14 The Pursuit of Chudleigh

Having returned, I expected to share in the pursuit of Burgoyne, and wondered to what particular duty I would be assigned. But a man never knows at seven o’clock what he will be doing at eight o’clock, and before eight o’clock had come I was called by the colonel of our regiment.

“Mr. Shelby,” he said, “you have already shown yourself intelligent and vigilant on important service.”

I listened, feeling sure that I was going to have something very disagreeable to do. You can depend upon it when your superior begins with formal flattery. I had just finished one important task, but the more you do the more people expect of you.

“One of our prisoners has escaped,” he said; “a keen-witted man who knows the country. He has escaped to the south. As you know so well, Sir Henry Clinton is, or has been, advancing up the Hudson with a strong force to the aid of Burgoyne, whom nothing else can save from us. This man—this prisoner who has escaped—must not be permitted to reach Clinton with the news that Burgoyne is almost done for. It was important before the last battle that no messenger from Burgoyne should pass through our lines; it is still more important to-day. You understand?”

I bowed, as a sign that I understood.

“This escaped prisoner knows everything that has happened,” he resumed, “and he must be overtaken. He will probably follow the direct road along the river, as he knows that haste is necessary. How many men do you want?”

I named Whitestone and a private, a strong, ready-witted fellow named Adams.

“What is the name of the man we are to capture?” I asked.

“Chudleigh—Captain Ralph Chudleigh,” he replied. “A tall man, dark hair and eyes, twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age. Do you know him?”

I replied that I knew him.

“So much the better,” said our colonel with much delight. “Aside from your other qualifications, Mr. Shelby, you are the man of all men for this duty. Chudleigh will undoubtedly attempt to disguise himself, but since you know him so well he can scarce hide his face from you. But remember that he must be taken, dead or alive.”

I had not much relish for the mission in the first place, and, for reasons, less relish when I knew that Chudleigh was the man whom I was to take. But in such affairs as these it is permitted to the soldier to choose only the one thing, and that is, to obey.

We set out at once over the same road we had traveled twice so recently. Three good horses had been furnished us, and we were well armed. For a while we rode southward with much speed, and soon left behind us the last detachment of our beleaguering army.

One question perplexed me: Would Chudleigh be in his own British uniform, which he wore when he escaped, or did he manage to take away with him some rags of Continental attire, in which he would clothe himself first chance? I could answer it only by watching for all men of suspicious appearance, no matter the cut or color of their clothing.

We galloped along a fair road, but we met no one. Quiet travelers shun ground trodden by armies. It was past the noon hour when we came to a small house not far from the roadside. We found the farmer who owned it at home, and in answer to our questions, fairly spoken, he said three men had passed that day, two going north and one going south, all dressed as ordinary citizens. I was particularly interested in the one going south, and asked more about him.

“He was tall, dark, and young,” said the farmer. “He looked like a man of small consequence, for his clothing was ragged and his face not overclean. He wanted food, and he ate with much appetite.”

I asked if the man had paid for his dinner, and the farmer showed me silver fresh from the British mint. I could well believe that this was Chudleigh. However wary and circumspect he might be he was bound to have food, and he could find it only by going to the houses he saw on his southern journey.

I was confirmed in my belief an hour later, when we met a countryman on foot, who at first evinced a great desire to run away from us, but who stopped, seeing our uniforms. He explained that he knew not whom to trust, for a short while before he was riding like ourselves; now he had no horse; a ragged man meeting him in the road had presented a pistol at his head and ordered him to give up his horse, which he did with much promptness, as the man’s finger lay very caressingly upon the trigger of the pistol.

“That was Chudleigh without doubt,” I said to Whitestone, “and since he also is now mounted we must have a race for it.”

He agreed with me, and we whipped our horses into a gallop again. In reality I had not much acquaintance with Chudleigh, but I trusted that I would know his face anywhere. Secure in this belief we pressed on.

“Unless he’s left the road to hide—and that’s not probable, for he can’t afford delay—we ought to overhaul him soon,” said Whitestone.

The road led up and down a series of lightly undulating hills. Just when we reached one crest we saw the back of a horseman on the next crest, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. By a species of intuition I knew that it was Chudleigh. Aside from my intuition, all the probabilities indicated Chudleigh, for we had the word of the dismounted farmer that his lead of us was but short.

“That’s our man!” exclaimed Whitestone, echoing our thought.

As if by the same impulse, all three of us clapped spur to horse, and forward we went at a gallop that sent the wind rushing past us. We were much too far away for the fugitive to hear the hoof-beats of our horses, but by chance, I suppose, he happened to look back and saw us coming at a pace that indicated zeal. I saw him give his mount a great kick in the side, and the horse bounded forward so promptly that in thirty seconds the curve of the hill hid both horse and rider from our view. But that was not a matter discouraging to us. The river was on one side of us not far away, and on the other cultivated fields inclosed with fences. Chudleigh could not leave the road unless he dismounted. He was bound to do one of two things, out-gallop us or yield.

We descended our hill and soon rose upon the slope of Chudleigh’s. When we reached the crest, we saw him in the hollow beyond urging his horse to its best speed. He was bent far over upon the animal’s neck, and occasionally he gave him lusty kicks in the side. It was evident to us that whatever speed might be in that horse Chudleigh would get it out of him. And so would I, thought I, if I were in his place. A fugitive could scarce have more inducement than Chudleigh to escape.

Measuring the distance with my eye, I concluded that we had gained a little. I drew from it the inference that we would certainly overtake him. Moreover, Chudleigh was making the mistake of pushing his horse too hard at the start.

It is better to pursue than to be pursued, and a great elation of spirits seized me. The cool air rushing into my face and past my ears put bubbles in my blood.

“This beats watching houses in the night, does it not, Whitestone?” I said.

“Aye, truly,” replied the sober sergeant, “unless he has a pistol and concludes to use it.”

“We will not fire until he does, or shows intent to do so,” I said.

Whitestone and Adams nodded assent, and we eased our horses a bit that we might save their strength and speed. This maneuver enabled the fugitive to gain slightly upon us, but we felt no alarm; instead we were encouraged, for his horse was sure to become blown before ours put forth their best efforts.

Chudleigh raised up once to look back at us. Of course it was too far for us to see the expression of his face, but in my imagination anxiety was plainly writ there.

“How long a race will it be, do you think?” I asked Whitestone.

“About four miles,” he said, “unless a stumble upsets our calculations, and I don’t think we’ll have the latter, for the road looks smooth all the way.”

The fugitive began to kick his horse with more frequency, which indicated increased anxiety.

“It won’t be four miles,” I said to Whitestone.

“You’re right,” he replied; “maybe not three.”

In truth it looked as if Whitestone’s second thought were right. We began to gain without the necessity of urging our horses. Chudleigh already had driven his own animal to exhaustion. I doubted if the race would be a matter of two miles. I wondered why he did not try a shot at us with his pistols. Bullets are often great checks to the speed of pursuers, and Chudleigh must have known it.

At the end of a mile we were gaining so rapidly that we could have reached the fugitive with a pistol ball, but I was averse to such rude methods, doubly so since he showed no intent on his own part to resort to them.

A half mile ahead of us I saw a small house in a field by the roadside, but I took no thought of it until Chudleigh reached a parallel point in the road; then we were surprised to see him leap to the ground, leave his horse to go where it would, climb the fence, and rush toward the house. He pushed the door open, ran in, and closed it behind him.

I concluded that he had given up all hope of escape except through a desperate defense, and I made hasty disposition of my small command. I was to approach the house from one side, Whitestone from another, and Adams from a third.

We hitched our horses and began our siege of the house, from which no sound issued. I approached from the front, using a fence as shelter. When I was within half a pistol shot the door of the house was thrown open with much force and rudeness, and a large woman, a cocked musket in her hand and anger on her face, appeared. She saw me, and began to berate me rapidly and wrathfully, at the same time making threatening movements with the musket. She cried out that she had small use for those who were Tories now and Americans then, and robbers and murderers always. I explained that we were American soldiers in pursuit of an escaped prisoner of importance who had taken refuge in her house, and commanded her to stand aside and let us pass.

For answer she berated me more than ever, saying that it was but a pretext about a prisoner, and her husband was a better American than we. That put a most uncomfortable suspicion in my mind, and, summoning Whitestone, we held parley with her.

“You have pursued my husband until there is scarce a breath left in his body,” she said.

Whereupon, having pacified her to some extent, we went into the house and found that she spoke the truth. Her husband was stretched upon a bed quite out of breath, in part from his gallop and more from fright. We could scarce persuade him that we were not those outlaws who belonged to neither army but who preyed upon whomsoever they could.

Making such brief apologies as the time allowed, we mounted our horses and resumed the search.

“It was a mistake,” said Whitestone.

I admitted that he spoke the truth, and resolved I would trust no more to intuitions, which are sent but to deceive us.

Anxiety now took me in a strong grip. Our mistaken chase had caused us to come very fast, and since we saw nothing of Chudleigh, I feared lest we had passed him in some manner. It therefore cheered me much, a half hour later, when I saw a stout man, whom I took to be a farmer, jogging comfortably toward us on a stout nag as comfortable-looking as himself. He was not like the other, suspicious and afraid, and I was glad of it, for I said to myself that here was a man of steady habit and intelligence, a man who would tell us the truth and tell it clearly.

He came on in most peaceable and assuring fashion, as if not a soldier were within a thousand miles of him. I hailed him, and he replied with a pleasant salutation.

“Have you met a man riding southward?” I said.

“What kind of a man?” he asked.

“A large man in citizen’s dress,” I replied.

“Young, or old?”

“Young—twenty-six or twenty-eight.”

“Anything else special about him?”

“Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion; his horse probably very tired.”

“What do you want with this man?” he asked, stroking a red whisker with a contemplative hand.

“He is an escaped prisoner,” I replied, “and it is of the greatest importance that we recapture him.”

“Did you say he was rather young? Looked like he might be six and twenty or eight and twenty?” he asked.

“Yes, that is he,” I said eagerly.

“Tall, rather large?”

“The very man.”

“Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion?”

“Exactly! Exactly!”

“His horse very tired?”

“Our man beyond a doubt! Which way did he go?”

“Gentlemen, I never saw or heard of such a man,” he replied gravely, laying switch to his horse and riding on.

We resumed our journey, vexation keeping us silent for some time.

“Our second mistake,” said Whitestone at length.

As I did not answer, he added:

“But the third time means luck.”

“I doubt it,” I replied. My disbelief in signs and omens was confirmed by the failure of my intuition.

►   ▲