The shouting begat curiosity in us all, and we left the tent, the elderly officer leading. I perceived at once that the noise came from our lines, which were pushed up very close to those of the British and were within plain hearing distance. Among the trees and bushes, which were very dense at points, I could see in the brilliant sunshine the flash of rifle barrel and the gleam of uniform. The shouting was great in volume, swelling like a torrent rising to the flood.
I remained by the side of the old officer. He seemed anxious.
“What is it? What can that mean? It must be something important,” he asked as much of himself as of me.
The reply was ready for him, as some English skirmishers came forward with an Americanprisoner whom they had taken but a few moments before. The man was but a common soldier, ragged, but intelligent. The officer put to him his question about the shouting, which had not yet subsided.
“That was a welcome,” said the prisoner.
“A welcome! What do you mean by that?”
“Simply that more re-enforcements have come from the south.”
The officer grew even graver.
“More men always coming for them and never any for us,” he said, almost under his breath.
I had it in mind to suggest that I be returned at once to my own army, but the arrival of the troops or other cause created a sudden recrudescence of the skirmishing. Piff-paff chanted the rifles; zip-zip chirped the bullets. Little blades of flame spurted up among the bushes, and above them rose the white curls of smoke like baby clouds. On both sides the riflemen were at work.
The officer looked about him as if he intended to give some special orders, and then seemed to think better of it. A bullet passed through the tent we had just left. I felt thatmy American uniform took me out of the list of targets.
“Your sharpshooters seem to have come closer,” said the officer. “Their bullets fell short this morning. I will admit they are good men with the rifle—better than ours.”
“These are countrymen,” I said. “They have been trained through boyhood to the use of the rifle.”
I was looking at the fringe of trees and bushes which half hid our lines. Amid the boughs of a tall tree whose foliage was yet untouched by autumn I saw what I took to be a man’s figure; but the leaves were so dense and so green I was not sure. Moreover, the man, if man it was, seemed to wear clothing of the hue of the leaves. I decided I was mistaken; then I knew I had been right at first guess, for I saw the green body within the green curtain of leaves move out upon a bough and raise its head a little. The sun flashed upon a rifle barrel, and the next instant the familiar curl of white smoke rose from its muzzle.
The officer had opened his mouth to speak to me, but the words remained unspoken. His face went pale as if all the blood had suddenlygone out of him, and he flopped down like an emptied bag at my feet, shot through the heart.
I was seized with a shivering horror. He was talking to me one moment and dead the next. His fall, seen by so many, created a confusion in the British lines. Several rushed forward to seize the body and carry it away. Just as the first man reached it, he too was slain by a hidden sharpshooter, and the two bodies lay side by side.
Acting from impulse rather than thought, I lifted the officer by the shoulders and began to drag him back into the camp. Whether or not my uniform protected me I can not say, but I was hit by no bullet, though the skirmishing became so sharp and so hot that it rose almost to the dignity of a battle. The officer’s body was withdrawn beyond the range of the sharpshooting and placed in a tent. Though he had sought to entrap me he had made handsome apology therefor, and I mourned him as I would a friend. Why should men filled with mutual respect be compelled to shoot each other?
Albert came to me there, and said in a very cold voice:
“Dick, this sudden outburst will compel you to remain our guest some time longer—perhaps through the night.”
I turned my back upon him, and when he left I do not know, but when I looked that way again he was gone, for which I was in truth very glad. Yet I would have liked to ask him about Kate and her mother. I wondered if they were safe from the stray bullets of the sharpshooters.
In the stir of this strife at long range I seemed to be forgotten by the British, as I had been forgotten by my own people. My Continental uniform was none of the brightest, and even those who noticed it apparently took me for a privileged prisoner. When I left the tent in which the officer’s body lay I came back toward the American army, but the patter of the bullets grew so lively around me that I retreated. It is bad enough to be killed by an enemy, I imagine, but still worse to be killed by a friend.
The day was growing old and the night would soon be at hand. Our sharpshooters held such good positions that they swept most of the British camp. I do not claim to be a greatmilitary man, but I was convinced that if the British did not dislodge these sharpshooters their position would become untenable. The night, so far from serving them, would rather be a benefit to their enemies, for the lights in the British camp would guide the bullets of the hidden riflemen to their targets.
The bustle in the camp increased, and I observed that details of men were sent to the front. They took off their bright coats, which were fine marks for the riflemen, and it was evident that they intended to match our sharpshooters at their own business. Many of these men were Germans, who, I have heard, have always been accounted good marksmen in Europe.
Nobody caring about me, I took position on a little knoll where I could see and yet be beyond range. The sun, as if wishing to do his best before going down, was shining with marvelous brilliancy. The incessant pit-pat of the rifle fire, like the crackling of hail, drew all eyes toward the American line. It seemed to me that only the speedy coming of the night could prevent a great battle.
The crackling flared up suddenly into avolley, betokening the arrival of the fresh British skirmishers at the point of action. The little white curls of smoke were gathering together and forming a great cloud overhead. Presently some wounded were taken past.
There was a movement and gathering of men near me. Quite a body of soldiers, a company, it seemed, were drawn up. Then, with fixed bayonets, they advanced upon the American line. I guessed that the skirmishers were intended to attract the attention of our people, while this company hoped to clear the woods of the sharpshooters and release the British camp from their galling fire. The British advanced with gallantry. I give them credit for that always—that is, nearly always.
The firing had reached an exceeding degree of activity, but I did not see any man in the company fall. By this I concluded that their skirmishers were keeping our own busy, and I was in some apprehension lest this strong squad should fall suddenly and with much force upon our outposts. Forward they went at a most lively pace and preserving a very even rank, their bayonets shining brightly in the late sun. TheBritish boast much about their ability with the bayonet. We know less about ours, because almost our only way of getting bayonets was to take them from the British, which we did more than once.
Two or three British officers gathered on the knoll to watch the movement. Among these was Captain Jervis, whom I liked well. He spoke pleasantly to me, and said, pointing at the company which was now very near to the wood:
“That charge, I think, is going to be a success, Mr. Shelby, and your sharpshooters will find it more comfortable to keep a little farther away from us.”
He spoke with a certain pride, as if he would hold our people a little more cheaply than his own.
I made no reply, for another and better answer from a different source was ready. There was a very vivid blaze from the wood and the crash of a heavy volley. The head of the column was shattered, nay, crushed, and the body of it reeled like a man to whom has been dealt a stunning blow. It was apparent that our people had seen the movement and hadgathered in force in the wood to repel it, striking at the proper moment.
The company rallied and advanced most bravely a second time to the charge; but the flash of the rifles was so steady and so fast that the woods seemed to be spouting fire. The British fell back quickly and then broke into a discreet run into their own encampment.
“You will perceive,” said I to Captain Jervis, “that our people have not yet retired for the night.”
He laughed a little, though on the wrong side of his mouth. I could see that he felt chagrin, and so I said no more on that point.
As if by concert our sharpshooters also pushed up closer, and being so much better at that business drove in those of Burgoyne. The Germans, in particular, knowing but little of forests, fared badly.
Though I was neither in it nor of it, I felt much elation at our little triumph. In truth the consequences, if not important of themselves, were significant of greater things. They showed that Burgoyne’s beleaguered battalions could rest hope only on two things, the arrival of Clinton or victory in a pitched battle. Butnow Burgoyne could not even protect his own camp. It was reached in many parts by the fire of the sharpshooters drawn in a deadly ring around it. The night came, and as far as possible the lights in the camp were put out, but the firing went on, and no British sentinel was safe at his post.
I remember no night in which I saw more misery. The sharpshooters never slept, and the dark seemed to profit them as much as the day. They enveloped the British camp like a swarm of unseen bees, all the more deadly because no man knew where they hovered nor whence nor when the sting would come. Men brave in the day are less brave at night, and every British officer I saw looked worn, and fearful of the future. I confess that I began to grow anxious on my own account, for in this darkness my old Continentals could not serve as a warning that I was no proper target. I have always preserved a high regard for the health and welfare of Richard Shelby, Esq., and I withdrew him farther into the camp. There I saw many wounded and more sick, and but scant means for their treatment. Moreover, the listof both was increasing, and even as I wandered about, the fresh-wounded were taken past me, sometimes crying out in their pain.
There were many who took no part in the fighting—Tories who had come to the British camp with their wives and little children, and the wives of the English and Hessian officers who had come down from Canada with them, expecting a march of glory and triumph to New York. For these I felt most sorrow, as it is very cruel that women and children should have to look upon war. More than once I heard the lamentations of women and the frightened weeping of little children. Sometimes the flaring torches showed me their scared faces. These non-combatants, in truth, were beyond the range of the fire, but the wounded men were always before them.
It was but natural that amid so much tumult and suspense I should remain forgotten. My uniform, dingy in the brightest sun, was scarce noticeable in the half-lit dusk, and I wandered about the camp almost at will. The night was not old before I noticed the bustle of great preparations. Officers hurried about as if time of a sudden had doubled its value. Soldiersvery anxiously examined their muskets and bayonets; cannon were wheeled into more compact batteries; more ammunition was gathered at convenient points. On all faces I saw expectation.
I thought at first that some night skirmish was intended, but the bustle and the hurrying extended too much for that. I set about more thorough explorations, and it was easy enough to gather that Burgoyne intended to risk all in a pitched battle on the morrow. These were the preparations for it.
Curiosity had taken away from me, for the moment, the desire to go back to my own people, but now it returned with double force. It was not likely that my warning of the coming battle could be of much value, for our forces were vigilant; but I had the natural desire of youth to be with our own army, and not with that of the enemy, at the coming of such a great event.
But the chance for my return looked very doubtful. Both armies were too busy to pay heed to a flag of truce even if it could be seen in the night.
I wandered about looking for some means of escape to our own lines, and in seeking to reach the other side of the camp passed once more through the space in which the women and children lay. I saw a little one-roomed house, abandoned long since by its owners. The uncertain light from the window fought with the shadows outside.
I stepped to the window, which was open, and looked in. They had turned the place into a hospital. A doctor with sharp instruments in his hand was at work. A woman with strong white arms, bare almost to the shoulder, was helping him. She turned away presently, her help not needed just then, and saw my face at the window.
“Dick,” she said in a tone low, but not too low to express surprise, “why haven’t you returned to the army?”
“Because I can’t, Kate,” I said. “My flag of truce is forgotten, and the bullets are flying too fast through the dark for me to make a dash for it.”
“There should be a way.”
“Maybe, but I haven’t found it.”
“Albert ought to help you.”
“There are many things Albert ought to do which he doesn’t do,” I said.
“Don’t think too badly of him.”
“I think I’ll try to escape through the far side of the camp,” I said, nodding my head in the way I meant to go.
“We owe you much, Dick, for what you have done for us,” she said, “and we wish you safety on that account, and more so on your own account.”
She put her hand out of the window and I squeezed it a little.
Perhaps that was Chudleigh’s exclusive right.
But she did not complain, and Chudleigh knew nothing about it.
The British camp was surrounded, but on the side to which I was now coming the fire of the sharpshooters was more intermittent. It was the strongest part of the British lines, but I trusted that on such account the way for my escape would be more open there. At night, with so much confusion about, it would not be easy to guard every foot of ground. I walked very slowly until I came almost to the outskirts of the camp; then I stopped to consider.
In the part of the camp where I stood it was very dark. Some torches were burning in a half-hearted fashion forty or fifty feet away, but their own light only made the dusk around me the deeper. I was endeavoring to select the exact point at which I would seek to pass the lines, when some one touched me with light hand upon the shoulder.
I turned my head and saw Albert Van Auken, clad in the same cloak he wore the night he tried to counterfeit his sister. I was about to walk away, for I still felt much anger toward him, when he touched me again with light hand, and said in such a low voice that I could scarce hear:
“I am going to pay you back, at least in part, Dick. I will help you to escape. Come!”
Well, I was glad that he felt shame at last for the way in which he had acted. It had taken him a long time to learn that he owed me anything. But much of my wrath against him departed. It was too dark for me to see the expression of shame which I knew must be imprinted upon his face, but on his account I was not sorry that I could not see it.
He led the way, stepping very lightly,toward a row of baggage wagons which seemed to have been drawn up as a sort of fortification. It looked like a solid line, and I wondered if he would attempt to crawl under them, but when we came nearer I saw an open space of half a yard or so between two of them. Albert slipped through this crack without a word, and I followed. On the other side he stopped for a few moments in the shadow of the wagons, and I, of course, imitated him.
I could see sentinels to the right and to the left of us, walking about as if on beats. On the hills, not so very far from us, the camp-fires of the American army were burning.
I perceived that it was a time for silence, and I waited for Albert to be leader, as perhaps knowing the ground better than I. A moment came presently when all the sentinels were somewhat distant from us. He stepped forward with most marvelous lightness, and in a few breaths we were beyond the line of the sentinels. I thought there was little further danger, and I was much rejoiced, both because of my escape and because it was Albert who had done such a great service for me.
“I trust you will forgive me, Albert, forsome of the hard words I spoke to you,” I said. “Remember that I spoke in anger and without full knowledge of you.”
He put his fingers upon his lips as a sign for me to be silent, and continued straight ahead toward the American army. I followed. Some shots were fired, but we were in a sort of depression, and I had full confidence they were not intended for us, but were drawn by the lights in the British camp. Yet I believed that Albert had gone far enough. He had shown me the way, and no more was needed. I did not wish him to expose himself to our bullets.
“Go back, Albert,” I said. “I know the way now, and I do not wish you to become our prisoner.”
He would not pause until we had gone a rod farther. Then he pointed toward our camp-fires ahead, and turned about as if he would go back.
“Albert,” I said, “let us forget what I said when in anger, and part friends.”
I seized his hand in my grasp, though he sought to evade me. The hand was small and warm, and then I knew that the deceptionAlbert had practiced upon me a night or so before had enabled Albert’s sister to do the same.
“Kate!” I exclaimed. “Why have you done this?”
“For you,” said she, snatching her hand from mine and fleeing so swiftly toward the British camp that I could not stop her.
In truth I did not follow her, but mused for a moment on the great change a slouch hat, a long cloak, and a pair of cavalry boots can make in one’s appearance on a dark night.
As I stood in the dark and she was going toward the light, I could watch her figure. I saw her pass between the wagons again and knew that she was safe. Then I addressed myself to my own task.
I stood in a depression of the ground, and on the hills, some hundreds of yards before me, our camp-fires glimmered. The firing on this side was so infrequent that it was often several minutes between shots. All the bullets, whether British or American, passed high over my head, for which I was truly glad.
I made very good progress toward our lines, until I heard ahead of me a slight noise as ofsome one moving about. I presumed that it was one of our sharpshooters, and was about to call gently, telling him who I was. I was right in my presumption, but not quick enough with my hail, for his rifle was fired so close to me that the blaze of the exploding powder seemed to leap at me. That the bullet in truth was aimed at me there was no doubt, for I felt its passage so near my face that it made me turn quite cold and shiver.
“Hold! I am a friend!” I shouted.
“Shoot the damned British spy! Don’t let him get away!” cried the sharpshooter.
Two or three other sharpshooters, taking him at his word, fired at my figure faintly seen in the darkness. None hit me, but I was seized with a sudden and great feeling of discomfort. Seeing that it was not a time for explanations, I turned and ran back in the other direction. One more shot was fired at me as I ran, and I was truly thankful that I was a swift runner and a poor target.
In a few moments I was beyond the line of their fire, and, rejoicing over my escape from present dangers, was meditating how to escape from those of the future, when a shot was firedfrom a new point of the compass, and some one cried out:
“Shoot him, the Yankee spy! the damned rebel! Don’t let him escape!”
And in good truth those to whom he spoke this violent command obeyed with most alarming promptness, for several muskets were discharged instantly and the bullets flew about me.
I turned back with surprising quickness and fled toward the American camp, more shots pursuing me, but fortune again saving me from their sting. I could hear the Englishmen repeating their cries to each other not to let the rebel spy escape. Then I bethought me it was time to stop, or in a moment or two I would hear the Americans shouting to each other not to let the infernal British spy escape. I recognized the very doubtful nature of my position. It seemed as if both the British and American armies, horse and foot, had quit their legitimate business of fighting each other and had gone to hunting me, a humble subaltern, who asked nothing of either just then but personal safety. Was I to dance back and forth between them forever?
Some lightning thoughts passed through my mind, but none offered a solution of my problem. Chance was kinder. I stumbled on a stone, and flat I fell in a little gully. There I concluded to stay for the while. I pressed very close against the earth and listened to a rapid discharge of rifles and muskets. Then I perceived that I had revenge upon them both, for in their mutual chase of me the British and American skirmishers had come much closer together, and were now engaged in their proper vocation of shooting at each other instead of at me.
I, the unhappy cause of it all, lay quite still, and showered thanks upon that kindly little gully for getting in my way and receiving my falling body at such an opportune moment. The bullets were flying very fast over my head, but unless some fool shot at the earth instead of at a man I was safe. The thought that there might be some such fool made me shiver. Had I possessed the power, I would have burrowed my way through the earth to the other side, which they say is China.
It was the battle of Blenheim, at least, that seemed to be waged at the back of my head,for my nose was pressed into the earth and my imagination lent much aid to facts. I seemed to cower there for hours, and then one side began to retreat. It was the British, the Americans, I suppose, being in stronger force and also more skillful at this kind of warfare. The diminishing fire swept back toward the British lines and then died out like a languid blaze.
I heard the tramp of feet, and a heavy man with a large foot stepped squarely upon my back.
“Hello!” said the owner. “Here’s one, at least, that we’ve brought down!”
“English, or Hessian?” asked another.
“Can’t tell,” said the first. “He’s lying on his face, and, besides, he’s half buried in a gully. We’ll let him stay here; I guess this gully will do for his grave.”
“No, it won’t, Whitestone!” said I, sitting up. “When the right time comes for me to be buried I want a grave deeper than this.”
“Good Lord! is it you, Mr. Shelby?” exclaimed Whitestone, in surprise and genuine gladness.
“Yes, it is I,” I replied, “and in pretty sound condition too, when you consider thefact that all the British and American soldiers in the province of New York have been firing point-blank at me for the last two hours.”
Then I described my tribulations, and Whitestone, saying I should deem myself lucky to have fared so well, went with me to our camp.
Dangers and troubles past have never prevented me from sleeping well, and when I awoke the next morning it was with Whitestone pulling at my shoulder.
“This is the third shake,” said he.
“But the last,” said I, getting up and rubbing my eyes.
I have seldom seen a finer morning. The fresh crispness of early October ran through the brilliant sunshine. The earth was bathed in light. It was such a sun as I have heard rose on the morning of the great battle of Austerlitz, fought but recently. A light wind blew from the west. The blood bubbled in my veins.
“It’s lucky that so many of us should have such a fine day for leaving the world,” said Whitestone.
The battle, the final struggle for which wehad been looking so long, was at hand. I had not mistaken the preparations in the British camp the night before.
I have had my share, more or less humble, in various campaigns and combats, but I have not seen any other battle begun with so much deliberation as on that morning. In truth all whom I could see appeared to be calm. A man is sometimes very brave and sometimes much afraid—I do not know why—but that day the braver part of me was master.
We were ready and waiting to see what the British would do, when Burgoyne, with his picked veterans, came out of his intrenchments and challenged us to battle, much as the knights of the old time used to invite one another to combat.
They were not so many as we—we have never made that claim; but they made a most gallant show, all armed in the noble style with which Britain equips her troops, particularly the bayonets, of which we have had but few in the best of times, and none, most often.
They sat down in close rank on the hillside, as if they were quite content with what we might do or try to do, whatever it might be.I have heard many say it was this vaunting over us that chiefly caused the war.
The meaning of the British was evident to us all. If this picked force could hold its own against our attack, the remainder of their army would be brought up and an attempt to inflict a crushing defeat upon us would be made; if it could not hold its own, it would retreat into the intrenchments, where the whole British army would defend itself at vantage.
Farther back in the breastworks I could see the British gazing out at their chosen force and at us. I even imagined that I could see women looking over, and that perhaps Kate Van Auken was one of them. I say again, how like it was in preparation and manner to one of the old tournaments! Perhaps it was but my fancy.
There was no movement in our lines. So far as we could judge just then, we were merely looking on, as if it were no affair of ours. In the British force some one played a tune on a fife which sounded to me like “Won’t you dare?”
“Why did we take so much care to hem them in and then refuse to fight them?” asked I impatiently of Whitestone.
“What time o’ day is it?” asked Whitestone.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but it’s early.”
“I never answer such questions before sundown,” said Whitestone.
Content with his impolite but wise reply, I asked no more, noticing at times the red squares of the British, and at other times the dazzling circle of the red sun.
Suddenly the British began to move. They came on in most steady manner, their fine order maintained.
“Good!” said Whitestone. “They mean to turn our left.”
We were on the left, which might be good or bad. Be that as it may, I perceived that our waiting was over. I do not think we felt any apprehension. We were in strong force, and we New Yorkers were on the left, and beside us our brethren of New England, very strenuous men. We did not fear the British bayonet of which our enemies boast so much. While we watched their advance, I said to Whitestone:
“I will not ask that question again before sundown.”
“I trust that you will be able to ask it then, and I to answer it,” replied he.
Which was about as solemn as Whitestone ever became.
Looking steadily at the British, I saw a man in their front rank fall. Almost at the same time I heard the report of a rifle just in front of us, and I knew that one of our sharpshooters had opened the battle.
This shot was like a signal. The sharp crackling sound ran along the grass like fire in a forest, and more men fell in the British lines. Their own skirmishers replied, and while the smoke was yet but half risen a heavy jerky motion seized our lines and we seemed to lift ourselves up. A thrill of varying emotions passed through me. I knew that we were going to attack the British, not await their charge.
Our drummers began to beat a reply to theirs, but I paid small attention to them. The fierce pattering from the rifles of the skirmishers and the whistling of the bullets now coming about our ears were far more important sounds. But the garrulous drums beat on.
“Here goes!” said Whitestone.
The drums leaped into a faster tune, and we,keeping pace with the redoubled rub-a-dub, charged into a cloud of smoke spangled with flaming spots. The smoke filled my eyes and I could not see, but I was borne on by my own will and the solid rush of the men beside me and behind me. Then my eyes cleared partly, and I saw a long red line in front of us. Those in the first rank were on one knee, and I remember thinking how sharp their bayonets looked. The thought was cut short by a volley and a blaze which seemed to envelop their whole line. A huge groan arose from our ranks. I missed the shoulder against my left shoulder—the man who had stood beside me was no longer there.
We paused only for a moment to fire in our turn, and our groan found an equal echo among the British. Then, officers shouting commands and men shouting curses, we rushed upon the bayonets.
I expected to be spitted through, and do not know why I was not; but in the turmoil of noise and flame and smoke I swept forward with all the rest. When we struck them I felt a mighty shock, as if I were the whole line instead of one man. Then came the joy of thesavage when their line—bayonets and all—reeled back and shivered under the crash of ours.
I shouted madly, and struck through the smoke with my sword. I was conscious that I stepped on something softer than the earth, that it crunched beneath my feet; but I thought little of it. Instead I rushed on, hacking with my sword at the red blurs in the smoke.
I do not say it as a boast, for there were more of us than of them—though they used to claim that they did not care for numbers—but they could place small check upon our advance, although they had cannon as well as bayonets. Their red line, very much seamed and scarred now, was driven back, and still farther back, up the hill. Our men, long anxious for this battle and sure of triumph, poured after them like a rising torrent. The British were not strong enough, and were swept steadily toward their intrenchments.
“Do you hear that?” shouted some one in my ear.
“Hear what?” I shouted in reply, turning to Whitestone.
“The cannon and the rifles across yonder,” he said, nodding his head.
Then I noticed the angry crash of artillery and small arms to our left, and I knew by the sound that not we alone but the whole battle front of both armies was engaged.
If the British, as it seemed, wanted a decisive test of strength, they would certainly get it.
For a few moments the smoke rolled over us in such volume that I could not see Whitestone, who was but three feet from me, but I perceived that we had wheeled a little, and nobody was before us. Then the smoke drifted aside, and our men uttered a most tremendous shout, for all the British who were alive or could walk had been driven into their intrenchments, and, so far as that, we were going to carry their intrenchments too, or try.
I think that all of us took a very long breath, for I still had the strange feeling that our whole line was one single living thing, and whatever happened to it I felt. The cannon from the intrenchments were fired straight into our faces, but our bloody line swept on. I leaped upon a ridge of newly thrown earth and struck at a tall cap. I heard a tremendousswearing, long volleys of deep German oaths. We were among the paid Hessians, whom we ever hated more than the British for coming to fight us in a quarrel that was none of theirs.
The Hessians, even with their intrenchments and cannon, could not stand before us—nor do I think they are as good as we. Perhaps our hatred of these mercenaries swelled our zeal, but their intrenchments were no barrier to us. For a space we fought them hand to hand, knee to knee; then they gave way. I saw their slain commander fall. Some fled, some yielded; others fought on, retreating.
I rushed forward and called upon a Hessian to surrender. For answer he stabbed straight at my throat with his bayonet. He would have surely hit the mark, but a man beside him knocked the bayonet away with his sword, calling out at the same moment to me.
“That’s part payment of my debt to you, Dick.”
He was gone in the smoke, and as I was busy receiving the surrender of the Hessian and his bayonet I could not follow him. I looked around for more to do, but all the Hessians who had not fled had yielded, and the fight was ours.Burgoyne had not only failed in the pitched battle in the open field, but we had taken many of his cannon and a portion of his camp. His entire army, no longer able to face us in any sort of contest, lay exposed to our attack.
I wondered why we did not rush on and finish it all then, but I noticed for the first time that the twilight had come and the skies were growing dark over the field of battle. I must have spoken my thoughts aloud, for Whitestone, at my elbow, said:
“No use having more men killed, Mr. Shelby; we’ve nothing to do now but hold fast to what we’ve got, and the rest will come to us.”
Whitestone sometimes spoke to me in a fatherly manner, though I was his superior. But I forgave him. I owed much to him.
The battle ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The long shadows of the night seemed to cover everything and bring peace, though the cries of the wounded reminded us of what had been done. We gathered up the hurt, relieving all we could; but later in the night the sharpshooters began again.
I was exultant over our victory and the certainty of a still greater triumph to come. Irejoiced that Albert had not forgotten his debt to me and had found a way of repayment, but I felt anxiety also. In the rush of the battle, with the bullets flying one knew not whither, not even the women and children lying in that portion of the British camp yet intact were safe.
The wounded removed, I had nothing more to do but to wait. Only then did I remember to be thankful that I was unhurt. I had much smoke grime upon my face, and I dare say I was not fine to look at, but I thought little of those things. Whitestone, who also was free from active duty, joined me, and I was glad. He drew his long pipe from the interior of his waistcoat, filled it with tobacco, lighted it and became happy.
“It has been a good day’s work,” he said at length.
“Yes, for us,” I replied. “What will be the next step, Whitestone?”
“The British will retreat soon,” he said. “We will follow without pressing them too hard. No use to waste our men now. In a week the British will be ours.”
Whitestone spoke with such assurance that I was convinced.
But a dull murmur arose from the two camps, victor and vanquished. Both seemed to sleep for the morrow. I had done so much guard duty of late that I looked for such assignment as a matter of course, and this night was no exception. With Whitestone and some soldiers I was to guard one of the little passes between the hills. We were merely an alarm corps; we could not stop a passage, but there were enough behind us whom we could arouse for the purpose. The British might retreat farther into the interior, but the river and its banks must be closed to them.
We stood in the dark, but we could see the wavering lights of either camp. The murmur as it came to us was very low. The two armies rested as if they were sunk in a lethargy after their strenuous efforts of the day. I did notregret my watch. I did not care to sleep. The fever of the fight yet lingering in my blood, I was not so old to battle that I could lie down and find slumber as soon as the fighting ended.
“Mr. Shelby,” said Whitestone, “is there any rule or regulation against a pipe to-night?”
“I know of none, Whitestone,” I said.
He was satisfied, and lighted his pipe, which increased his satisfaction. I strolled about a little, watching the lights and meditating upon the events of the day. The camps stood higher than I, and they looked like huge black clouds shot through here and there with bits of flame. I believed Whitestone’s assurance that Burgoyne would retreat on the morrow; but I wondered what he would attempt after that. Clinton’s arrival might save him, but it seemed to me that the possibility of such an event was fast lessening. In this fashion I passed an hour or two; then it occurred to me to approach the British camp a little more closely and see what movements there might be on the outskirts, if any. Telling Whitestone of my intent, I advanced some forty or fifty yards. From that point, though still beyond rifle shot,I could see figures in the British camp when they passed between me and the firelight.
There was one light larger than the others—near the center of the camp it seemed to be—and figures passed and repassed in front of it like a procession. Presently I noticed that these shapes passed in fours, and they were carrying something. It seemed a curious thing, and I watched it a little; then I understood what they were doing: they were burying the dead.
I could easily have crept nearer and fired some bullets into the British camp, but I had no such intent. That was the business of others, and even then I could hear the far-away shots of the sharpshooters.
The sights of this stricken camp interested me. The ground was favorable for concealment, and I crept nearer. Lying among some weeds I could obtain a good view. The figures before indistinct and shapeless now took form and outline. I could tell which were officers and which were soldiers.
Some men were digging in the hillside. They soon ceased, and four others lifted a body from the grass and put it in the grave. Awoman came forward and read from a little book. My heart thrilled when I recognized the straight figure and earnest face of Kate Van Auken. Yet there was no need for me to be surprised at the sight of her. It was like her to give help on such a night.
I could not hear the words, but I knew they were a prayer, and I bowed my head. When she finished the prayer and they began to throw in the earth, she walked away and I lost sight of her; but I guessed that she went on to other and similar duties. I turned about to retreat, and stumbled over a body.
A feeble voice bade me be more careful, and not run over a gentleman who was not bothering me but attending to his own business. A British officer, very pale and weak—I could see that even in the obscurity—sat up and looked reproachfully at me.
“Aren’t you rebels satisfied with beating us?” he asked in a faint voice scarce above a whisper. “Do you want to trample on us too?”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I did not see you.”
“If any harm was done, your apology has removed it,” he replied most politely.
I looked at him with interest. His voice was not the only weak thing about him. He seemed unable to sit up, but was in a half-reclining position, with his shoulder propped against a stone. He was young.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, sympathizing much.
“I’m in the most embarrassing position of my life,” he replied, with a faint attempt at a laugh. “One of your confounded rebel bullets has gone through both my thighs. I don’t think it has struck any bone, but I have lost so much blood that I can neither walk, nor can I cry out loud enough for my people to come and rescue me, nor for your people to come and capture me. I think the bleeding has stopped. The blood seems to have clogged itself up.”
I was bound to admit that he had truly described his position as embarrassing.
“What would you do if you were in my place?” he asked.
I didn’t know, and said so. Yet I had no mind to abandon him. The positions reversed,I would have a very cruel opinion of him were he to abandon me. He could not see my face, and he must have had some idea that I was going to desert him.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” he asked anxiously.
His tone appealed to me, and I assured him very warmly that I would either take him a prisoner into our camp or send him into his own. Then I sat my head to the task, for either way it was a problem. I doubted whether I could carry him to our camp, which was far off comparatively, as he looked like a heavy Briton. I certainly could carry him to his own camp, which was very near, but that would make it uncommonly embarrassing for me. I explained the difficulty to him.
“That’s so,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t want you to get yourself into trouble in order to get me out of it.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Hume. Ensign William Hume,” he replied.
“You’re too young to die, Hume,” I said, “and I promise not to leave you until you are in safety.”
“I’ll do the same for you,” he said, “if ever I find you lying on a hillside with a bullet hole through both your thighs.”
I sat down on the grass beside him, and gave him something strong out of a little flask that I carried in an inside pocket. He drank it with eagerness and gratitude and grew cheerful.
I thought a few moments, and my idea came to me, as good ideas sometimes do. As he could neither walk nor shout, it behooved me to do both for him. Telling him my plan, of which he approved most heartily, as he ought to have done, I lifted him in my arms and walked toward the British camp. He was a heavy load and my breath grew hard.
We were almost within reach of the firelight, and yet we were not noticed by any of the British, who, I suppose, were absorbed in their preparations. We came to a newly cut tree, intended probably for use in the British fortifications. I put Ensign Hume upon this tree with his back supported against an upthrust bough.
“Now, don’t forget, when they come,” I said. “to tell them you managed to crawl to this treeand shout for help. That will prevent any pursuit of me.”
He promised, and shook hands with as strong a grip as he could, for he was yet weak. Then I stepped back a few paces behind him, and shouted:
“Help, help, comrades! Help! help!”
Figures advanced from the firelight, and I glided away without noise. From my covert in the darkness I could see them lift Hume from the tree and carry him into his own camp. Then I went farther away, feeling glad.
It was my intent to rejoin Whitestone and the soldiers, and in truth I went back part of the way, but the British camp had a great attraction for me. I was curious to see, as far as I could, what might be going on in its outskirts. I also encouraged myself with the thought that I might acquire information of value.
Thus gazing about with no certain purpose, I saw a figure coming toward me. One of our sharpshooters or spies returning from explorations, was my first thought. But this thought quickly yielded to another, in which wonderment was mingled to a marked extent. Thatfigure was familiar. I had seen that swing, that manner, before.
My wonderment increased, and I decided to observe closely. I stepped farther aside that I might not be seen, of which, however, there was but small chance, so long as I sought concealment.
The figure veered a little from me, choosing a course where the night lay thickest. I was unable to make up my mind about it. Once I had taken another figure that looked like it for Albert, and once I had taken it for Albert’s sister, and each time I had been wrong. Now I had my choice, and also the results of experience, and remained perplexed.
I resolved to follow. There might be mischief afoot. Albert was quite capable of it, if Albert’s sister was not. The figure proceeded toward our post, where I had left Whitestone in command for the time being. I fell in behind, preserving a convenient distance between us.
Ahead of us I saw a spark of fire, tiny but distinct. I knew very well that it was the light of Whitestone’s pipe. I expected the figure that I was following to turn aside, but it didnot. Instead, after a moment’s pause, as if for examination, it went straight on toward the spark of light. I continued to follow. Whitestone was alone. The soldiers were not visible. I suppose they were farther back.
The gallant sergeant raised his rifle at sight of the approaching figure, but dropped it when he perceived that nothing hostile was intended.
“Good evening, Miss Van Auken,” he said most politely. “Have you come to surrender?”
“No,” replied Kate, “but to make inquiries, sergeant, if you would be so kind as to answer them.”
“If it’s not against my duty,” replied Whitestone, with no abatement of his courtesy.
“I wanted to know if all my friends had escaped unhurt from the battle,” she said. “I was going to ask about you first, sergeant, but I see that it is not necessary.”
“What others?” said the sergeant.
“Well, there’s Mr. Shelby,” she said. “Albert said he saw him in that fearful charge, the tumult of which frightened us so much.”
“Oh, Mr. Shelby’s all right, ma’am,” replied the sergeant. “The fact is, he’s in command of this very post, and he’s scouting about here somewhere now. Any others, ma’am, you wish to ask about?”
“I don’t recall any just now,” she said, “and I suppose I ought to go back, or you might be compelled to arrest me as a spy, or something of that kind.”
The sergeant made another deep bow. Whitestone always thought he had fine manners. Kate began her return. She did not see me, for I had stepped aside. But I was very glad that I had seen her. I watched her until she re-entered the British camp.
When I rejoined Whitestone he assured me that nothing whatever had happened in my absence, and, besides the men of our immediate command, he had not seen a soul of either army. I did not dispute his word, for I was satisfied.
All night long the bustle continued in Burgoyne’s camp, and there was no doubt of its meaning. Burgoyne would retreat on the morrow, in a desperate attempt to gain time, hoping always that Clinton would come. The nextday this certainty was fulfilled. The British army drew off, and we followed in overwhelming force, content, so our generals seemed, to wait for the prize without shedding blood in another pitched battle.
But it is not sufficient merely to win a battle. One must do more, especially when another hostile army is approaching and one does not know how near that army is, or how much nearer it will be.
It was such a trouble as this that afflicted our generals after the morning of the great victory. That other British army down the river bothered them. They wanted exact information about Clinton, and my colonel sent for me.
“Mr. Shelby,” he said, “take the best horse you can find in the regiment, ride with all haste to Albany, and farther south, if necessary, find out all you can about Clinton, and gallop back to us with the news. It is an important and perhaps a dangerous duty, but I think you are a good man for it, and if you succeed, thosemuch higher in rank than I am will thank you.”
I felt flattered, but I did not allow myself to be overwhelmed.
“Colonel,” I said, “let me take Sergeant Whitestone with me; then, if one of us should fall, the other can complete the errand.”
But I did not have the possible fall of either of us in mind. Whitestone and I understand each other, and he is good company. Moreover, the sergeant is a handy man to have about in an emergency.
The colonel consented promptly.
“It is a good idea,” he said. “I should have thought of it myself.”
But then colonels don’t always think of everything.
Whitestone was very willing.
“I don’t think anything will happen here before we get back,” he said, looking off in the direction of Burgoyne’s army.
In a half hour, good horses under us, we were galloping southward. We expected to reach Albany in four hours.
For a half hour we rode along, chiefly in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts.Then I saw Whitestone fumbling in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and I knew that the pipe was coming. He performed the feat of lighting it and smoking it without diminishing speed, and looked at me triumphantly. I said nothing, knowing that no reply was needed.
My thoughts—and it was no trespass upon my soldierhood—were elsewhere. I hold that I am not a sentimental fellow, but in the ride to Albany I often saw the face of Kate Van Auken—Mrs. Captain Chudleigh that was to be—a girl who was nothing to me, of course. Yet I was glad that she was not a Tory and traitor, and I hoped Chudleigh would prove to be the right sort of man.
“I’ll be bound you’re thinking of some girl,” said Whitestone suddenly, as he took his pipe from his mouth and held the stem judicially between his thumb and forefinger.
“Why?” I asked.
“You look up at the sky, and not ahead of you; you sigh, and you’re young,” replied Whitestone.
But I swore that I was not thinking of any girl, and with all the more emphasis because I was. Whitestone was considerate, however,and said nothing more on the subject. Within the time set for ourselves we reached Albany.
Albany, as all the world knows, is an important town of Dutchmen. It is built on top of a hill, down a steep hillside, and then into a bottom by the river, which sometimes rises without an invitation from the Dutchmen and washes out the houses in the bottom. I have heard that many of these Dutchmen are not real Dutchmen, but have more English blood in them. It is not a matter, however, that I care to argue, as it is no business of mine what hobby horse one may choose to ride hard. All I know is that these Albany Dutchmen are wide of girth and can fight well, which is sufficient for the times.
Whitestone and I rode along looking at the queer houses with their gable ends to the street. We could see that the town was in a great flurry, as it had a good right to be, with our army and Burgoyne’s above it and Clinton’s below it, and nobody knowing what was about to happen.
“We must gather up the gossip of the town first,” I said to Whitestone. “No doubt much of it will be false and more of it exaggerated,but it will serve as an indication and tell us how to set about our work.”
“Then here’s the place for us to begin gathering,” said Whitestone, pointing to a low frame building through the open door of which many voices and some strong odors of liquor came. Evidently it was a drinking tavern, and I knew Whitestone was right when he said it was a good place in which to collect rumors.
We dismounted, hitched our horses to posts, and entered. As plenty of American soldiers were about the town, we had no fear that our uniforms would attract special attention. In truth we saw several uniforms like ours in the room, which was well crowded with an assemblage most mixed and noisy. Whitestone and I each ordered a glass of the Albany whisky tempered with water, and found it to be not bad after a long and weary ride. I have observed that a good toddy cuts the dust out of one’s throat in excellent fashion. Feeling better we stood around with the others and listened to the talk, of which there was no lack. In truth, some of it was very strange and remarkable.
The news of our great battle had reachedthe Albany people, but in a vague and contrary fashion, and we found that we had beaten Burgoyne; that Burgoyne had beaten us; that Burgoyne was fleeing with all speed toward Canada; that he would be in Albany before night. Those who know always feel so superior to those who don’t know that Whitestone and I were in a state of great satisfaction.
But the conversation soon turned from Burgoyne to Clinton, and then Whitestone and I grew eager. Our eagerness turned to alarm, for we heard that Clinton, with a great fleet and a great army, was pressing toward Albany with all haste.
Good cause for alarm was this, and, however much it might be exaggerated, we had no doubt that the gist of it was the truth.
I made a sign to Whitestone, and we slipped quietly out of the tavern, not wishing to draw any notice to ourselves. Despite our caution, two men followed us outside. I had observed one of these men looking at me in the tavern, but he had turned his eyes away when mine met his. Outside he came up to me and said boldly, though in a low voice:
“Have you come from the south?”
“No,” I said carelessly, thinking to turn him off.
“Then you have come from the north, from the battlefield,” he said in a tone of conviction.
“What makes you think so?” I asked, annoyed.
“You and your companion are covered with dust and your horses with perspiration,” he replied, “and you have ridden far and hard.”
I could not guess the man’s purpose, but I took him and the others with him to be Tories, spies of the British, who must be numerous about Albany. I do not like to confess it, but it is true that in our province of New York the Tories were about as many as, perhaps more than, the patriots. We might denounce the men, but we had no proof at all against them. Moreover, we could not afford to get into a wrangle on such a mission as ours.
“You were at the battle,” said the man shrewdly, “and you have come in all haste to Albany.”
“Well, what if we were?” I said in some heat. His interference and impertinence were enough to make me angry.
“But I did not say from which army you came,” he said, assuming an air of great acuteness and knowledge.
I was in doubt. Did the man take us for Tory spies—I grew angrier still at the thought—or was he merely trying to draw us on to the telling of what he knew? While I hesitated, he added:
“I know that Burgoyne held his own in a severe battle fought yesterday. That is no news to you. But if you go about the town a little, you will also know what I know, that Clinton, in overwhelming force, will soon be at Albany.”
I was convinced now that the man was trying to draw from me the facts about the battle, and I believed more than ever that he and his comrades were Tory spies. I regretted that Whitestone and I had not removed the dust of travel before we entered the tavern. I regretted also that so many of our countrymen should prove faithless to us. It would have been far easier for us had we only the British and the hired Hessians to fight.
Whitestone was leaning against his horse, bridle in hand, looking at the solitary cloud that the sky contained. Apparently the sergeantwas off in dreams, but I knew he was listening intently. He let his eyes fall, and when they met mine, he said, very simply and carelessly:
“I think we’d better go.”
As I said, the sergeant is a very handy man to have about in an emergency. His solution was the simplest in the world—merely to ride away from the men and leave them.
We mounted our horses.
“Good day, gentlemen,” we said.
“Good day,” they replied.
Then we left them, and when I looked back, at our first turning, they were still standing at the door of the tavern. But I gave them little further thought, for Clinton and his advancing fleet and army must now receive the whole attention of the sergeant and myself.
It was obvious that we must leave Albany, go down the river, and get exact news about the British. It was easy enough for us to pass out of the town and continue our journey. We had been provided with the proper papers in case of trouble.
We had given our horses rest and food in Albany, and rode at a good pace for an hour. Not far away we could see the Hudson, a greatribbon of silver or gray, as sunshine or cloud fell upon it. I was occupied with the beauty of the scene, when Whitestone called my attention and pointed ahead. Fifty yards away, and in the middle of the road, stood two horsemen motionless. They seemed to be planted there as guards, yet they wore no uniforms.
I felt some anxiety, but reflected that the horsemen must be countrymen waiting, through curiosity or friendship, for approaching travelers in such troublous times. But as we rode nearer I saw that I was mistaken.
“Our inquiring friends of the tavern,” said Whitestone.
He spoke the truth. I recognized them readily. When we were within fifteen feet they drew their horses across the way, blocking it.
“What does this mean, gentlemen? Why do you stop us?” I asked.
“We are an American patrol,” replied the foremost of the two, the one who had questioned me at the tavern, “and we can not let anybody pass here. It is against our orders.”
Both wore ragged Continental coats, which I suppose they had brought out of some recess before they started on the circuit ahead of us.
I signed to Whitestone to keep silent, and rode up close to the leader.
“We ought to understand each other,” I said, speaking in a confident and confidential tone.
“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.
I burst out laughing, as if I were enjoying the best joke in the world.
“I hate rebels,” I said, leaning over and tapping him familiarly on the shoulder with my finger.
“I don’t understand you,” he said.
“I mean that you hate rebels too,” I replied, “and that you are just as much of a rebel as I am.”
“Hi should think so! Hi could tell by the look hof their countenances that they are hof the right sort,” broke in Whitestone, dropping every h where it belonged and putting on every one where it did not belong.
It was Whitestone’s first and last appearance on any occasion as an Englishman, but it was most successful.
A look of intelligence appeared on the faces of the two men.
“Of Bayle’s regiment in Burgoyne’s army, both of us,” I said.
“I thought it, back yonder in Albany,” said the leader, “but why did you fence us off so?”
“One doesn’t always know his friends, first glance, especially in rebel towns,” I said. “Like you, I thought so, but I couldn’t take the risk and declare myself until I knew more about you.”
“That’s true,” he acknowledged. “These rebels are so cursedly sly.”
“Very, very sly,” I said, “but we’ve fooled ’em this time.”
I pointed to their Continental coats and to ours. Then we laughed all together.
“Tell me what really happened up there,” said the man.
“It was a great battle,” I said, “but we drove them off the field, and we can take care of ourselves. Six thousand British and German veterans care little for all the raw militia this country can raise.”
“That’s so,” he said. We laughed again, all together.
“How is everything down there?” I asked, nodding my head toward the south.
“Clinton’s coming with a strong fleet and five thousand men,” he replied. “What they say in the town is all true.”
“Small thanks he will get from Burgoyne,” I said. “Our general will like it but little when Clinton comes to strip him of part of his glory.”
“I suppose you are right,” he answered, “but I did not think Burgoyne was finding his way so easy. I understood that the first battle at Saratoga stopped him.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about Burgoyne,” I said. “If he stopped, he stopped for ample reasons.”
Which was no lie.
“But we must hasten,” I continued. “Our messages to Clinton will bear no delay.”
“Luck with you,” they said.
“Luck with you,” we replied, waving our hands in friendly salute as we rode away, still to the south.
Whether they ever found out the truth I do not know, for I never saw or heard of either again.
We continued our journey in silence for some time. Whitestone looked melancholy.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“It was too easy,” he replied. “I always pity fools.”
He lighted his pipe and sought consolation.