There was little time for moping after we got back to headquarters, for
on the very next day, Colonel Morgan issued orders to his captains to
get their companies in marching order, and a few days later we filed out
of camp in double column, bands playing, colors flying, and our faces
northward. The men cheered us as we passed, for Morgan's rifle rangers
were famous by this time, and were always greeted vociferously.
General Gates gave us an enthusiastic welcome when we came up with him,
lying intrenched along the Hudson River from Stillwater to Halfmoon; and
from the first he paid us the compliment of giving us the positions of
greatest danger and responsibility, issuing a command that we were to
receive orders from himself alone. It was ours to do most of the scout
and picket duty during the three weeks that the British army waited on
the opposite bank of the river about thirty miles above us, their rear
protected by Fort Edward.
Burgoyne wearied presently of inaction, and determined to wait no longer
for Lord Howe's continually delayed reinforcements. He began, too, to
suspect that his position was fast becoming a critical one, for news now
reached him that the forces of Baum and St. Leger had been destroyed at
the battle of Oriskany, and that the attack upon Fort Stanwix had
failed, so that the blow from the west could no longer be counted on;
the New England militiamen were gathering in force in his rear, and his
Indian and Canadian allies--frightened it was said by the report that
Morgan's rifle rangers had joined Gates--daily deserted him. There was
no alternative left to General Burgoyne but to cross the river and
attack Gates, ere this time well fortified, by the skill of Kosciusko,
on Bemis Heights.
For six days longer, Burgoyne hesitated, or awaited reenforcements. On
the morning of September the nineteenth, one of the outlook, stationed
in a tree top, reported a movement of Burgoyne's army which indicated a
concerted rear and front attack upon our position. General Gates decided
to await the attack behind our fortifications; but Arnold, who commanded
our left wing, argued vehemently in favor of a charge upon Burgoyne's
advance column, and at last won Gates' consent that he should lead
Morgan's riflemen, and Dearborn's infantry against the approaching
enemy. The riflemen were given the lead, and we fell upon Burgoyne with
telling energy, Morgan all the time exposing himself recklessly, and
shouting encouragement to his men above the incessant crack of their
rifles, and the responsive roar of the enemy's guns.
It was a picture worth seeing--our regiment in action, their tall
commanding figures in their huntsmen's garb scattering or forming as the
ground suggested, and each man firing as coolly as if he had nothing
more than a brace of partridges in range.
We had been but a short while in action, when General Frazier turned
eastward to help General Burgoyne; and Riedesel, seeing Burgoyne was
hard pressed, hurried up to his assistance from the river road, along
which he was marching to attack Gates' position, in front, while, as
they had planned, Generals Burgoyne and Frazier should simultaneously
attack our position in rear. We had, therefore, successively diverted
the entire force, marching to charge Bemis Heights, and fought, with our
three thousand backwoods riflemen and raw infantry, four thousand of the
best troops in the British army, led by their bravest and most skilled
officers.
The fight was waged with desperate determination on both sides for two
hours, while Arnold and Morgan galloped hither and thither, animating
the men by their voice, presence, and example. Again and again Arnold
sent couriers to Gates begging for re-enforcements, and assuring him
that with two thousand more men he could crush the army of Burgoyne. But
the self opinionated Gates, who preferred to lose by his own judgment,
rather than win by any other man's, sat calmly in his tent, watching the
fight below, and steadily refused us assistance. In defiance of his
narrow stupidity Arnold fought on till dark, and though Burgoyne was
left in possession of the battle field, he had lost heavily, and his
attack upon our position had been foiled. We, also, had lost heavily,
and of our brave riflemen far more than we could by any means afford to
spare.
General Burgoyne did not venture another attempt for nearly three weeks.
Meanwhile we did not lack excitement in camp, for the long brewing
difficulties between Gates and Arnold came rapidly to a head,
culminating in a rash speech of Gates that "as soon as General Lincoln
should arrive he would have no further use for General Arnold," and the
withdrawal from Arnold's command of Morgan's and Dearborn's regiments,
the two he counted most upon. Arnold was furious and all the officers
under Gates, except two or three, were indignant. We had as much
confidence in Arnold's courage and military skill, then, as we had doubt
of Gates possessing either of these qualities. General Arnold sent in
his resignation, which General Gates accepted; but after all the other
officers had met and signed a petition entreating Arnold to remain, he
was induced to withdraw his resignation, and Gates submitted sullenly.
It fell also to the lot of Morgan and Arnold to check the second
concerted movement of the British, and upon almost the same ground as
before. But the second battle of Freeman's Farm was a far more decisive
victory for us. Again Morgan's men led the attack, were the first men on
the field, and the last to withdraw. This might well be called the
battle of the Colonels, for until General Arnold led the famous charge
upon Frazier's wavering line late in the afternoon, which completed the
rout of the British, no officer higher in command than a colonel was
engaged in the fight on our side.
General Burgoyne now found himself surrounded by the American army, and
next discovered that every ford along the river for miles was strongly
guarded--Gates was a better general at reaping the fruits of others'
victories, than at winning them for himself. A few days later Burgoyne
asked for terms of surrender, and on the seventeenth of October--seven
was our lucky number during this campaign--the "Convention of Saratoga"
was carried into effect by the British army marching into a meadow, and
laying down their arms, while General Burgoyne handed his sword to
General Gates. Our men stayed within their entrenchments, not caring to
look upon the humiliation of a brave enemy, and not a single cheer was
heard as the disarmed and dejected British repassed our lines; we
realized then, as more than once afterwards, that Americans and
Britishers could never really be enemies and that the aims and destinies
of Anglo-Saxon peoples were and always would be much the same.
In General Gates' report of the surrender he failed to mention Colonel
Morgan's name, or to give any credit to the riflemen for the important
service they had rendered. A few days after the capitulation, General
Gates gave a dinner to a large number of British and American officers,
but he did not include Colonel Morgan. During the progress of the dinner
Colonel Morgan was compelled to make some important report to the
general in chief, and was ushered into the banqueting room. He saluted
formally, made his report, and withdrew.
"And who, General Gates, may be that soldierly and magnificent looking
colonel?" enquired a British officer.
"It is Colonel Morgan of the Virginia Riflemen," answered Gates, with as
gracious an air as he could command.
"What, is that the famous Colonel Morgan! Pardon me, but I must shake
hands with him," and he rose from the table, and followed Morgan,
several of the other British officers doing likewise, thus compelling
General Gates to recall and introduce him.
"Sir," said General Burgoyne, "you command the finest regiment in the
world."
Colonel Morgan proudly repeated this to his men, and each man of the
regiment treasured it in his memory to the end of his life, as being the
highest compliment troops could receive, for it came, unsolicited, from
a gallant enemy.
A few days afterward we rejoined the main army at Whitemarsh, Morgan's
command taking part in the battle of Chestnut Hill. It was there I got
my first and only wound during the Revolution, and was for a second time
taken prisoner. I was leading my men in a headlong charge upon the
enemy's works, when a small body of British cavalry dashed suddenly upon
us from an unexpected direction, and threatened to cut us off from the
main body of our troops; I gave the order to retreat at double quick,
and remembered no more, till I found myself a prisoner with a bullet in
my left thigh.
The next day I was taken to a prison hospital in Philadelphia, and laid
on a straw pallet in a row of other groaning, tossing, half delirious
unfortunates. For some days--I lost count of time--I lived in a troubled
dream, with but one definite need, one clearly defined longing, and that
for water. Oh, for a fountain of cool sweet water, that I might drink
and drink, then rest and drink again! That which some one brought me
from time to time was muddy and flat, but I drank it as if it had been
the ambrosial cup of Jove, and in the confused visions which floated in
and out of my mind, there was always a sparkling spring gushing out of a
green hillside, and falling with a splashing sound into a pebble paved
basin. Sometimes I seemed to lie flat upon my chest in the cool grass,
and to plunge my head into the cool water. Again I saw the spring, as on
that last night at home, silvered by the moon's rays, and Ellen standing
on the rock above, wrapped in her white robe, her face mystical with
strange thoughts. She smiled at me, and gave me to drink from a golden
cup the sweetest water I had ever quaffed.
One of the first things to arouse me from my semi-stupor was the
beseeching cry of a poor lad, who lay on the pallet next mine, for
"water, water,"--over and over again, in tones first petulant and
insistent, then entreating and pitiful, then weary and despairing. The
next time the bucket and dipper came around, I begged the man who
distributed our dole to give my share to the lad, though my throat was
like cast iron within, and my heavy tongue as slick as if coated with
varnish. The boy fell asleep afterwards, and the brief quiet of his
tossing limbs with the smile his dreams brought to his pale lips so
rested my nerves, as to enable me to endure the hours which ensued
before the next bucketful was distributed.
"This is Captain McElroy, I believe, sir," I heard a prison official say
one day, standing over my pallet--I do not know whether it was morning
or afternoon, or how many days after I had been brought to the hospital.
"Do we not provide better accommodations than this for wounded
officers?" said another in lowered voice.
"We cannot make our own wounded comfortable, Captain," answered the
first; "we must do as we can in this half savage country."
I opened my eyes now, and met those of a slim young man in British
uniform,--"Can you tell me, sir," he asked, "where I may find Captain
Donald McElroy, of Morgan's rifle company?"
"I'm Captain McElroy of the Virginia Riflemen, sir," and I sat up with a
mighty effort, and managed to salute him with a trembling hand.
"You have not lost your pluck with your strength, I see, Captain
McElroy," returning my salute; "I'm Captain Buford, a brother of the
young woman you met at the home of Colonel Morgan, last April. Nelly saw
your name in the list of wounded prisoners, several days ago, and has
waited impatiently for my return to the city, that she might set me to
searching for you. She tells me that you two entered into a friendly
compact, pledging each other help and protection while the war lasts,
whenever one is needed, and the other possible. It was your pleasure
once, she bade me say, to extend courtesy to a Tory, it is hers now to
show her appreciation of that courtesy, and also of the valor of a brave
opponent,--the word enemy she charged me _not_ to use."
The little blood left in my body all mounted to my face, and I knew not
if it were weakness, or pleasure that made my brain reel so. "Will you
convey to your sister my most grateful thanks, Captain Buford, and say
to her for me that any obligation she may feel to my friends--for she
can owe none to me, since she but honored me with her society--is doubly
discharged by her gracious interest in my fate. If it is in my power to
do so, I shall call to express my gratitude in person, as soon as I am
strong enough. Will you be so good as to leave your address with me?"
But I had used up all my will power, in this long speech, which had come
faltering from my dry throat, and now I fell back on my pallet almost in
a swoon of weakness.
"You need more practical assistance, if I mistake not, Captain McElroy,
than a mere expression of interest. And our Cousin Abigail will never
forgive us the neglect of a friend of her husband. If it is possible to
get permission, and I think there will be no difficulty, we wish to take
you to our house as a paroled prisoner. With a comfortable bed, and
nourishing diet we shall have you well in no time."
"I am too unsightly an object to risk being seen by your mother and
sister, Captain Buford--would it not be well to wait until I am strong
enough to be shaven and dressed," I protested, weakly.
"You need only fresh garments, and a comb to be entirely presentable."
"Then I am in your hands."
When Captain Buford returned, he was accompanied by a physician and his
own body servant, and had my parole in his hand. The last he showed me,
while the physician administered a cordial hardly more stimulating,
after which the negro valet made me as decent in appearance as my state
permitted. Before they carried me to the ambulance in waiting, I stopped
a moment, beside the lad's pallet to say good-by, and speak a cheering
word to him. His fever had abated, now, but I feared he would die of
exhaustion, aided by extreme dejection.
"Cheer up, comrade," I said; "my friends here have promised me they will
have you paroled or exchanged, if you'll only set your mind to it, and
get well."
"I'm glad for your good luck," he answered wearily, "but I don't expect
to hear another friendly voice this side of Heaven."
"That is not soldier-like talk, lad--a patriot must learn to defy
suffering, and mischance."
"Yes, I know, and I'm trying to learn to endure as a soldier should,"
but he shut his eyes, and the weak grasp of his fingers on mine relaxed.
"That's right, lad, keep up a brave heart; my friends will not forget
you."
I could trust myself to say no more, and as I took a last look at the
smooth, girlish face of the lad, I thought with a fresh heart pang, "How
much do the horrors of war outweigh its glories!"