As they sat around camp in early autumn, with the cooking fires aroar between them, the men took stock of their supplies and cleaned their equipment after the long days of silence, during which time the pastures of Saratoga had not known blood but only waiting. Lunch that noon was a thin soup provided by the farmer who hosted them on his land, augmented by a few wild hares some of the men had snared that morning. He sat under the cool October sun to share in the meager repast before the time when fighting would start up again. John Corbin, a freemason out of Burlington, who had fought so gallantly at Long Island and Brooklyn Heights, sat on his left. Herman Van Vecten, who had spent his twenty-fifth birthday in that camp and looked at least a decade older, was at his right. Carl Schuyler, who was commended for bravery at Trenton by their commander in chief, sat in front of him, slopping soup. There was also one called Ajax, a slave out of Maryland who had proved his worth at Brandywine. His other companions were a freedman called Mace, who took rather too much glee in the doings of battle, and a man called Polonius from Delaware, who had been promised his freedom for fighting and had surely won that already, snatching it from death again and again during the spring campaign just passed. The slave Julius, whom Caleum knew from youth, had also been enlisted by his master in the third year of the war, after he found out what the bounty was. For the fight he gave, though, one could not have paid enough, and the others soon forgot his status.
Among them all none ranked higher in the esteem of his compatriots than Caleum Merian himself, whose exploits were known through New England and the southern sphere alike. Even among those tempered and hardened soldiers, he was most skilled in killing.
As they ate their meal, a sentry came into camp and had words with the general in charge. When he left, the officers could all be seen gathering hastily in the center of camp for a war college. After a brief conference they sent out instructions among the men, who all knew by then that a fight was in the offing. They were ordered to ready themselves and form battle lines, as the British and Hessians were advancing toward their left flank in ambush even as they ate.
A panic spread through the newest recruits, who were fresh plucked from the farms of the country and still knew only what they had heard about the might and invincibility of England’s army.
Caleum and his fellows finished their own meal as if nothing unusual were afoot, took up packs and muskets, and assumed their positions in the column that was forming out in the open meadow. They were the center of the formation and its pillar, as they were the most seasoned and would be hardest to break.
When the bugle sounded they marched out toward the enemy line obdurate as Spartans, prepared either to die or seize victory from those fields of death.
At three o’clock that afternoon, they finally met the enemy across a distance of some fifty yards.
As the mountains rose and stretched in the distance like a great stone spine, the British and the Hessians raised their muskets at the patriots, taking slow and careful aim. A volley of thunder rang out then, deafening all around, as the report from fifteen hundred guns sounded a testimony of certain slaughter.
The unseasoned Americans scattered in every which direction when the volley sounded, as mounted officers tried to whip them back into formation. When the gun smoke cleared, only Caleum and his men were still standing in their original formation, with none yet wounded — and no one yet dead.
They raised the muskets on their side then, for the first countercharge of the morning, keeping their nerve and aim steady amidst the chaos. Each fired in unison, releasing their own noise to answer the enemy’s — a report of Continental will. The sulfur rose like steam as the British and Hessians fell from the lead that rained upon them.
What happened next, no one was prepared for, as it had happened so seldom before in history. The British line broke.
As the patriots rushed forth, it scattered here and yon without the collective discipline or thought that struck awe and terror in all who had gone against it, and the Continental Army began cutting them down in a frenzy as they fled. The farm boys, who had not seen battle before, grew over bold in this melee and rushed forth ahead of the rest of the line, looking for glory. They almost knew it, too, but were soon turned back on their heels, as the Englishmen regained the advantage and formed their line again.
The redcoats next gave chase with their bayonets drawn, having not time to reload their muskets as the Americans flew before them. The newer troops melted away again, like so much wax before a match, so the British met Caleum and his men instead, at the center of the American column. They too were without ready muskets, except Carl Schyuler, who could reload faster than any other man in their army. He fired on the advancing line, and one of the Hessian mercenaries fell onto a spot that was still green with grass.
The remainder of the center kept charging until the two lines crossed, point for point, and steel for steel. Instead of his bayonet, Caleum met them with his sword drawn, and he cut many men down that afternoon. One after another they fell under the steel’s swift working. As they died each felt a great heat when their spirits departed their bodies — even those whose destination was the cool rooms of Heaven. They felt the heat alike who had lived in right correctness and who had lived in profitable sin, for the sword was indiscriminate in this and knew only fore from aft, foe from author and master.
Not that the fight was all one-sided that day. The British and Germans eventually rallied again, pushing the Americans back and taking from their ranks such souls as they managed to reach with their own war metals. They claimed lives that day from Massachusetts to Georgia, reaping seasoned soldiers along with the farmers, who fought with more spirit than skill. They made widows of the wives of officers and infantrymen alike, tangling with all the ferocity they were renowned for.
The tide of battle reversed itself again only when General Arnold, who had been stalking his prey all morning, gave his marksman the order to fire and General Simon, his British adversary, fell from his mount in a heap of flesh. With their leader lost, Arnold led a charge into the British center, which gave way before him and began to withdraw.
Caleum gave chase with the others all the way to Berryman’s Redoubt, where Arnold was finally checked, nearly losing his life. The fighting continued, though, even without generals but with a will of its own. The soldiers kept falling on both sides all morning, but native love of native land was favored over Albion greatness by the end of that afternoon, and Fortune exchanged one for the other in her bosom.
Caleum pushed forth in the midst of this possessed of the spirit as the rest of them, but he stood a full head above the next tallest man on the battlefield and was almost as high as their standard, so when he let out a great bellow it seemed to proclaim the strength and intent of the entire army as it fought to stave off defeat.
He was magnificent that day, as he fought against the best Great Britain could muster. And when the redcoats heard his cry and saw the glint of his blade, even they were stirred with respect for their enemy. As darkness fell the fighting began to end at last, but for Caleum there was still one more contest in the day.
The Hessians had fallen back to their earthworks and were well dug in, firing cannon from inside that hailed down on the other army as a detachment defended the walls from without. Behind the line their commander of artillery, who had replaced his uniform of common wool with blue velvet and was dressed in it from head to foot, walked back and forth, making adjustments here and there to the cannon. After each walk down the line, he always returned to the center, where another figure, dressed all in red velvet, sat on a field stool, whispering advice to the commander from time to time, though they looked like two figures from Gin Lane. The man was their munitions expert, but Caleum recognized him immediately as Bastian Johnson, once of Berkeley.