Near Bacon Hill, New York
December 1863
Major Packenham had found General Campbell as ordered and informed him that the commanding general requested his presence, and that of his 20,000 men, as soon as possible. And be ready to fight.
Burgoyne was on horseback, making the rounds of his troops in camp as they waited for Campbell to arrive. Packenham smiled as he imitated Campbell’s Scots’ accent for Burgoyne. “Ready to fight, is it? Twenty-seven years in this uniform, wars on three continents, six wounds, and I should be ready to fight?”
Burgoyne tolerated the insubordination. They were alone, and Packenham had certainly earned his fun. “I trust that means the general is making all haste?”
“General Campbell said I could inform the commanding general that ‘I’m a mile ahead of my bloody dust,’ sir.”
Burgoyne laughed. “I knew Campbell in Crimea. A fighter. Like all the Scots. What would this army do without them?”
Ahead, a wagon loomed into view, headed toward them on the road. As it passed, the Black woman driving nodded at Burgoyne.
“Who is that woman?”
“She sells food to the army, sir. Potatoes, I believe,” the major said. “I’m told she has proven most reliable and charges a fair price.”
“Is she someone’s servant?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. In the North, there are free Black people. I’m told that slavery didn’t pay in the North, so it was outlawed over time. Now Northerners believe they’re morally superior to their Southern countrymen. Former countrymen.”
“Just so.”
They reined in their horses and dismounted when they reached General Gordon’s camp. An aide took the horses away, and Gordon appeared from his tent.
“Welcome, sir. I believe the sun will soon disappear behind that hill. Would you join me in a wee cup?”
“Scots whiskey, General?”
“No luck, sir. But it seems they make red wine here about. Some of my dragoons came upon some and I’m giving it a professional appraisal now.”
“I see. And your conclusion?”
“Too early to tell, sir. Too early to tell. It’s red and it’s wet, so that’s a start.”
Packenham stood by in amazement as General Gordon poured General Burgoyne a glass of wine from a clear bottle. The liquid was a deep purple, like grape juice.
“Hmph. Perhaps the Americans should stick to rum and their bourbon and leave wine to the French. But any port in a storm, eh General? To your health.”
Burgoyne stared into his glass. Gordon refilled it. Burgoyne didn’t argue.
A long pause. When Burgoyne spoke, the banter had left him. His face was dark, his brow furrowed, his neck taut.
“General, when we strike McClellan, I want to hit him like a hammer. I want to destroy him. I want to drive him into the Hudson River. I don’t expect any prisoners. I want those people to understand who they are fighting and what the consequences are. Do I make myself clear, General?” Burgoyne drained the glass in one motion.
Gordon had listened intently and was on the edge of his camp stool. Slowly the edges of his mouth turned up, and his blue eyes were on fire. “Indeed, sir. I have just the fellas to drive your point home to General McClellan.”