Along the Hudson River, Upstate New York
October 1863
General Burgoyne leaned over a map stretched between two camp stools in his tent. The lantern cast odd shadows over the paper and made it increasingly difficult to read. No matter. His course was dead south, toward Albany, along the line of the Hudson. The place names were an odd mix. Names familiar to an Englishman, like Greenwich, Queensbury, Lake George. Then the red Indian names such as Adirondack, Schenectady, the Mohawk River. Why did they honor a race they seemed determined to exterminate? Not so very different than the Celtic and Saxon names in Britain, perhaps. His eyes were drawn to names that were more familiar than the others, names he’d heard all his life—Ticonderoga and Saratoga.
Burgoyne pulled his watch from its small pocket and held it to the lantern for the tenth time this half hour. Packenham should have returned by now. Burgoyne knew it was the thrill of a lifetime for a young, ambitious officer—reconnaissance in enemy territory—and that Packenham was having the time of his life. He recalled his own exploits, riding alone or with two or three others through the Louisiana swamps, in the hills above the Spanish coast. That was soldiering.
Burgoyne allowed his mind to wander back in time. He had little memory of his famous father who died when he was ten years old. And though he was born years after his father’s defeat, he couldn’t recall a moment when that humiliation didn’t form part of his consciousness. For some reason, he thought of his mother, the actress Susan Caulfield. To the public she was his father’s mistress, but to the general she was simply Mother. He knew from the time he could think that he was no artist, despite his mother’s encouragement, and he had no interest in London society and the social intrigue that so inspired his father. He would be a soldier. And while he’d never allowed himself to put name to the thought until this moment, he knew that he would eventually erase that stain from the Burgoyne name.
A sentry’s distant call and muffled voices brought Burgoyne back to the present and he knew that Packenham had returned. An aide appeared at the tent opening and asked if the general was free to see the major. He was.
Even by lantern light Burgoyne could see that Packenham was excited. His uniform was caked in dust, his shoulders were heaving, and he seemed to be barely suppressing a smile.
“Enjoy your day in the saddle, did you, Major?”
“Indeed, I did sir. Beautiful country. But empty. Small towns of little note. Farms. Few people about, and not a sign of troops, either regulars or militia. I rode as far as Pottersville. Here sir,” Packenham said, pointing to a map. “The road is wide open.”
“Were you seen, Major?”
The slightest hesitation. “I was. I encountered two young ladies in a buggy and seized the opportunity to question them at some length about the disposition of troops and the road to Albany.”
Burgoyne looked up from the map. “Was the interrogation successful? Did your prisoners break down under your unrelenting pressure?”
Packenham didn’t take the bait. “They assured me that all the young men have long since joined the army and that there are no Federal troops between here and Albany. Sir, I also believe that if we increase our pace we can be in Albany in a week. And sir, I confiscated this from the young ladies.” He handed Burgoyne a newspaper.
“Thank you Major, that will be all. See to your horse and get something to eat. I’d like to see a written report in the morning.”
Slowing the march was more like it, he thought. Packenham and the other officers are anxious to engage the enemy for the greater glory. Better to take our time, keep our lines of supply and communication with Montreal as short as possible, and force the Union troops to come as far north as possible and engage us on ground of our choosing. One swift kick might well be enough.
Burgoyne held the newspaper, The Albany Argus, near the lantern and read the headlines:
British Forces Invade From Canada!
100,000 Strong Says Pinkerton!
Albany, New York City Threatened
Lincoln: We Will Meet the Threat
Burgoyne placed the newspaper on his camp bed. Indeed, but where will you meet it, Mr. Lincoln?