Moments later, the main body of the British right wing emerged behind the skirmishers and began to advance purposefully towards their American counterparts.
“Dear God,” said Franklin, “they’re going to attack, aren’t they?”
Now Stark was truly smiling. Perhaps the short but maddening waiting was over. “One can only hope so.”
The silence was broken by the sound of the drums and spoken commands coming from the American lines. In a short while, British officers could be heard ordering their men to keep order. The British force moved forward with a precision that was enviable, admirable, and chilling. The British were the consummate professionals, while the Americans, although good, simply were not up to those standards when it came to marching and maneuvering.
“Are you going to reinforce Wayne?” Tallmadge asked.
Von Steuben’s Hessians were the reserve force and were behind the hill and hidden from British sight. Stark nodded and turned to Will Drake. “Tell my good Prussian friend to move his men over behind Wayne’s but not to deploy or show themselves unless I deem it necessary. Impress on von Steuben that he is to move closer on my orders only, not Wayne’s.”
American marksmen started firing and the British skirmishers began to fall. The rest melted back into the main body which continued to advance at a deliberate but steadily ground-eating pace.
“Tarleton’s mad,” said Tallmadge.
“That is not a surprise,” Stark said. “This is either a feint to pull us away from the center in order to leave us weakened for an attack by their main force, or Tarleton is trying to grab the glory of victory for himself.” He turned to Franklin. “Nor is it quite time for any of your strange devices, Doctor Franklin. Insofar as the remainder of the British force hasn’t begun to move, I rather think that this is Tarleton acting on his own initiative.”
The British were now within range of the Americans and an American volley ripped through their ranks. Men fell, some jerking and some still. Suddenly, the British stopped and the whole mass appeared to stumble. They were enmeshed in the webbing of tree branches and shrubs that came to their knees and was very difficult to walk through. The British advanced slowed to almost nothing. Another American volley and more British fell.
Commands were screamed and Redcoats began to pull at the entanglement while others returned fire at the Americans who were fairly safe behind their earthen walls. Smoke billowed over both sides and a bitter cloud wafted its way over Franklin and Stark, causing the older man to cough violently. A third American volley and then a fourth and the British began to pull back. A ragged cheer came from the American lines. In a moment, the firing ended, as suddenly as it began.
“We’ve stopped them,” Franklin said, incredulous.
“We stopped nothing,” Stark replied. “That was not their main force. God only knows what Tarleton planned, although I’m rather certain it was as much a surprise to Burgoyne as it was to us.”
Franklin checked his pocket watch. The fighting had lasted less than fifteen minutes. Scores of Redcoats lay on the ground. He felt his stomach churning. The sights and sounds of battle had sickened him. He could hear the wounded moaning and screaming. Standing beside him, John Hancock was pale but in control of himself.
“Your first battle, Doctor?” Stark asked, not unkindly.
“It is.” Franklin answered. “And I would prefer it be my last.”
Stark glared at Franklin and Hancock. “Then think upon this, Doctor Franklin and Mr. Hancock. The men who are lying still are dead. A few moments ago, they were laughing, cursing, and sweating, and doubtless thought themselves immortal. Now they are dead. And the ones who are moving and who you hear calling for help are the wounded. Some will lose limbs, eyes, faces, and many will die before the night is over. This is the price of the folly of war and we have not even begun to pay the full amount.”
“Damn the British,” snarled Hancock. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?”
A white flag of truce showed from the British lines. A handful of unarmed men moved out to pick up the dead and the wounded. They were unmolested. Franklin could hear the cries of the American wounded, which told him that the fight had not been totally one-sided.
Franklin walked alone back down the hill. Hancock had already departed to go and give such solace as he could to the wounded. Franklin’s stomach was still churning. He wanted to vomit. He was too old for this. He was too old for anything. And what had he gotten himself into?
He gazed into the face of Will Drake. “I confess that I had no idea,” he said.
“And it will be worse, far worse, when the main battle begins,” Will said softly.
Franklin nodded and allowed himself to be aided to a cart that would take him back to his quarters. Perhaps Sarah would be there. She was a good listener and he needed someone to hear his rantings at this moment.
* * *
Tarleton stood at attention. He barely concealed a smirk. Burgoyne was again livid with anger, which seemed to amuse the younger general.
“Your folly has cost us more than a hundred casualties, and all for nothing. What in God’s name were you thinking? Or were you thinking about anything at all?”
Tarleton was unconcerned. “Actually, my dear General, I was thinking and quite profoundly. I decided that it was time that we actually did something instead of sitting around on our asses. And so what if I lost a few men? They were soldiers and they died for a purpose.”
“And what purpose might that be?” asked Burgoyne, his anger barely under control. He had a paternal attitude towards his men and hated to lose them. More pragmatically, he especially hated to lose highly trained professional soldiers for no apparent reason. It took a long time to turn raw material into a British soldier and wasting their lives was to be avoided.
“Simple,” Tarleton answered, his tone implying that Burgoyne was the one who was simple. “If we had succeeded and penetrated their lines, then they would have been forced to use their reserves, which would have permitted General Grant to advance with his main body and crush them. Either way, the battle would have been over, and we could shortly find ourselves on our way to home and glory.”
Burgoyne shook his head in disbelief. “Did it occur to you that General Grant was uninformed of your intention and was totally unready to assist you?”
Tarleton shrugged. “Then he should have been ready. And I rather think he was ready a few moments after my men began to advance. Victory, General, belongs to the bold.”
“But you accomplished nothing, did you?”
Tarleton laughed, “Hardly. The almost invisible presence of that low and man-made thicket that stopped my men was an unpleasant surprise of the highest order. Think how catastrophic it would have been if the main attack had become entangled in it. The rebels would have had a wonderful time shooting and slaughtering our men while we could do nothing about it, except ultimately withdraw. It would have been a massacre most awful. Now we can take steps to eliminate that obstacle.”
Burgoyne had to admit that the insolent and arrogant Tarleton had a point, albeit a small one. Twenty-eight British regulars were dead and seventy-four wounded and, as in any battle, many of the wounded were lost for this campaign if not forever. It had been far too high a price to pay to find out about the obstacle. A simple nighttime patrol would have been more than sufficient. Of course, no such patrol had occurred nor had one been planned. Damn Tarleton, he thought.
A thicket of twigs and branches? And it had stopped Tarleton in his tracks? Who would have thought it possible? And what other devilish tricks did the Americans have up their sleeves? Or, he grinned wryly, were they up Benjamin Franklin’s sleeves?
Someone hailed him. A horseman was approaching. Burgoyne began to seethe. It would doubtless be another epistle from Cornwallis filled with unwanted advice and asking for the return of the army. He felt like throwing a clump of mud or horse dung at the rider.