THE MAN FROM CLINTON.
At one o’clock in the morning I went off duty, and at five minutes past
one o’clock I had begun a very pleasant and healthful slumber. At eight
o’clock I awoke, and found Whitestone sitting by a little fire cooking
strips of bacon, some of which he was so kind as to give me.
Whitestone’s face was puffed out in the manner of one who has news to
tell, and I was quite willing that he should gratify himself by telling
it to me.
“What is it, Whitestone?” I asked. “Has the British army surrendered
while I slept?”
“No,” said Whitestone, “and it may not surrender after all.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“It’s just as I say,” said Whitestone, lighting the inevitable pipe.
“It may not surrender after all.”
“What has happened?”
Whitestone’s cheeks continued to swell with a sense of importance.
“Clinton’s advancing with seven thousand men,” he said.
“That’s nothing,” I said. “Clinton’s been advancing for weeks, and he
never gets near us.”
“But he is near us this time, sure enough,” said the sergeant very
seriously.
I was still unbelieving, and looked my unbelief.
“It’s as I say,” resumed the sergeant; “there is no doubt about it.
Just after daylight this morning some skirmishers took a messenger
from Clinton, who bore dispatches announcing his arrival within a very
short time. It seems that Clinton is much farther up the river than we
supposed, and that his army is also much larger than all our reckonings
made it. I guess that with re-enforcements he got over the fright we
gave him.”
This in truth sounded like a matter of moment. I asked Whitestone if he
was sure of what he reported, and he said the news was all over the
camp. I must confess that I felt as if it were a personal blow. I had
looked upon the capture of Burgoyne as a certainty, but the arrival of
Clinton with seven thousand fresh men would be sure to snatch the prize
from us. It looked like a very jest of fate that we should lose our
spoil after all our labors and battles.
“What’s to be done, Whitestone?” I asked gloomily.
“In a case of this kind,” he replied, “I’m glad that I’m a humble
sergeant, and not a general. Let the generals settle it. Take another
piece of the bacon; it’s crisp and fresh.”
“Have you seen this captured messenger?” I asked.
“No,” replied Whitestone. “They have him in a tent over yonder, and I
think the officers have been busy with him, trying to pump him.”
As soon as I finished the bacon I walked about the camp to see if I
could learn anything further concerning the matter, in which attempt
I failed. I saw, however, its effect upon the army, which vented its
feelings largely in the way of swearing. The soldiers expected we would
have to leave Burgoyne and turn southward to fight Clinton. Some said
luck was always against us.
I was interrupted in my stroll by a message from my colonel to come at
once. I hurried to him with some apprehension. He had expressed his
high confidence in me of late, and, as I have said before, these high
confidences bring hard duties.
But the matter was not so difficult as I had expected.
“Mr. Shelby,” said the colonel, “we took prisoner this morning a man
bearing important dispatches from Clinton to Burgoyne--you have heard
about it, doubtless; it seems to be known all over the camp--and I am
directly responsible for his safe keeping for the time being. He is in
that tent which you can see on the hillside. Take three men and guard
him. You need not intrude upon him, though; he seems to be a very
gentlemanly fellow.”
Of course I chose Whitestone as one of my three men, and we began our
guard over the tent. I understood from the gossip Whitestone had picked
up that the generals were debating what movement to make after the
important news obtained, and probably they would examine the prisoner
again later on. It was not at all likely that the prisoner, placed as
he was in the center of our camp, could escape, but there might be
reasons for keeping him close in the tent; so our watch was very strict.
Nevertheless, Whitestone and I chatted a bit, which was within our
right, and tried to guess what would be the result of the campaign
if we had to turn southward and fight Clinton, with Burgoyne on our
rear. Doubtless some of these comments and queries were heard by the
prisoner, whose feet I could see sticking out in front of the tent
flap, but whose body was beyond our view. But I did not see that it
mattered, and we talked on with freedom. Once I saw the prisoner’s feet
bob up a bit, as if he suffered from some kind of nervous contraction,
but I made very slight note of it.
The debate of the generals lasted long, and I inferred, therefore,
that their perplexity was great. Whitestone and I ceased to talk, and
as I, having command of the little detachment, was under no obligation
to parade, musket on shoulder, I sat down on a stone near the flap of
the tent and made myself as comfortable as I could. From my position I
could still see the prisoner’s boots, a substantial British pair, of
a kind that we could envy, for most of the time we were nearly bare of
foot, sometimes entirely so.
The camp was peaceful, on the whole. The rattle of drums, the sound of
voices, rose in the regular, steady fashion which becomes a hum. The
prisoner was silent--unusually silent. He seemed to have no curiosity
about us, and to prefer to remain in the shadow of his tent. In his
place, I would have had my head out looking at everything. I noticed
presently the attitude of his boots. They were cocked up on their
heels, toes high in the air. I inferred immediately that the man was
lying flat on his back, which was not at all unreasonable, as he
probably needed rest after traveling all night.
The hum of the camp became a murmur, and it was answered by a slighter
murmur from the tent. The prisoner was snoring. He was not only flat
upon his back, but asleep. I felt an admiration for the calmness
of mind which could turn placidly to slumber in such an exciting
situation. A curiosity about this prisoner, already born in me, began
to grow. He was most likely a man worth knowing.
I concluded that I would take a look at the sleeping Englishman
despite my orders. I did not mention my idea to Whitestone, because
I thought he might object, and hint it was none of my business to go
in. I stooped down and entered the tent, which was a small one. As I
surmised, the prisoner was lying upon his back and was fast asleep.
The snore, which became much more assertive now that I had entered the
tent, left no doubt about his slumbers. Yet I could not see his face,
which was far back under the edge of the tent.
I reached back and pulled the tent-flap still farther aside, letting
in a fine flow of sunlight. It fell directly upon the face of the
prisoner, bringing out every feature with the distinctness of carving.
My first emotion was surprise; my second, wrath; my third, amusement.
The prisoner was Albert Van Auken.
I do not claim that mine is the acutest mind in the world; but at a
single glance I saw to the bottom of the whole affair, and the desire
to laugh grew very strong upon me. It had not been twenty-four hours
since I was talking to Albert Van Auken in Burgoyne’s camp, and here
he was a prisoner in our camp, bringing dispatches from Clinton, down
the river, to Burgoyne. I believe some things--not all things.
I perceived that the bright light shining directly into Albert’s eyes
would soon awaken him. In truth he was yawning even then. I sat down in
front of him, closing my arms around my knees in the attitude of one
who waits.
Albert yawned prodigiously. I guessed that he must have been up all the
previous night to have become so sleepy. He would have relapsed into
slumber, but the penetrating streak of sunshine would not let him. It
played all over his face, and inserting itself between his eyelids,
pried them open.
Albert sat up, and, after the manner of man, rubbed his eyes. He knew
that some one was in the tent with him, but he could not see who it
was. I had taken care of that. I was in the dark and he was in the
light.
“Well, what is it you wish?” he asked, after he had finished rubbing
his eyes.
I guessed that he took me for one of the general officers who had been
examining him. I have a trick of changing my voice when I wish to do
so, and this was one of the times when I wished.
“I am to ask you some further questions in regard to the matters we
were discussing this morning,” I said.
“Well!” said Albert impatiently, as if he would like to be done with it.
“According to the dispatches which we secured when we took you,” I
said, “Sir Henry Clinton was very near at hand with a large army.”
“Certainly,” said Albert, in a tone of great emphasis.
“It is strange,” I said, “that we did not hear of his near approach
until we took you this morning. Our scouts and skirmishers have brought
us no such news.”
“It is probably due to the fact, general,” said Albert politely, “that
we captured your scouts and skirmishers as we advanced northward. Our
celerity of movement was so great that they could not escape us.”
“That was remarkable marching, in truth,” I said admiringly. “You
Englishmen are as rapid in movement as you are strenuous in battle.”
“Thank you, general,” said Albert, with complacent vanity. I felt a
strong inclination to kick him. I hate Tories, and, in particular,
those who would have people think they are Englishmen.
“I believe you said Sir Henry Clinton had several thousand men with
him,” I resumed.
“I did not say it,” replied Albert, “but most unfortunately it was
revealed in the dispatches which you captured upon me. I may add,
however, that the number is nearer eight thousand than seven thousand.”
I understood the impression he wished to create, and I was willing to
further his humor.
“Eight thousand with Sir Henry Clinton,” I said, as if musing, “and
Burgoyne has six thousand; that makes fourteen thousand, all regular
troops, thoroughly armed and equipped otherwise. We can scarce hope to
capture both armies.”
“Not both, nor one either,” said Albert in derision. “As a matter of
fact, general, I think you will have some difficulty in looking after
your own safety.”
“By what manner of reasoning do you arrive at that conclusion?” asked
I, wishing to lead him on.
“Oh, well, you know what British troops are,” said Albert
superciliously; “and when fourteen thousand of them are together, I
imagine that troubles have arrived for their enemies.”
My inclination to kick him took on a sudden and violent increase. It
was with the most extreme difficulty that I retained command over my
mutinous foot.
“Perhaps it is as you assert,” I said musingly. “In fact there would
seem to be no doubt that it is best for us to let Burgoyne go, and
retreat with what rapidity we can.”
“Of course! of course!” said Albert eagerly. “That is the only thing
you can do.”
Now a desire to laugh instead of a desire to kick overspread me; but I
mastered it as I had the other.
“I wish to tell you, however,” I said, assuming my politest manner,
“and in telling you I speak for the other American generals, that
however little we are pleased with the news you bear, we are much
pleased with the bearer. We have found you to be a young gentleman of
courtesy, breeding, and discernment.”
“Thank you,” said Albert in a tone of much gratification.
“And,” I resumed, “we have arrived at a certain conclusion; I may add
also that we have arrived at that conclusion quickly and unanimously.”
“What is it?” asked Albert with eager interest.
“That we have met many graceful and accomplished liars in our time, but
of them all you are the most graceful and accomplished,” I said with
grave politeness, my tongue lingering over the long words.
Albert uttered something which sounded painfully and amazingly like
an oath, and sprang to his feet, his face flushing red with anger or
shame, I am uncertain which.
He raised his hand as if he would strike me, but I moved around a
little, and the light in its turn fell on my face. He uttered another
cry, and this time there was no doubt about its being an oath. He
looked at me, his face growing redder and redder.
“Dick,” he said in a tone of deep reproach, “I call this devilish
unkind.”
“The unkindness is all on your side, Albert,” I retorted. “You have
given me more trouble in this campaign than all the rest of Burgoyne’s
army--if that fellow Chudleigh be counted out--and here I have you on
my hands again.”
“Who asked you to come into my tent?” said Albert angrily. “I heard you
outside a while ago, but I did not think you would come in.”
“That was when your feet bobbed up,” I said. “You must retain more
control over them, Albert. Now that I think of it, and trace things to
their remote causes, that movement first stirred in me the curiosity to
see your face, and not your feet only. Have them amputated, Albert.”
“What do you mean to do?” he asked with an air of resignation.
“Mean to do!” I said in a tone of surprise. “Why, I mean to retreat
with all the remainder of our army as quickly as we can in order to get
out of the way of those fourteen thousand invincible British veterans
who will soon be united in one force.”
“Now stop that, Dick,” said Albert entreatingly. “Don’t be too hard on
a fellow.”
“All right,” I replied; “go to sleep again.”
Without further ado I left the tent, and found Whitestone waiting
outside in some anxiety.
“You stayed so long,” he said, “I thought perhaps the fellow had killed
you.”
“Not by any means as bad as that,” I replied. “I found him to be a
very pleasant young man, and we had a conversation long and most
interesting.”
“About what?” Whitestone could not keep from asking.
“About many things,” I replied, “and one thing that I learned was of
special importance.”
“What was that?”
“How to send Clinton and his eight thousand men back below Albany, hold
Burgoyne fast, and continue the campaign as it was begun.”
“That’s a pretty big job,” said Whitestone, “for one man, and that one,
too, rather young and not overweighted with rank.”
“Maybe you think so,” I said with lofty indifference. “But I can do it,
and, what is more, I will prove to you that I can. You can stay here
while I go down to the council of generals and tell them what to do.”
Not giving Whitestone time to recover, I stalked off in a state of
extreme dignity.