“There they are,” exclaimed Rodney, as they came in sight of the solid lines of the British army. Under Burgoyne were some of the finest soldiers Europe could produce. They marched in compact lines, moving like weighted machines under their heavy trappings which were gorgeous and imposing.
“They don’t intend to leave any hole for us to wedge in,” said Rodney.
Ah! There opens a way to get at that German regiment. Morgan sees it and the battle is on. It was, however, only a brief skirmish; a few volleys, a few human beings stretched on the ground dead and wounded, a few prisoners. France, across the water, waiting for something decisive, before committing herself to the cause of America, will hear of it and of battles to come. But many more men than were with Morgan that day would be required to stop that British army. On they came and established their camp within two miles of that of the Americans.
Between these armies the land was rough and hilly, part of it covered with forests. Well out in front of the American army Morgan’s corps was stationed.
“If anything happens we’re likely to be the first to know it,” was Rodney’s comment.
“That’s what we’re here for. We’re the whiskers, the feelers o’ the cat that’s set to watch the mouse.”
“A full grown rat, I’d say, by the size.”
“Six to eight thousand, includin’ Tories an’ redskins, 229 who won’t count when the pinch comes. By the way the country folks are comin’ in with their rifles an’ pitchforks we’re in a fair way to snare the lot.”
“Zeb, you certainly are the most hopeful man I ever knew. Anyhow, if Burgoyne wants to eat his Christmas dinner in New York, he’s got to give us a chance at him soon.”
Evidently Burgoyne arrived at a like conclusion. On the morning of September nineteenth the pickets reported the British advancing. Morgan’s corps was immediately ordered forward to engage the enemy and delay his progress. The gallant Major Morris led one line and Morgan the other, and Morris encountered the enemy first, a picket detachment of about three hundred men. The Rangers charged and drove them, and followed so impetuously on their heels as to run into the main body, and as a result of such recklessness they suffered severely. Morris rode right into the midst of the British, but, wheeling his horse, escaped and rejoined his men, who were now badly scattered. Donald Lovell received a severe wound in his side. His uncle, marching by his side, picked him up as though a child, and across his powerful shoulders carried him back to a place of safety.