20 Not a Drop to Drink

I pressed into the council of the generals with an energy that would not be denied, also with some strength of the knee, as an officious aid-de-camp can testify even at this late day. As a matter of course, my information was of such quality that everybody was delighted with me and praise became common. Again I felt as if I ought to be commander in chief. Again I had sufficient self-sacrifice to keep the thought to myself.

As I left the room they were talking about the disposition of the prisoner who had tried to trick us into precipitate flight and the abandonment of our prey. This put an idea into my head, and I told it to a colonel near the door, who in his turn told it to their high mightinesses, the generals, who were wise enough to approve of it, and, in truth, to indorse it most heartily.

I suggested that Albert be sent back to Burgoyne with the most gracious compliments of our commander in chief, who was pleased to hear the news of the speedy arrival of Clinton, which would greatly increase the number of prisoners we were about to take. I asked, as some small reward for my great services, that I be chosen to escort Albert into the British camp and deliver the message. That, too, was granted readily.

“You can deliver the message by word of mouth,” said one of the generals; “it would be too cruel a jest to put it in writing, and perhaps our dignity would suffer also.”

I was not thinking so much of the jest as of another plan I had in mind.

I found Whitestone keeping faithful watch at the tent.

“Well,” said he, with a croak that he meant for a laugh of sarcasm, “I suppose the generals fell on your neck and embraced you with delight when you told them what to do.”

“They did not fall on my neck, but certainly they were very much delighted,” I said; “and they are going to do everything I told them to do.”

“That’s right,” said Whitestone. “Keep it up. While you’re spinning a yarn, spin a good one.”

“It’s just as I say,” I said, “and as the first proof of it, I am going to take the prisoner as a present to Burgoyne.”

Turning my back on the worthy sergeant, I entered the tent, and found Albert reclining on a blanket, the expression of chagrin still on his face. To tell the truth, I did not feel at all sorry for him, for, as I have said before, Albert had been a great care to me.

“Get up,” I said with a roughness intended, “and come with me.”

“What are they going to do with me?” asked Albert. “They can’t hang me as a spy; I was taken in full uniform.”

“Nobody wants to hang you, or do you any other harm,” I said. “In your present lively and healthful condition you afford us too much amusement. We do not see how either army could spare you. Put your hat on and come on.”

He followed very obediently and said nothing. He knew I held the whip hand over him.

“Sergeant,” I said to Whitestone, “you need not watch any longer, since the tent is empty.”

Then I took Albert away without another word. I had it in mind to punish Whitestone, who was presuming a little on his age and experience and his services to me.

I really could not help laughing to myself as I went along. This would make the third time I had entered Burgoyne’s camp as an escort once with Chudleigh, once with Albert’s sister and mother, and now with Albert. I was fast getting to be at home in either camp. I began to feel a bit of regret at the prospect of Burgoyne’s speedy surrender, which would break up all these pleasant little excursions.

Albert showed surprise when he saw us leaving our camp and going toward Burgoyne’s.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing, except to take you back where you belong,” I said. “We don’t care to be bothered with you.”

“You hold me rather cheaply,” he said.

“Very,” I replied.

The return of Albert was an easy matter. I met a colonel, to whom I delivered him and also the message from our council. The colonel did not seem to know of Albert’s intended mission, for the message puzzled him. I offered no explanations, leaving him to exaggerate it or diminish it in the transmission as he pleased.

When I turned away after our brief colloquy, I saw Kate Van Auken, which was what I had hoped for when I asked the privilege of bringing Albert back. Her paleness and look of care had increased, but again I was compelled to confess to myself that her appearance did not suffer by it. There was no change in her spirit.

“Have you become envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary between the two camps, Dick?” she asked in a tone that seemed to me to be touched slightly with irony.

“Perhaps,” I replied; “I have merely brought your brother back to you again, Mistress Catherine.”

“We are grateful.”

“This makes twice I’ve saved him for you,” I said, “and I’ve brought Chudleigh back to you once. I want to say that if you have any other relatives and friends who need taking care of, will you kindly send for me?”

“You have done much for us,” she said. “There is no denying it.”

“Perhaps I have,” I said modestly. “When I presented Chudleigh to you, you called me a fool. I suppose you are willing now to take it back.”

“I was most impolite, I know, and I’m sorry—”

“Oh, you take it back, then?”

“I’m sorry that I have to regret the expression, for, Dick, that is what you are.”

There was the faintest suspicion of a smile on her face, and I could not become quite as angry as I did on the first occasion. But she showed no inclination to take the harsh word back, and perforce I left very much dissatisfied.

When I returned to our camp I found much activity prevailing. It seemed to be the intention of our leaders to close in and seize the prize without further delay. No attack was to be made upon Burgoyne’s camp, but the circle of fire which closed him in became broader and pressed tighter. The number of sharpshooters was doubled, and there was scarce a point in the circumference of Burgoyne’s camp which they could not reach with their rifle balls, while the British could not attempt repayment without exposing themselves to destruction. Yet they held out, and we did not refuse them praise for their bravery and tenacity.

The morning after my return I said to Whitestone that I gave the British only three days longer. Whitestone shook his head.

“Maybe,” he said, “and maybe not so long. They’ve been cut off at a new point.”

I asked him what he meant.

“Why, the British are dying of thirst,” he said. “They are in plain sight of the Hudson—in some places they are not more than a few yards from it—but our sharpshooters have crept up till they can sweep all the space between the British camp and the river. The British can’t get water unless they cross that strip of ground, and every man that’s tried to cross it has been killed.”

I shuddered. I could not help it. This was war—war of the kind that wins, but I did not like it. Yet, despite my dislike, I was to take part in it, and that very soon. It was known that I was expert with the rifle, and I was ordered to choose a good weapon and join a small detachment that lay on a hill commanding the narrowest bit of ground between the British camp and the river. About a dozen of us were there, and I was not at all surprised to find Whitestone among the number. It seemed that if I went anywhere and he didn’t go too, it was because he was there already.

“I don’t like this, Whitestone. I don’t like it a bit,” I said discontentedly.

“You can shoot into the air,” he said, “and it won’t be any harm. There are plenty of others who will shoot to kill.”

I could see that Whitestone was right about the others. Most of them were from the mountains of Virginia and Pennsylvania, backwoodsmen and trained Indian fighters, who thought it right to shoot an enemy from ambush. In truth this was a sort of business they rather enjoyed, as it was directly in their line.

As I held some official rank I was in a certain sense above the others, though I was not their commander, each man knowing well what he was about and doing what he chose, which was to shoot plump at the first human being that appeared on the dead line. A thin, active Virginian had climbed a tree in order to get a better aim, and shot with deadly effect from its boughs.

I sat down behind a clump of earth and examined my rifle.

“Look across there,” said Whitestone, pointing to the open space.

I did so, and for the second time that day I shuddered. Prone upon the ground were three bodies in the well-known English uniform. A pail lay beside one of them. I knew without the telling of it that those men had fallen in their attempt to reach the water which flowed by—millions and millions of gallons—just out of reach.

“It’s rather dull now; nobody’s tried to pass the dead line for an hour,” said Bucks, a man from the mountains of western Pennsylvania, with a face of copper like an Indian’s.

“Did any one succeed in passing?” I asked.

“Pass!” said Bucks, laughing. “What do you reckon we’re here for? No sirree! The river is just as full as ever.”

There was an unpleasant ring in the man’s voice which gave me a further distaste for the work in hand. Our position was well adapted to our task. The hill was broken with low outcroppings of stone and small ridges. So long as we exercised moderate caution we could aim and shoot in comparative safety. Bucks spoke my thoughts when he said:

“It’s just like shooting deer at a salt lick.”

But the dullness continued. Those red-clad bodies, two of them with their faces upturned to the sun, were a terrible warning to the others not to make the trial. Two of our men, finding time heavy, produced a worn pack of cards and began to play old sledge, their rifles lying beside them.

The waters of the broad river glittered in the sun. Now and then a fish leaped up and shot back like a flash, leaving the bubbles to tell where he had gone. The spatter of musketry around the circle of the British camp had become so much a habit that one noticed it only when it ceased for the time. The white rings of smoke from the burnt powder floated away, peaceful little clouds, and, like patches of snow against the blue sky, helped out the beauty of an early autumn day.

All of us were silent except the two men playing cards. I half closed my eyes, for the sun was bright and the air was warm, and gave myself up to lazy, vague thought. I was very glad that we had nothing to do, and even should the time to act come, I resolved that I would follow Whitestone’s hint.

The two men playing cards became absorbed in the game. One threw down a card and uttered a cry of triumph.

“Caught your Jack!”

“All right,” said the other; “it’s only two for you, your low, Jack against my high, game. I’m even with you.”

I became interested. I was lying on my back with my head on a soft bunch of turf. I raised up a little that I might see these players, who could forget such a business as theirs in a game of cards. Their faces were sharp and eager, and when they picked up the cards I could tell by their expression whether they were good or bad.

“Four and four,” said one, “and this hand settles the business. Five’s the game.”

The other began to deal the cards, but a rifle was fired so close to my ear that the sound was that of a cannon. The echo ceasing, I heard Bucks and the man in the tree swearing profusely at each other.

“He’s mine, I tell you!” said Bucks.

“It was my bullet that did it!” said the man in the tree with equal emphasis.

“I guess it was both of you,” put in Whitestone. “You fired so close together I heard only one shot, but I reckon both bullets counted.”

This seemed to pacify them. I looked over the little ridge of earth before us, and saw a fourth red-clad body lying on the greensward near the river. It was as still as the others.

“He made a dash for the water,” said Whitestone, who caught my eye, “but the lead overtook him before he was halfway.”

The two men put aside their cards, business being resumed; but after this attempt we lay idle a long time. Bucks, who had an infernal zeal, never took his eyes off the greensward save to look at the priming of his gun.

“I could hit the mark at least twenty yards farther than that,” he said to me confidently.

Noon came, and I hoped I would be relieved of this duty, but it was not so. It seemed that it would be an all-day task. The men took some bread and cold meat from their pouches and we ate. When the last crumb fell, a man appeared at the edge of the greensward and held up his hands. Bucks’s finger was already on the trigger of his gun, but I made him stop. The man’s gesture meant something, and, moreover, I saw that he was unarmed. I called also to the Virginian in the tree to hold his fire.

I thought I knew the meaning of the pantomime. I took my rifle and turned the muzzle of it to the earth so conspicuously that the Englishman, who was holding up his hands, could not fail to see. When he saw, he advanced boldly, and laying hold of one of the bodies dragged it away. He returned for a second, and a third, and then a fourth, and when he had taken the last he did not come back again.

“That’s a good job well done!” I said with much relief when the last of the fallen men had been taken away. It was much pleasanter to look at the greensward now, since there was no red spot upon it. I said to Whitestone that I thought the English would not make the trial again.

“They will,” he replied. “They must have water, and maybe they don’t know even yet what kind of riflemen we have.”

Whitestone was right. In a half hour a man appeared protecting his body with a heavy board as long as himself. He moved with slowness and awkwardness, but two or three bullets fired into the board seemed to make no impression.

“At any rate, if he reaches the river and gets back all right it’s too slow a way to slake the thirst of many,” said Whitestone in the tone of a philosopher.

Bucks’s face puffed out with anger.

“They mustn’t get a drop!” he said with the freedom of a backwoodsman. “We’re to keep ’em from it; that’s what we’re here for.”

The man looked fierce in his wrath and I did not reprove him, for after all he was right, though not very polite.

The man in the tree fired, and a tiny patch of red cloth flew into the air. The bullet had cut his clothes, but it could not reach the man, who continued to shamble behind his board toward the river.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to stop him,” I said to Bucks.

Bucks had crawled to the edge of the hill and was watching with the ferocity and rancor of a savage for a chance to shoot. Often I think that these men who live out in the forests among the savages learn to share their nature.

I could not see because of the board, but I guessed that the man carried a bucket, or pail, in one hand. In truth I was right, for presently a corner of the pail appeared, and it was struck instantly by a bullet from the rifle of the man in the tree.

“At any rate, we’ve sprung a leak in his pail for him,” said Whitestone.

I began to take much interest in the matter. Not intending it, I felt like a hunter in pursuit of a wary animal. My scruples were forgotten for the moment. I found myself sighting along the barrel of my rifle seeking a shot. The Englishman had ceased for me to be a human being like myself. I caught a glimpse of a red-coat sleeve at the edge of the board and would have fired, but as my finger touched the trigger it disappeared and I held back. Whitestone was at my shoulder, the same eagerness showing on his face. The man in the tree had squirmed like a snake far out on the bough, and was seeking for a shot over the top of the board.

The Englishman trailed himself and his protecting board along, and was within a yard of the water. Over the earthwork at the edge of the British camp the men were watching him. His friends were as eager for his success as we were to slay him. It was a rivalry that incited in us a stronger desire to reach him with the lead. In such a competition a man’s life becomes a very small pawn. For us the Englishmen had become a target, and nothing more.

Bucks was the most eager of us. He showed his teeth like a wolf.

The Englishman reached the water and stooped over to fill his pail. Bending, he forgot himself and thrust his head beyond the board. With a quickness that I have never seen surpassed, Bucks threw up his rifle and fired. The Englishman fell into the water as dead as a stone, and, his board and his pail falling too, floated off down the stream.

I uttered a cry of triumph, and then clapped my hand in shame. over my mouth. The water pulling at the Englishman’s body took it out into the deeper stream, and it too floated away.

The zest of the chase was gone for me in an instant, and I felt only a kind of pitying horror. Never before in my life had I been assigned to work so hateful.

Bucks crawled back all a-grin. I turned my back to him while he received the praise of the man in the tree. It was evident to me that nobody could cross the dead line in the face of such sharpshooters, and I hoped the British saw the fact as well as we.

Our enemies must have been very hard pressed, for after a while another man tried the risk of the greensward. He came out only a few feet, and when a bullet clipped right under his feet he turned and fled back, which drew some words of scorn from Bucks, but which seemed to me to be a very wise and timely act.

I thought that this would be the last trial, but Whitestone again disagreed with me.

“When men are burning up with thirst and see a river full of water running by, they’ll try mighty hard to get to that river,” he said.

The sergeant’s logic looked good, but for a full hour it failed. I felt sleepy, again, but was aroused by the man in the tree dropping some twigs, one of which struck me in the face.

“They’re going to try it again,” he said.

As I have remarked, we could see a small earthwork which the British had thrown up, and whoever tried to pass the dead line would be sure to come from that point. The man in the tree had a better view than we, and I guessed that he saw heads coming over the earthwork.

Among our men was a slight bustle that told of preparation, a last look at the flints, a shoving forward for a better position. I looked at my own rifle, but I resolved that I would not allow zeal to overcome me again. I would remember Whitestone’s suggestion and fire into the air, leaving the real work to Bucks and the others, who would be glad enough to do it. I saw the flutter of a garment at the earthwork and some one came over. The man on the bough above me uttered a cry, to which I gave the echo. All the blood in me seemed to rush to my head.

Kate Van Auken, carrying a large bucket in her hand, stepped upon the greensward and walked very calmly toward the river, not once turning her eyes toward the hill where she knew the sharpshooters lay. Behind her came a strapping, bare-armed Englishwoman, who looked like a corporal’s wife, and then four more women, carrying buckets or pails.

Bucks raised his rifle and began to take aim.

I sprang up and dashed his rifle aside. I am afraid I swore at him too. I hope I did.

“What are you about, Bucks?” I cried. “Would you shoot a woman?”

“Mr. Shelby,” he replied very coolly, “we’re put here to keep the British from that water, man or woman. What’s a woman’s life to the fate of a whole army? You may outrank me, but you don’t command me in this case, and I’m going to shoot.”

I stooped down and with a sudden movement snatched the gun from his grasp.

“Don’t mind it, Bucks,” said the man in the tree; “I’ll shoot.”

“If you do,” I cried, “I’ll put a bullet through you the next moment.”

“And if you should chance to miss,” said Whitestone, coming up beside me, “I’ve a bullet in my gun for the same man.”

The man in the tree was no martyr, nor wanting to be, and he cried out to us that he would not shoot. In proof of it he took his gunstock from his shoulder. The other men did nothing, waiting upon my movements.

“Bucks,” I said, “if I give you your gun, do you promise not to shoot at those women?”

“Do you take all the responsibility?”

“Certainly.”

“Give me my gun. I won’t use it.”

I handed him his rifle, which he took in silence. I don’t think Bucks was a bad man, merely one borne along by an excess of zeal. He has thanked me since for restraining him. The women, Kate still leading them, filled their buckets and pails at the river and walked back to the camp with the same calm and even step. Again and again was this repeated, and many a fever-burnt throat in the besieged camp must have been grateful. I felt a glow when I sent a messenger to our colonel with word of what I had done and he returned with a full indorsement. How could our officers have done otherwise?

I was sorry I could not get a better view of Kate Van Auken’s face. But she never turned it our way. Apparently she was ignorant of our existence, though, of course, it was but a pretense, and she knew that a dozen of the best marksmen in America lay on the hill within easy range of her comrades and herself.

“There’s but one thing more for you to do, Mr. Shelby,” whispered Whitestone.

“What’s that?”

“Save the life of madame, her mother. She’s the only one yet unsaved by you.”

“I will, Whitestone,” I replied, “if I get the chance.”

After a while, though late, the women ceased to come for the water. Presently the sun went down and that day’s work was done.

My belief that Chudleigh was a very fortunate man was deepening.

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