Flanked by his men, Rhys pursued the redcoats into the open, reloading on the run till they came to another wall of Germans. Standing their ground by firing repeated volleys, the Rifle Corps finally drove them into retreat. In every direction, bluecoats and redcoats lay thick as autumn leaves. For those still standing there was little time to think, only react, as the fighting turned more ferocious.
Captured British cannons and the wounded and dying didn’t halt the Americans, who kept coming. When the British fell back behind a redoubt on the Freeman Farm, General Arnold wheeled his horse and advanced with another brigade against the Germans.
Dusk fell and it seemed they were fighting shadows. Barely able to see or even breathe past the smoke, Rhys watched Arnold fall from his saddle. His wounded horse also tumbled, pinning the general’s leg beneath its bulk. A bayoneted British grenadier tried to thrust him through, but a shot rang out, blowing his attacker back. Moving forward, Rhys covered Arnold with rifle fire as his men ran to remove him from the field.
At last the fifes and drums fell silent.
?????
Beneath General Gates’s sodden marquee tent, a cluster of American officers gathered just as they had for nine long days since the last battle. Hanging lanterns pushed back the mid-October gloom, a double posting of sentries outside. Rhys stood shoulder to shoulder with Generals Poor, Lincoln, Learned, and Colonel Wilkinson. Only Benedict Arnold was missing, confined to the field hospital a stone’s throw away, his left leg shattered. Would he live?
None but General Gates was sitting in the camp chairs provided, all of them as tightly wound as clocks, ticking toward another imminent fight—or Burgoyne’s surrender.
The ruddy-faced general, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, turned bloodshot eyes on his adjutant. “How many British casualties all told?”
“At last tally, over eleven hundred, sir,” Wilkinson replied, breath pluming in the cold air.
“Burgoyne’s forces are significantly reduced,” Poor said. “Our numbers are far superior, with more militia arriving by the hour.”
“As for us,” Gates continued, “Arnold suffered the loss of over fifty men. Our combined losses number three hundred, though more are dying as we speak.”
Rhys listened to the conversation, wearied to his bones. It didn’t feel like a victory or a celebratory moment. Not with so much suffering on both sides, not to mention untold widows and orphans at home. As for himself, he felt James’s absence keenly. He should have been here to witness this. It wasn’t the same without him.
“Tomorrow will be the tenth day since the last engagement, and Burgoyne’s reinforcements have failed to appear.” Gates reached for a decanter and poured them all brandy. “With so many militia arriving on our behalf, the British’s depleted numbers make a future engagement suicide. Even their horses are dying for lack of forage.”
Poor removed his hat and set it by the brazier to dry. “They’reon reduced rations, both soldiers and camp followers, and the woods where they’re holed up are nothing but a swell of mud, misery, and excrement.”
“They can’t last in such conditions, especially given foul weather.” Even as Gates spoke, sleet tapped at the tent’s top. “Disease alone will drive out those left standing.” He gestured to the filled cups. “If a fire won’t warm us, brandy will.”
“We have them surrounded, unable to retreat and too weak to fight.” Rhys reached for a drink. “There’s nothing for them to do but lay down their arms.”
Gates’s gaze swiveled back to him. “Which you’re in charge of, Harlow, if that time comes.”
Rhys caught his uncertainty.If?For now, every soldierly instinct he had pointed to Burgoyne’s surrender.
“What are we to do with six thousand British and Hessian prisoners once that happens, sir?” Lincoln voiced the question they’d likely all been pondering silently. It would be no easy march with so many, and a great number wounded with winter coming on.
“That remains to be hammered out in negotiations.” Gates expelled a breath. “I suggest returning them to England, but Congress will likely have other ideas.”
Learned frowned. “Prison ships are out of the question with so many Loyalist women and children, to say nothing of Baroness Riedesel and her brood.”
“Enough war talk.” Gates poured himself more brandy, his good humor prevailing. “Here’s a story worth sharing.” He winked as he continued. “General Howe, bless him, couldn’t leave England without his pet fox terrier—”
“Lila,” Poor interjected with a half smile.
“Aye, a smart one, Lila. Even though all was fog and confusion at Germantown and Washington suffered a defeat, somehow Lila managed to get herself lost and wander into Washington’s camp.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Are you telling tales, General?”
“Truth.” Gates was obviously enjoying a bit of levity. “Washington, ever the gentleman, returned Lila to the British with a note that read, ‘General Washington’s compliments to General Howe. He does himself the pleasure to return him a dog, which accidentally fell into his hands, and by the inscription on the collar appears to belong to General Howe.’”
Chuckling ensued, which sounded a bit grim to Rhys. He finished his brandy. “A lesser man would have shot the dog and refused the courtesy.”
Lincoln nodded. “Lucky for Howe, Washington has a fondness for dogs, even the enemy’s.”
The officers continued to talk in low tones and savor their drinks, but Rhys’s thoughts were far-flung. His widening distress over Mae was unendurable. If she and Lucy had gotten away safely from Fort Montgomery, how far had they gone? And the baby? Were they well? The gnawing uncertainty knotted him like rope.
If they’d not parted so badly, would he be so torn up?
