, in silence, and with downcast looks, the soldiers
plodded wearily on, through mud and water, ankle deep. No tap of drum or
bugle-call put life into their heavy tread. The sense of defeat and
disgrace brooded over the minds of officers and men, as they stole away
in darkness and gloom from an enemy for whom they had but lately felt
such high disdain. Grief, shame, and indignation were the common lot of
high and low. No word was spoken, except when the curt "Forward" of the
officers passed along the ranks. All knew instinctively, that this
retreat was but the prelude to greater disaster, which, perchance, was
not far off.

The same evening, the bedraggled and footsore soldiers waded the
Fishkill[55] where the bridge had been, but was now destroyed, and
bivouacked on the heights of Saratoga.[56] Too weary even to light
fires, to dry their clothing, or cook their suppers, they threw
themselves on the wet ground to snatch a few hours' sleep; for, dark as
it was, and though rain fell in torrents, the firing heard at intervals
throughout the night told them that the Americans were dogging their
footsteps, and would soon be up with them. It seemed as if the foe were
never to be shaken off.

[Sidenote: Oct. 10.]

It was not till after daylight that the British artillery could ford
the Fishkill with safety. The guns were then dragged up the heights and
once more pointed toward the advancing enemy. Numbness and torpor seem
to have pervaded the whole movement thus far. Now it was that Frazer's
loss was most bitterly deplored, for he had often pledged himself to
bring off the army in safety, should a retreat become necessary. He had
marked out, and intrenched this very position, in which the army now
found its last retreat. Almost twenty-four hours had been consumed in
marching not quite ten miles, or at a much slower rate of progress than
Burgoyne had censured Breyman for making to Baum's relief, at
Bennington. Burgoyne seemed to find satisfaction in showing that he
would not be hurried.

The army took up its old positions along the heights into which the
Fishkill cuts deeply, as it runs to the Hudson. Being threatened in
front, flank, and rear, Burgoyne had to form three separate camps,
facing as many different ways. One fronted the Fishkill and commanded
the usual fording-place. A second looked east at the enemy posted across
the Hudson; a third faced the west, where the ground rose above the
camps, and hid itself in a thi