PUT TO THE TEST
"Likely lookin' men Dearborn's picked up," was Zeb's comment as Major
Dearborn marched his recruits past. "Hi, Don. An' thar's his uncle.
Glad he got through Bennington safe an' sound. Don was some worried
about him. Man an' boy, ye can't beat 'em."
"His uncle is a fine looking man. Those men have bayonets. They ought
to be of service. But there's none like the Rangers, eh, Zeb?"
"Askin' such questions is waste o' breath."
"Well, I hope we'll soon have a chance to prove it."
"We've been sayin' the same thing for more'n two weeks. I reckoned we
sure would get it two days ago when we occupied Bemis Heights. Hello!
What's doin'?"
"Fall in!"
As though there were magic in the words, those travel-stained riflemen
sprang to their places with an eagerness never seen among regular
troops.
"The enemy is crossing the Hudson, an' we're to make 'em wish they
hadn't," was the message which ran along the lines. Many a man turned
to the next in line and said in matter of fact tone, "That means
fight."
"There they are," exclaimed Rodney, as they came in sight of the solid
lines of the British army. Under Burgoyne were some of the finest
soldiers Europe could produce. They marched in compact lines, moving
like weighted machines under their heavy trappings which were gorgeous
and imposing.
"They don't intend to leave any hole for us to wedge in," said
Rodney.
Ah! There opens a way to get at that German regiment. Morgan sees it
and the battle is on. It was, however, only a brief skirmish; a few
volleys, a few human beings stretched on the ground dead and wounded,
a few prisoners. France, across the water, waiting for something
decisive, before committing herself to the cause of America, will hear
of it and of battles to come. But many more men than were with Morgan
that day would be required to stop that British army. On they came and
established their camp within two miles of that of the Americans.
Between these armies the land was rough and hilly, part of it covered
with forests. Well out in front of the American army Morgan's corps
was stationed.
"If anything happens we're likely to be the first to know it," was
Rodney's comment.
"That's what we're here for. We're the whiskers, the feelers o' the
cat that's set to watch the mouse."
"A full grown rat, I'd say, by the size."
"Six to eight thousand, includin' Tories an' redskins, who won't
count when the pinch comes. By the way the country folks are comin' in
with their rifles an' pitchforks we're in a fair way to snare the
lot."
"Zeb, you certainly are the most hopeful man I ever knew. Anyhow, if
Burgoyne wants to eat his Christmas dinner in New York, he's got to
give us a chance at him soon."
Evidently Burgoyne arrived at a like conclusion. On the morning of
September nineteenth the pickets reported the British advancing.
Morgan's corps was immediately ordered forward to engage the enemy and
delay his progress. The gallant Major Morris led one line and Morgan
the other, and Morris encountered the enemy first, a picket detachment
of about three hundred men. The Rangers charged and drove them, and
followed so impetuously on their heels as to run into the main body,
and as a result of such recklessness they suffered severely. Morris
rode right into the midst of the British, but, wheeling his horse,
escaped and rejoined his men, who were now badly scattered. Donald
Lovell received a severe wound in his side. His uncle, marching by his
side, picked him up as though a child, and across his powerful
shoulders carried him back to a place of safety.
Morgan, hearing the firing, was hurrying on to support the other line
when, finding it broken and scattered, he is said to have shed tears
in his chagrin at what he thought was due to carelessness and meant
defeat. Were the Rangers, the pride of the army, to be shattered in
their first encounter after all their boasting? It is not surprising
that Morgan felt that his fondest hopes had been recklessly ruined.
But the Rangers had been trained for just such emergencies and, when
their colonel blew the "turkey call" on the bone whistle which he
carried, and those piercing sounds were heard above the din of battle,
his men rallied.
Quickly they formed into line, eager to regain what they had lost.
Every man felt that his country and the honour of his corps were at
stake, and he was ready to die if necessary. Already the afternoon was
half gone, but before night could stop the bloodshed many a man would
pay the penalty of a soldier; some of those lithe, bronzed, hardy
fellows, throbbing with health and vitality, would not see the sun
rise over Bemis Heights on the morrow.
In the forest ahead a little clearing had been made for a small farm,
and there the Rangers came upon the advance line of the enemy.
"Now we'll get it hot!" exclaimed Rodney under his breath, but among
them all not a face paled nor a hand grasping a rifle trembled. On,
directly at the British, the men ran like deer, except a few detailed
to duty as sharpshooters, dodging behind stumps or climbing trees as
agile as monkeys. On go the Rangers. Now the British fire into the
line and some fall.
Why do they not return the fire? Ah! now their rifles leap to shoulder
at close range and every shot tells! What ghastly gaps are left in
the British ranks, and the Rangers are still rushing on like demons,
loading as they run! It is too much for those fighting machines
accustomed to fight, as they march, with mathematical precision; they
turn and run. Back they go to the hill behind, where there are
reinforcements waiting with cannon, the riflemen at their heels. Oh,
the cruelty of it all, shooting, stabbing, yelling!
Now the British swarm upon the meagre lines of the Rangers and the
latter are forced back, literally by weight of numbers. And, as they
retreat, a British detachment is sent around to attack them on the
flank. They press forward, expecting to crumple up Morgan's men like
tall grain in the hand of the reaper! They will teach those rude
fellows a lesson, that Americans can't stand before the trained
soldiers of Europe.
"Here come the New Hampshire boys!"
Stalwart men they were, those men from New Hampshire, led by Cilley
and Scammel. Their training in military matters had been meagre,
indeed, but they fight, and Morgan's men rally for another onslaught,
and again another, for they will not stop until darkness stops them.
Hurrah! now they have the cannon, but the retreating British wisely
carry the linstocks with them so the cannon may not be turned against
them, and later they are able to recapture them.
Backward and forward, yells of triumph on one side and again on the
other. Rodney and Zeb keep together. There is blood on the side of
young Allison's face, scratched by a bullet, as he would have said,
had he known it. "On and at 'em." Down goes Zeb, his companions in
their onward rush leaping aside or over his prostrate body. Rodney saw
him fall, but what could he do? If they ever came back he would find
him. He doesn't forget, and, when they come staggering back through
the smoke, with the British bayonets behind them, Zeb is carried to
the rear.
"You're lucky it's no worse, Zeb."
"That's what the feller said as lost both legs. If I can keep clear o'
the scalpin' knife I'll fight agin, sure's yer born!"
"If I'm alive to do it I'll see that you are taken off the field
to-night."
"I know ye will if the redcoats don't take the field away from ye. If
they do, the red devils will get more scalps than they can carry."
"They haven't got it yet. Here we go again," and, saying this, he
joined the mass of running men returning to the charge.
There was the same din, the same clouds of acrid powder smoke, which
now is lifted by a breeze, showing the solid ranks awaiting them. As
Rodney fires he is conscious that he has shot an Indian, an Indian
with blue eyes! What was an Indian doing in those serried ranks, why
wasn't he skulking on the outskirts as Indians should? The enemy
yield, and are driven back on to a rise of land in their rear, where
they make a stand and again hurl back the riflemen.
As the Rangers retreat, Rodney sees the Indian lying on the ground
lift his rifle to shoot. A Ranger knocks it aside, while another aims
a blow that would have brained the savage had not Rodney knocked it
aside, for he had recognized Conrad!
"Help me to take him," he cried.
"Kill him an' leave him," cried another.
Rodney grasped Conrad by the shoulders and another rifleman, with a
growl at such folly, seized him by the heels. So it happened that he
was laid by the side of Zeb.
By this time the battle raged along the entire front. American
reinforcements were coming up and greater reinforcements were being
sent to support the British, and Gates was back in his tent thinking
it all a small affair.
With nightfall the two armies lay back like panting wolves, exhausted,
and, now that there was time, Rodney made sure that both Zeb and
Conrad had their wounds dressed.
"The Rangers won glory to-day and bore the brunt of the fighting. It
was hot, though."
"I reckon you're correct, Rodney. I felt of it an' found it so," was
Zeb's reply.
"It is reported about camp that Gates and Arnold have quarrelled, and
Arnold was so mad he resigned and Gates accepted it."
"That so!" Zeb whistled, and then made a wry face on account of the
pain in his leg. "That leaves Arnold in a pickle. 'Taint the height o'
military etiquette to resign under fire. I wish Arnold was in
command, though."
"You aren't the only one who wishes it. Well, I must find that Indian
or he won't forgive me for shooting him."
"Too bad ye can't shoot straighter."
"That's unkind. When you know him you'll change your mind."
"Humph!"
Of what happened in the two weeks following this battle, history tells
but little, for there was little that was decisive. Burgoyne waited
for Clinton to come to his assistance. He did not come. Some of his
messages did not get through the lines to Burgoyne. The Americans
gradually got control of vantage points between the British and their
avenue of retreat to Canada. But these were not dull days for the
Rangers. There was scouting and skirmishing in which they bore an
active part.
On the afternoon of October seventh Rodney brought in word that the
British troops were moving, and Gates quickly ordered Morgan forward
to engage them. The latter, as was his custom, had obtained a
knowledge of the country and he saw a better plan, which was to lead
his men around to a wooded hill on the enemy's flank and attack from
there. This suggestion was approved.
"This will begin the end," remarked a fellow on Rodney's right.
"Unless Gates blunders," remarked another.
There before them lay a panorama which might well stir the blood, the
finest looking soldiers in the world forming on the plain below.
General Poor's men were advancing to engage the enemy in front. Now is
the moment for Morgan's men!
How they swept down on those British regulars, loading and shooting as
they charged, and every ball finding its mark!
The enemy's volleys were not those of marksmen and did comparatively
little execution. Now Dearborn's men are charging with the bayonet,
and sharpshooters are picking off the British officers. Human beings
could not stand under such an onslaught. The enemy's lines wavered,
and then were swept off the field by the soldiers they had ridiculed.
What will the King of France think when he hears of this?
Ah! there rides Frazer, gallant soldier, rallying the disheartened
British troops. Frazer is a host in himself. If he succeeds, he may
turn the tide of battle. What! he reels in his saddle and aides ride
to his side and he leaves the field to die a few hours later. Those
Rangers back on the hill seldom miss the mark.
The enemy shield themselves behind their entrenchments, and the
Americans, flushed with victory, are charging them, and there goes
Arnold riding the field like a madman, though Gates has ordered him to
remain in camp. It shall not be said he resigned through fear, if he
dies for it. But this desperate charge could not succeed, and Morgan's
men turn back and Arnold is wounded in the same leg that was shot
during the attack on Quebec. The British admire bravery and Arnold's
portrait is to decorate shop windows in London for the curious to gape
at. Alas for Arnold that the bullet was not better aimed!
At last it is night. The Americans have not been able to deliver the
finishing stroke, but the British have learned that their fate is not
to be a pleasant one, whatever happens.
These are but glimpses of that eventful struggle. The history of it is
another story and a thrilling one.
We may think of Rodney and Zeb exulting as the days passed and they
saw the American lines tighten about the hesitating enemy, hesitating
only to be lost. Conrad, true to the manners of his adopted people,
sat in stolid silence, seeing much and saying nothing, while his wound
quickly healed. And there is Gates, so anxious for glory--he thinks
now that he may get Washington's place,--that he is willing to agree
that Burgoyne's soldiers may return to England if only they'll fight
no more against America, and we may imagine the smile on the face of
the English general. Nor is it difficult to imagine the dark red of
anger in Colonel Morgan's face when Gates seeks his support for the
place of commander-in-chief, and the "old wagoner" curtly tells him
that he will have no part in such a scheme, that he will fight under
Washington or not fight at all.
Zeb was sufficiently recovered from his wound to be able to see the
British troops march past on the day of the surrender, looking down
the ranks of Americans, some trim and soldierly, as were the
Continentals, and others clad in homespun or the skins of the forest.
And in the ranks filing past in dejection Rodney saw the sneering face
of Mogridge. The flower of the British aristocracy, sons of nobility
and members of Parliament, had been subalterns under Burgoyne.
Mogridge, as ever, had followed in the wake of those having money so
that he might live as the leech lives.
"I have got a furlough, and as soon as this wound will let me I'm
going to Boston to see the folks." And at the moment Zeb said this he
was carrying, in an inside pocket of his dirty hunting shirt, a letter
from Melicite, the fair young French girl whose kindness to him and
young Lovell in Quebec had won from him more than mere friendship.[3]
"And I'm going down into Connecticut to find the girl who sewed her
name inside my coat," remarked a militia man standing by; for there
were girls who won husbands by this simple little device, stitching
their fate into the homespun coats they made for the soldiers.
Rodney turned away, feeling a bit lonely. He would find Conrad.
"Conrad, if I can get you freed will you promise me to live a friend
to Americans and, on getting back to your people, will find Louis and
bring him to my home in Charlottesville?"
For several minutes Conrad made no reply, and then he said: "Yah, I
vill." And so it came about that, when his wound was healed, he turned
his face toward his chosen home in the forest.
-----
[3] See "Marching with Morgan."