University of Virginia Library

VIII.
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER; OR
“WHO WAS THE HERO OF SARATOGA?”

There was a day my friends, when the nation rung with the glory of
the victor of Saratoga.

The name of Horatio Gates was painted on banner, sung in hymns,
flashed from transparencies, as the Captor of Burgoyne.

Benedict Arnold was not in the battle at all, if we may believe in the
bulletin of Gates, for his name is not even mentioned there.

Yet I have a strange story to tell you, concerning the very battle, which
supported as it is, by the solemn details of history, throws a strange light
on the career of Benedict Arnold.

It was the Seventh of October, 1777.

Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two
armies, now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear bracing day, mellow
with the richness of Autumn; the sky was cloudless, the foliage of the
woods scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat on yonder fields,
frosted into snowy ripeness.

It was a calm, clear day, but the tread of legions shook the ground. From

every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the
sharpened bayonet. Flags were there, too, tossing in the breeze; here the
Banner of the Stars—yonder the Red Cross gonfalon.

Here in solid lines were arrayed the Continental soldiers, pausing on
their arms, their homely costume looking but poor and humble, when compared
with the blaze of scarlet uniforms, reddening along yonder hills and
over the distant fields. Ah, that hunting shirt of blue was but a rude dress,
yet on the 19th of September, scarce two weeks ago, on these very hills, it
taught the scarlet-coated Briton a severe lesson of repentance and humility.

Here, then, on the morning of this eventful day, which was to decide the
fate of America, whether Gates should flee before Burgoyne, or Burgoyne
lay down his arms at the feet of Gates, here at the door of his tent stood
the American General, his countenance manifesting deep anxiety.

Now he gazed upon the glittering array of Burgoyne, as it shone over
yonder fields, and now his eye roved over those hardy men in hunting shirts,
with rifles in their hands. He remembered the contest of the 19th, when
Benedict Arnold, at the head of certain bold riflemen, carried the day, before
all the glitter of British arms; and now—perchance—a fear seized him, that
this 7th of October might be a dark day, for Arnold was not there. They
had quarrelled, Arnold and Gates, about some matter of military courtesy;
the former was now without a commission; the latter commanded, alone,
and now would have to win glory for himself with his own hands.

Gates was sad and thoughtful, as in all the array of his uniforn, he stood
before his tent, watching the evolutions of the armies, but all the once a smoke
arose, a thunder shook the ground, a chorus of shouts and groans, yelled
along the darkened air. The play of death was begun. The two flags—
this of Stars, that of the Red Cross—tossed amid the smoke of battle, while
the sky was clouded in leaden folds, and the earth throbbed as with the
pulsation of a mighty heart.

Suddenly Gates and his officers started with surprise. Along the gentle
height on which they stood, there came a Warrior on a Black Horse, rushing
toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of
this Horse and his Rider, to strike them with surprise. The Horse was a
noble animal; do you mark that expanse of chest, those slender yet sinewy
limbs, that waving mane and tail? Do you mark the head erect, those nostrils
quivering, that eye glaring with terrible light? Then his color—the
raven is not darker than his skin, or maiden's cheek more glossy than his
spotless hide.[1]

Look upon that gallant steed, and remember the words of Job—

But the Rider presents also a sight of strange and peculiar interest. He
is a man of muscular form, with a dark brow gathered in a frown, a darker
eye, shooting its glance from beneath the projecting forehead. His lip is
compressed—his cravat, unloosened, exposes the veins of his bared throat,
now writhing like serpents. It is plain that his spirit is with the distant
battle, for neither looking to the right or left, not even casting a glance aside
to Gates, he glares over his horse's head toward the smoke of conflict.

No sword waves in his grasp, but while the rein hangs on his horse's
neck, his hands rest by his side, the fingers quivering with the same agitation
that blazes over his face.

Altogether it is a magnificent sight, that warrior in the blue uniform on
his Black Horse, who moves along the sod at a brisk walk, his tail and mane
tossing on the breeze. And as the noble horse moves on, the soldier speaks
to him, and calls him by name, and lays his right hand on his glossy neck.

“Ho! Warren—forward!”

Then that Black Horse—named after the friend of the soldier, a friend
who now is sleeping near Bunker Hill, where he fell—darts forward, with
one sudden bound, and is gone like a flash toward the distant battle.

This brief scene, this vision of the Horse and his Rider, struck Gates
with unfeigned chagrin, his officers with unmingled surprise.

“Armstrong!” shouted Gates, turning to a brave man by his side, “Pursue
that man! Tell him it is my command that he returns from the field.
Away! Do not lose a minute, for he will do something rash, if left to
himself!”

Armstrong springs to his steed, and while the heaven above, and the broad
sweeps of woods and fields yonder, are darkened by the smoke of conflict,
he pursues the Black Horse and his Rider.

But that Rider looks over his shoulder with a smile of scorn on his lip,
a scowl of defiance on his brow. Look! He draws his sword—the sharp

blade quivers in the air. He points to the battle, and lo! he is gone—gone
through yonder clouds—while his shout echoes over the fields.

Wherever the fight is thickest, through the intervals of battle smoke
and cannon glare, you may see, riding madly forward, that strange soldier,
mounted on his steed, black as death.

Look at him, as with his face red with British blood, he waves his sword,
and shouts to the legions. Now you see him fighting in that cannon's
glare, the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up
the steep cliff.

Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that nameless soldier, and that noble
Black Steed, dashing like a meteor through the long columns of battle?

And all the while, Major Armstrong, spurring his steed to the utmost,
pursues him, but in vain. He shouts to him, but the warrior cannot hear.
He can see the Black Horse, through the lifted folds of battle-smoke, now
and then he hears the Rider's shout.

“Warren! Ho! Warren! Upon them—charge!”

Let us look in for a moment through these clouds of battle. Here, over
this thick hedge, bursts a band of American militia men—their rude farmer's
coats stained with their blood—while, scattering their arms by the way,
they flee before yonder company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing
forward, their solid front of bayone's gleaming in the battle-light.

In the moment of their flight, a Black Horse crashes over the field.
The unknown warrior reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the
path of this broad-shouldered militia man.

“Now, coward, advance another step, and I will shoot you to the heart!”
shouts the rider, extending a pistol in either hand. “What! are you
Americans—men—and fly before these British soldiers? Back and face
them once more—seize your arms—face the foe, or I myself will ride you
down!”

That appeal, uttered with deep, indignant tones, and a face convulsed
with passion, is not without its effect. The militia man turns, seizes his
gun; his comrades as if by one impulse, follow his example. They form
in solid order along the field, and silently load their pieces; they wait the
onset of those British bayonets.

“Reserve your fire until you can touch the point of their bayonets!”
was the whispered command of the Unknown. Those militia-men, so lately
panic-stricken, now regard the approach of the red-coats in silence, yet
calmly and without a tremor. The British came on—nearer and nearer
yet—you can see their eyes gleam, you can count the buttons on their
scarlet coats. They seek to terrify the militia-men with shouts; but those
plain farmers do not move an inch.

In one line—but twenty men in all—they confront thirty sharp bayonets.

The British advance—they are within two yards.

“Now upon the rebels—charge bayonet!” shouted the red-coat officer.

They spring forward, with the same bound—look! Their bayonets almost
touch the muzzles of these rifles!

At this moment the voice of the Rider was heard.

“Now let them have it—fire!”

A sound is heard—a smoke is seen—twenty Britons are down, some
writhing in death, some crawling along the sod, some speechless as stone.
The remaining ten start back—but then is no time for surprise.

“Club your rifles, and charge them home!” shouts the Unknown, and
the Black Horse springs forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a
confused conflict—a cry of “quarter!”—a vision of the twenty farmers
grouped around the Rider of the Black Horse, greeting him with hearty
cheers.

Thus it was all the day long.

Wherever that Black Horse and his Rider went, there followed victory.
The soldiers in every part of the field seemed to know that Rider, for they
hailed him with shouts, they obeyed his commands, they rushed after him,
over yonder cannon, through yonder line of bayonets. His appearance in
any quarter of the field was succeeded by a desperate onset, a terrible
charge, or a struggle hand to hand with the soldiers of Burgoyne.

Was this not a strange thing? This unknown man, without a command
was obeyed by all the soldiers, as though they recognized their General.
They acknowledged him for a Leader, wherever he rode; they followed
him to death wherever he gave the word.

Now look for him again!

On the summit of yonder hill, the Black Horse stands erect on his
haunches, his fore-legs pawing the air, while the rider bends over his neck,
and looks toward the clouded valley. The hat has fallen from that Rider's
brow; his face is covered with sweat and blood; his right-hand grasps that
battered sword. How impressive that sight, as an occasional sun-gleam
lights the Rider's brow, or a red flash of battle-light, bathes his face, as in
rays of blood!

At this moment, as the black steed rears on the summit of the hill, look
yonder from the opposite valley, dashes Major Armstrong, in search of that
Unknown Rider, who sees him coming, turns his horse's head and disappears
with a laugh of scorn. Still the gallant Major keeps on his way, in
search of this man, who excites the fears of General Gates—this brave
Rider, who was about to do “something rash.”

At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came.

That fortress yonder on Behmus Height, was to be won, or the American
cause was lost.

That fortress was to be gained, or Gates was a dishonored man; Burgoyne
a triumphant General.

That fortress yonder—you can see it through the battle-clouds—with its
wall of red-coats, its lines of British cannon, its forest of bayonets.

Even those bold riflemen, who were in the wilderness with one Benedict
Arnold, who stormed the walls of Quebec, with this Arnold and Montgomery,
on that cold daybreak of December thirty-first, 1775, even those men of
iron fell back, terrified at the sight.

That cliff is too steep—that death is too certain. Their officers cannot
persuade them to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even
Morgan—that Iron Man among Iron Men—leans on his rifle, and despairs
of the field.

But look yonder! In this moment, while all is dismay and horror, here,
crashing on, comes the Black Horse and his Rider.

That Rider bends from his steed; you can see his phrenzied face, now
covered with sweat, and dust, and blood. He lays his hand on that bold
rifleman's shoulder.

“Come on!” he cries; “you will not fail me now!”

The rifleman knows that face, that voice. As though living fire had
been poured into his veins, he grasps his rifle, and starts toward the rock.

“Come on!” cries the Rider of the Black Horse, turning from one
scarred face to another. “Come on! you will not fail me now!”

He speaks in that voice which thrills their blood.

“You were with me in the Wilderness!” he cries to one; “and you at
Quebec!” he shouts to another; “do you remember?”

“And you at Montreal!”—

“And YOU, there on Lake Champlain! You know me—you have
known me long! Have I ever spoken to you in vain? I speak to you
now—do you see that Rock? Come on!”

And now look, and now hold your breath as that black steed crashes up
the steep rock! Ah, that steed quivers—he totters—he falls! No, no!
Still on, still up the rock, still on toward the fortress!

Now look again—his Rider turns his face —

“Come on, Men of Quebec, where I lead, you will follow!”

But that cry is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock.
And up and onward, one fierce bolt of battle, with that Warrior on his Black
Steed, leading the dread way, sweep the Men of the Wilderness, the Heroes
of Quebec.

Now pour your fires, British cannon. Now lay the dead upon the rock,
in tens and twenties. Now—hirelings—shout your British battle-cry if
you can!

For look, as the battle-smoke clears away, look there, in the gate of the
fortress for the Black Steed and his Rider!

That Steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls, but there his Rider
waves the Banner of the Stars, there—as the British cry for quarter, he lifts

up his voice, and shouts afar to Horatio Gates, waiting yonder in his tent;
he tells him that—

“Saratoga is won!”

And look! As that shout goes up to heaven, he falls upon his Steed,
with his leg shattered by a cannon ball.

He lays there, on his dead Steed, bleeding and insensible, while his
hand, laid over the neck of the gallant Horse, still grasps the Banner of the
Stars.

Who was the Rider of the Black Horse? Do you not guess his name?
Then bend down and gaze upon that shattered limb, and you will see that
it bears the scars of a former wound—a hideous wound it must have been.
Now, do you not guess his name? That wound was received at the
Storming of Quebec; that Rider of the Black Horse was Benedict
Arnold.

In this hour, while the sun was setting over the field of the Seventh of
October—while the mists of battle lay piled in heavy clouds above the walls
of the conquered fortress,—here, up the steep rock came Major Armstrong,
seeking for the man who “might do something rash!”

He found him at last, but it was in the gate of the fortress, on the body
of the dead steed, bleeding from his wound, that he discovered the face of
Benedict Arnold, the Victor of Behmus Heights.

This was not the moment to deliver the message of Gates. No! for this
Rash Man had won laurels for his brow, defeated Burgoyne for him, rescued
the army from disgrace and defeat. He had done something—RASH.

Therefore, Armstrong, brave and generous as he was, bent over the
wounded man, lifted him from among the heaps of dead, and bore him to a
place of repose.

Would it be credited by persons unacquainted with our history—would
the fact which I record with blushes and shame for the pettiness of human
nature, be believed, unless supported by evidence that cannot lie?

General Gates, in his bulletin of the battle, did not mention the name
of Benedict Arnold!

Methinks, even now, I see the same Horatio flying from the bloody field
of Camden—where an army was annihilated—his hair turning white as
snow, as he pursues his terrible flight, without once resting for eighty miles
—methinks I hear him call for another Arnold, to WIN THIS BATTLE, AS
Saratoga was won!

The conduct of Arnold in this battle became known, in spite of the
dastardly opposition of his enemies, and—says a distinguished and honest
historian—Congress relented at this late hour with an ill-grace, and sent
him a commission, giving him the full rank which he claimed.

He was now in truth, crowned as he stood, with the laurels of the Wilderness,

Quebec and Saratoga, Major General Arnold, of the Continental
Army.

At the same time that George Washington received the account of Arnold's
daring at Saratoga, he also received from a Nobleman of France, three
splendid sets of epaulettes and sword-knots, with the request to retain one
for himself, and bestow the others on the two bravest men of his army.

George Washington sent one set of epaulettes with a sword-knot to Benedict
Arnold.

When we next look for Arnold, we find him confined to his room, with
a painful wound. For the entire winter the limb which had been first
broken at Quebec, broken again at Saratoga, kept him a prisoner in the
close confinement of his chamber.

Then let us behold him entering New Haven, in triumph as the Hero of
Saratoga. There are troops of soldiers, the thunder of cannon, little children
strewing the way with flowers.

Was it not a glorious welcome for the Druggist, who two years ago, was
pasting labels on phials in yonder drug store?

—A glorious welcome for the little boy, who used to strew the road with
pounded glass, so that other little boys might cut their feet?—

In this hour of Arnold's triumph, when covered with renown, he comes
back to his childhood's home, may we not imagine his Mother looking from
Heaven upon the glory of her child? Yes, sainted Mother of Arnold, who
long years ago, laid your babe upon the sacramental altar, baptized with the
tears and prayers of a Mother's agony, now look from heaven, and pray to
God that he may die, with all his honorable wounds about him!