Near Saratoga, New York
December 1863
The fortunes of war, mused Burgoyne. Sometimes the perfect plan unravels before your eyes. Sometimes it works to perfection. Today was such a day. We nearly destroyed McLellan’s army. Campbell struck him like a hammer. Burgoyne rode over the battlefield. As far as he could see in every direction, it was dotted with corpses, some in blue, some wearing red. Perhaps more blue than red. Soldiers were digging large graves and stacking bodies of both stripes. Surgeons and orderlies from both armies were tending to the wounded, and Burgoyne heard men moaning or crying for help as he rode past. He had seen countless battlefields, but he never got used to the cries of the wounded. The debris of battle, rifles, caps, knapsacks, dead horses, and dead men were everywhere.
As was often the case, his mood was dark despite having won the day. Warfare unleashed animal spirits to be sure, and he never felt more alive than during the heat of battle. But afterwards, when it was over, sadness and anger in equal measure descended upon him.
General Gordon rode up. “I give you joy, sir. A right thumping you’ve given them. They’re in full retreat, and the only question is if they’ll stop in New York or run all the way to Philadelphia.”
Burgoyne nodded in agreement. “Your men did all I could ask of them today, General. You nearly pushed them into the river.”
“Aye, and if they hadn’t broken and headed south, we may well have done so, sir.”
Burgoyne rode on with Gordon, sensing the mood and silence beside him. I’ve never seen anything like it, Burgoyne thought. McClellan must have outnumbered us two to one. But he never committed his men. I’ll wager half his troops never fired a shot. When Campbell hit them from the west, it broke their spirit. I’ve seldom seen an army so completely mismanaged. It’s no wonder Mr. Lincoln fired him twice. He should fire him again, but he needs him so desperately now.
Gordon spoke up. “Shall we follow them, sir, unleash the dragoons on their rear?”
Burgoyne rode on in silence. Saratoga. A famous victory. John Fox Burgoyne, the son. It had taken eighty-six years, but the stain was gone for good. “General?”
“No,” Burgoyne finally answered. “General, we shall let Mr. McClellan run and lick his wounds. He and Mr. Lincoln have a decision to make. Do they stand and fight us somewhere south of here? Or do they try to dislodge General Longstreet from Washington City. Either way, as long as General Grant is engaged on the Mississippi, McClellan is caught between two fires.”
Gordon’s blood was up. His Scotsmen had attacked at dawn and forced McClellan to concentrate his forces to repel the attack. It was a sharp fight, but neither army gained ground. The Union forces didn’t even know General Campbell and his 30,000 men existed, and when they struck from the west at about ten o’clock, the red wave carried over Union defenses and put the Federal Army to flight. Every instinct told him to pursue, not to let McClellan get away, to end it here. But Burgoyne had let him go. It seemed to Gordon that Burgoyne cared more about Saratoga than he did about McClellan.
Returning to camp, Burgoyne dismounted and handed his horse off to an aide. “Major Packenham, I want to know as soon as General Gordon’s dragoons return. I want to know where McClellan makes camp tonight. And Major. I dare say I may need you to carry a message south again. But you may not have to travel quite so far this time.”