8 A Night Under Fire

The shouting begat curiosity in us all, and we left the tent, the elderly officer leading. I perceived at once that the noise came from our lines, which were pushed up very close to those of the British and were within plain hearing distance. Among the trees and bushes, which were very dense at points, I could see in the brilliant sunshine the flash of rifle barrel and the gleam of uniform. The shouting was great in volume, swelling like a torrent rising to the flood.

I remained by the side of the old officer. He seemed anxious.

“What is it? What can that mean? It must be something important,” he asked as much of himself as of me.

The reply was ready for him, as some English skirmishers came forward with an American prisoner whom they had taken but a few moments before. The man was but a common soldier, ragged, but intelligent. The officer put to him his question about the shouting, which had not yet subsided.

“That was a welcome,” said the prisoner.

“A welcome! What do you mean by that?”

“Simply that more re-enforcements have come from the south.”

The officer grew even graver.

“More men always coming for them and never any for us,” he said, almost under his breath.

I had it in mind to suggest that I be returned at once to my own army, but the arrival of the troops or other cause created a sudden recrudescence of the skirmishing. Piff-paff chanted the rifles; zip-zip chirped the bullets. Little blades of flame spurted up among the bushes, and above them rose the white curls of smoke like baby clouds. On both sides the riflemen were at work.

The officer looked about him as if he intended to give some special orders, and then seemed to think better of it. A bullet passed through the tent we had just left. I felt that my American uniform took me out of the list of targets.

“Your sharpshooters seem to have come closer,” said the officer. “Their bullets fell short this morning. I will admit they are good men with the rifle—better than ours.”

“These are countrymen,” I said. “They have been trained through boyhood to the use of the rifle.”

I was looking at the fringe of trees and bushes which half hid our lines. Amid the boughs of a tall tree whose foliage was yet untouched by autumn I saw what I took to be a man’s figure; but the leaves were so dense and so green I was not sure. Moreover, the man, if man it was, seemed to wear clothing of the hue of the leaves. I decided I was mistaken; then I knew I had been right at first guess, for I saw the green body within the green curtain of leaves move out upon a bough and raise its head a little. The sun flashed upon a rifle barrel, and the next instant the familiar curl of white smoke rose from its muzzle.

The officer had opened his mouth to speak to me, but the words remained unspoken. His face went pale as if all the blood had suddenly gone out of him, and he flopped down like an emptied bag at my feet, shot through the heart.

I was seized with a shivering horror. He was talking to me one moment and dead the next. His fall, seen by so many, created a confusion in the British lines. Several rushed forward to seize the body and carry it away. Just as the first man reached it, he too was slain by a hidden sharpshooter, and the two bodies lay side by side.

Acting from impulse rather than thought, I lifted the officer by the shoulders and began to drag him back into the camp. Whether or not my uniform protected me I can not say, but I was hit by no bullet, though the skirmishing became so sharp and so hot that it rose almost to the dignity of a battle. The officer’s body was withdrawn beyond the range of the sharpshooting and placed in a tent. Though he had sought to entrap me he had made handsome apology therefor, and I mourned him as I would a friend. Why should men filled with mutual respect be compelled to shoot each other?

Albert came to me there, and said in a very cold voice:

“Dick, this sudden outburst will compel you to remain our guest some time longer—perhaps through the night.”

I turned my back upon him. and when he left I do not know, but when I looked that way again he was gone, for which I was in truth very glad. Yet I would have liked to ask him about Kate and her mother. I wondered if they were safe from the stray bullets of the sharpshooters.

In the stir of this strife at long range I seemed to be forgotten by the British, as I had been forgotten by my own people. My Continental uniform was none of the brightest, and even those who noticed it apparently took me for a privileged prisoner. When I left the tent in which the officer’s body lay I came back toward the American army, but the patter of the bullets grew so lively around me that I retreated. It is bad enough to be killed by an enemy, I imagine, but still worse to be killed by a friend.

The day was growing old and the night would soon be at hand. Our sharpshooters held such good positions that they swept most of the British camp. I do not claim to be a great military man, but I was convinced that if the British did not dislodge these sharpshooters their position would become untenable. The night, so far from serving them, would rather be a benefit to their enemies, for the lights in the British camp would guide the bullets of the hidden riflemen to their targets.

The bustle in the camp increased, and I observed that details of men were sent to the front. They took off their bright coats, which were fine marks for the riflemen, and it was evident that they intended to match our sharpshooters at their own business. Many of these men were Germans, who, I have heard, have always been accounted good marksmen in Europe.

Nobody caring about me, I took position on a little knoll where I could see and yet be beyond range. The sun, as if wishing to do his best before going down, was shining with marvelous brilliancy. The incessant pit-pat of the rifle fire, like the crackling of hail, drew all eyes toward the American line. It seemed to me that only the speedy coming of the night could prevent a great battle.

The crackling flared up suddenly into a volley, betokening the arrival of the fresh British skirmishers at the point of action. The little white curls of smoke were gathering together and forming a great cloud overhead. Presently some wounded were taken past.

There was a movement and gathering of men near me. Quite a body of soldiers, a company, it seemed, were drawn up. Then, with fixed bayonets, they advanced upon the American line. I guessed that the skirmishers were intended to attract the attention of our people, while this company hoped to clear the woods of the sharpshooters and release the British camp from their galling fire. The British advanced with gallantry. I give them credit for that always—that is, nearly always.

The firing had reached an exceeding degree of activity, but I did not see any man in the company fall. By this I concluded that their skirmishers were keeping our own busy, and I was in some apprehension lest this strong squad should fall suddenly and with much force upon our outposts. Forward they went at a most lively pace and preserving a very even rank, their bayonets shining brightly in the late sun. The British boast much about their ability with the bayonet. We know less about ours, because almost our only way of getting bayonets was to take them from the British, which we did more than once.

Two or three British officers gathered on the knoll to watch the movement. Among these was Captain Jervis, whom I liked well. He spoke pleasantly to me, and said, pointing at the company which was now very near to the wood:

“That charge, I think, is going to be a success, Mr. Shelby, and your sharpshooters will find it more comfortable to keep a little farther away from us.”

He spoke with a certain pride, as if he would hold our people a little more cheaply than his own.

I made no reply, for another and better answer from a different source was ready. There was a very vivid blaze from the wood and the crash of a heavy volley. The head of the column was shattered, nay, crushed, and the body of it reeled like a man to whom has been dealt a stunning blow. It was apparent that our people had seen the movement and had gathered in force in the wood to repel it, striking at the proper moment.

The company rallied and advanced most bravely a second time to the charge; but the flash of the rifles was so steady and so fast that the woods seemed to be spouting fire. The British fell back quickly and then broke into a discreet run into their own encampment.

“You will perceive,” said I to Captain Jervis, “that our people have not yet retired for the night.”

He laughed a little, though on the wrong side of his mouth. I could see that he felt chagrin, and so I said no more on that point.

As if by concert our sharpshooters also pushed up closer, and being so much better at that business drove in those of Burgoyne. The Germans, in particular, knowing but little of forests, fared badly.

Though I was neither in it nor of it, I felt much elation at our little triumph. In truth the consequences, if not important of themselves, were significant of greater things. They showed that Burgoyne’s beleaguered battalions could rest hope only on two things, the arrival of Clinton or victory in a pitched battle. But now Burgoyne could not even protect his own camp. It was reached in many parts by the fire of the sharpshooters drawn in a deadly ring around it. The night came, and as far as possible the lights in the camp were put out, but the firing went on, and no British sentinel was safe at his post.

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