7 In Burgoyne’s Camp

Belt awoke the next morning in fairly good health, but very sour of temper. Like some other people whom I know, he seemed to hold everybody he met personally responsible for his own misfortunes, which I take it is most disagreeable for all concerned. He spoke to me in most churlish manner, though I am fair to say I replied in similar fashion, which for some reason seemed to cause him discontent. Then he went out and quarreled with Whitestone and the others, who had been doing their duty in complete fashion.

But a few minutes after he had gone out, Madame Van Auken, who was a lady in the highest degree, though a Tory one, came to me and said she and her daughter had prepared breakfast; scanty, it is true, for the rebels had passed that way too often, but it would most likely be better than army fare, and would be good for invalids; would I be so kind as to ask Lieutenant Belt to come in and share it with them, and would I do them the further kindness to present myself at the breakfast also? I would be delighted, and I said so, also hurrying forth to find Belt, to whom I gave the invitation. He accepted in tone somewhat ungracious, I thought, but improved in manner when he entered the presence of the ladies; for, after all, Belt was a gentleman, and I will admit that he had been unfortunate. As we went in to the breakfast table I said to Belt:

“You’ve come out of that chill and fever very well, lieutenant. You look a little weak, but all right otherwise.”

“You seem to have had your own worries,” he replied a bit slowly, “for something has been painting night under your eyes.”

Well, it was natural; it had been an anxious time for me in truth. But I suggested it was due to long night watches.

The ladies, as they had said, had not a great deal to offer, but it was well prepared by their own hands. They had some very fine coffee, to which I am ever partial, especially in the mornings, and we made most excellent progress with the breakfast, even Belt waxing amiable. But about the middle of the breakfast he asked quite suddenly of us all:

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

I was a bit startled, I will admit, but I rejoice to think that I did not show it. Instead, I looked directly at Mistress Kate, who in truth looked very handsome and lighted-hearted that morning, and asked:

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Of a certainty—of a certainty,” she said with emphasis.

“So do I,” said I with equal emphasis.

Madame Van Auken drank her coffee.

“I don’t,” said Belt. “I thought I did for a while last night. I even thought I saw one while Shelby was away from me for a while.”

I rallied Belt, and explained to the ladies that the fever had given him an illusion the night before. They joined me in the raillery, and trusted that the gallant lieutenant would not see double when he met his enemies. Belt took it very well, better than I had thought. But after the breakfast, when we had withdrawn again, he said to me with a sour look:

“I do not trust those ladies, Shelby.”

“Well, as for that,” I replied, “I told you that Madame Van Auken was a hot Tory, of which fact she seeks to make no concealment. But I don’t see what harm they could do us, however much they might wish it.”

“Maybe,” he said; then with a sudden change:

“Why did you say this morning that you believed in ghosts, when last night you said you didn’t?”

I fixed upon him the sharp stare of one amazed at such a question.

“Belt,” said I, “I am a believer in ghosts. I am also a devout believer in the report that the moon is made of moldy green cheese.”

He sniffed a bit, and let me alone on that point, but he returned to the attack on the ladies. I do not know what idea had found lodgment in his head; in truth it may have been due to biliousness, but he suspected them most strongly of what he called treasonable correspondence with the enemy. I asked him what course he intended to take in the matter, and he returned a vague answer; but I soon received intimation of his purpose, for in an hour, leaving me in charge for the time, he returned to the army. He made a quick trip, and when he came back he told me he had reported the case at headquarters. The general, not knowing what else to do with the ladies, had directed that they be sent to Burgoyne’s army, where, he understood, they had relatives.

“He said to me,” said Belt, “that at this time it would be just as well for the British to take care of their own.”

Reflecting a little, I decided that the matter had fallen out very well. If they were in Burgoyne’s camp it would release us all from some troubles and doubts.

“You had best go into the house and notify them,” said Belt, “for they are to be taken to Burgoyne under a white flag this very afternoon.”

I found Mistress Kate first and told her what Belt had done. She did not seem to be much surprised. In truth, she said she had expected it.

“I trust, Mistress Kate,” I said, “that while you are in Burgoyne’s army you will not let your opinions be influenced too much by your surroundings.”

“My opinions are my own,” she said, “and are not dependent upon time and place.”

Then I said something about its being a pity that Captain Chudleigh was a prisoner in our hands at such a time and was not with his own army, but she gave me such a sharp answer that I was glad to shut my mouth.

Madame Van Auken said she was glad to go, but she would revisit her house when she came southward with Burgoyne after he had scattered the rebels, provided the rebels in the meantime had not burned the house down. Which, considering many things, I felt I could overlook. Both promised to be ready in an hour. I went outside and found that Belt was able to surprise me again.

“You are to take the ladies into Burgoyne’s camp,” he said. “I wished to do it myself, but I was needed for other work.”

I was not at all averse to this task, though it had never occurred to me that I would enter the British lines, except possibly as a prisoner.

“I wish you luck,” said Belt, somewhat enviously. “I think the trip into the British lines is worth taking.”

Right here I may say—for Belt does not come into this narration again—that after the war I told him the whole story of these affairs, which he enjoyed most heartily, and is at this day one among my best friends.

The preliminaries about the transfer of the ladies to Burgoyne’s camp were but few, though I was exposed on the way to much censure from Madame Van Auken because of my rebel proclivities. In truth, Mistress Catherine, I think, took after her deceased and lamented father rather than her mother, who I knew had made the signal of the light to Martyn, and to Albert, who was on foot near him. But I bore it very well, inasmuch as one can grow accustomed to almost anything.

I found that during my few days’ absence our army had pushed up much closer to Burgoyne, and also that we had increased greatly in numbers. Nothing could save Burgoyne, so I heard, but the arrival of Clinton from New York with heavy re-enforcements, and even then, at the best for Burgoyne, it would be but a problem. My heart swelled with that sudden elation one feels when a great reward looks certain after long trial.

Protected by the flag of truce we approached Burgoyne’s lines. There were but the three of us, the two ladies and I. Mistress Kate was very silent; Madame Van Auken, for whom I have the utmost respect, be her opinions what they may, did the talking for all three. She was in somewhat exuberant mood, as she expected to rejoin her son, thus having all her immediate family together under the flag that she loved. She had no doubt that Burgoyne would beat us. I could not make out Mistress Kate’s emotions, nor in truth whether she had any; but just after we were hailed by the first British sentinel she said to me with an affectation of lightness, though she could not keep her voice from sounding sincere:

“My brother will never forget what you have done for him, Dick.”

“He may or may not,” I replied, “but I hope your brother’s sister will not.”

Which may not have been a very gallant speech, but I will leave it to every just man if I had not endured a good deal in silence. She did not take any exceptions to my reply, but smiled, which I did not know whether to consider a good or bad sign.

I showed a letter from one of our generals to the sentinel, and we were quickly passed through the lines. We were received by Captain Jervis, a British officer of much politeness, and I explained to him that the two ladies whom I was proud to escort were the mother and sister of Albert Van Auken, who should be with Burgoyne’s army. He answered at once that he knew Albert, and had seen him not an hour before. Thereat the ladies rejoiced greatly, knowing that Albert was safe so far; which perhaps, to my mind, was better luck than he deserved. But in ten minutes he was brought to us, and embraced his mother and sister with great warmth; then shaking hands with me—

“I’m sorry to see you a prisoner, Dick, my lad,” he said easily, “especially after you’ve been so obliging to me. But it’s your bad luck.”

“I’m not a prisoner,” I replied with some heat, “though you and all the rest of Burgoyne’s men are likely soon to be. I merely came here under a flag of truce to bring your mother and sister, and put them out of the way of cannon balls.”

He laughed at my boast, and said Burgoyne would soon resume his promenade to New York. Then he bestirred himself for the comfort of his mother and sister. He apologized for straitened quarters, but said he could place them in some very good company, including the Baroness Riedesel and Madame the wife of General Fraser, at which Madame Van Auken, who was always fond of people of quality, especially when the quality was indicated by a title, was pleased greatly. And in truth they were welcomed most hospitably by the wives of the British and Hessian officers with Burgoyne’s army, who willingly shared with them the scarcity of food and lodging they had to offer. When I left them, Mistress Catherine said to me with a saucy curve of the lip, as if she would but jest:

“Take good care of yourself, Dick, and my brother’s sister will try not to forget you.”

“Thank you,” I said, “and if it falls in my way to do a good turn for Captain Chudleigh while he is our prisoner, I will take full advantage of it.”

At this she was evidently displeased, though somehow I was not.

Albert Van Auken took charge of me, and asked me into a tent to meet some of his fellow officers and take refreshment; which invitation I promptly accepted, for in those days an American soldier, with wisdom born of trial, never neglected a chance to get something good to eat or to drink.

On my way I observed the condition of Burgoyne’s camp. It was in truth a stricken army that he led—or rather did not lead, for it seemed now to be stuck fast. The tents and the wagons were filled with the sick and the wounded, and many not yet entirely well clustered upon the grass seeking such consolation as they could find in the talk of each other. The whole in body, rank and file, sought to preserve a gallant demeanor, though in spite of it a certain depression was visible on almost every face. Upon my soul I was sorry for them, enemies though they were, and the greater their misfortune the greater cause we had for joy, which, I take it, is one of the grievous things about war.

It was a large tent into which Albert took me, and I met there Captain Jervis and several other officers, two or three of whom seemed to be of higher rank than captain, though I did not exactly catch their names, for Albert spoke somewhat indistinctly when making the introductions. There seemed to be a degree of comfort in the tent—bottles, glasses, and other evidences of social warmth.

“We wish to be hospitable to a gallant enemy like yourself, Mr. Shelby,” said Captain Jervis, “and are not willing that you should return to your own army without taking refreshment with us.”

I thanked him for his courtesy, and said I was quite willing to be a live proof of their hospitality; whereupon they filled the glasses with a very unctuous, fine-flavored wine, and we drank to the health of the wide world. It had been long since good wine had passed my lips, and when they filled the glasses a second time I said in my heart that they were gentlemen. At the same time I wondered to myself a bit why officers of such high rank, as some of these seemed to be, should pay so much honor to me, who was but young and the rank of whom was but small. Yet I must confess that this slight wonder had no bad effect upon the flavor of the wine.

Some eatables of a light and delicate nature were handed around by an orderly, and all of us partook, after which we drank a third glass of wine. Then the officers talked most agreeably about a variety of subjects, even including the latest gossip they had brought with them from the Court of St. James. Then we took a fourth glass of wine. I am not a heavy drinker, as heavy drinkers go, and have rather a strong head, but a humming of the distant sea began in my ears and the talk moved far away. I foresaw that Richard Shelby had drunk enough, and that it was time for me to exercise my strongest will over his somewhat rebellious head.

“I suppose that you Americans are very sanguine just now, and expect to take our entire army,” said the oldest and apparently the highest of the officers—colonel or general, something or other—to me.

I noted that he was overwhelmingly polite in tone. Moreover, my will was acquiring mastery over Dick Shelby’s humming head. I made an ambiguous reply, and he went further into the subject of the campaign, the other officers joining him and indulging slightly in jest at our expense, as if they would lead me on to boast. To make a clean confession in the matter, I felt some inclination to a little vaunting. He said something about our hope to crush Burgoyne, and laughed as if it were quite impossible.

“English armies are never taken,” said he.

“But they have never before warred with the Americans,” I said.

I recalled afterward that some of the officers applauded me for that reply, which was strange considering their sympathies. The old officer showed no offense.

“Have you heard that Sir Henry Clinton is coming to our relief with five thousand men?” he asked.

“No; have you?” I replied.

I was applauded again, and the officer laughed.

“You take me up quickly. You have a keen mind, Mr. Shelby; it’s a pity you’re not one of us,” he said.

“That would be bad for me,” I said, “as I do not wish to become a prisoner.”

This was a bit impertinent and ungenerous, I will admit, but I had drunk four glasses of wine and they were nagging me. They filled up the glasses again, and most of them drank, but I only sipped mine, meanwhile strengthening my rule over Dick Shelby’s mutinous head. The officer laughed easily at my reply and began to talk about the chances of the next battle, which he was sure the British would win. He said Burgoyne had six thousand men, English and Hessians, and in quite a careless way he asked how many we had.

By this time I had Dick Shelby’s unruly head under complete control, and his question, lightly put as it was, revealed their whole plan. Right then and there I felt a most painful regret that I had not given Albert Van Auken the worst beating of his life when I had the chance.

I replied that I could not say exactly how many men we had, but the number was somewhere between a thousand and a million, and at any rate sufficient for the purpose. He laughed gently as if he were willing to tolerate me, and continued to put questions in manner sly and most insidious. I returned answers vague or downright false, and I could see that the officer was becoming vexed at his want of success. Albert himself filled up my glass and urged me to drink again.

“You know, Dick, you don’t get good wine often,” he said, “and this may be your last chance.”

Had not I been a guest I would have created, right then and there, a second opportunity for giving Albert the worst beating of his life. I pretended to drink, though I merely sipped the fumes. The elderly officer changed his tactics a little.

“Do you think your generals are well informed about us?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I replied.

“How?”

“We learn from prisoners,” I said, “and then, perhaps, we ask sly questions from Englishmen who come to us under flags of truce.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his face—and I was glad to see it—reddening.

“I mean,” said I, “that you have brought me into this tent with purpose to intoxicate me and get valuable information from me. It was a plot unworthy of gentlemen.”

He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing with much anger. But the wine I had drunk made me very belligerent. I was ready to fight a thousand come one, come all. Moreover, I leave it to all if I did not have just cause for wrath. I turned from the officer to Albert, against whom my indignation burned most.

“I have just saved you from death, perhaps a most degrading death,” I said, “and I am loath to remind you of it, but I must, in order to tell your fellow officers I am sorry I did it.”

I never saw a man turn redder, and he trembled all over. It was the scarlet of shame, too, and not of righteous anger.

“Dick,” he said, “I beg your pardon. I let my zeal for our cause go too far. I—I—”

I think he would have broken down, but just then the elderly officer interfered.

“Be silent, Lieutenant Van Auken,” he said. “It is not your fault, nor that of any other present except myself. You speak truth, Mr. Shelby, when you say it was unworthy of us. So it was. I am glad it failed, and I apologize for the effort to make it a success. Mr. Shelby, I am glad to know you.”

He held out his hand with such frank manliness and evident good will that I grasped it and shook it heartily. What more he might have said or done I do not know, for just then we were interrupted by the sound of a great though distant shouting.

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