Far from home under a rich blue sky . . .

On October 7, 1777, British general John Burgoyne ordered 1,500 of his best troops to march onto the field at Saratoga to test the American left wing under Benedict Arnold. They stopped at a wheatfield to harvest some badly needed grain. In that field, the final clash at Saratoga began (an excerpt from GOD SAVE BENEDICT ARNOLD):

The battlefield at Saratoga.

Now they were arrayed on the rise that overlooked the field of grain. Some officers — could it be Burgoyne himself? — had climbed to the roof of an abandoned farm building and were studying the landscape through their spyglasses. Foragers were swinging scythes and loading the wheat into wagons. British and German gunners had unlimbered their cannon and set them up facing south. The enemy troops sat down in ranks, their muskets propped between their knees, and waited, far from home under a rich blue sky.

Quite suddenly, the atmosphere at the wheatfield changed. The day remained balmy, the sun continued to smile, but experienced soldiers were alert to the new rhythm of the small-arms fire.

Assigned to the eastern sector of the field, Major John Acland, commander of the elite British grenadiers, kept peering into the trees down the slope and to his left. What was it? The empty woods beyond the fields seemed less empty. Acland glimpsed a flicker of movement between tree trunks, detected a rustling of bushes. He heard a horse neighing somewhere off to the left. The bucolic landscape was stirring.

Participants agreed that it was about three o’clock when the wheatfield exploded. Enoch Poor and his experienced New Hampshire regiments had approached through the woods along the edge of a ravine.

The British grenadiers were an imposing sight to the men peering from behind trees at the bottom of the slope. They were big men and their high miter caps trimmed in bear fur made them seem even taller. The bouncing “Grenadiers March” was familiar to all, an insistent tune screamed out by fifes riding the pounding tom-tom drums.

Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!
Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers.

Now the drums set these redcoats into motion. They fell into line behind the two 12-pounder cannon. The gun crews stood ready.

The New Hampshire men just inside the woodline watched great billows of white smoke erupt from each muzzle. An instant later the thunderclap hit. The air went electric, canister shot whizzed, twigs rained down. Fortunately for them, the trees made aiming the big guns difficult and the slope caused most of the shot to pass over their heads.

After more blasts, the grenadiers formed in front of the guns. Their scarlet coats had faded during the long campaign, but the men were still a formidable sight: broad-shouldered, armed and defiant. On an order, they began to march down the slope as if on parade.

What Acland couldn’t see from where he stood was the number of men opposing them. General Poor was positioning 1,600 soldiers in the woods, more than Burgoyne’s entire detachment. Acland’s 266 grenadiers marched straight toward them and halted. A portion of the Americans fell into line in front of the forest. The British soldiers leveled their muskets. The first volley of the day ripped the air and raised a cloud of white smoke.

Acland thought he saw the American line waver. He remembered Burgoyne’s endorsement of the bayonet. Now was the time to drive the rebels back. At an order, the men lowered their lethal steel points. At an order, they came charging forward.

But now more and more Americans were filing into line. Still more. The Britons rushed toward them, their mouths issuing guttural huzzahs and animal screams.

A coordinated American volley cut down the redcoats almost as efficiently as the scythes that had been sweeping through the wheat. Still the enemy advanced. More firing. The British attack faltered. The grenadiers who were still standing swiveled their heads to see what had become of their comrades. Another volley. Now it was the Americans who were running. Up the hill they came, their own bayonets seeking soft flesh.

The reality of combat always exceeds the boundaries of imagination. Every battle is an amalgamation of a thousand personal battles, and each man’s fight a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells that burn into his consciousness and echo for as long as his life lasts.

A man excited to rage runs across a smoky stubble field. One moment he is bounding ahead on eager legs. A second later he is shocked to find the ground leaping up to dash him rudely in the mouth. His teeth clack, he tastes the gritty soil. He gasps for air. Hot liquid seeps ominously from his belly. Sounds echo and recede. An idea quivers on the edge of his mind. A word forms on his dry tongue. No breath to voice it. The sun shines on him from a night sky.

Jan Rembowski, “Song of War.”

More troops poured from the woods. The British soldiers, the army’s best fighters, turned. They were running away. Some didn’t make it. Knees sagged, bodies crumpled in disheveled death. One observer described a fifteen-yard section of the field littered with almost twenty dead and dying grenadiers.

Near the woods, James Wilkinson came upon an excited 14-year-old patriot soldier pointing his musket and threatening with cracking voice a wounded British officer. The injured man was Major Acland. Patriot fire had struck the well-bred officer in both legs. Wilkinson dismissed the boy. He and his orderly helped Acland onto a horse and led him back toward the American camp . . .

That’s a taste of the action in GOD SAVE BENEDICT ARNOLD. You can ORDER a copy today. Tell your friends—word of mouth is the best advertising.

“A fascinating look at one of the American Revolution's best known and least understood figures . . . a thrilling, action-packed narrative.” –David Liss (The Whiskey Rebels)

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Listen to Grenadiers’ March HERE – music as intimidation.