12 We Ride Southward

But it is not sufficient merely to win a battle. One must do more, especially when another hostile army is approaching and one does not know how near that army is, or how much nearer it will be.

It was such a trouble as this that afflicted our generals after the morning of the great victory. That other British army down the river bothered them. They wanted exact information about Clinton, and my colonel sent for me.

“Mr. Shelby,” he said, “take the best horse you can find in the regiment, ride with all haste to Albany, and farther south, if necessary, find out all you can about Clinton, and gallop back to us with the news. It is an important and perhaps a dangerous duty, but I think you are a good man for it, and if you succeed, those much higher in rank than I am will thank you.”

I felt flattered, but I did not allow myself to be overwhelmed.

“Colonel,” I said, “let me take Sergeant Whitestone with me; then, if one of us should fall, the other can complete the errand.”

But I did not have the possible fall of either of us in mind. Whitestone and I understand each other, and he is good company. Moreover, the sergeant is a handy man to have about in an emergency.

The colonel consented promptly.

“It is a good idea,” he said. “I should have thought of it myself.”

But then colonels don’t always think of everything.

Whitestone was very willing.

“I don’t think anything will happen here before we get back,” he said, looking off in the direction of Burgoyne’s army.

In a half hour, good horses under us, we were galloping southward. We expected to reach Albany in four hours.

For a half hour we rode along, chiefly in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Then I saw Whitestone fumbling in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and I knew that the pipe was coming. He performed the feat of lighting it and smoking it without diminishing speed, and looked at me triumphantly. I said nothing, knowing that no reply was needed.

My thoughts—and it was no trespass upon my soldierhood—were elsewhere. I hold that I am not a sentimental fellow, but in the ride to Albany I often saw the face of Kate Van Auken—Mrs. Captain Chudleigh that was to be—a girl who was nothing to me, of course. Yet I was glad that she was not a Tory and traitor, and I hoped Chudleigh would prove to be the right sort of man.

“I’ll be bound you’re thinking of some girl,” said Whitestone suddenly, as he took his pipe from his mouth and held the stem judicially between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why?” I asked.

“You look up at the sky, and not ahead of you; you sigh, and you’re young,” replied Whitestone.

But I swore that I was not thinking of any girl, and with all the more emphasis because I was. Whitestone was considerate, however, and said nothing more on the subject. Within the time set for ourselves we reached Albany.

Albany, as all the world knows, is an important town of Dutchmen. It is built on top of a hill, down a steep hillside, and then into a bottom by the river, which sometimes rises without an invitation from the Dutchmen and washes out the houses in the bottom. I have heard that many of these Dutchmen are not real Dutchmen, but have more English blood in them. It is not a matter, however, that I care to argue, as it is no business of mine what hobby horse one may choose to ride hard. All I know is that these Albany Dutchmen are wide of girth and can fight well, which is sufficient for the times.

Whitestone and I rode along looking at the queer houses with their gable ends to the street. We could see that the town was in a great flurry, as it had a good right to be, with our army and Burgoyne’s above it and Clinton’s below it, and nobody knowing what was about to happen.

“We must gather up the gossip of the town first,” I said to Whitestone. “No doubt much of it will be false and more of it exaggerated, but it will serve as an indication and tell us how to set about our work.”

“Then here’s the place for us to begin gathering,” said Whitestone, pointing to a low frame building through the open door of which many voices and some strong odors of liquor came. Evidently it was a drinking tavern, and I knew Whitestone was right when he said it was a good place in which to collect rumors.

We dismounted, hitched our horses to posts, and entered. As plenty of American soldiers were about the town, we had no fear that our uniforms would attract special attention. In truth we saw several uniforms like ours in the room, which was well crowded with an assemblage most mixed and noisy. Whitestone and I each ordered a glass of the Albany whisky tempered with water, and found it to be not bad after a long and weary ride. I have observed that a good toddy cuts the dust out of one’s throat in excellent fashion. Feeling better we stood around with the others and listened to the talk, of which there was no lack. In truth, some of it was very strange and remarkable.

The news of our great battle had reached the Albany people, but in a vague and contrary fashion, and we found that we had beaten Burgoyne; that Burgoyne had beaten us; that Burgoyne was fleeing with all speed toward Canada; that he would be in Albany before night. Those who know always feel so superior to those who don’t know that Whitestone and I were in a state of great satisfaction.

But the conversation soon turned from Burgoyne to Clinton, and then Whitestone and I grew eager. Our eagerness turned to alarm, for we heard that Clinton, with a great fleet and a great army, was pressing toward Albany with all haste.

Good cause for alarm was this, and, however much it might be exaggerated, we had no doubt that the gist of it was the truth.

I made a sign to Whitestone, and we slipped quietly out of the tavern, not wishing to draw any notice to ourselves. Despite our caution, two men followed us outside. I had observed one of these men looking at me in the tavern, but he had turned his eyes away when mine met his. Outside he came up to me and said boldly, though in a low voice:

“Have you come from the south?”

“No,” I said carelessly, thinking to turn him off.

“Then you have come from the north, from the battlefield,” he said in a tone of conviction.

“What makes you think so?” I asked, annoyed.

“You and your companion are covered with dust and your horses with perspiration,” he replied, “and you have ridden far and hard.”

I could not guess the man’s purpose, but I took him and the others with him to be Tories, spies of the British, who must be numerous about Albany. I do not like to confess it, but it is true that in our province of New York the Tories were about as many as, perhaps more than, the patriots. We might denounce the men, but we had no proof at all against them. Moreover, we could not afford to get into a wrangle on such a mission as ours.

“You were at the battle,” said the man shrewdly, “and you have come in all haste to Albany.”

“Well, what if we were?” I said in some heat. His interference and impertinence were enough to make me angry.

“But I did not say from which army you came,” he said, assuming an air of great acuteness and knowledge.

I was in doubt. Did the man take us for Tory spies—I grew angrier still at the thought—or was he merely trying to draw us on to the telling of what he knew? While I hesitated, he added:

“I know that Burgoyne held his own in a severe battle fought yesterday. That is no news to you. But if you go about the town a little, you will also know what I know, that Clinton, in overwhelming force, will soon be at Albany.”

I was convinced now that the man was trying to draw from me the facts about the battle, and I believed more than ever that he and his comrades were Tory spies. I regretted that Whitestone and I had not removed the dust of travel before we entered the tavern. I regretted also that so many of our countrymen should prove faithless to us. It would have been far easier for us had we only the British and the hired Hessians to fight.

Whitestone was leaning against his horse, bridle in hand, looking at the solitary cloud that the sky contained. Apparently the sergeant was off in dreams, but I knew he was listening intently. He let his eyes fall, and when they met mine, he said, very simply and carelessly:

“I think we’d better go.”

As I said, the sergeant is a very handy man to have about in an emergency. His solution was the simplest in the world—merely to ride away from the men and leave them.

We mounted our horses.

“Good day, gentlemen,” we said.

“Good day,” they replied.

Then we left them, and when I looked back, at our first turning, they were still standing at the door of the tavern. But I gave them little further thought, for Clinton and his advancing fleet and army must now receive the whole attention of the sergeant and myself.

It was obvious that we must leave Albany, go down the river, and get exact news about the British. It was easy enough for us to pass out of the town and continue our journey. We had been provided with the proper papers in case of trouble.

We had given our horses rest and food in Albany, and rode at a good pace for an hour. Not far away we could see the Hudson, a great ribbon of silver or gray, as sunshine or cloud fell upon it. I was occupied with the beauty of the scene, when Whitestone called my attention and pointed ahead. Fifty yards away, and in the middle of the road, stood two horsemen motionless. They seemed to be planted there as guards, yet they wore no uniforms.

I felt some anxiety, but reflected that the horsemen must be countrymen waiting, through curiosity or friendship, for approaching travelers in such troublous times. But as we rode nearer I saw that I was mistaken.

“Our inquiring friends of the tavern,” said Whitestone.

He spoke the truth. I recognized them readily. When we were within fifteen feet they drew their horses across the way, blocking it.

“What does this mean, gentlemen? Why do you stop us?” I asked.

“We are an American patrol,” replied the foremost of the two, the one who had questioned me at the tavern, “and we can not let anybody pass here. It is against our orders.”

Both wore ragged Continental coats, which I suppose they had brought out of some recess before they started on the circuit ahead of us.

I signed to Whitestone to keep silent, and rode up close to the leader.

“We ought to understand each other,” I said, speaking in a confident and confidential tone.

“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

I burst out laughing, as if I were enjoying the best joke in the world.

“I hate rebels,” I said, leaning over and tapping him familiarly on the shoulder with my finger.

“I don’t understand you,” he said.

“I mean that you hate rebels too,” I replied, “and that you are just as much of a rebel as I am.”

“Hi should think so! Hi could tell by the look hof their countenances that they are hof the right sort,” broke in Whitestone, drop ping every h where it belonged and putting on every one where it did not belong.

It was Whitestone’s first and last appearance on any occasion as an Englishman, but it was most successful.

A look of intelligence appeared on the faces of the two men.

“Of Bayle’s regiment in Burgoyne’s army, both of us,” I said.

“I thought it, back yonder in Albany,” said the leader, “but why did you fence us off so?”

“One doesn’t always know his friends, first glance, especially in rebel towns,” I said. “Like you, I thought so, but I couldn’t take the risk and declare myself until I knew more about you.”

“That’s true,” he acknowledged. “These rebels are so cursedly sly.”

“Very, very sly,” I said, “but we’ve fooled ’em this time.”

I pointed to their Continental coats and to ours. Then we laughed all together.

“Tell me what really happened up there,” said the man.

“It was a great battle,” I said, “but we drove them off the field, and we can take care of ourselves. Six thousand British and German veterans care little for all the raw militia this country can raise.”

“That’s so,” he said. We laughed again, all together.

“How is everything down there?” I asked, nodding my head toward the south.

“Clinton’s coming with a strong fleet and five thousand men,” he replied. “What they say in the town is all true.”

“Small thanks he will get from Burgoyne,” I said. “Our general will like it but little when Clinton comes to strip him of part of his glory.”

“I suppose you are right,” he answered, “but I did not think Burgoyne was finding his way so easy. I understood that the first battle at Saratoga stopped him.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself about Burgoyne,” I said. “If he stopped, he stopped for ample reasons.”

Which was no lie.

“But we must hasten,” I continued. “Our messages to Clinton will bear no delay.”

“Luck with you,” they said.

“Luck with you,” we replied, waving our hands in friendly salute as we rode away, still to the south.

Whether they ever found out the truth I do not know, for I never saw or heard of either again.

We continued our journey in silence for some time. Whitestone looked melancholy.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“It was too easy,” he replied. “I always pity fools.”

He lighted his pipe and sought consolation.

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