THE DRAWN BATTLE.
Dan Cushing was not to be turned from his purpose even when he found
that his friend had already entered the British lines. His only question
was as to how he could get there? He had not been seen by the guard,
and, drawing back into the woods, he walked cautiously along to learn
how far it might be to the next picket. To his delight he discovered
that the sentinels were several rods apart, and each had been stationed
on a ridge, with a small hollow, running directly up into the
encampment, between them. Lying down in a thicket, he waited.
Slowly the minutes passed. Not until it was dark did he make a move.
Then, as noiselessly as an Indian, he crept into the hollow, and again
paused. No other sound than the regular tread of the soldiers as they
tramped to and fro on their beat came to his ears; but both were coming
toward him, and, hugging close to the ground, he remained motionless.
As he suspected, they did not enter the gully, but, on gaining the
opposite banks, called to each other, and then turned to retrace their
steps. Waiting until their footsteps had nearly died away, he arose and
ran swiftly, but without noise, up to the higher ground. He was beyond
earshot before the guards again hailed each other, and within the
enemy’s lines.
Unacquainted with the formation of the camp, it required some time for
him to locate the headquarters of the commander, and, when he had done
this, he was just in time to see a prisoner in the hands of four or five
soldiers brought forth and hurried to a log hut. Keeping far enough from
the squad to remain unnoticed, yet near enough to hear the conversation,
he learned beyond all doubt that the arrested man was his chief.
The arrest of the young scout, and the reason for it, soon became known
in that part of the encampment, and created no little excitement. It was
discussed in tents and barracks, and even at the guard-house, therefore
it became easy for the lad to ascertain two facts without in any way
attracting attention to himself. He learned that his friend was to be
tried the next morning as a spy, and that the general opinion was the
trial would be but a form; the condemnation and execution certain.
Perhaps this fact prevented the soldiers from taking the punishment of
the prisoner into their own hands. Dan, hearing their comments, realized
they were thoroughly angered with the lad who had so completely
hoodwinked officers and men for weeks, thwarting their purposes and
overwhelming them with misfortunes. But what seemed to anger them more
than all, was the identity of the lad.
“To think that that rebel general sent his own son into the tent of our
commander, and knew all about his plans before we did, is enough to make
the pope swear,” Captain Howell said to a group of officers. “I don’t
forget that the young rascal twice pulled wool over my eyes, and I’d
like the privilege of putting the rope around his neck.”
Private as well as officer seemed to entertain much the same ill-will
toward the prisoner, and it was evident nothing save the assurance that
he was to be summarily dealt with, kept them from taking his life.
After the excitement had subsided somewhat, and the encampment was
comparatively quiet, young Cushing made as careful an examination of the
building in which his chief was confined as he could and escape the
notice of the sentinels. The conclusion arrived at, was he could do
nothing immediately to secure the release of his comrade.
“I might slip back to camp an’ let the general know how things are
goin’,” he said to himself. “He may think of some way to help Philip
that don’t come into this head of mine.”
He gained the ravine and was nearly across, when he heard a sentinel
cry:
“Who are you down there? Speak, or I will fire.”
He neither spoke nor stirred.
Bang! went the gun, and the ball whistled so near his head he could not
help dodging. Fortunately he made no sound, but remained quietly where
he was.
Then came rapid footsteps toward the edge of the opposite bank, and the
picket there called out:
“What is it, Spencer?”
“I heard some one in the gully, and as he didn’t answer my challenge, I
fired,” was the explanation.
At that moment the captain of the guard, followed by a squad of men,
came running up.
“Why did you fire?” he asked.
Spencer told him.
“We’ll start the fellow out,” the officer said, and, turning to his men,
he ordered them to fire a volley into the ravine.
They obeyed; but centered their fire on a spot several yards beyond the
lad, and he was not injured. The bullets dislodged some animal, however,
that ran up the opposite bank, and, scudding by the sentinel on that
side, disappeared in the bushes beyond.
“It was a fox,” he cried. “Spencer mistook a fox for a man. Ha! ha!” and
the officer laughed loudly.
The men on the other bank joined in the mirth.
“I don’t care,” Spencer declared. “It shows I was looking out so sharply
that even a fox could not escape me.”
The laugh subsided; the squad returned to their stations; and the
pickets resumed their beat.
As soon as they had departed Dan hurried on, and in a few minutes gained
the road leading to Bemis Heights. Down this he ran until halted by
three hoots of an owl, twice repeated. Stopping suddenly, he gave the
same cry, and after a few seconds Late and Joe came out from the forest.
“We are glad to find you at last,” they said. “We have been looking for
you half the night.”
“I’m glad to run in with you,” he declared, without asking why they were
there. “Joe, will you go back to the fort an’ tell General Schuyler that
our Ira has been arrested. The Britishers have found out who he is, an’
to-morrow mornin’ he’ll probably be condemned an’ hanged. Whatever we do
must be done quickly. Late, come with me. We won’t give up hope of
rescuin’ him till we have to.”
In another moment they had separated, Joe hastening to the general with
his sad tidings, and Dan and Late hurrying back toward the British camp.
Before gaining the ravine Dan explained how he had entered the enemy’s
lines earlier in the night, and how he hoped to return.
“We shall have to move along slow an’ quiet like,” he added; “but I
believe it can be done.”
He was correct, and a half-hour later he and his comrade emerged from
the ravine within the British lines. To gain the hut in which their
friend was imprisoned was not difficult; but they decided it unwise to
run the risk of being found when dawn came, therefore the lads looked
about for a hiding-place. Attracted by the lean-to at the rear of the
barracks they crept into it.
In this place of concealment they heard enough of the soldiers’
conversation to learn the result of Phillip’s trial, and knew there were
yet twenty-four hours before he would be executed.
“We may be able to do a good bit in that time,” Dan whispered to Late.
They learned also, in the same way, that the prisoner had been brought
to the barracks and put in solitary confinement in one of its upper
rooms. They also saw David Daggett prowling about the building; but did
not know of his visit upstairs, or of the secret resolve he had made.
It was nearly dusk when two soldiers met near the door of the lean-to.
One said to the other:
“Have you heard the latest news about the spy?”
“No,” replied the other. “What is it?”
“A messenger came from the rebel camp under a flag of truce,” the first
explained, “and wanted to make an exchange. They offered four men—a
colonel, two captains, and a lieutenant—for him.”
“What did our general say?” the other soldier asked.
“He said: ‘Go back and tell your commander I would not exchange him for
your whole army.’”
“Good! I reckon the rebels will understand now that the young rascal
must pay the penalty for his misdeeds.” Then they passed out of hearing.
“It means that you and I have got to do something,” Dan said to his
comrade in a low tone.
“What?” asked Late.
“I have an idee,” was the answer, “but will wait a little later to see
whether ’twill work.”
An hour or two passed. Then Dan whispered: “Come, Late,” and he led the
way out of the building.
Going around to the rear end, he said in the same low tone:
“Boost me.”
That edge of the roof was not more than five feet from the ground, and,
catching hold of it, the lad waited for his companion to lift him up. In
another instant he was on top the shed.
“Give me your hands, Late,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and soon the
two were on the roof.
Lying at full length, the lads listened anxiously for any sound which
might betoken that their movements had been seen. Ten minutes passed,
and then they arose on all fours, creeping up the slanting roof to where
it joined the main building.
Just above their heads was an open window. Rising to their knees they
peeped in, only to find themselves looking into a small, unoccupied
room. Laying his hand upon his comrade in token that he was to follow,
Dan stepped into the chamber, Late joining him a moment later.
There was no furniture in the room. The young scouts stretched
themselves out on the bare floor, and again waited. During a long time
there was coming and going about the barracks; then loud conversation
below; but at length all was silent.
Dan went cautiously to the door. Lifting the latch slowly, he pulled,
and without further effort on his part the door swung open a few inches.
Through the narrow crevice the lad gazed. He could see little; but the
low tread of the sentinel outside of the prisoner’s door reached his
ears. Evidently a long passage was before him, and the soldier was at
the farther end.
Turning to his companion, Dan whispered in his ear, and then both,
removing their boots, went softly out into the hall. Inch by inch they
advanced until within a few feet of the guard.
Here they waited until he, in his efforts to keep awake, came down the
passage toward them. In another moment they had seized him as previously
planned, one by the feet, and the other by the throat.
There was a struggle; but it was brief and noiseless, for while one lad
choked the fellow, the other lifted him from the floor. Fortunately he
was not heavy, and could be easily subdued. When the Britisher had been
rendered helpless Late took him in charge, while Dan examined the door
of the room in which was the prisoner.
He could hardly believe his good fortune when he found the fastening to
be only a piece of iron thrust through the handle of the latch. Pulling
out the bar, he opened the door and entered. On a narrow bed against the
opposite wall the young lieutenant was quietly sleeping, but with the
first movement of his rescuer he was aroused, asking:
“Who is it?”
“Hush!” was the cautious reply. “Late and me have overpowered the guard.
Wait until we put him in your bed. Then we’ll be off.”
The lad went back to his comrade, and together they carried the soldier,
still unconscious because of having been choked so severely, into the
chamber. The lieutenant helped them bind the Britisher’s hands and feet,
and to muffle his mouth so that he could not cry out. Then all three
left the room, fastening the door behind them. Down the hall, into the
little room at its rear, and out of the window upon the roof of the
lean-to they went cautiously.
At this moment they heard footsteps not far away, and laid down on the
slanting roof. The intruder evidently crawled into the shed, and,
believing he had gone there for the night, the fugitives slipped down to
the lower edge of the building, when, swinging themselves to the ground,
they made off through the darkness.
The young scouts were at the mouth of the ravine when the cry of fire
startled them. Looking back they saw that the lean-to they had just left
was in flames.
During a moment they silently gazed at the burning building, and then
Dan said:
“The whole barracks will go.”
“I hope that guard may get out,” Late added.
“The fellow we heard crawling into the shed set fire to it, and I’ll
tell you who he was,” Philip said solemnly.
“Who?” Dan asked.
“David Daggett,” the lieutenant replied, and then told of the old man’s
visit and his wish that he might be burned at the stake.
“We saw him prowlin’ ’round the lean-to in the afternoon,” Dan
explained, “an’ that’s what he was plannin’ for. You’ve hit the nail on
the head, Ira—I mean Phil—this time.”
The rescued lad laughed.
“No more ‘Ira,’ please. It is ‘Phil’ for you always. I shall never
forget this night’s work of yours, nor will my father and mother,” and
his voice grew tremulous as he pronounced the last word.
Then they continued the flight. Possibly the glare of the fire through
the trees chained the attention of the guards. At least, they gave no
special heed to what was going on in the ravine below them, and the
fugitives passed through it unchallenged. Once outside it was only
necessary to walk rapidly for an hour, and they had arrived at the
Continental camp.
General Schuyler met his son as one come from the dead, while Joe’s
delight knew no bounds.
“I only wish I could have been thar to help in the rescue,” he said over
and over again.
Even General Gates, when introduced to the young lieutenant,
congratulated him on his escape, and said:
“I did not understand that the young Tory was held to secure your
safety. Had I known it, he would not have been allowed to go free.”
Early next day it became evident that General Burgoyne was preparing for
some desperate move. Before night he had advanced his lines within two
miles of the Continentals, and the skirmishing parties sent out from the
entrenchments of the latter reported that the British forces were
resting on their guns.
“It means that on the morrow he will attempt to force his way to
Albany,” General Schuyler said to General Gates.
“Well, if you really think so,” the officer replied indifferently, “you
may notify my subordinates to stand ready to stop him,” and at an early
hour he sought his bed.
Not another officer closed his eyes that night, and when the memorable
nineteenth day of September dawned it found the rival hosts confronting
each other.
The main body of the Continentals was on the right under General
Lincoln; the left under Poor; the center was mainly made up of Learned’s
brigade. Morgan’s riflemen and Dearborn’s infantry stood under Arnold,
who had returned from Fort Stanwix, on the heights, nearly a mile from
the river.
At ten o’clock General Burgoyne advanced his army in three columns; the
left consisting of artillery under General Phillips, and Hessians under
General Riedesel; the center and right were commanded by Burgoyne
himself, but covered by General Fraser and Colonel Breyman. The
Canadians and Indians were sent forward to occupy the Continentals in
front.
No order came from General Gates for his forces to advance, and Colonel
Arnold, growing desperate, rode off to the commander’s tent urging him
to allow the troops to engage the enemy, until he finally gave orders
for the Indians to be driven back.
Taking this as permission for a general charge, the Continentals rushed
like a mountain torrent upon the foe. Arnold, with Morgan’s assistance,
held Fraser while he was endeavoring to reach the American rear. Here
the fighting became desperate, but the patriots, encountering the
British under Burgoyne, and played on by Phillips’s guns, were, at three
o’clock, forced back into line. For four or five hours Colonel Arnold
had maintained the fight with the choicest English regiments. A lull now
occurred during which both armies drew breath.
“It’s been tough work, lieutenant,” Dan Cushing said to Philip Schuyler,
as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Yes,” the lad replied, “an’ our comrades are all right. When the
fightin’ ceased they went down into the ravine for a drink of water.
They’ll be back ’fore the lull is over.”
“They will have to hurry then, for the red-coats are coming again.”
“And here are the boys,” was the laughing reply as the lads arrived.
The Continentals kept within their camp until their foes were close upon
them, then, springing out, drove them back to the position they had
occupied earlier in the day.
It was, however, not an easy task, and night came by the time it was
accomplished, putting an end to the conflict. The Continentals withdrew
to their entrenchments; the British lay on the battlefield. Both parties
claimed the victory; but the British had failed to force their way to
Albany, while the Americans held their ground. It was, therefore, a
drawn battle, in which the losses of the Yankees were less than three
hundred, while those of the king’s troops were more than five hundred.