Near Saratoga, New York
January 1864
On the eve of battle, Burgoyne sat alone in his tent in dim lantern light, maps spread before him. But he wasn’t looking at the maps and wasn’t reading the reports of preparations and readiness brought to him throughout the evening by his staff. The work was done. McClellan would attack. The Union general had no choice.
Burgoyne was far away, remembering the eve of battles half a century ago. As a young soldier it was all excitement and glory, a lark, really. Dashing through black swamps, avoiding capture. The thought of killing men or being killed barely crossed his mind. King, in those days, and country.
Back then the noise, the smoke, and even the screams and the blood were all part of it. But rank begat distance. Now, if he could see a battle at all it was from atop a hill at a distance, movements of red or blue, the sounds of cannon distant, the screams of the wounded and dying not heard at all.
Burgoyne found himself thinking about the infamous piece of American real estate on which he was camped. He had won a great victory at Saratoga, just days before, and now he had a chance to win another. The stain on the family name had been erased, the ghosts banished, and his reputation made. He found himself unwilling to leave the spot that had ruined one Burgoynes reputation and made another’s. Perhaps he should have pursued McClellan, followed up on his victory, destroyed the Union Army.
But to what end? In what cause? Southern independence? Arrogant aristocrats, who’d taken the worst habits of their British forbearers and added their own prickliness, litigiousness, and parochialism. Breaking up the United States of America because they were a rival economic power to Britain? His father, after returning home, impressed by what he’d seen in America, had become an advocate of independence, and even of revolution in France. And for the first time, the son Burgoyne heard himself say the word, though not out loud. “Slavery.”
He had known Wilberforce, though not particularly well. They’d traveled in different social circles. Too convinced of his own moral superiority, yet the arguments were powerful, and in his heart, Burgoyne knew—everyone knew—that he was right. Slavery was an abomination, yet the British pretended that this war was about something else.
Burgoyne sipped at the wine that Packenham had brought him earlier in the evening. Young, potent, slightly abrasive on the tongue. Like this country. I could extend this metaphor forever, he smiled.
He picked up the letter from his wife, still half-read. It was curious that he would so long to hear from her, then so dread to read. But not so curious at all. It had always been that way. The soldier’s life suited them both. The marriage had lasted so long precisely because of the absences.
Burgoyne drained the glass and considered pouring another. It wouldn’t do. He would leave that to General Grant. Lincoln, when told of Grant’s drinking, had apparently said he’d send a case of whiskey to all his generals. I should like to meet Mr. Lincoln. He’d be at home in one of father’s plays. The country bumpkin as political genius.
The attack should come tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. Grant was advancing and McClellan couldn’t afford to let Grant win his war for him. McClellan. Burgoyne had half a dozen regimental commanders who could take his measure. I wonder. Will he return the engraved sword we gave him in Crimea at the surrender? The great circle of life. Probably not. I should probably count on a standard issue dress sword.
“Thomas?”
“Sir?” The answer was instantaneous, Packenham standing just outside the tent flap, awaiting final orders.
“Major, I should like to be awakened at four this morning. We may have business to attend to.”
“Yes sir.” In the dim light, Burgoyne couldn’t tell, but he was certain that Packenham was smiling.