19 The Man from Clinton

At one o’clock in the morning I went off duty, and at five minutes past one o’clock I had begun a very pleasant and healthful slumber. At eight o’clock I awoke, and found Whitestone sitting by a little fire cooking strips of bacon, some of which he was so kind as to give me.

Whitestone’s face was puffed out in the manner of one who has news to tell, and I was quite willing that he should gratify himself by telling it to me.

“What is it, Whitestone?” I asked. “Has the British army surrendered while I slept?”

“No,” said Whitestone, “and it may not surrender after all.”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“It’s just as I say,” said Whitestone, lighting the inevitable pipe. “It may not surrender after all.”

“What has happened?”

Whitestone’s cheeks continued to swell with a sense of importance.

“Clinton’s advancing with seven thousand men,” he said.

“That’s nothing,” I said. “Clinton’s been advancing for weeks, and he never gets near us.”

“But he is near us this time, sure enough,” said the sergeant very seriously.

I was still unbelieving, and looked my unbelief.

“It’s as I say,” resumed the sergeant; “there is no doubt about it. Just after daylight this morning some skirmishers took a messenger from Clinton, who bore dispatches announcing his arrival within a very short time. It seems that Clinton is much farther up the river than we supposed, and that his army is also much larger than all our reckonings made it. I guess that with re-enforcements he got over the fright we gave him.”

This in truth sounded like a matter of moment. I asked Whitestone if he was sure of what he reported, and he said the news was all over the camp. I must confess that I felt as if it were a personal blow. I had looked upon the capture of Burgoyne as a certainty, but the arrival of Clinton with seven thousand fresh men would be sure to snatch the prize from us. It looked like a very jest of fate that we should lose our spoil after all our labors and battles.

“What’s to be done, Whitestone?” I asked gloomily.

“In a case of this kind,” he replied, “I’m glad that I’m a humble sergeant, and not a general. Let the generals settle it. Take another piece of the bacon; it’s crisp and fresh.”

“Have you seen this captured messenger?” I asked.

“No,” replied Whitestone. “They have him in a tent over yonder, and I think the officers have been busy with him, trying to pump him.”

As soon as I finished the bacon I walked about the camp to see if I could learn anything further concerning the matter, in which attempt I failed. I saw, however, its effect upon the army, which vented its feelings largely in the way of swearing. The soldiers expected we would have to leave Burgoyne and turn southward to fight Clinton. Some said luck was always against us.

I was interrupted in my stroll by a message from my colonel to come at once. I hurried to him with some apprehension. He had expressed his high confidence in me of late, and, as I have said before, these high confidences bring hard duties.

But the matter was not so difficult as I had expected.

“Mr. Shelby,” said the colonel, “we took prisoner this morning a man bearing important dispatches from Clinton to Burgoyne you have heard about it, doubtless; it seems to be known all over the camp and I am directly responsible for his safe keeping for the time being. He is in that tent which you can see on the hillside. Take three men and guard him. You need not intrude upon him, though; he seems to be a very gentlemanly fellow.”

Of course I chose Whitestone as one of my three men, and we began our guard over the tent. I understood from the gossip Whitestone had picked up that the generals were debating what movement to make after the important news obtained, and probably they would examine the prisoner again later on. It was not at all likely that the prisoner, placed as he was in the center of our camp, could escape, but there might be reasons for keeping him close in the tent; so our watch was very strict.

Nevertheless, Whitestone and I chatted a bit, which was within our right, and tried to guess what would be the result of the campaign if we had to turn southward and fight Clinton, with Burgoyne on our rear. Doubtless some of these comments and queries were heard by the prisoner, whose feet I could see sticking out in front of the tent flap, but whose body was beyond our view. But I did not see that it mattered, and we talked on with freedom. Once I saw the prisoner’s feet bob up a bit, as if he suffered from some kind of nervous contraction, but I made very slight note of it.

The debate of the generals lasted long, and I inferred, therefore, that their perplexity was great. Whitestone and I ceased to talk, and as I, having command of the little detachment, was under no obligation to parade, musket on shoulder, I sat down on a stone near the flap of the tent and made myself as comfortable as I could. From my position I could still see the prisoner’s boots, a substantial British pair, of a kind that we could envy, for most of the time we were nearly bare of foot, sometimes entirely so.

The camp was peaceful, on the whole. The rattle of drums, the sound of voices, rose in the regular, steady fashion which becomes a hum. The prisoner was silent—unusually silent. He seemed to have no curiosity about us, and to prefer to remain in the shadow of his tent. In his place, I would have had my head out looking at everything. I noticed presently the attitude of his boots. They were cocked up on their heels, toes high in the air. I inferred immediately that the man was lying flat on his back, which was not at all unreasonable, as he probably needed rest after traveling all night.

The hum of the camp became a murmur, and it was answered by a slighter murmur from the tent. The prisoner was snoring. He was not only flat upon his back, but asleep. I felt an admiration for the calmness of mind which could turn placidly to slumber in such an exciting situation. A curiosity about this prisoner, already born in me, began to grow. He was most likely a man worth knowing.

I concluded that I would take a look at the sleeping Englishman despite my orders. I did not mention my idea to Whitestone, because I thought he might object, and hint it was none of my business to go in. I stooped down and entered the tent, which was a small one. As I surmised, the prisoner was lying upon his back and was fast asleep. The snore, which became much more assertive now that I had entered the tent, left no doubt about his slumbers. Yet I could not see his face, which was far back under the edge of the tent.

I reached back and pulled the tent-flap still farther aside, letting in a fine flow of sunlight. It fell directly upon the face of the prisoner, bringing out every feature with the distinctness of carving.

My first emotion was surprise; my second, wrath; my third, amusement.

The prisoner was Albert Van Auken.

I do not claim that mine is the acutest mind in the world; but at a single glance I saw to the bottom of the whole affair, and the desire to laugh grew very strong upon me. It had not been twenty-four hours since I was talking to Albert Van Auken in Burgoyne’s camp, and here he was a prisoner in our camp, bringing dispatches from Clinton, down the river, to Burgoyne. I believe some things—not all things.

I perceived that the bright light shining directly into Albert’s eyes would soon awaken him. In truth he was yawning even then. I sat down in front of him, closing my arms around my knees in the attitude of one who waits.

Albert yawned prodigiously. I guessed that he must have been up all the previous night to have become so sleepy. He would have relapsed into slumber, but the penetrating streak of sunshine would not let him. It played all over his face, and inserting itself between his eyelids, pried them open.

Albert sat up, and, after the manner of man, rubbed his eyes. He knew that some one was in the tent with him, but he could not see who it was. I had taken care of that. I was in the dark and he was in the light.

“Well, what is it you wish?” he asked, after he had finished rubbing his eyes.

I guessed that he took me for one of the general officers who had been examining him. I have a trick of changing my voice when I wish to do so, and this was one of the times when I wished.

“I am to ask you some further questions in regard to the matters we were discussing this morning,” I said.

“Well!” said Albert impatiently, as if he would like to be done with it.

“According to the dispatches which we secured when we took you,” I said, “Sir Henry Clinton was very near at hand with a large army.”

“Certainly,” said Albert, in a tone of great emphasis.

“It is strange,” I said, “that we did not hear of his near approach until we took you this morning. Our scouts and skirmishers have brought us no such news.”

“It is probably due to the fact, general,” said Albert politely, “that we captured your scouts and skirmishers as we advanced northward. Our celerity of movement was so great that they could not escape us.”

“That was remarkable marching, in truth,” I said admiringly. “You Englishmen are as rapid in movement as you are strenuous in battle.”

“Thank you, general,” said Albert, with complacent vanity. I felt a strong inclination to kick him. I hate Tories, and, in particular, those who would have people think they are Englishmen.

“I believe you said Sir Henry Clinton had several thousand men with him,” I resumed.

“I did not say it,” replied Albert, “but most unfortunately it was revealed in the dispatches which you captured upon me. I may add, however, that the number is nearer eight thousand than seven thousand.”

I understood the impression he wished to create, and I was willing to further his humor.

“Eight thousand with Sir Henry Clinton,” I said, as if musing, “and Burgoyne has six thousand; that makes fourteen thousand, all regular troops, thoroughly armed and equipped otherwise. We can scarce hope to capture both armies.”

“Not both, nor one either,” said Albert in derision. “As a matter of fact, general, I think you will have some difficulty in looking after your own safety.”

“By what manner of reasoning do you arrive at that conclusion?” asked I, wishing to lead him on.

“Oh, well, you know what British troops are,” said Albert superciliously; “and when fourteen thousand of them are together, I imagine that troubles have arrived for their enemies.”

My inclination to kick him took on a sudden and violent increase. It was with the most extreme difficulty that I retained command over my mutinous foot.

“Perhaps it is as you assert,” I said musingly. “In fact there would seem to be no doubt that it is best for us to let Burgoyne go, and retreat with what rapidity we can.”

“Of course! of course!” said Albert eagerly. “That is the only thing you can do.”

Now a desire to laugh instead of a desire to kick overspread me; but I mastered it as I had the other.

“I wish to tell you, however,” I said, assuming my politest manner, “and in telling you I speak for the other American generals, that however little we are pleased with the news you bear, we are much pleased with the bearer. We have found you to be a young gentleman of courtesy, breeding, and discernment.”

“Thank you,” said Albert in a tone of much gratification.

“And,” I resumed, “we have arrived at a certain conclusion; I may add also that we have arrived at that conclusion quickly and unanimously.”

“What is it?” asked Albert with eager interest.

“That we have met many graceful and accomplished liars in our time, but of them all you are the most graceful and accomplished,” I said with grave politeness, my tongue lingering over the long words.

Albert uttered something which sounded painfully and amazingly like an oath, and sprang to his feet, his face flushing red with anger or shame, I am uncertain which.

He raised his hand as if he would strike me, but I moved around a little, and the light in its turn fell on my face. He uttered another cry, and this time there was no doubt about its being an oath. He looked at me, his face growing redder and redder.

“Dick,” he said in a tone of deep reproach, “I call this devilish unkind.”

“The unkindness is all on your side, Albert,” I retorted. “You have given me more trouble in this campaign than all the rest of Burgoyne’s army—if that fellow Chudleigh be counted out—and here I have you on my hands again.”

“Who asked you to come into my tent?” said Albert angrily. “I heard you outside a while ago, but I did not think you would come in.”

“That was when your feet bobbed up,” I said. “You must retain more control over them, Albert. Now that I think of it, and trace things to their remote causes, that movement first stirred in me the curiosity to see your face, and not your feet only. Have them amputated, Albert.”

“What do you mean to do?” he asked with an air of resignation.

“Mean to do!” I said in a tone of surprise. “Why, I mean to retreat with all the remainder of our army as quickly as we can in order to get out of the way of those fourteen thousand invincible British veterans who will soon be united in one force.”

“Now stop that, Dick.” said Albert entreatingly. “Don’t be too hard on a fellow.”

“All right,” I replied; “go to sleep again.”

Without further ado I left the tent, and found Whitestone waiting outside in some anxiety.

“You stayed so long,” he said, “I thought perhaps the fellow had killed you.”

“Not by any means as bad as that,” I replied. “I found him to be a very pleasant young man, and we had a conversation long and most interesting.”

“About what?” Whitestone could not keep from asking.

“About many things,” I replied, “and one thing that I learned was of special importance.”

“What was that?”

“How to send Clinton and his eight thousand men back below Albany, hold Burgoyne fast, and continue the campaign as it was begun.”

“That’s a pretty big job,” said Whitestone, “for one man, and that one, too, rather young and not overweighted with rank.”

“Maybe you think so,” I said with lofty indifference. “But I can do it, and, what is more, I will prove to you that I can. You can stay here while I go down to the council of generals and tell them what to do.”

Not giving Whitestone time to recover, I stalked off in a state of extreme dignity.

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