21 The Messenger

I rose early the next morning, and my first wish was for duties other than keeping the enemy away from the water. I found Whitestone sitting on his camp blanket and smoking his pipe with an expression of deep-seated content.

“What are we to do to-day?” I asked him, for Whitestone usually knew everything.

“I haven’t heard of anything,” he replied. “Maybe we’ll rest. We deserve it, you and I.”

Whitestone has some egotism, though I do not undertake to criticise him for it.

It seemed that he was right, for we were like two men forgotten, which is a pleasant thing sometimes in the military life. Finding that we had nothing else to do, we walked toward the British camp, which, as a matter of course, was the great object of curiosity for all of us, and sat down just within the line of our sharpshooters. The zeal and activity of these gentlemen had relaxed in no particular, and the crackle of their rifles was a most familiar sound in our ears.

We had a good position and could note the distressed look of the British camp. The baggage wagons were drawn up with small reference to convenience and more to defense. The house, the cellar of which I knew to be inhabited by women, children, and severely wounded men, was so torn by cannon balls that the wind had a fair sweep through it in many places. Some of the soldiers walking about seemed to us at the distance to be drooping and dejected. Yet they made resistance, and their skirmishers were replying to ours, though but feebly.

While I was watching the house I saw three or four officers in very brilliant uniforms come out. After a few steps they stopped and stood talking together with what seemed to be great earnestness. These men were generals, I was sure; their uniforms indicated it, and I guessed they had been holding conference. It must be a matter of importance or they would not stop on their way from it to talk again. I directed Whitestone’s attention, but he was looking already.

“Something’s up,” I said. “Maybe they are planning an attack upon us.”

“Not likely,” he replied. “It may be something altogether different.”

I knew what was running through his mind, and I more than half agreed with him.

The generals passed into a large tent, which must have been that of Burgoyne himself; but in a minute or two an officer came and took his way toward our camp. He was a tall, fine fellow, rather young, and bore himself with much dignity. Of a certainty he had on his finest uniform, for he was dressed as if for the eye of woman. His epaulets and his buttons flashed back the sun’s rays, and his coat was a blaze of scarlet.

The officer drew the attention of other eyes than Whitestone’s and mine. In the British camp they seemed to know what he was about, or guessed it. I could see the people drawing together in groups and looking at him, and then speaking to each other, which always indicates great interest. An officer with gray hair whom he passed looked after him, and then covered his face with his hands.

The officer came on with a steady and regular step to the earthwork, where he paused for a moment.

“It may be,” said Whitestone, “that you and I were the first to see the beginning of a great event.”

The officer stepped upon the earthwork, raising a piece of white cloth in his hand. The fire of the sharpshooters ceased with such suddenness that my ear, accustomed to the sound, was startled at the lack of it.

“I think you’ve guessed right,” I said to Whitestone.

He made no reply, but drew a deep breath at his pipe stem, and then let the smoke escape in a long white curl.

Some of the sharpshooters stepped from covert and looked curiously at the approaching officer.

“Whitestone,” I said, “since there is no committee of reception, let us make ourselves one.”

He took his pipe from his mouth and followed me. The murmur of the camps, the sound made by the voices of many men, increased. The officer came rapidly. Whitestone and I walked very slowly. He saw us, and, noting my subaltern’s uniform, took me for one dispatched to meet him.

When he came very near I saw that his face was frozen into the haughty expression of a man who wishes to conceal mortification. He said at once that he wished to see our commander in chief, and without question Whitestone and I took him to our colonel, who formed his escort to the tent of our commander in chief. Then we returned to our former place near the outposts.

“How long do you think it will take to arrange it?” I asked Whitestone.

“A day or two, at least,” he said. “The British will talk with as long a tongue as they can, hoping that Clinton may come yet, and, even if he don’t, there will be many things to settle.”

Whitestone was right, as he so often was. The generals soon met to talk, and we subalterns and soldiers relaxed. The rifles were put to rest, and I learned how little we hate our enemies sometimes. I saw one of our sentinels giving tobacco to a British sentinel, and they were swapping news over a log. Some officers sent in medicines for the wounded. No longer having fear of bullets, I walked up to the British outworks and looked over them into the camp. A Hessian sentinel shook his gun at me and growled something in his throaty tongue. I laughed at him, and he put his gun back on his shoulder. I strolled on, and some one hailed me with a familiar voice. It was Albert Van Auken.

“Hello, Dick!” said he. “Have you folks surrendered yet? How long are these preliminaries to last?”

He was looking quite fresh and gay, and, if the truth be told, I was glad to see him.

“No,” I replied, “we have not surrendered yet, and we may change our minds about it.”

“That would be too bad,” he replied, “after all our trouble—after defeating you in battle, and then hemming you in so thoroughly as we have done.”

“So it would,” I said. “Sit down and talk seriously. Are your mother and sister well?”

“Well enough,” he replied, “though badly frightened by your impertinent cannon balls.”

He sat down on a mound of earth thrown up by British spades, and I came quite close to him. Nobody paid any attention to us.

“How goes it with Captain Chudleigh?” I asked.

“Poor Chudleigh!” said Albert. “He’s lying in the cellar over there, with a ball through his shoulder sent by one of your infernal sharpshooters.”

“Is it bad?” I asked.

“Yes, very,” he replied. “He may live, or he may die. Kate’s nursing him.”

Well, at any rate, I thought, Chudleigh is fortunate in his nurse; there would have been no such luck for me. But I kept the thought to myself.

“Albert,” I asked, “what did your officers say to you when I brought you back?”

“Dick,” he replied, “let’s take an oath of secrecy on that point even from each other.”

For his part he kept the oath.

I could not withhold one more gibe.

“Albert,” I asked, “what do you Tories say now to the capture of an entire British army by us ragged Continentals?”

He flushed very red.

“You haven’t done it,” he replied. “Clinton will come yet.”

We talked a little further, and then he went back into his camp.

The talk of the generals lasted all that day and the next, and was still of spirit and endurance on the third. We soldiers and subalterns, having little to do, cultivated the acquaintance of the enemy whom we had fought so long. Some very lively conversations were carried on across the earthworks, though, of course, we never went into their camp, nor did they come into ours.

On the third day, when I turned away after exchanging some civilities with a very courteous Englishman, I met a common-looking man whose uniform was a Continental coat, distressingly ragged and faded, the remainder of his costume being of gray homespun. He nodded as he passed me, and strolled very close to the British lines. In fact, he went so close that he seemed to me to intend going in. Thinking he was an ignorant fellow who might get into trouble by such an act, I hailed him and demanded where he was going.

He came back, and laughed in a sheepish way.

“I thought it was no harm,” he said.

“I have no doubt you meant none,” I said, “but you must not go into their camp.”

He bowed very humbly and walked away. His submission so ready and easy attracted my notice, for our soldiers were of a somewhat independent character. I watched him, and noticed that he walked in the swift, direct manner of a man who knows exactly where he is going. Being a bit curious, and having nothing else in particular to do, I followed him at a convenient distance.

He moved three or four hundred yards around the circle of our camp until he came to a place beyond sight of that at which I had stood when I hailed him. The same freedom and ease of communication between the two armies prevailed there.

My man sauntered up in the most careless way, looking about him in the inquisitive fashion of a rustic soldier; but I noted that his general course, however much it zigzagged, was toward the British. I came up much closer. He was within a yard of the British lines and our men were giving him no heed. I felt sure that in a few moments more, if no one interfered, he would be in the British camp. I stepped forward and called to him.

He started in a manner that indicated alarm, and, of course, recognized my face, which he had seen scarce two minutes before. I asked him very roughly why he was trying so hard to steal into the British camp.

“It’s true,” he said, “I was trying to go in there, but I have a good excuse.”

I demanded his excuse.

“I have a brother in there, a Tory,” he said, “and I’ve heard that he’s wounded. Everybody says Burgoyne will surrender in a few hours, and I thought it no harm to go in and see my brother.”

What he said seemed reasonable. I could readily understand his anxiety on his brother’s account. He spoke with such an air of sincerity that I had no heart to scold him; so I told him not to make the attempt again, and if the tale that Burgoyne was to surrender in a few hours was true, he would not have long to wait.

Yet I had a small suspicion left, and I decided to humor it. If there was anything wrong about the man he would watch me, I knew, after two such encounters. I wandered back into our camp as if I had nothing on my mind, though I did not lose sight of him. Among crowds of soldiers there I had the advantage of him, for I could see him and he could not see me.

He idled about a while, and then began to move around the circle of our camp inclosing the British camp. I was glad that I had continued to watch him. Either this man was overwhelmingly anxious about his brother, or he had mischief in mind. I followed him, taking care that he should not see me. Thus engaged, I met Whitestone, who told me something, though I did not stop to hold converse with him about it, not wishing to lose my man.

The fellow made a much wider circle than before, and frequently looked behind him; but he stopped at last and began to approach the British line. There was nobody, at least from our army, within thirty or forty yards of him except myself, and by good luck I was able to find some inequalities of the ground which concealed me.

A British sentinel was standing in a lazy attitude, and my man approached and hailed him in a friendly manner. The Englishman replied in the same tone.

“Can I go in there?” asked the man, pointing to the British camp.

“You can go in,” replied the sentinel with some humor, “but you can’t come out again.”

“I don’t want to come out again,” replied the man.

“You chose a curious time to desert,” said the sentinel with a sneer, “but it’s none of my business.”

The man was about to enter, but I stepped forward quickly, drawing my pistol as I did so. He saw me and raised his hand, as if he too would draw a weapon, but I had him under the muzzle of my pistol and threatened to shoot him if he made resistance. Thereupon he played the part of wisdom and was quiet.

“I will take care of this deserter,” I said to the English sentinel.

“I told him it was none of my business, and I tell you the same,” the sentinel said, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re not fighting now. Only don’t shoot the poor devil.”

“March!” I said to the man, still covering him with my pistol.

“Where?” he asked.

“To the little clump of woods yonder,” I said. “I have something to say to you.”

The fellow had hard, strong features, and his countenance did not fall.

He wheeled about and marched toward the wood. I followed close behind, the pistol in my hand. I had chosen my course with my eyes open. Our people were not near, and we reached the trees without interruption or notice. In their shelter the man turned about.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in sullen, obstinate tones.

“Your papers,” I said; “the message you were trying to carry into the British camp.”

“I have no papers; I was not trying to carry anything into the British camp,” he replied, edging a little closer.

“Keep off!” I said, foreseeing his intent. “If you come an inch nearer I will put a pistol ball through you. Stand farther away!”

He stepped back.

“Now give me that letter, or whatever you have,” I said. “It is useless to deny that you have something. If you don’t give it to me, I will take you into the camp and have you stripped and searched by the soldiers. It will be better for you to do as I say.”

Evidently he believed me, for he thrust his hand inside his waistcoat and pulled out a crumpled letter, which he handed to me. Keeping one eye on him I read the letter with the other eye, and found I had not been deceived in my guess. It was from Sir Henry Clinton to Sir John Burgoyne, telling him to hold out for certain rescue. Sir Henry said he was within a short distance of Albany with a strong force, and expected to join Sir John soon and help him crush all the rebel forces.

“This is important,” I said.

“Very,” said the man.

“It might have changed the fate of the campaign had you reached General Burgoyne with it,” I said.

“Undoubtedly it would have done so,” he replied.

“Well, it wouldn’t.”

“That is a matter of opinion.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“The campaign is ended. Burgoyne surrendered a half hour ago.”

Which was true, for Whitestone, with his skill in finding out things before other people, had told me.

“I’m very sorry,” said the man in tones of sharp disappointment.

“I’m not,” I said.

“What do you mean to have done with me?” he asked—“hanging, or shooting?”

I did not admire the man, but I respected his courage.

“Neither,” I replied. “You can’t do any harm now. Be off!”

He looked surprised, but he thanked me and walked away.

It was unmilitary, but it has always been approved by my conscience, for which I alone am responsible.

►   ▲