THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH.
Having returned, I expected to share in the pursuit of Burgoyne,
and wondered to what particular duty I would be assigned. But a man
never knows at seven o’clock what he will be doing at eight o’clock,
and before eight o’clock had come I was called by the colonel of our
regiment.
“Mr. Shelby,” he said, “you have already shown yourself intelligent and
vigilant on important service.”
I listened, feeling sure that I was going to have something very
disagreeable to do. You can depend upon it when your superior begins
with formal flattery. I had just finished one important task, but the
more you do the more people expect of you.
“One of our prisoners has escaped,” he said; “a keen-witted man who
knows the country. He has escaped to the south. As you know so well,
Sir Henry Clinton is, or has been, advancing up the Hudson with a
strong force to the aid of Burgoyne, whom nothing else can save from
us. This man--this prisoner who has escaped--must not be permitted
to reach Clinton with the news that Burgoyne is almost done for. It
was important before the last battle that no messenger from Burgoyne
should pass through our lines; it is still more important to-day. You
understand?”
I bowed, as a sign that I understood.
“This escaped prisoner knows everything that has happened,” he resumed,
“and he must be overtaken. He will probably follow the direct road
along the river, as he knows that haste is necessary. How many men do
you want?”
I named Whitestone and a private, a strong, ready-witted fellow named
Adams.
“What is the name of the man we are to capture?” I asked.
“Chudleigh--Captain Ralph Chudleigh,” he replied. “A tall man, dark
hair and eyes, twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age. Do you know
him?”
I replied that I knew him.
“So much the better,” said our colonel with much delight. “Aside from
your other qualifications, Mr. Shelby, you are the man of all men for
this duty. Chudleigh will undoubtedly attempt to disguise himself, but
since you know him so well he can scarce hide his face from you. But
remember that he must be taken, dead or alive.”
I had not much relish for the mission in the first place, and, for
reasons, less relish when I knew that Chudleigh was the man whom I was
to take. But in such affairs as these it is permitted to the soldier to
choose only the one thing, and that is, to obey.
We set out at once over the same road we had traveled twice so
recently. Three good horses had been furnished us, and we were well
armed. For a while we rode southward with much speed, and soon left
behind us the last detachment of our beleaguering army.
One question perplexed me: Would Chudleigh be in his own British
uniform, which he wore when he escaped, or did he manage to take away
with him some rags of Continental attire, in which he would clothe
himself first chance? I could answer it only by watching for all men
of suspicious appearance, no matter the cut or color of their clothing.
We galloped along a fair road, but we met no one. Quiet travelers shun
ground trodden by armies. It was past the noon hour when we came to a
small house not far from the roadside. We found the farmer who owned
it at home, and in answer to our questions, fairly spoken, he said
three men had passed that day, two going north and one going south, all
dressed as ordinary citizens. I was particularly interested in the one
going south, and asked more about him.
“He was tall, dark, and young,” said the farmer. “He looked like a man
of small consequence, for his clothing was ragged and his face not
overclean. He wanted food, and he ate with much appetite.”
I asked if the man had paid for his dinner, and the farmer showed me
silver fresh from the British mint. I could well believe that this was
Chudleigh. However wary and circumspect he might be he was bound to
have food, and he could find it only by going to the houses he saw on
his southern journey.
I was confirmed in my belief an hour later, when we met a countryman
on foot, who at first evinced a great desire to run away from us, but
who stopped, seeing our uniforms. He explained that he knew not whom
to trust, for a short while before he was riding like ourselves; now
he had no horse; a ragged man meeting him in the road had presented a
pistol at his head and ordered him to give up his horse, which he did
with much promptness, as the man’s finger lay very caressingly upon the
trigger of the pistol.
“That was Chudleigh without doubt,” I said to Whitestone, “and since he
also is now mounted we must have a race for it.”
He agreed with me, and we whipped our horses into a gallop again. In
reality I had not much acquaintance with Chudleigh, but I trusted that
I would know his face anywhere. Secure in this belief we pressed on.
“Unless he’s left the road to hide--and that’s not probable, for he
can’t afford delay--we ought to overhaul him soon,” said Whitestone.
The road led up and down a series of lightly undulating hills. Just
when we reached one crest we saw the back of a horseman on the
next crest, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. By a species of
intuition I knew that it was Chudleigh. Aside from my intuition, all
the probabilities indicated Chudleigh, for we had the word of the
dismounted farmer that his lead of us was but short.
“That’s our man!” exclaimed Whitestone, echoing our thought.
As if by the same impulse, all three of us clapped spur to horse, and
forward we went at a gallop that sent the wind rushing past us. We
were much too far away for the fugitive to hear the hoof-beats of our
horses, but by chance, I suppose, he happened to look back and saw us
coming at a pace that indicated zeal. I saw him give his mount a great
kick in the side, and the horse bounded forward so promptly that in
thirty seconds the curve of the hill hid both horse and rider from
our view. But that was not a matter discouraging to us. The river was
on one side of us not far away, and on the other cultivated fields
inclosed with fences. Chudleigh could not leave the road unless he
dismounted. He was bound to do one of two things, outgallop us or yield.
We descended our hill and soon rose upon the slope of Chudleigh’s.
When we reached the crest, we saw him in the hollow beyond urging his
horse to its best speed. He was bent far over upon the animal’s neck,
and occasionally he gave him lusty kicks in the side. It was evident
to us that whatever speed might be in that horse Chudleigh would get
it out of him. And so would I, thought I, if I were in his place. A
fugitive could scarce have more inducement than Chudleigh to escape.
Measuring the distance with my eye, I concluded that we had gained a
little. I drew from it the inference that we would certainly overtake
him. Moreover, Chudleigh was making the mistake of pushing his horse
too hard at the start.
It is better to pursue than to be pursued, and a great elation of
spirits seized me. The cool air rushing into my face and past my ears
put bubbles in my blood.
“This beats watching houses in the night, does it not, Whitestone?” I
said.
“Aye, truly,” replied the sober sergeant, “unless he has a pistol and
concludes to use it.”
“We will not fire until he does, or shows intent to do so,” I said.
Whitestone and Adams nodded assent, and we eased our horses a bit that
we might save their strength and speed. This maneuver enabled the
fugitive to gain slightly upon us, but we felt no alarm; instead we
were encouraged, for his horse was sure to become blown before ours put
forth their best efforts.
Chudleigh raised up once to look back at us. Of course it was too far
for us to see the expression of his face, but in my imagination anxiety
was plainly writ there.
“How long a race will it be, do you think?” I asked Whitestone.
“About four miles,” he said, “unless a stumble upsets our calculations,
and I don’t think we’ll have the latter, for the road looks smooth all
the way.”
The fugitive began to kick his horse with more frequency, which
indicated increased anxiety.
“It won’t be four miles,” I said to Whitestone.
“You’re right,” he replied; “maybe not three.”
In truth it looked as if Whitestone’s second thought were right. We
began to gain without the necessity of urging our horses. Chudleigh
already had driven his own animal to exhaustion. I doubted if the race
would be a matter of two miles. I wondered why he did not try a shot
at us with his pistols. Bullets are often great checks to the speed of
pursuers, and Chudleigh must have known it.
At the end of a mile we were gaining so rapidly that we could have
reached the fugitive with a pistol ball, but I was averse to such rude
methods, doubly so since he showed no intent on his own part to resort
to them.
A half mile ahead of us I saw a small house in a field by the roadside,
but I took no thought of it until Chudleigh reached a parallel point in
the road; then we were surprised to see him leap to the ground, leave
his horse to go where it would, climb the fence, and rush toward the
house. He pushed the door open, ran in, and closed it behind him.
I concluded that he had given up all hope of escape except through a
desperate defense, and I made hasty disposition of my small command. I
was to approach the house from one side, Whitestone from another, and
Adams from a third.
We hitched our horses and began our siege of the house, from which no
sound issued. I approached from the front, using a fence as shelter.
When I was within half a pistol shot the door of the house was thrown
open with much force and rudeness, and a large woman, a cocked musket
in her hand and anger on her face, appeared. She saw me, and began to
berate me rapidly and wrathfully, at the same time making threatening
movements with the musket. She cried out that she had small use for
those who were Tories now and Americans then, and robbers and murderers
always. I explained that we were American soldiers in pursuit of an
escaped prisoner of importance who had taken refuge in her house, and
commanded her to stand aside and let us pass.
For answer she berated me more than ever, saying that it was but a
pretext about a prisoner, and her husband was a better American than
we. That put a most uncomfortable suspicion in my mind, and, summoning
Whitestone, we held parley with her.
“You have pursued my husband until there is scarce a breath left in his
body,” she said.
Whereupon, having pacified her to some extent, we went into the house
and found that she spoke the truth. Her husband was stretched upon a
bed quite out of breath, in part from his gallop and more from fright.
We could scarce persuade him that we were not those outlaws who
belonged to neither army but who preyed upon whomsoever they could.
Making such brief apologies as the time allowed, we mounted our horses
and resumed the search.
“It was a mistake,” said Whitestone.
I admitted that he spoke the truth, and resolved I would trust no more
to intuitions, which are sent but to deceive us.
Anxiety now took me in a strong grip. Our mistaken chase had caused
us to come very fast, and since we saw nothing of Chudleigh, I feared
lest we had passed him in some manner. It therefore cheered me much, a
half hour later, when I saw a stout man, whom I took to be a farmer,
jogging comfortably toward us on a stout nag as comfortable-looking as
himself. He was not like the other, suspicious and afraid, and I was
glad of it, for I said to myself that here was a man of steady habit
and intelligence, a man who would tell us the truth and tell it clearly.
He came on in most peaceable and assuring fashion, as if not a soldier
were within a thousand miles of him. I hailed him, and he replied with
a pleasant salutation.
“Have you met a man riding southward?” I said.
“What kind of a man?” he asked.
“A large man in citizen’s dress,” I replied.
“Young, or old?”
“Young--twenty-six or twenty-eight.”
“Anything else special about him?”
“Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion; his horse probably very tired.”
“What do you want with this man?” he asked, stroking a red whisker with
a contemplative hand.
“He is an escaped prisoner,” I replied, “and it is of the greatest
importance that we recapture him.”
“Did you say he was rather young? Looked like he might be six and
twenty or eight and twenty?” he asked.
“Yes, that is he,” I said eagerly.
“Tall, rather large?”
“The very man.”
“Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion?”
“Exactly! Exactly!”
“His horse very tired?”
“Our man beyond a doubt! Which way did he go?”
“Gentlemen, I never saw or heard of such a man,” he replied gravely,
laying switch to his horse and riding on.
We resumed our journey, vexation keeping us silent for some time.
“Our second mistake,” said Whitestone at length.
As I did not answer, he added:
“But the third time means luck.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. My disbelief in signs and omens was confirmed
by the failure of my intuition.