having one."

  "Make sure that I don't have to hear it," said St. Clair.

  After a forced march of several miles that had lasted for most of an oppressively hot day, they had reached the tiny settlement of Hubbardton in Vermont. Knowing that there would be pursuit, St. Clair elected to take the main body of men on to Castleton, some six miles or so away. Colonel Seth Warner was left in Hubbardton with 150 men and told to wait there until the rear guard caught up with him. Instead of continuing to retreat with the others, Ezekiel Proudfoot remained behind, eager to be where action might take place. It was quite late when the rear guard, comprising the 11th Massachusetts and the 2nd New Hampshire regiments, finally arrived in the town. Ignoring an express order to keep moving, Warner chose instead to spend the night in Hubbardton.

  Proudfoot sensed a battle ahead. Excited by the prospect, he was glad that he had spurned the opportunity to go on to Castleton with the others. St. Clair might have let him down, but Seth Warner was made of sterner stuff. American heroism would be displayed, after all.

  "Confounded Germans!" sneered Major Featherstone. "We've lost them."

  "They don't march as quickly as we do, Major," said Skoyles.

  "No—damn them! Riedesel is far more interested in keeping his troops in formation than pushing them on."

  "They'll catch up with us in time, Major."

  "Brigadier Fraser is furious with them."

  "I think that he accepts that they move at a slower pace," Skoyles said tolerantly. "Especially in the kind of hot weather we've had today. Their uniforms are too thick and their boots too heavy. But I dispute that the brigadier's shown any real anger toward our German allies. When all is said and done, General Riedesel is nominally in charge of this operation. He does outrank the brigadier."

  "He'll never outrank Simon Fraser in the things that matter," said Featherstone, curling his lip. "That's why he defers to the brigadier, who has twice the military brain of that lumbering foreigner and ten times the experience of fighting in America. General Burgoyne understands that. The brigadier, quite rightly, is always taken into his confidence while the German commander is often excluded from any meetings."

  "That may not be a sensible policy, sir."

  "It is to me. The power of decision must be ours."

  "Nevertheless, we rely very heavily on the Brunswickers."

  "Then where the bloody hell are they, Captain?"

  Jamie Skoyles and Harry Featherstone were with the force that had been dispatched after the fleeing Americans. Checked from time to time by sporadic gunfire from the rear guard, they had pressed on hard to get within striking distance of Hubbardton. Tents had been pitched at night at Lacey's Camp, a place vacated by the Americans only an hour earlier. Since they traveled without provisions, the hungry British troops had slaughtered a cow in the woods to eat for supper. Somewhere behind them, under the command of Riedesel, were regiments of Brunswick grenadiers and riflemen, unable to catch up and pausing to rest for the night. The chasing army was split in two.

  While they waited for reports from Indian scouts, Skoyles found himself talking to Featherstone. Aware of the man's defects, Skoyles had always conceded that the major had his finer points. He was fearless in battle and led his men from the front. Other officers would prefer to wait until the German reinforcements arrived, but Featherstone was ready to join battle without them. He loved action as much as Skoyles himself, and always showed gallantry in the field. He was also a keen student of military strategy.

  "Gentleman Johnny wants to finish them off," he said with obvious approval. "While we drive the rebels toward Skenesborough, he'll sail down the lake and meet us there. St. Clair and his army will be caught between the two of us and annihilated. It's a brilliant plan."

  "Only if the Americans oblige us by sticking to it," said Skoyles.

  "What do you mean?"

  "They may not want to be pushed in that direction, Major. This is the kind of territory in which they fight best—thick woodland where sharpshooters can stay hidden and pick off our men before we get within a couple of hundred yards of them. Besides," he went on, "General St. Clair is an intelligent man. I don't think it will take him long to work out what Burgoyne's strategy will be. For that reason, he'll keep well away from Skenesborough."

  "Not if we hound him all the way."

  "We'll need more men to do that."

  "As long as they're not those lazy, putrid, pox-ridden Germans!"

  "We'll never win without them, sir."

  Featherstone bit back an expletive. Extracting a silver snuffbox from his pocket, he opened the lid, took a pinch between forefinger and thumb, then inhaled it noisily. Skoyles watched him as he put the snuffbox away. The captain was in a quandary. One of the men who had marched with them in the 24th Foot was Private Roger Higgs, still nursing the wounds inflicted on his back and still brooding on revenge. Though he had ordered the man to forget such murderous thoughts, Skoyles was not at all certain that Higgs would obey. That left him with two options. Skoyles could either warn Harry Featherstone of the possible danger or keep him in ignorance of it.

  Problems attended both courses of action. If Skoyles were to tell the major of the threat made against him, then Higgs would immediately be put under arrest and the captain would be asked why it had taken him so long to issue a warning to his fellow officer. If, on the other hand, nothing was said and Higgs actually carried out his threat, Skoyles would be left feeling guilty. His silence would not only have cost the major his life, he would have separated Elizabeth Rainham from the man whom she loved. Even though he barely knew the lady, Skoyles did not wish to do anything that would make her unhappy. For her sake, he appointed himself as the major's protector.

  "What's the trouble?" asked Featherstone, eyeing him shrewdly.

  "There is no trouble, sir," replied Skoyles.

  "I feel as if you're on the point of saying something."

  "Not really."

  "Come on, Jamie. Share your thoughts with me, man."

  Skoyles hesitated. Before he could utter another word, however, he saw Brigadier Fraser approaching out of the gloom. Despite the lateness of the hour, the newcomer was in a sprightly mood.

  "Good news!" he announced. "Scouts have just returned to tell me that there's an encampment at a place called Sucker Brook. They've only posted a few sentries so the Indians were able to get close enough to estimate their numbers."

  "What are they, sir?" asked Skoyles.

  "Well short of our own, Jamie."

  "That sounds promising."

  "It sounds irresis
tible," said Featherstone, beaming at the thought of action. "When do we attack, Brigadier?"

  "Before dawn."

  "Alone?"

  "I've sent word to General Riedesel to make all speed to join us," explained Fraser, "but we can't delay our assault until they do. We must strike when the enemy least expect it."

  "They've no idea that we're here," said Skoyles. "If they have so few sentries, then they clearly underestimate the speed at which we marched. We should take them unawares. Who is being deployed?"

  "Two companies of the 24th Foot along with half the light infantry and the grenadier battalions. Colonel John Peters won't be left out. He'll bring up his loyalist corps and, of course, we'll have the Indians as well."

  "That could be a mixed blessing, sir."

  "They've done well so far, Jamie," said Fraser. "They haven't lit a fire or set off a cannon this time. They'll guide us to the exact spot."

  "I can't wait!" said Featherstone, bunching a fist. "This is what soldiering is all about—blood and glory!"

  "Some of that blood will be ours," Skoyles cautioned.

  "No matter for that. Men are expendable. They'll give their lives in a noble cause—the maintenance of the British Empire." He turned to Fraser. "What are our orders, Brigadier?"

  Fraser was crisp. "Have your men ready to march in an hour."

  The assault was well timed and swiftly executed. Achieving complete surprise, the British launched the attack on Sucker Brook at five o'clock that morning, waking the New Hampshire regiment from their slumbers and throwing them into disarray. Casualties were relatively light in the ranks of the 24th Foot—though a senior officer was killed—but the Continental Army lost several men. Over 350 soldiers had bivouacked near the little stream that drained the valley to the east, with a large group of stragglers in attendance. Realizing that they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered, those who had not been killed or wounded simply fell slowly back. The battle of Hubbardton had commenced.

  Jamie Skoyles was in the thick of it, fighting on foot and leading a detachment of men with spirit and purpose. When the bullets began to fly, he ordered his troops to respond, knowing that their smoothbore Brown Bess muskets might not have the accuracy of the hunting rifles that they faced but confident that his men could fire and reload three times in a minute. In close combat, that gave his army a distinct advantage over weapons that took much longer to reload. The advantage was increased by the fact that the British—unlike the Continentals—had bayonets fixed on their weapons and the sight of so much flashing steel helped to put fear in the hearts of the New Hampshiremen.

  Mounted on his horse, Harry Featherstone was as intrepid as ever, bellowing orders, leading by example, throwing discretion to the winds. When Skoyles looked across at him, the major's horse was suddenly shot from under him, keeling over and neighing in agony. Featherstone leapt from the saddle, dodged the flailing hooves of the stricken animal, then ran forward a dozen yards before taking aim with a pistol to shoot dead the man who had brought the horse down. He let out a roar of satisfaction and beckoned his men to follow him.

  It was an unequal contest. The Continentals soon deserted the field, abandoning the camp and leaving the wounded to the mercy of the enemy. Brigadier Fraser's men had secured an early success. Most of the Continentals whom they had frightened out of Sucker Brook would take no further part in hostilities. Their departure left Fraser able to turn his attention to the remaining Americans—the men of Vermont under Colonel Seth Warner and the Massachusetts regiment under Colonel Ebenezer Francis. Surging across the stream, the British swarmed up the slope with alacrity toward the American forces. They had tasted victory, and they wanted more.

  Ezekiel Proudfoot heard it all from a vantage point by a cabin up on the ridge. Roused from their slumbers by the sound of gunfire, the rest of the Continentals watched in dismay as part of their army was routed, but their officers were at least given warning. They were able to rally and draw up a line of battle that was anchored on the extreme left by Zion Hill, a steep, wooded incline that rose to twelve hundred feet. While most of the American soldiers were armed with long rifles, Proudfoot had only paper and a charcoal pencil in his hands.

  As the redcoats marched relentlessly toward them, he began his first sketch. Staying within earshot of Colonel Francis, the engraver was distracted by the sound of a galloping horse that came from the direction of Castleton. Proudfoot surmised that the messenger had arrived with such desperate speed that he must have brought important news, and he made sure that he overheard it.

  Pulling his horse to a halt, the breathless rider jumped from the saddle, ran to Francis, and thrust a letter into his hand.

  "Dispatch from General St. Clair, sir," he announced.

  "Thank you."

  "He wanted you to have it as soon as possible, Colonel."

  Francis tore open the letter and read the contents. Proudfoot could see the look of alarm in his eyes. He soon understood what had put it there. Francis turned to the officers at his side.

  "God help us!" he wailed.

  "What's happened, sir?" asked a young lieutenant.

  "The British broke through the boom at Ticonderoga within an hour. They sailed on to Skenesborough and caught up with our vessels. All of our baggage, powder, and cannon have been captured."

  The lieutenant was aghast. "They've taken Skenesborough?"

  "Yes," said Francis. "Our escape route to the south has been cut off. General St. Clair is being forced to make a wide detour in order to reach the Hudson. We are ordered to join him at once."

  "How?"

  "A good question, Lieutenant."

  "The British are coming to block our retreat."

  "Then let's give them a warm welcome, shall we?" said Francis, steeling himself. He scanned the approaching line of redcoats, marching boldly along a half-mile front to the beat of drums. "Let's show them what the Continental Army can do, shall we?" he went on, warming to the prospect of battle. "We've more men, higher ground, we can move faster and shoot straighter. We stand and fight, gentlemen."

  There was general agreement among the officers, though Proudfoot could see how shaken they had been by the news from St. Clair. Ebenezer Francis tried to instill some confidence in his officers.

  "Forget what happened at Skenesborough," he urged. "This is Hubbardton—the place where we strike back and show the British how gallantly we can fight for our freedom. If they want a battle, let's give them one. Take up your positions. We must move with great expedition or the enemy will be upon us."

  The officers ran off, and Ezekiel Proudfoot moved to the cover of some trees. Far below him, the British advance continued inexorably across a patch of open ground. When he lifted his pen to sketch the scene, Proudfoot's hand did not tremble for an instant. He felt no fear and had no regrets. This was what he had come to see—a pitched battle that would bring out American fortitude and prove to the redcoats they had a worthy adversary in the men scattered along the ridge. Here was no discreditable retreat. It was a stand for freedom, and Proudfoot felt privileged to be there to witness it.

  Buoyed up by their victory at Sucker Brook, the British troops marched in formation toward what they believed would be another triumph in the field. Captain Jamie Skoyles shared their conviction that the Continental Army, recently formed and made up of a curious assortment of men, was no match for a force of highly trained professional soldiers. Even against the greater numbers of the rear guard, he did not doubt their ultimate success in the battle. Brigadier Simon Fraser showed no hesitation in ordering a second attack. Riding up and down the line on his horse, he exhorted his men on with words and gestures, telling them what an important blow they could strike against the rebels and warning them not to fire until the command was given. The drums continued to beat out their stirring prelude.

  When the long red line came within range, the Continentals fired their first volley with lethal results. Several of the oncoming troops were wounded and fell to the ground. Three of
the officers were killed outright. Discipline, however, did not falter. The British infantrymen simply stepped over the bodies of their fallen comrades and marched on, needing to get much closer to the enemy before their muskets could be used with any effect. A second volley from the Americans claimed some more victims and, once again, officers were among the selected targets.

  The brigadier was undeterred. He ordered the light infantry and the 24th Foot to ascend the steep, wooded slopes ahead, telling them to fan out and roll up the enemy's right, thus forcing them away from the escape route to Castleton. Major Acland and his grenadiers were given the more difficult task of scaling the unoccupied Mount Zion to the right, the summit of which commanded the road beyond. Jamie Skoyles was part of the force that began to scramble up the slopes with their muskets slung across their backs. Ahead of them was the light infantry and it was they who reeled back from the first shower of ball and buckshot that came down from the ridge above. It was going to be a perilous climb.

  Skoyles was less concerned about the enemy than about one of his own men. Instead of following the others, Private Roger Higgs, he saw, was moving determinedly sideways until he got within a dozen yards of Major Featherstone. He lifted his musket and took aim. Unable to make himself heard above the crackle of gunfire, Skoyles did the only thing that he could. Racing toward Featherstone, he tackled him hard around the waist and knocked him to the ground, saving him from being hit by the musket ball discharged a split second later by Higgs.

  Featherstone protested wildly, but the danger was not over. Failing to shoot the man he hated, Higgs charged at him with his bayonet at the ready, intending to stab him to death. Skoyles was on his feet in a flash, using his sword to parry Higgs's vicious thrust. Before the private knew what was happening, he was struck hard in the stomach by the hilt of Skoyles's weapon and expertly deprived of his musket. Higgs was in despair. Cheated of his revenge, he yelled abuse at Featherstone, then ran frenziedly up the slope without any care for his fate. Within seconds, he was brought down by enemy fire.