A NIGHT UNDER FIRE.
The shouting begat curiosity in us all, and we left the tent, the
elderly officer leading. I perceived at once that the noise came from
our lines, which were pushed up very close to those of the British and
were within plain hearing distance. Among the trees and bushes, which
were very dense at points, I could see in the brilliant sunshine the
flash of rifle barrel and the gleam of uniform. The shouting was great
in volume, swelling like a torrent rising to the flood.
I remained by the side of the old officer. He seemed anxious.
“What is it? What can that mean? It must be something important,” he
asked as much of himself as of me.
The reply was ready for him, as some English skirmishers came forward
with an American prisoner whom they had taken but a few moments
before. The man was but a common soldier, ragged, but intelligent. The
officer put to him his question about the shouting, which had not yet
subsided.
“That was a welcome,” said the prisoner.
“A welcome! What do you mean by that?”
“Simply that more re-enforcements have come from the south.”
The officer grew even graver.
“More men always coming for them and never any for us,” he said, almost
under his breath.
I had it in mind to suggest that I be returned at once to my own
army, but the arrival of the troops or other cause created a sudden
recrudescence of the skirmishing. Piff-paff chanted the rifles; zip-zip
chirped the bullets. Little blades of flame spurted up among the
bushes, and above them rose the white curls of smoke like baby clouds.
On both sides the riflemen were at work.
The officer looked about him as if he intended to give some special
orders, and then seemed to think better of it. A bullet passed through
the tent we had just left. I felt that my American uniform took me out
of the list of targets.
“Your sharpshooters seem to have come closer,” said the officer. “Their
bullets fell short this morning. I will admit they are good men with
the rifle--better than ours.”
“These are countrymen,” I said. “They have been trained through boyhood
to the use of the rifle.”
I was looking at the fringe of trees and bushes which half hid our
lines. Amid the boughs of a tall tree whose foliage was yet untouched
by autumn I saw what I took to be a man’s figure; but the leaves were
so dense and so green I was not sure. Moreover, the man, if man it
was, seemed to wear clothing of the hue of the leaves. I decided I was
mistaken; then I knew I had been right at first guess, for I saw the
green body within the green curtain of leaves move out upon a bough and
raise its head a little. The sun flashed upon a rifle barrel, and the
next instant the familiar curl of white smoke rose from its muzzle.
The officer had opened his mouth to speak to me, but the words remained
unspoken. His face went pale as if all the blood had suddenly gone
out of him, and he flopped down like an emptied bag at my feet, shot
through the heart.
I was seized with a shivering horror. He was talking to me one moment
and dead the next. His fall, seen by so many, created a confusion in
the British lines. Several rushed forward to seize the body and carry
it away. Just as the first man reached it, he too was slain by a hidden
sharpshooter, and the two bodies lay side by side.
Acting from impulse rather than thought, I lifted the officer by the
shoulders and began to drag him back into the camp. Whether or not my
uniform protected me I can not say, but I was hit by no bullet, though
the skirmishing became so sharp and so hot that it rose almost to the
dignity of a battle. The officer’s body was withdrawn beyond the range
of the sharpshooting and placed in a tent. Though he had sought to
entrap me he had made handsome apology therefor, and I mourned him as I
would a friend. Why should men filled with mutual respect be compelled
to shoot each other?
Albert came to me there, and said in a very cold voice:
“Dick, this sudden outburst will compel you to remain our guest some
time longer--perhaps through the night.”
I turned my back upon him, and when he left I do not know, but when I
looked that way again he was gone, for which I was in truth very glad.
Yet I would have liked to ask him about Kate and her mother. I wondered
if they were safe from the stray bullets of the sharpshooters.
In the stir of this strife at long range I seemed to be forgotten by
the British, as I had been forgotten by my own people. My Continental
uniform was none of the brightest, and even those who noticed it
apparently took me for a privileged prisoner. When I left the tent in
which the officer’s body lay I came back toward the American army, but
the patter of the bullets grew so lively around me that I retreated. It
is bad enough to be killed by an enemy, I imagine, but still worse to
be killed by a friend.
The day was growing old and the night would soon be at hand. Our
sharpshooters held such good positions that they swept most of the
British camp. I do not claim to be a great military man, but I was
convinced that if the British did not dislodge these sharpshooters
their position would become untenable. The night, so far from serving
them, would rather be a benefit to their enemies, for the lights in the
British camp would guide the bullets of the hidden riflemen to their
targets.
The bustle in the camp increased, and I observed that details of men
were sent to the front. They took off their bright coats, which were
fine marks for the riflemen, and it was evident that they intended to
match our sharpshooters at their own business. Many of these men were
Germans, who, I have heard, have always been accounted good marksmen in
Europe.
Nobody caring about me, I took position on a little knoll where I could
see and yet be beyond range. The sun, as if wishing to do his best
before going down, was shining with marvelous brilliancy. The incessant
pit-pat of the rifle fire, like the crackling of hail, drew all eyes
toward the American line. It seemed to me that only the speedy coming
of the night could prevent a great battle.
The crackling flared up suddenly into a volley, betokening the arrival
of the fresh British skirmishers at the point of action. The little
white curls of smoke were gathering together and forming a great cloud
overhead. Presently some wounded were taken past.
There was a movement and gathering of men near me. Quite a body of
soldiers, a company, it seemed, were drawn up. Then, with fixed
bayonets, they advanced upon the American line. I guessed that the
skirmishers were intended to attract the attention of our people, while
this company hoped to clear the woods of the sharpshooters and release
the British camp from their galling fire. The British advanced with
gallantry. I give them credit for that always--that is, nearly always.
The firing had reached an exceeding degree of activity, but I did
not see any man in the company fall. By this I concluded that their
skirmishers were keeping our own busy, and I was in some apprehension
lest this strong squad should fall suddenly and with much force upon
our outposts. Forward they went at a most lively pace and preserving a
very even rank, their bayonets shining brightly in the late sun. The
British boast much about their ability with the bayonet. We know less
about ours, because almost our only way of getting bayonets was to take
them from the British, which we did more than once.
Two or three British officers gathered on the knoll to watch the
movement. Among these was Captain Jervis, whom I liked well. He spoke
pleasantly to me, and said, pointing at the company which was now very
near to the wood:
“That charge, I think, is going to be a success, Mr. Shelby, and your
sharpshooters will find it more comfortable to keep a little farther
away from us.”
He spoke with a certain pride, as if he would hold our people a little
more cheaply than his own.
I made no reply, for another and better answer from a different source
was ready. There was a very vivid blaze from the wood and the crash of
a heavy volley. The head of the column was shattered, nay, crushed,
and the body of it reeled like a man to whom has been dealt a stunning
blow. It was apparent that our people had seen the movement and had
gathered in force in the wood to repel it, striking at the proper
moment.
The company rallied and advanced most bravely a second time to the
charge; but the flash of the rifles was so steady and so fast that the
woods seemed to be spouting fire. The British fell back quickly and
then broke into a discreet run into their own encampment.
“You will perceive,” said I to Captain Jervis, “that our people have
not yet retired for the night.”
He laughed a little, though on the wrong side of his mouth. I could see
that he felt chagrin, and so I said no more on that point.
As if by concert our sharpshooters also pushed up closer, and being so
much better at that business drove in those of Burgoyne. The Germans,
in particular, knowing but little of forests, fared badly.
Though I was neither in it nor of it, I felt much elation at our little
triumph. In truth the consequences, if not important of themselves,
were significant of greater things. They showed that Burgoyne’s
beleaguered battalions could rest hope only on two things, the arrival
of Clinton or victory in a pitched battle. But now Burgoyne could not
even protect his own camp. It was reached in many parts by the fire of
the sharpshooters drawn in a deadly ring around it. The night came, and
as far as possible the lights in the camp were put out, but the firing
went on, and no British sentinel was safe at his post.