Near Saratoga, New York
December 1863
Burgoyne sat by the fire between Gordon and Campbell. Their staff officers stood around a similar fire, twenty feet away and out of earshot, occasionally shooting glances over to make sure that the generals didn’t need anything. It was cold and clear, and Burgoyne inched his stool closer to the fire.
He had said little to anyone since the battle had ended. Campbell, who knew him better, sensed a calm and serenity that was different. Gordon, anxious to pursue McClellan, saw indecision, inaction, lack of will.
Campbell broke the long silence. “Sir, how does General Grant’s victory in the west change the calculus for us here?”
Burgoyne pondered the question and answered in a quiet voice. “Time. Grant, or at least some of his army, will no doubt come east to try to retake Washington City. It will take them some time to get there. A couple of weeks probably. So, we need to be done with McClellan by then so we can help our Southern friends.”
Gordon couldn’t believe his ears. If time was their enemy, why were they not even now pursuing McClellan, destroying his army? “Sir, the dragoons report that McClellan stopped for the night this side of Albany. Will we truly let him get away, and he beaten badly, and his army demoralized? Might we not finish him off, sir?”
Burgoyne looked up from the fire. Bordering on impudent, he thought. If we weren’t three thousand miles from home, I’d relieve him. The Scots are bloody great fighters but find it hard to keep their mouths shut.
“General, I believe we will see Mr. McClellan again. I’ve been turning it over in my head. Lincoln has lost Washington City. He can’t afford to give up the northern half of the country as well. His government has fled, the newspapers are calling for McClellan’s head and for peace negotiations. Lincoln needs McClellan, and he needs him to hold the line where he is. I believe he will have no choice but to turn and attack us. That’s why we’re staying here. At Saratoga.”
Gordon looked at the fire and stole a glance at Campbell, who was watching Burgoyne.
Burgoyne stood. “Gentlemen, it has been a long day. Your men performed splendidly today. They will have another opportunity, and soon enough. And gentlemen.” He paused, looking directly at Gordon. “You may think that I’m wedded to this place. Banishing ghosts. Making things right. Call it what you will. That is not the case. We will fight Mr. McClellan on the ground that most suits us. For now, this ground suits us. Goodnight gentlemen.”
Burgoyne walked to his tent, closed the flap, and sat on the cot. He had thought about this day for sixty years, and mostly thought this day would never come. Perhaps he had banished ghosts, or at least put them to rest. His own ghosts in any case. Burgoyne? The chap who won the great battle at Saratoga? That’s the fellow. He pulled off his boots and was suddenly too exhausted to take off his uniform. He lay on the cot and was asleep in seconds.