17 My Thanks

About midnight I reached the limit of endurance. I was firm in my resolution that I would not sleep, and while still firm in it I slept. When I awoke it was a fine day. For a moment I was in a cold terror, feeling sure Chudleigh had slipped away while I slept the sleep that had overpowered me. But a calm, evenly attuned snore that glided peacefully through the arches of the woods reassured me.

Chudleigh was lying on his back, sleeping. He was as heavy as a log, and I knew that he had not known a single waking moment since he lay down the night before. I dragged him about with rudeness and he opened his eyes regretfully. Presently he announced that he felt very fresh and strong, and asked me where I expected to get breakfast. He said he was sorry for me, as he knew I must be very tired and sleepy after sitting up on guard all night.

I gave him no answer, but commanded him to resume the march with me. We walked on with diligence through a breakfastless country. Chudleigh, though suffering from hunger, was frequent in his expressions of sympathy for me. He said he had the utmost pity for any man who was compelled to sit up an entire night and watch prisoners; but I replied that I throve upon it, and then Chudleigh showed chagrin.

We had the good fortune, about two hours before noon, to find the house of a farmer, who sold us some food, and cared not whether we were American or British, Tory or nothing, so long as we were good pay.

A half hour after leaving this place I decided that we ought to recross the river. Chudleigh offered no objection, knowing that he had no right to do so, being a prisoner. I had no mind to take another swim, so I made search along the bank for something that would serve as a raft, and was not long in finding it.

Having proved to Chudleigh that it was as much to his benefit as to mine to help me, we rolled a small tree that had fallen near the water’s edge into the river, and, sitting astride it, began our ride toward the farther shore. I had a pole with which I could direct the course of our raft, and with these aids it seemed rather an easy matter to cross. I allowed the tree to drift partly with the current, but all the time gently urged it toward the farther shore.

We floated along quite peacefully. So far as we could see we were alone upon the broad surface of the river, and the shores too were deserted. I remarked upon the loneliness of it all to Chudleigh, and he seemed impressed.

“Chudleigh,” I said, “we’re having an easier time recrossing the river than we had crossing it.”

“So it would seem,” he replied, “but we won’t unless you look out for the current and those rocks there.”

I had twisted my face about while speaking to Chudleigh, and in consequence neglected the outlook ahead. We had reached a shallow place in the river where some sharp rocks stuck up, and the water eddied about them in manner most spirited. The front end of our log was caught in one of these eddies and whirled about with violence. I was thrown off, and though I grasped at the log it slipped away from me. I whirled about to recover myself, but the fierce current picked me up and dashed me against one of the projecting rocks. With a backward twist I was able to save myself a little, but my head struck the cruel stone with grievous force.

I saw many stars appear suddenly in the full day. Chudleigh and the log vanished, and I was drifting away through the atmosphere. I was not wholly unconscious, and through the instinct of an old swimmer made some motions which kept me afloat a little while with the current.

I had too little mind left to command my nerves and muscles, but enough to know that I was very near death. In a dazed and bewildered sort of way I expected the end, and was loath to meet it.

The blue sky was rapidly fading into nothing, when some voice from a point a thousand miles away called to me to hold up a little longer. The voice was so sharp and imperious that it acted like a tonic upon me, and brain resumed a little control over body. I tried to swim, but I was too weak to do more than paddle a little. The voice shouted again, and encouraged me to persevere.

In truth I tried to persevere, but things were whizzing about so much in my head and I was so weak that I could do but little. I thought I was bound to go down, with the whole river pouring into my ears.

“That’s a good fellow!” shouted the voice. “Hold up just a minute longer, and I’ll have you safe!”

I saw dimly a huge figure bearing down upon me. It reached out and grasped me by the collar.

“Steady, now!” continued the voice. “Here comes our tree, and we’ll be safe in twenty seconds!”

The tree, looking like a mountain, floated down toward us. My rescuer reached out, seized it, and then dragged us both upon it. Reposing in safety, mind and strength returned, and things resumed their natural size and shape. Chudleigh, the Hudson River running in little cascades from his hair down his face, was sitting firmly astride the log and looking at me with an air of satisfaction,

“Chudleigh,” I said, “I believe you have saved my life.”

“Shelby,” he replied, “I know it.”

“Why didn’t you escape?” I asked.

“You compel me to remind you that I am a gentleman, Mr. Shelby,” he said.

That was all that ever passed between us on the subject, though I reflected that I was not in his debt, for if he had saved my life I had saved his.

We had no further difficulty in reaching the desired shore, where the sun soon dried us. We continued our journey in very amicable fashion, Chudleigh no doubt feeling relief because he was now in a measure on even terms with me. I, too, was in a state of satisfaction. Unless Burgoyne had retreated very fast, we could not now be far from the lines of the American army, and I thought that my troubles with my prisoner were almost at an end. I hoped that Burgoyne had not been taken in my absence, for I wished to be present at the taking. I also had in my mind another plan with which Chudleigh was concerned. It was a plan of great self-sacrifice, and I felt the virtuous glow which arises from such resolutions.

We paused again, by and by, for rest, the sun having become warm and the way dusty. Chudleigh sat down on a stone and wiped his damp face, while I went to a brook, which I had seen glimmering among the trees, for a drink of fresh water. I had just knelt down to drink when I heard a clattering of hoofs. Rising hastily, I saw two men riding toward Chudleigh. Though the faces of these two men were much smeared with dust, I recognized them readily and joyfully. They were Whitestone and Adams.

My two comrades evidently had seen and recognized Chudleigh. They raised a shout and galloped toward him as if they feared he would flee. I came down to the edge of the wood and stopped there to see at my leisure what might happen.

Chudleigh sat upon the stone unmoved. As a matter of course he both saw and heard Whitestone and Adams, but he was a phlegmatic sort of fellow and took no notice. Whitestone reached him first. Leaping from his horse, the gallant sergeant exclaimed:

“Do you surrender, captain?”

“Certainly,” said Chudleigh.

“It’s been a long chase, captain, but we’ve got you at last,” continued the sergeant.

“So it seems,” said Chudleigh, with the same phlegm.

Then I came from the wood and cut the sergeant’s comb for him; but he was so glad to see me again that he was quite willing to lose the glory of the recapture. He explained that he had been overtaken by Adams. Together they had wandered around in search of Chudleigh and me. Giving up the hunt as useless, they had obtained new horses and were on the way back to the army.

We were now four men and two horses, and the men taking turns on horseback, we increased our speed greatly.

Whitestone and Adams were in fine feather, but there was one question that yet bothered me. I wanted to take Chudleigh back in his own proper British uniform, and thus save him from unpleasant possibilities. I did not see how it could be done, but luck helped me.

We met very soon a small party of Americans escorting some British prisoners. Telling my companions to wait for me, I approached the sergeant who was in charge of the troop. Making my manner as important as I could, and speaking in a low tone, as if fearful that I would be overheard—which I observe always impresses people—I told him that one of our number was about to undertake a most delicate and dangerous mission. It chanced that I had some slight acquaintance with this sergeant, and therefore he had no reason to doubt my words, even if I am forced to say it myself.

He pricked up his ears at once, all curiosity, and wanted to know the nature of the business. I pointed to Chudleigh, who was standing some distance away with Whitestone and Adams, and said he was going to enter the British lines as a spy in order to procure most important information.

“A dangerous business, you say truly. He must be a daring fellow,” said my man, nodding his head in the direction of Chudleigh.

“So he is,” I said, “ready at any moment to risk his life for the cause, but we need one thing.”

He asked what it was.

“A disguise,” I said. “If he is to play the British soldier, of course he must have a British soldier’s clothes.”

I made no request, but I looked suggestively at the British prisoners. The sergeant, who was all for obliging me, took the hint at once. He picked out the very best uniform in the lot, and made the man who wore it exchange it for Chudleigh’s old clothes. Chudleigh, who had been learning wisdom in the last day or two, was considerate enough to keep his mouth shut, and we parted from the sergeant and his troop with many mutual expressions of good will. The uniform did not fit Chudleigh, nor was it that of an officer, but these were minor details to which no attention would be paid in the press of a great campaign.

The matter of the uniform disposed of, we pressed forward with renewed spirit, and soon reached the first, sentinels of our army, which we found surrounding that of Burgoyne. It was with great satisfaction that I delivered Chudleigh to my colonel.

The colonel was delighted at the recapture, and praised me with such freedom that I began to have a budding suspicion that I ought to be commander in chief of the army. However, I made no mention of the suspicion. Instead, I suggested to the colonel that as Chudleigh had escaped once, he might escape again, and it would be well to exchange him for some officer of ours whom the British held.

The colonel took to the idea, and said he would speak to the general about it. In the morning he told me it would be done, and I immediately asked him for the favor of taking Chudleigh into the British camp, saying that as I had been his jailer so much already, I would like to continue in that capacity until the end.

The colonel was in great good humor with me, and he granted the request forthwith. As I left to carry out the business, he said, “The exchange is well enough, but we’ll probably have your man back in a few days.”

In truth it did look rather odd that the British should be exchanging prisoners with us upon what we regarded as the unavoidable eve of their surrender, but they chose to persevere in the idea that we were yet equal enemies. Nevertheless, the coils of our army were steadily tightening around them. All the fords were held by our troops. Our best sharpshooters swept the British camp, and it is no abuse of metaphor to say that Burgoyne’s army was rimmed around by a circle of fire.

I found Chudleigh reposing under a tree, and told him to get up and start with me at once.

“What new expedition is this?” he asked discontentedly. “Can not I be permitted to rest a little? I will not try to escape again?”

I told him he was about to be exchanged, and I had secured the privilege of escorting him back to his own people.

“That’s very polite of you,” he said.

I really believe he thought so.

For the second time I entered Burgoyne’s camp under a white flag, and saw all the signs of distress I had seen before, only in a sharper and deeper form. The wounded and sick were more numerous and the well and strong were fewer. It was a sorely stricken army.

But I did not waste much time in such observations, which of necessity would have been but limited anyhow, as the British had no intent to let any American wander at will about their camp and take note of their situation. When we were halted at the outskirts, I asked the officer who received us for Albert Van Auken, who, I said, was a friend of mine and of whose safety I wished to be assured. He was very courteous, and in a few minutes Albert came.

Albert was glad to see me, and I to see him, and as soon as we had shaken hands I approached the matter I had in mind.

“Madame Van Auken, your mother, and your sister, are they well, Albert?” I asked.

“Very well, the circumstances considered,” replied Albert, “though I must say their quarters are rather restricted. You can see the house up there; they have been living for the last three or four days and nights in its cellar, crowded up with other women, with a hospital beside them, and the cannon balls from your army often crashing over their heads. It’s rather a lively life for women.”

“Can’t I see your sister, Mistress Catherine?” I asked. “I have something to say to her about Chudleigh.”

“Why, certainly,” he replied. “Kate will always be glad to see an old playmate like you, Dick.”

He was so obliging as to go at once and fetch her. She looked a little thin and touched by care, but the added gravity became her. She greeted me with gratifying warmth. We had stepped a little to one side, and after the greetings, I said, indicating Chudleigh:

“I have brought him back as sound and whole as he was the day he started on this campaign.”

“That must be very pleasant to Captain Chudleigh,” she said with a faint smile.

“I saved him from a possible death too,” I said.

“Captain Chudleigh’s debt of gratitude to you is large,” she replied.

“I have taken great trouble with him,” I said, “but I was willing to do it all on your account. I have brought him back, and I make him a present to you.”

She looked me squarely in the eyes for a moment, and said, as she turned away:

“Dick, you are a fool!”

Which I call abrupt, impolite, ungrateful, and, I hope, untrue.

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