THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH.
We climbed up the bank, and sat for some time drying in the sun. We
were wet, and, moreover, had drunk large quantities of the Hudson
River. As a regular thing, I prefer dry land as a place of inhabitation.
While the sun dried our bodies and clothing I was thinking. Though I
had taken my man, and that, too, single-handed, my position was not the
best in the world. I was now on the wrong side of the river, and I had
lost my weapons and my comrades. Also I was hungry.
“Chudleigh,” I asked, “are you hungry?”
“Rather,” he replied with emphasis.
“How are we to get something to eat?” I asked.
“That’s your affair, not mine,” he replied. “I have nothing to do but
to remain captured.”
I thought I saw in him an inclination to be disagreeable, which, to
say the truth, was scarce the part of a gentleman after the handsome
fashion in which I had treated him. In the face of such ingratitude, I
resolved to use the privileges of my superior position.
“Are you about dry?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then get up and march.”
He seemed to resent my stern tone, but inasmuch as he had provoked it
he had no cause for complaint. If he intended to assert all the rights
of a prisoner, then I equally would assert all the rights of a captor.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Northward, along the river bank. Keep in front of me,” I said.
Obedient to my orders he stalked off at a pretty gait, and I followed.
We marched thus for half a mile. Chudleigh glanced back at me once or
twice. I seemed not to notice it, though I could guess what was passing
in his mind.
“If I hadn’t given my word,” he said, “I think I’d fight it out with
you, fist and skull.”
“I offered you the chance,” I said, “when we were in the river, but
you would not accept it. You’ve heard many wise sayings about lost
opportunities, and this proves the truth of them.”
“That’s so,” he said with a sigh of deep regret.
“Besides,” I added, in the way of consolation for his lost opportunity,
“you would gain nothing by it but bruises. I am larger and stronger
than you.”
He measured me with his eye and concluded that I spoke truth, for he
heaved another sigh, but of comfort.
“Now, Chudleigh,” I said, “a man can be a fool sometimes and lose
nothing, but he can’t be a fool all the time and gather the profits of
the earth. Drop back here with me and let us talk and act sensibly.”
He wrinkled his brow a moment or two, as if in thought, and accepted my
invitation. Whereupon we became very good companions.
In reality I felt as much trouble about Chudleigh as myself. It was
like the trouble I had felt on Albert’s account. He had penetrated our
lines in citizen’s clothes, and if I took him back to our camp in the
same attire he might be regarded as a spy, with all the unpleasant
consequences such a thing entails. Having spared Chudleigh’s life once
from scruples, I had no mind to lead him to the gallows. I must get a
British uniform for him, though how was more than I could tell. The
problem troubled me much.
But the advance of hunger soon drove thoughts of Chudleigh’s safety
out of my mind, and, stubborn Englishman though he was, he was fain to
confess that he too felt the desire for food. Along that side of the
river the settlements were but scant, and nowhere did we see a house.
That we would encounter Whitestone and Adams was beyond all
probability, for they would never surmise that we had crossed the
river. Chudleigh and I looked ruefully and hungrily at each other.
“Chudleigh,” I said, “you are more trouble a captive than a fugitive.”
“The responsibility is yours,” he said. “I decline to carry the burdens
of my captor. Find me something to eat.”
We trudged along for more than an hour, somewhat gloomy and the pains
of hunger increasing. I was about to call a halt, that we might rest
and that I might think about our difficulties, when I saw a column of
smoke rising above a hill. I called Chudleigh’s attention to it, and he
agreed with me that we ought to push on and see what it was.
I was convinced that friends must be at the bottom of that column of
smoke. If any British party had come so far north, which in itself was
improbable, it could scarce be so careless as to give to the Americans
plain warning of its presence.
It was a long walk, but we were cheered by the possibility that our
reward would be dinner. Chudleigh seemed to cherish some lingering hope
that it was a party of British or Tories who would rescue him, but I
told him to save himself such disappointments.
In a short time we came in view of those who had built the fire, and I
was delighted to find my surmise that they were Americans was correct.
They numbered some fifty or a hundred, and I guessed they were a
detachment on the way to join the northern army beleaguering Burgoyne.
“Chudleigh,” I said as we approached the first sentinel, “will you
promise to do all that I say?”
“Of course; I am your prisoner,” he replied.
I hailed the sentinel, and my uniform procured for me a friendly
reception. Chudleigh I introduced vaguely as a countryman traveling
northward with me. The men were eating, and I told them we were making
close acquaintance with starvation. They invited us to join them, and
we fell to with great promptitude.
I could tell them something about affairs at the north, and they could
give me the latest news from the south. They told me that Clinton
was still below Albany, hesitating and awaiting with impatience some
message from Burgoyne.
I rejoiced more than ever that I had stopped Chudleigh, and felt pride
in my exploit. I hope I can be pardoned for it. It was but natural that
Chudleigh’s emotions should be the opposite of mine, and I watched his
face to see how he would take this talk. It was easy enough to see
regret expressed there, though he sought to control himself.
The talk of these recruits was very bitter against the British. The
Indians with Burgoyne had committed many cruel deeds before they
fled back to Canada, and these countrymen were full of the passion
for revenge. I often think that if the British in London knew what
atrocities their red allies have committed in their wars with us they
would understand more easily why so many of us are inflamed against the
Englishman.
These men were rehearsing the latest murders by the Indians, and they
showed very plainly their desire to arrive at the front before Burgoyne
was taken. Nor did they spare the name of Englishman. I was sorry on
Chudleigh’s account that the talk had taken such drift. He took note of
it from the first, because his red face grew redder, and he squirmed
about in the manner which shows uneasiness.
“Chudleigh,” I whispered at a moment when the others were not looking,
“keep still. Remember you are my prisoner.”
But he sat there swelling and puffing like an angry cat.
While the others were denouncing them, I made some excuses, most
perfunctory, it is true, for the British; but this was only an
additional incitement to a bellicose man named Hicks. He damned the
British for every crime known to Satan. Chudleigh was so red in the
face I thought the blood would pop out through his cheeks, and, though
I shoved him warningly with my boot, he blurted out his wrath.
“The English are as good as anybody, sir, and you accuse them falsely!”
he said.
“What is it to you?” exclaimed Hicks, turning to him in surprise and
anger.
“I am an Englishman, sir,” said Chudleigh with ill-judged haughtiness,
“and I will not endure such abuse.”
“Oh, you are an Englishman, are you, and you won’t endure abuse, won’t
you?” said Hicks with irony; and then to me, “We did not understand you
to say he was an Englishman.”
I saw that we were in a pickle, and I thought it best to tell the whole
truth in a careless way, as if the thing were but a trifle.
“The man is an English officer, an escaped prisoner, whom I have
retaken,” I said. “I did not deem it worth while to make long
explanations, especially as we must now push on after you have so
kindly fed us.”
But Hicks was suspicious; so were the others, and their suspicions
were fed by the mutterings and growls of Chudleigh, who showed a lack
of tact remarkable even in an Englishman out of his own country. Then,
to appease them, I went into some of the long explanations which I had
said I wanted to avoid.
“That’s all very well,” broke in Hicks, “but if this man is an English
officer, why is he not in the English uniform? I believe he is an
Englishman, as you say; he talks like it, but tell me why he is dressed
like a civilian.”
The others followed Hicks’s lead and began to cry:
“Spy! Spy! Spy!”
In truth I felt alarm.
“This is no spy,” I said. “He is Captain Chudleigh, of the English
army.”
“He may be Captain Chudleigh and a spy too,” said Hicks coolly. “I am
not sure about the Chudleigh part, but I am about the spy part.”
“Hang him for good count!” cried some of the others, who seemed to be
raw recruits. The talk about the Indian atrocities was fresh in their
minds, and they were in a highly inflammatory state. I recognized a
real and present danger.
“Men,” I cried, “you are going too far! This prisoner is mine, and it
is of importance that I take him back to the army.”
But my protest only seemed to excite them further. In truth they
took it as a threat. Some of them began to demand that I too should
be hung, that I was a Tory in disguise. But the body of them did not
take up this cry. The bulk of their wrath fell upon Chudleigh, who
was undeniably an Englishman. Two or three of the foremost made ready
to seize him. I was in no mind to have all my plans spoiled, and I
snatched a musket from a stack and threatened to shoot the first man
who put a hand on Chudleigh.
Chudleigh himself behaved very well, and sat, quite calm. The men
hesitated at sight of the rifle, and this gave me a chance to appeal
to their reason, which was more accessible now since they seemed to
be impressed by my earnestness. I insisted that all I had said was
the truth, and they would be doing much injury to our cause if they
interfered with us. I fancy that I pleaded our case with eloquence,
though I ought not to boast. At any rate they were mollified, and
concluded to abandon their project of hanging Chudleigh.
“I’ve no doubt he deserves hanging,” said Hicks, “but I guess we’ll
leave the job for somebody else.”
Chudleigh was about to resent this, but I told him to shut up so
abruptly that he forgot himself and obeyed.
I was anxious enough to be clear of these men, countrymen though they
were; so we bade them adieu and tramped on, much strengthened by the
rest and food.
“Captain,” said I to Chudleigh, though trying to preserve a polite
tone, “you do not seem to appreciate the beauty and virtue of silence.”
“I will not have my country or my countrymen insulted,” replied he in
most belligerent tones.
“Well, at any rate,” I said, “I had to save your life at the risk of my
own.”
“It was nothing more than your duty,” he replied. “I am your prisoner,
and you are responsible for my safety.”
Which I call rank ingratitude on Chudleigh’s part, though technically
true.
It was late in the day when we met the detachment, and dark now being
near at hand, it was apparent that we would have to sleep in the woods,
which, however, was no hardship for soldiers, since the nights were
warm and the ground dry. When the night arrived I proposed to Chudleigh
that we stop and make our beds on the turf, which was rather thick and
soft at that spot. He assented in the manner of one who had made up his
mind to obey me in every particular.
But before lying down I had the forethought to ask from Chudleigh a
guarantee that he would not walk away in the night while I was asleep.
I reminded him of his pledge that he would not attempt to escape,
barring a rescue.
But he took exceptions with great promptness, claiming with much
plausibility, I was fain to admit, that his pledge did not apply in
such a case. He argued that if I lay down and went to sleep he was no
longer guarded; consequently he was not a prisoner; consequently he
would go away. Since he chose to stick to his position, I had no way to
drive him from it, whether reasonable or unreasonable.
“Then I will bind you hand and foot,” I said.
He reminded me with an air of triumph that I had nothing with which to
bind him, which unfortunately was true.
“What am I to do?” I said as much to myself as to him.
“Nothing that I can see,” he replied, “but to guard me while I sleep.”
Without another word he lay down upon the turf, and in less than two
minutes his snore permeated the woods.
Reflecting in most unhappy fashion that if it were not for the great
interests of our campaign I would much rather be his prisoner than have
him mine, I sat there making fierce efforts to keep my eyelids apart.