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.