16 The Return with Chudleigh

We climbed up the bank, and sat for some time drying in the sun. We were wet, and, moreover, had drunk large quantities of the Hudson River. As a regular thing, I prefer dry land as a place of inhabitation.

While the sun dried our bodies and clothing I was thinking. Though I had taken my man, and that, too, single-handed, my position was not the best in the world. I was now on the wrong side of the river, and I had lost my weapons and my comrades. Also I was hungry.

“Chudleigh,” I asked, “are you hungry?”

“Rather,” he replied with emphasis.

“How are we to get something to eat?” I asked.

“That’s your affair, not mine,” he replied. “I have nothing to do but to remain captured.”

I thought I saw in him an inclination to be disagreeable, which, to say the truth, was scarce the part of a gentleman after the handsome fashion in which I had treated him. In the face of such ingratitude, I resolved to use the privileges of my superior position.

“Are you about dry?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then get up and march.”

He seemed to resent my stern tone, but inasmuch as he had provoked it he had no cause for complaint. If he intended to assert all the rights of a prisoner, then I equally would assert all the rights of a captor.

“Which way?” he asked.

“Northward, along the river bank. Keep in front of me,” I said.

Obedient to my orders he stalked off at a pretty gait, and I followed. We marched thus for half a mile. Chudleigh glanced back at me once or twice. I seemed not to notice it, though I could guess what was passing in his mind.

“If I hadn’t given my word,” he said, “I think I’d fight it out with you, fist and skull.”

“I offered you the chance,” I said, “when we were in the river, but you would not accept it, You’ve heard many wise sayings about lost opportunities, and this proves the truth of them.”

“That’s so,” he said with a sigh of deep regret.

“Besides,” I added, in the way of consolation for his lost opportunity, “you would gain nothing by it but bruises. I am larger and stronger than you.”

He measured me with his eye and concluded that I spoke truth, for he heaved another sigh, but of comfort.

“Now, Chudleigh,” I said, “a man can be a fool sometimes and lose nothing, but he can’t be a fool all the time and gather the profits of the earth. Drop back here with me and let us talk and act sensibly.”

He wrinkled his brow a moment or two, as if in thought, and accepted my invitation. Whereupon we became very good companions.

In reality I felt as much trouble about Chudleigh as myself. It was like the trouble I had felt on Albert’s account. He had penetrated our lines in citizen’s clothes, and if I took him back to our camp in the same attire he might be regarded as a spy, with all the unpleasant consequences such a thing entails. Having spared Chudleigh’s life once from scruples, I had no mind to lead him to the gallows. I must get a British uniform for him, though how was more than I could tell. The problem troubled me much.

But the advance of hunger soon drove thoughts of Chudleigh’s safety out of my mind, and, stubborn Englishman though he was, he was fain to confess that he too felt the desire for food. Along that side of the river the settlements were but scant, and nowhere did we see a house.

That we would encounter Whitestone and Adams was beyond all probability, for they would never surmise that we had crossed the river. Chudleigh and I looked ruefully and hungrily at each other.

“Chudleigh,” I said, “you are more trouble a captive than a fugitive.”

“The responsibility is yours,” he said. “I decline to carry the burdens of my captor. Find me something to eat.”

We trudged along for more than an hour, somewhat gloomy and the pains of hunger increasing. I was about to call a halt, that we might rest and that I might think about our difficulties, when I saw a column of smoke rising above a hill. I called Chudleigh’s attention to it, and he agreed with me that we ought to push on and see what it was.

I was convinced that friends must be at the bottom of that column of smoke. If any British party had come so far north, which in itself was improbable, it could scarce be so careless as to give to the Americans plain warning of its presence.

It was a long walk, but we were cheered by the possibility that our reward would be dinner. Chudleigh seemed to cherish some lingering hope that it was a party of British or Tories who would rescue him, but I told him to save himself such disappointments.

In a short time we came in view of those who had built the fire, and I was delighted to find my surmise that they were Americans was correct.

They numbered some fifty or a hundred, and I guessed they were a detachment on the way to join the northern army beleaguering Burgoyne.

“Chudleigh,” I said as we approached the first sentinel, “will you promise to do all that I say?”

“Of course; I am your prisoner,” he replied.

I hailed the sentinel, and my uniform procured for me a friendly reception. Chudleigh I introduced vaguely as a countryman traveling northward with me. The men were eating, and I told them we were making close acquaintance with starvation. They invited us to join them, and we fell to with great promptitude.

I could tell them something about affairs at the north, and they could give me the latest news from the south. They told me that Clinton was still below Albany, hesitating and awaiting with impatience some message from Burgoyne.

I rejoiced more than ever that I had stopped Chudleigh, and felt pride in my exploit. I hope I can be pardoned for it. It was but natural that Chudleigh’s emotions should be the opposite of mine, and I watched his face to see how he would take this talk. It was easy enough to see regret expressed there, though he sought to control himself.

The talk of these recruits was very bitter against the British. The Indians with Burgoyne had committed many cruel deeds before they fled back to Canada, and these countrymen were full of the passion for revenge. I often think that if the British in London knew what atrocities their red allies have committed in their wars with us they would understand more easily why so many of us are inflamed against the Englishman.

These men were rehearsing the latest murders by the Indians, and they showed very plainly their desire to arrive at the front before Burgoyne was taken. Nor did they spare the name of Englishman. I was sorry on Chudleigh’s account that the talk had taken such drift. He took note of it from the first, because his red face grew redder, and he squirmed about in the manner which shows uneasiness.

“Chudleigh,” I whispered at a moment when the others were not looking, “keep still. Remember you are my prisoner.”

But he sat there swelling and purring like an angry cat.

While the others were denouncing them, I made some excuses, most perfunctory, it is true, for the British; but this was only an additional incitement to a bellicose man named Hicks. He damned the British for every crime known to Satan. Chudleigh was so red in the face I thought the blood would pop out through his cheeks, and, though I shoved him warningly with my boot, he blurted out his wrath.

“The English are as good as anybody, sir, and you accuse them falsely!” he said.

“What is it to you?” exclaimed Hicks, turning to him in surprise and anger.

“I am an Englishman, sir,” said Chudleigh with ill-judged haughtiness, “and I will not endure such abuse.”

“Oh, you are an Englishman, are you, and you won’t endure abuse, won’t you?” said Hicks with irony; and then to me, “We did not understand you to say he was an Englishman.”

I saw that we were in a pickle, and I thought it best to tell the whole truth in a careless way, as if the thing were but a trifle.

“The man is an English officer, an escaped prisoner, whom I have retaken,” I said. “I did not deem it worth while to make long explanations, especially as we must now push on after you have so kindly fed us.”

But Hicks was suspicious; so were the others, and their suspicions were fed by the mutterings and growls of Chudleigh, who showed a lack of tact remarkable even in an Englishman out of his own country. Then, to appease them, I went into some of the long explanations which I had said I wanted to avoid.

“That’s all very well,” broke in Hicks, “but if this man is an English officer, why is he not in the English uniform? I believe he is an Englishman, as you say; he talks like it, but tell me why he is dressed like a civilian.”

The others followed Hicks’s lead and began to cry:

“Spy! Spy! Spy!”

In truth I felt alarm.

“This is no spy,” I said. “He is Captain Chudleigh, of the English army.”

“He may be Captain Chudleigh and a spy too,” said Hicks coolly. “I am not sure about the Chudleigh part, but I am about the spy part.”

“Hang him for good count!” cried some of the others, who seemed to be raw recruits. The talk about the Indian atrocities was fresh in their minds, and they were in a highly inflammatory state. I recognized a real and present danger.

“Men,” I cried, “you are going too far! This prisoner is mine, and it is of importance that I take him back to the army.”

But my protest only seemed to excite them further. In truth they took it as a threat. Some of them began to demand that I too should be hung, that I was a Tory in disguise. But the body of them did not take up this cry. The bulk of their wrath fell upon Chudleigh, who was undeniably an Englishman. Two or three of the foremost made ready to seize him. I was in no mind to have all my plans spoiled, and I snatched a musket from a stack and threatened to shoot the first man who put a hand on Chudleigh.

Chudleigh himself behaved very well, and sat, quite calm. The men hesitated at sight of the rifle, and this gave me a chance to appeal to their reason, which was more accessible now since they seemed to be impressed by my earnestness. I insisted that all I had said was the truth, and they would be doing much injury to our cause if they interfered with us. I fancy that I pleaded our case with eloquence, though I ought not to boast. At any rate they were mollified, and concluded to abandon their project of hanging Chudleigh.

“I’ve no doubt he deserves hanging,” said Hicks, “but I guess we’ll leave the job for somebody else.”

Chudleigh was about to resent this, but I told him to shut up so abruptly that he forgot himself and obeyed.

I was anxious enough to be clear of these men, countrymen though they were; so we bade them adieu and tramped on, much strengthened by the rest and food.

“Captain,” said I to Chudleigh, though trying to preserve a polite tone, “you do not seem to appreciate the beauty and virtue of silence.”

“I will not have my country or my countrymen insulted,” replied he in most belligerent tones.

“Well, at any rate,” I said, “I had to save your life at the risk of my own.”

“It was nothing more than your duty,” he replied. “I am your prisoner, and you are responsible for my safety.”

Which I call rank ingratitude on Chudleigh’s part, though technically true.

It was late in the day when we met the detachment, and dark now being near at hand, it was apparent that we would have to sleep in the woods, which, however, was no hardship for soldiers, since the nights were warm and the ground dry. When the night arrived I proposed to Chudleigh that we stop and make our beds on the turf, which was rather thick and soft at that spot. He assented in the manner of one who had made up his mind to obey me in every particular.

But before lying down I had the forethought to ask from Chudleigh a guarantee that he would not walk away in the night while I was asleep. I reminded him of his pledge that he would not attempt to escape, barring a rescue.

But he took exceptions with great promptness, claiming with much plausibility, I was fain to admit, that his pledge did not apply in such a case. He argued that if I lay down and went to sleep he was no longer guarded; consequently he was not a prisoner; consequently he would go away. Since he chose to stick to his position, I had no way to drive him from it, whether reasonable or unreasonable.

“Then I will bind you hand and foot,” I said.

He reminded me with an air of triumph that I had nothing with which to bind him, which unfortunately was true.

“What am I to do?” I said as much to myself as to him.

“Nothing that I can see,” he replied, “but to guard me while I sleep.”

Without another word he lay down upon the turf, and in less than two minutes his snore permeated the woods.

Reflecting in most unhappy fashion that if it were not for the great interests of our campaign I would much rather be his prisoner than have him mine, I sat there making fierce efforts to keep my eyelids apart.

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