The night soon came and was very dark. We were compelled to stop for rest and for food, which we found at a farmer’s house. But we were satisfied with our day’s work. We had started, and with the appearance of fact too, the report that Burgoyne had beaten us in pitched battle. We knew the report would be carried far and wide, and Clinton would think haste was not needed. Let me repeat that to win a battle is not to win a campaign, and I hold no general’s commission either.
In the morning we met a few countrymen in a state of much fright. “Clinton is coming!” was all that we could get from them. We thought it more than likely that Clinton was coming in truth, since all the reports said he and his ships ought to be very near now.
“The river is the place to look,” said Whitestone.
We turned our horses that way, and in a few minutes stood upon its high banks.
“See,” said Whitestone, pointing a long arm and an outstretched finger.
I saw, and I saw, moreover, that our search was ended. Far down the river was the British fleet, a line of white specks upon the silver bosom of the water. We could scarce trace hull or sail or mast, but ships they were without mistake, and British ships they must be, since we had none. It was not a pleasant sight for us, but it would have rejoiced the heart of Burgoyne had he been there to see.
We knew that Clinton must have several thousand men either on board the fleet or not far below, and we knew also that with such a strong force nothing could prevent his speedy arrival at Albany if he chose to hasten. I knew not what to do. Ought we to go back at once to our army with the news of what we had seen, or ought we to stay and find out more? On one side was time saved, and on the other better information. I put it to Whitestone, but he was as uncertain as I.
Meanwhile the fleet grew under the horizon of the river. We could trace masts andspars, and see the sails as they filled out with the wind. The little black figures on the decks were men.
A quarter of a mile or more below us we saw a rocky projection into the river. I proposed to Whitestone that we ride at least that far and decide afterward on further action.
We rode rapidly, but before we were halfway to the place we met men running—frightened men at that. Their condition of mind showed plainly on their faces. They wore militia uniforms, and we knew them to be some of our citizen soldiery, who are sometimes a very speedy lot, not being trained to the military business. We tried to stop them and find out why they were running and whence they came; but all we could get out of them was, “The British are coming, with a hundred ships and forty thousand men!” At last, half by persuasion and half by force, we induced one man to halt; he explained that he had been sent with the others to man a battery of four guns on the point. When they saw the British fleet coming, some of the raw militia had taken fright and fled, carrying the others with them.
“But the ships may not be here for an hour,” I protested.
“So much the better,” he said, “for it gives us the more time.”
We released him, and he followed his flying comrades. Whitestone and I looked ruefully after them, but I suggested that we continue our ride to the point. Even with the ships abreast us in the river, it would be easy for us to ride away and escape the British. We rode as rapidly as the ground would allow, and soon reached the point and the deserted battery.
I could have sworn with vexation at the flight of our militia. It was a pretty battery, well planted, four trim eighteen pounders, plenty of powder, shot neatly piled, and a flag still flying from a tall pole. Whoever selected the place for the battery knew his business—which does not always happen in the military life. I looked again in the direction of the fleeing militia, but the back of the last man had disappeared.
“What a pity!” I said regretfully to Whitestone. “At least they might have trimmed the rigging a little for those British ships down yonder.”
“I don’t understand one thing,” said Whitestone.
“What is it?” I asked.
He took his pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl of it significantly with the index finger of his left hand.
“I can smoke that pipe, can’t I?” he asked.
“I should think so!”
“So could you if you had a chance, couldn’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Those men who ran away could fire a cannon; so could——”
“Do you mean it, Whitestone?” I asked, the blood flying to my head at the thought.
“Mean it? I should think I did,” he replied. “I used to be in the artillery, and I can handle a cannon pretty well. So can you, I think. Here are the cannon, there’s ammunition a-plenty, and over us flies the brand-new flag. What more do you want?”
He replaced his pipe in his mouth, sat down on the breech of a gun, and gave himself up to content. I looked at him in admiration. I approve of so many of Whitestone’s ideas, and I liked few better than this. I was young.
“Good enough, Whitestone,” I said. “I, as commander, indorse the suggestion of my chief assistant.”
We took our horses out of the range of the guns on the ships and fastened them securely, as we were thinking of our future needs. Then we came back to our battery. Evidently the original defenders had desired the battery to appear very formidable, for in addition to their real guns they had planted eight Quaker guns, which, seen from the center of the river, would look very threatening, I had no doubt. The four guns, genuine and true, were charged almost to the muzzle.
“I think they have seen us,” said Whitestone, pointing to the ships.
It was a strong fleet—frigates and sloops. It was plain that they had seen us and had not been expecting us, for the ships were taking in sail and hovering about in an uncertain way. Officers in gilt and gold stood on their decks watching us through glasses.
“Keep down, Whitestone,” I said. “We must not give them any hint as to the size of our force.”
“But I think we ought to give ’em a hintthat we’re loaded for bear,” said Whitestone. “What do you say to a shot at the nearest frigate, Mr. Shelby. I think she is within long range.”
I approved, and Whitestone fired. In the stillness of a country morning the report was frightfully distinct, and the echo doubling upon and repeating itself seemed to travel both up and down the river. The shot was well aimed. It smashed right into the frigate, and there was confusion on her decks. I fired the second gun, and down came some spars and rigging on the same ship. Whitestone rubbed his hands in glee. I shouted to him to lie close, and obeyed my own command as promptly as he. The frigate was about to return our salute.
She swung around and let us have a broadside, which did great damage to the rocks and the shore. But Whitestone and I remained cozy and safe. A large sloop came up closer than the frigate and fired a volley, which sailed peacefully over our heads and made a prodigious disturbance among the trees beyond us.
“Can you get at that third gun, Whitestone?”
“Nothing easier!”
“Then give that spiteful sloop a shot. Teach her it isn’t safe for a sloop to come where a frigate can’t stay.”
Whitestone obeyed, and his shot was most glorious. The chunk of lead struck the sloop between wind and water and must have gone right through her, for presently she began to sheer off, the signs of distress visible all over her, as if she were taking in water at the rate of a thousand gallons a minute. I clapped Whitestone on the back and shouted “Hurrah!”
But our lucky shot had stirred up the full wrath of the fleet. The ships formed in line of battle and opened their batteries on us, firing sometimes one after the other, and sometimes nearly all together. I dare say the cliffs of the Hudson, in all their long existence, have never received such another furious bombardment. Oh, it was a bad day for the trees and the bushes and the rocks, which were beaten and battered and cut and crushed by eighteen-pound shot and twelve-pound shot and six-pound shot, and the Lord knows what, until the river itself fell into a rage and began to lash its waters into a turmoil!
But Whitestone and I, with all this infernaluproar around us, lay in our brave earthworks as snug and cozy as chipmunks, and laughed to think that we were the cause of it all. I rolled over to Whitestone and shouted in his ear:
“As soon as the eruption diminishes a little we will try a fourth shot at them!”
He grinned, and both of us embraced the earth for some minutes longer. Then the fire of the enemy began to abate. We took the first chance to peep out at them, but the volume of smoke over the river was so great and so dense that we could see the ships but indistinctly.
As for ourselves, we had suffered little. One of our guns was dismounted, but it was a Quaker, and no harm was done. The fire dying, the clouds of smoke began to float away and the ships were disclosed. Whitestone and I, peeping over our earthworks, beheld a scene of great animation and excitement. The British were working hard; there was no doubt of it. The bustle on the decks was tremendous. Officers were shouting to men and to each other; men were reloading cannon and making every preparation to renew the bombardment whentheir officers might order it. One frigate had come too near, and was grounded slightly in shallowing water. Her crew were making gigantic efforts to get her off before our terrible battery could blow her to pieces.
The captains were using their glasses to see what was left of us, and I could guess their chagrin when they beheld us looking as formidable and as whole as ever, barring the dismounted Quaker. Our escape from injury was not so wonderful after all. We defenders were only two, and we made a very small target; while if the battery had been crowded with men the death rate would have been prodigious.
“There goes the frigate!” I cried. “They’ve got her off! Give her a good-by as she goes, Whitestone!”
He was lying next to the fourth gun, and he instantly sent a shot smashing into the vessel. But the shot was like a veritable torch to a powder magazine, for the fleet attacked us again with every gun it could bring to bear. The first bombardment seemed to have aroused fresh spirit and energy for the second, and Whitestone and I, taking no chances with peeps,thrust our fingers into our ears and our heads into the ground.
But we could not keep out the heavy crash-crash of the volleys, blending now and then into a continuous roar, which the river and the horizon took up and repeated. King George must have had a pretty powder-and-shot bill to pay for that day’s work.
The clouds of smoke gathered in a vast black canopy over river and ships, shore and battery. Under and through it appeared now and then the dark lines of spars and ropes, and always the blazing flash of many great guns. If the stony shores of the Hudson did not suffer most grievously, let it not be charged against the British, for they displayed a spirit and energy, if not a marksmanship, worthy of their reputation.
I rejoiced at the vigor of their fire. Its volume was so great, and they must be working so hard, that they could not know the battery was making no answer.
By and by the cannoneers waxed weary of loading and firing, and the officers of giving orders. The crash of the great guns became more infrequent. The flash of the powder boreless resemblance to continuous lightning. The smoke began to drift away. Then the defenders of the battery rose up in their courage and strength, reloaded their guns, and opened fire on the fleet.
I love to think that the British were surprised most unpleasantly. Their fire was waning, but ours was not, it seemed to them. The mischievous little battery was still there, and they had neither reduced it nor passed it. It was mirth to us to think how easily they could pass us, and yet preferred to reduce us.
“By all that’s glorious,” exclaimed Whitestone, “they’re retreating!”
It was so. The ships were hauling off, whether to refit for another attack or to consult for future action we did not know. We gave them a few shots as they drew away, and presently they anchored out of range. Boats were launched, and men in gold-laced caps and coats were rowed to the largest frigate.
“The admiral has called a conference, I guess,” I said to Whitestone.
He nodded, and we inspected our battery to see how it had stood the second bombardment. Two more Quaker guns were dismounted, butone of them we were able to put again into fairly presentable condition. That done, we took some refreshment from our knapsacks, and awaited in calmness the next movement of our enemies. As it was, we flattered ourselves that we had made a gallant fight.
We waited a half hour, and then a boat put out from the big frigate. Besides the oarsmen, it contained a richly dressed officer and a white flag. They came directly toward us.
“A flag of truce and a conference,” I said. “Shall we condescend, Whitestone?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Whitestone. “We ought to hear what they have to say.”
“Then you remain in command of the battery,” I said, “and I will meet the officer.”
I scrambled down the high cliff to the water’s edge and awaited the boat, which I was determined should not come too near. When it came within speaking distance, I hailed the officer and ordered him to stop.
“I am Captain Middleton,” he called, “and I am commissioned by our commander to speak to your commander.”
“General Arnold saw you coming,” I said,“and sent me to meet you and hear what you have to say.”
“General Arnold!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, General Arnold, the commander of our battery,” I replied.
I mentioned General Arnold because of his great reputation then as a fighting general. And a fighting general he was, too; I will say it, traitor though he afterward proved to be.
“I thought General Arnold was with Gates,” said the officer.
“Oh, they quarreled,” I replied airily, which was the truth, “and General Arnold, being relieved of his command up there, has come down here to fight this battery. You have seen for yourself that he knows how to do it.”
“It is true,” he said, “your fire was very warm.”
He looked up at the battery, but I would not let him come within fifty feet of the shore, and he could see nothing save the earthworks and some of the gun muzzles.
“It can be made warmer,” I said confidently, not boastingly.
“I have come to summon you to surrender,” he said. “We will offer you good terms.”
“Surrender!” I laughed in scorn. “Why, my dear captain, you have made no impression upon us yet, while we have scarred your ships a bit.”
“That is a fact,” he said. “You have handled your eighteen-pounders well.”
“Twenty-four pounders,” I corrected.
“I did not know they were so heavy,” he said. “That accounts for the strength of your fire.”
He seemed pleased at the discovery. It made an excuse for his side.
“No doubt General Arnold can do something with a battery of twelve twenty-four pounders,” he began.
“Eighteen twenty-four pounders,” I corrected. “You can not see all the muzzles.”
He looked very thoughtful. I knew that he was impressed by the exceeding strength of our battery.
“But about the proposition to surrender,” he began.
“I will not take such an offer to General Arnold,” I exclaimed indignantly. “In fact, Ihave my instructions from him. He’ll sink every ship you have, or be blown to pieces himself.”
Captain Middleton, after this emphatic declaration, which I am sure I made in a most convincing manner, seemed to think further talk would be a waste, and gave the word to his oarsmen to pull back to his ship.
“Good day,” he said very courteously.
“Good day,” said I with equal courtesy. Then I climbed back up the cliff and re-enforced the garrison. I watched Middleton as he approached the flagship. He mounted to the deck and the officers crowded around him. In a half hour the ships bore up again, formed line of battle, and opened upon us a third terrific bombardment, which we endured with the same calmness and success. When they grew tired we gave them a few shots, which did some execution, and then, to our infinite delight, they slipped their cables and fell back down the river.
“When they find out what we really are they’ll come again to-morrow and blow us to splinters,” said Whitestone.
“Yes, but we’ll be far away from here then,” said I, “and we may have held them back aday at least. Why, man, even an hour is worth much to our army up yonder!”
We were in a state of supreme satisfaction, also in a state of hurry. There was nothing more for us to do in the south, and it was our business to hasten northward with the news we had. I rejoiced greatly. I hoped that Clinton would continue to fiddle his time away below Albany, impressed by the risks he was taking, thanks to our brave battery.
We found our horses nearly dead from fright, but a few kicks restored life, and we rode northward in all haste. At Albany we changed horses, evaded questions, and resumed our ride. In the night we reached our own camp, and as soon as we had reported sought the rest we needed so badly, and, I think, deserved so well.
Having returned, I expected to share in the pursuit of Burgoyne, and wondered to what particular duty I would be assigned. But a man never knows at seven o’clock what he will be doing at eight o’clock, and before eight o’clock had come I was called by the colonel of our regiment.
“Mr. Shelby,” he said, “you have already shown yourself intelligent and vigilant on important service.”
I listened, feeling sure that I was going to have something very disagreeable to do. You can depend upon it when your superior begins with formal flattery. I had just finished one important task, but the more you do the more people expect of you.
“One of our prisoners has escaped,” he said; “a keen-witted man who knows the country.He has escaped to the south. As you know so well, Sir Henry Clinton is, or has been, advancing up the Hudson with a strong force to the aid of Burgoyne, whom nothing else can save from us. This man—this prisoner who has escaped—must not be permitted to reach Clinton with the news that Burgoyne is almost done for. It was important before the last battle that no messenger from Burgoyne should pass through our lines; it is still more important to-day. You understand?”
I bowed, as a sign that I understood.
“This escaped prisoner knows everything that has happened,” he resumed, “and he must be overtaken. He will probably follow the direct road along the river, as he knows that haste is necessary. How many men do you want?”
I named Whitestone and a private, a strong, ready-witted fellow named Adams.
“What is the name of the man we are to capture?” I asked.
“Chudleigh—Captain Ralph Chudleigh,” he replied. “A tall man, dark hair and eyes, twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age. Do you know him?”
I replied that I knew him.
“So much the better,” said our colonel with much delight. “Aside from your other qualifications, Mr. Shelby, you are the man of all men for this duty. Chudleigh will undoubtedly attempt to disguise himself, but since you know him so well he can scarce hide his face from you. But remember that he must be taken, dead or alive.”
I had not much relish for the mission in the first place, and, for reasons, less relish when I knew that Chudleigh was the man whom I was to take. But in such affairs as these it is permitted to the soldier to choose only the one thing, and that is, to obey.
We set out at once over the same road we had traveled twice so recently. Three good horses had been furnished us, and we were well armed. For a while we rode southward with much speed, and soon left behind us the last detachment of our beleaguering army.
One question perplexed me: Would Chudleigh be in his own British uniform, which he wore when he escaped, or did he manage to take away with him some rags of Continental attire, in which he would clothe himself first chance?I could answer it only by watching for all men of suspicious appearance, no matter the cut or color of their clothing.
We galloped along a fair road, but we met no one. Quiet travelers shun ground trodden by armies. It was past the noon hour when we came to a small house not far from the roadside. We found the farmer who owned it at home, and in answer to our questions, fairly spoken, he said three men had passed that day, two going north and one going south, all dressed as ordinary citizens. I was particularly interested in the one going south, and asked more about him.
“He was tall, dark, and young,” said the farmer. “He looked like a man of small consequence, for his clothing was ragged and his face not overclean. He wanted food, and he ate with much appetite.”
I asked if the man had paid for his dinner, and the farmer showed me silver fresh from the British mint. I could well believe that this was Chudleigh. However wary and circumspect he might be he was bound to have food, and he could find it only by going to the houses he saw on his southern journey.
I was confirmed in my belief an hour later, when we met a countryman on foot, who at first evinced a great desire to run away from us, but who stopped, seeing our uniforms. He explained that he knew not whom to trust, for a short while before he was riding like ourselves; now he had no horse; a ragged man meeting him in the road had presented a pistol at his head and ordered him to give up his horse, which he did with much promptness, as the man’s finger lay very caressingly upon the trigger of the pistol.
“That was Chudleigh without doubt,” I said to Whitestone, “and since he also is now mounted we must have a race for it.”
He agreed with me, and we whipped our horses into a gallop again. In reality I had not much acquaintance with Chudleigh, but I trusted that I would know his face anywhere. Secure in this belief we pressed on.
“Unless he’s left the road to hide—and that’s not probable, for he can’t afford delay—we ought to overhaul him soon,” said Whitestone.
The road led up and down a series of lightly undulating hills. Just when we reached one crest we saw the back of a horseman on thenext crest, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. By a species of intuition I knew that it was Chudleigh. Aside from my intuition, all the probabilities indicated Chudleigh, for we had the word of the dismounted farmer that his lead of us was but short.
“That’s our man!” exclaimed Whitestone, echoing our thought.
As if by the same impulse, all three of us clapped spur to horse, and forward we went at a gallop that sent the wind rushing past us. We were much too far away for the fugitive to hear the hoof-beats of our horses, but by chance, I suppose, he happened to look back and saw us coming at a pace that indicated zeal. I saw him give his mount a great kick in the side, and the horse bounded forward so promptly that in thirty seconds the curve of the hill hid both horse and rider from our view. But that was not a matter discouraging to us. The river was on one side of us not far away, and on the other cultivated fields inclosed with fences. Chudleigh could not leave the road unless he dismounted. He was bound to do one of two things, outgallop us or yield.
We descended our hill and soon rose uponthe slope of Chudleigh’s. When we reached the crest, we saw him in the hollow beyond urging his horse to its best speed. He was bent far over upon the animal’s neck, and occasionally he gave him lusty kicks in the side. It was evident to us that whatever speed might be in that horse Chudleigh would get it out of him. And so would I, thought I, if I were in his place. A fugitive could scarce have more inducement than Chudleigh to escape.
Measuring the distance with my eye, I concluded that we had gained a little. I drew from it the inference that we would certainly overtake him. Moreover, Chudleigh was making the mistake of pushing his horse too hard at the start.
It is better to pursue than to be pursued, and a great elation of spirits seized me. The cool air rushing into my face and past my ears put bubbles in my blood.
“This beats watching houses in the night, does it not, Whitestone?” I said.
“Aye, truly,” replied the sober sergeant, “unless he has a pistol and concludes to use it.”
“We will not fire until he does, or shows intent to do so,” I said.
Whitestone and Adams nodded assent, and we eased our horses a bit that we might save their strength and speed. This maneuver enabled the fugitive to gain slightly upon us, but we felt no alarm; instead we were encouraged, for his horse was sure to become blown before ours put forth their best efforts.
Chudleigh raised up once to look back at us. Of course it was too far for us to see the expression of his face, but in my imagination anxiety was plainly writ there.
“How long a race will it be, do you think?” I asked Whitestone.
“About four miles,” he said, “unless a stumble upsets our calculations, and I don’t think we’ll have the latter, for the road looks smooth all the way.”
The fugitive began to kick his horse with more frequency, which indicated increased anxiety.
“It won’t be four miles,” I said to Whitestone.
“You’re right,” he replied; “maybe not three.”
In truth it looked as if Whitestone’s second thought were right. We began to gain without the necessity of urging our horses. Chudleigh already had driven his own animal to exhaustion. I doubted if the race would be a matter of two miles. I wondered why he did not try a shot at us with his pistols. Bullets are often great checks to the speed of pursuers, and Chudleigh must have known it.
At the end of a mile we were gaining so rapidly that we could have reached the fugitive with a pistol ball, but I was averse to such rude methods, doubly so since he showed no intent on his own part to resort to them.
A half mile ahead of us I saw a small house in a field by the roadside, but I took no thought of it until Chudleigh reached a parallel point in the road; then we were surprised to see him leap to the ground, leave his horse to go where it would, climb the fence, and rush toward the house. He pushed the door open, ran in, and closed it behind him.
I concluded that he had given up all hope of escape except through a desperate defense, and I made hasty disposition of my small command. I was to approach the house from one side,Whitestone from another, and Adams from a third.
We hitched our horses and began our siege of the house, from which no sound issued. I approached from the front, using a fence as shelter. When I was within half a pistol shot the door of the house was thrown open with much force and rudeness, and a large woman, a cocked musket in her hand and anger on her face, appeared. She saw me, and began to berate me rapidly and wrathfully, at the same time making threatening movements with the musket. She cried out that she had small use for those who were Tories now and Americans then, and robbers and murderers always. I explained that we were American soldiers in pursuit of an escaped prisoner of importance who had taken refuge in her house, and commanded her to stand aside and let us pass.
For answer she berated me more than ever, saying that it was but a pretext about a prisoner, and her husband was a better American than we. That put a most uncomfortable suspicion in my mind, and, summoning Whitestone, we held parley with her.
“You have pursued my husband until there is scarce a breath left in his body,” she said.
Whereupon, having pacified her to some extent, we went into the house and found that she spoke the truth. Her husband was stretched upon a bed quite out of breath, in part from his gallop and more from fright. We could scarce persuade him that we were not those outlaws who belonged to neither army but who preyed upon whomsoever they could.
Making such brief apologies as the time allowed, we mounted our horses and resumed the search.
“It was a mistake,” said Whitestone.
I admitted that he spoke the truth, and resolved I would trust no more to intuitions, which are sent but to deceive us.
Anxiety now took me in a strong grip. Our mistaken chase had caused us to come very fast, and since we saw nothing of Chudleigh, I feared lest we had passed him in some manner. It therefore cheered me much, a half hour later, when I saw a stout man, whom I took to be a farmer, jogging comfortably toward us on a stout nag as comfortable-looking as himself. He was not like the other, suspicious and afraid,and I was glad of it, for I said to myself that here was a man of steady habit and intelligence, a man who would tell us the truth and tell it clearly.
He came on in most peaceable and assuring fashion, as if not a soldier were within a thousand miles of him. I hailed him, and he replied with a pleasant salutation.
“Have you met a man riding southward?” I said.
“What kind of a man?” he asked.
“A large man in citizen’s dress,” I replied.
“Young, or old?”
“Young—twenty-six or twenty-eight.”
“Anything else special about him?”
“Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion; his horse probably very tired.”
“What do you want with this man?” he asked, stroking a red whisker with a contemplative hand.
“He is an escaped prisoner,” I replied, “and it is of the greatest importance that we recapture him.”
“Did you say he was rather young? Looked like he might be six and twenty or eight and twenty?” he asked.
“Yes, that is he,” I said eagerly.
“Tall, rather large?”
“The very man.”
“Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion?”
“Exactly! Exactly!”
“His horse very tired?”
“Our man beyond a doubt! Which way did he go?”
“Gentlemen, I never saw or heard of such a man,” he replied gravely, laying switch to his horse and riding on.
We resumed our journey, vexation keeping us silent for some time.
“Our second mistake,” said Whitestone at length.
As I did not answer, he added:
“But the third time means luck.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. My disbelief in signs and omens was confirmed by the failure of my intuition.
We were forced to ride with some slowness owing to the blown condition of our horses, and anxiety began to gnaw me to the marrow. We had come so fast that the time to overtake Chudleigh, if in truth we had not passed him already, had arrived. In such calculations I was interrupted by the sight of a loose horse in the road, saddled and bridled, but riderless. He was in a lather, like ours, and I guessed at once that this was the horse Chudleigh had taken. In some manner—perhaps he had seen us, though unseen himself—he had learned that he was pursued hotly, and, fearing to be overtaken, had abandoned his horse and taken to the woods and fields. Such at least was my guess.
I esteemed it great good luck when I saw a man standing in the edge of a cornfield staring at us. He was a common-looking fellowwith a dirty face. Stupid, I thought, but perhaps he has seen what happened here and can tell me. I hailed him, and he answered in a thick voice, though not unfriendly. I asked him about the horse, and if he knew who had abandoned him there. He answered with that degree of excitement a plowboy would most likely show on such occasions that he was just going to tell us about it. I bade him haste with his narration.
He said, with thick, excited tongue, that a man had come along the road urging his horse into a gallop. When they reached the field the horse broke down and would go no farther. The rider, after belaboring him in vain, leaped down, and, leaving the horse to care for himself, turned from the road.
This news excited Whitestone, Adams, and me. It was confirmation of our suspicions, and proof also that we were pressing Chudleigh hard.
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Not five minutes,” replied the plowman.
“Which way did he go?” I asked, my excitement increasing.
“He took the side road yonder,” replied the plowman.
“What road?” exclaimed Whitestone, breaking in.
“The road that leads off to the right—yonder, at the end of the field.”
I was about to set off in a gallop, but it occurred to me as a happy thought that this fellow, knowing the country so well, would be useful as a guide. I ordered him to get on the loose horse, now somewhat rested, and lead the way. He demurred. But it was no time to be squeamish or overpolite, so I drew my pistol and warned him. Thereupon he showed himself a man of judgment and mounted, and taking the lead of us, obedient to my command, also showed himself to be a very fair horseman.
In a few seconds we entered the diverging road, which was narrow, scarce more than a path. It led between two fields, and then through some thin woods.
“You are military folks,” said our guide, turning a look upon me. “Is the man you are after a deserter?”
“No,” said I, “a spy.”
“If you overtake him and he fights, I don’t have any part in it,” he said.
“You needn’t risk your skin,” I said. “It is enough for you to guide us.”
I laughed a bit at his cowardice; but after all I had no right to laugh. It was no business of his to do our fighting for us.
“Perhaps he has turned into these woods,” said Whitestone.
“No, he has gone on,” said our guide, “I can see his footsteps in the dust.”
Traces like those of human footsteps were in truth visible in the dust, but we had no time to stop for examination. We rode on, watching the country on either side of the road. The heat and animation of the chase seemed to affect our guide, heavy plowman though he was.
“There go his tracks still!” he cried. “See, by the edge of the road, by the grass there?”
“We’ll catch him in five minutes!” cried Adams, full of enthusiasm.
Our guide was ten feet in front of me, leaning over and looking about with much eagerness. A curve in the road two or three hundred yards ahead became visible. Suddenly I noticed an increase of excitement in the expression of our guide.
“I see him! I see him!” he cried.
“Where? Where?” I shouted.
“Yonder! yonder! Don’t you see, just turning the curve in the road? There! He has seen us too, and is drawing a pistol. Gentlemen, remember your agreement: I’m not to do any of the fighting. I will fall back.”
“All right!” I cried. “You’ve done your share of the business. Drop back.—Forward, Whitestone! We’ve got our man now!”
In a high state of excitement we whipped our horses forward, paying no further attention to the plowman, for whom in truth we had use no longer. Our horses seemed to share our zeal, and recalled their waning strength and spirits. Forward we went at a fine pace, all three of us straining our eyes to catch the first glimpse of the fugitive when we should turn the curve around the hill.
“Two to one I beat you, Whitestone!” I said.
“Then you’ll have to push your horse more,” said the sergeant, whose mount was neck and neck with mine.
In truth it looked as if he would pass me, but I managed to draw a supreme effort from my horse and we went ahead a little.However, I retained the advantage but a few moments. Whitestone crept up again, and we continued to race neck and neck. Adams, upon whom we had not counted as a formidable antagonist, overhauled us, though he could not pass us.
Thus we three, side by side, swept around the curve, and the command to the fugitive to halt and surrender was ready upon our lips.
The turn of the curve brought us into a wide and bare plain, and we pulled up astonished. Nowhere was a human being visible, and upon that naked expanse concealment was impossible.
We stared at each other in amazement, and then in shame. The truth of the trick struck me like a rifle shot. Why did I wait until he was gone to remember something familiar in the voice of that plowman, something known in the expression of that face? I think the truth came to me first, but before I said anything Whitestone ejaculated:
“Chudleigh!”
“Without doubt,” I replied.
“I told you the third time would not fail,” he said.
“I wish it had failed,” I exclaimed in wrath and fury, “for he has made fools of us!”
We wheeled our horses about as if they turned on pivots and raced back after the wily plowman. I swore to myself a mighty oath that I would cease to be certain about the identity of anybody, even of Whitestone himself. Whitestone swore out loud about a variety of things, and Adams was equal to his opportunities.
We were speedily back in the main road. I doubted not that Chudleigh had hurried on toward the south. In truth he could not afford to do otherwise, and he would profit as fast as he could by the breathing space obtained through the trick he had played upon us. I wondered at the man’s courage and presence of mind, and it was a marvel that we had not gone much farther on the wrong road before detecting the stratagem.
The road lay across a level country and we saw nothing of Chudleigh. Nevertheless we did not spare our weary horses. We were sure he was not very far ahead, and it was no time for mercy to horseflesh. Yet I thought of thepoor brutes. I said to Whitestone I trusted they would last.
“As long as his, perhaps,” replied Whitestone.
But the truth soon became evident that he was wrong in part. We heard a great groan, louder than a man can make, and Adams’s horse went down in a cloud of dust. I pulled up just enough to see that Adams was not hurt, and to shout to him:
“Follow us as best you can!”
Then on we went. Far ahead of us in the road we saw a black speck. Whether man, beast, or a stump, I could not say, but we hoped it was Chudleigh.
“See, it moves!” cried Whitestone.
Then it was not a stump, and the chance that it was Chudleigh increased. Soon it became apparent that the black object was not only moving, but moving almost as fast as we. By and by we could make out the figure of a man lashing a tired horse. That it was Chudleigh no longer admitted of doubt.
“We’ll catch him yet! His trick shall not avail him!” I cried exultingly to Whitestone.
The wise sergeant kept silent and saved hisbreath. I looked back once and saw a man running after us, though far away. I knew it was Adams following us on foot, faithful to his duty.
I felt a great shudder running through the horse beneath me, and then the faithful animal began to reel like a man in liquor. I could have groaned in disappointment, for I knew these signs betokened exhaustion, and a promise that the pursuit would be left to Whitestone alone. But even as my mind formed the thought, Whitestone’s horse fell as Adams’s had fallen. My own, seeing his last comrade go down, stopped stock still, and refused to stir another inch under the sharpest goad.
“What shall we do?” I cried to Whitestone.
“Follow on foot!” he replied. “His horse must be almost as far gone as ours!”
We paused only to snatch our pistols from the holsters, and then on foot we pierced the trail of dust Chudleigh’s horse had left behind him. The fine dust crept into eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. I coughed and spluttered, and just as I was rubbing sight back into my eyes I heard a joyful cry from Whitestone. I was ableto see then through the dust, and I beheld Chudleigh abandoning his horse and taking to the woods on foot.
“It’s a foot race now, and not a horse race!” I said to Whitestone.
“Yes, and we must still win!” he replied.
Poor Adams was lost to sight behind us.
About two hundred yards from the road the woods began. I feared that if Chudleigh reached these he might elude us, and I pushed myself as I had pushed my horse. Being long-legged and country bred, I am a fair runner; in fact, it is a muscular talent upon which I used to pride myself. The sergeant puffed much at my elbow, but managed to keep his place.
I now perceived with much joy that we could outrun Chudleigh. When he dashed into the woods we had made a very smart gain upon him, and in truth were too near for him to elude us by doubling or turning in the undergrowth. Despite the obstacle of the trees and the bushes we were yet able to keep him in view, and, better acquainted with this sort of work than he, we gained upon him even more rapidly than before. We flattered ourselvesthat we would soon have him. Though it was a heavy draught upon my breath, I shouted with all my might to Chudleigh to stop and yield. For answer he whirled around and fired a pistol at us. The sergeant grunted, and stopped.
“Go on and take him yourself!” he said hastily to me. “His bullet’s in my leg! No bones broke, but I can’t run any more! Adams will take care of me!”
Obedient to his command and my own impulse I continued the chase. Perhaps if I had been cooler in mind I might not have done so, for Chudleigh had proved himself a man; he probably had another pistol, and another bullet in that other pistol; in case that other bullet and I met, I knew which would have to yield, but I consoled myself with the reflection that I too had a pistol and some acquaintance with its use.
Chudleigh did not look back again, and perhaps did not know that he was now pursued by only one man. He continued his flight as zealously as ever. As I may have observed before, and with truth too, it incites one’s courage wonderfully to have a man run from him, andseeing Chudleigh’s back I began to feel quite competent to take him alone. We wound about among the trees at a great rate. I was gaining, though I was forced to pump my breath up from great depths. But I was consoled by the reflection that, however tired I might be, surely he fared no better. I shouted to him again and again, to stop, but he ran as if he were born deaf.
Presently I noticed that he was curving back toward the road, and I wondered at his purpose. A moment later he burst from the trees into the open ground. I was within fair pistol shot, and, with trees and bushes no longer obstructing, he was a good target. I doubted not that I could hit him, and since he would not stop for my voice, I must see if a bullet would make him more obedient.
I raised my pistol and took the good aim which one can do running if he has had the practice. But my heart revolted at the shot. If I could risk so much for Kate Van Auken’s brother, surely I could risk something for Kate Van Auken’s lover. I do not take praise to myself for not shooting Chudleigh, as I was thinking that if I did fire the shot I would have but a poor tale to tell to Mistress Catherine.
I let down the hammer of the pistol and stuffed the weapon into my pocket. Chudleigh was now running straight toward the road. My wonder what his purpose might be increased.
Of a sudden he drew a second pistol and fired it at me, but his bullet sped wide of the mark. He threw the pistol on the ground and tried to run faster.
I thought that when he reached the road he would follow it to the south, hoping to shake me off; but, very much to my surprise, he crossed it, and kept a straight course toward the river. Then I divined that he being a good swimmer, hoped I was not, and that thus he might escape me. But I can swim as well as run, and I prepared my mind for the event. When he reached the river he threw off his coat with a quick movement and sprang boldly into the stream. But I was ready. I threw my own coat aside—the only one I had—and leaped into the water after him.
If I was a good swimmer, so was Chudleigh. When I rose from my first splash he was already far from me, floating partly with the stream, and following a diagonal course toward the farther shore. I swam after him withvigorous strokes. Curiously enough, the severe exertion to which I had been subjecting myself on land did not seem to affect me in the water. I suppose a new set of muscles came into play, for I felt fresh and strong. Moreover, I resolved that I would cling to Chudleigh to the very last; that I would not let him by any chance escape me. I felt again that the entire fate of the great campaign depended upon me, and me alone. With such a feeling, one’s sense of importance grows much, and I think it made my arm stronger also, which was what I needed more particularly just then.
Chudleigh dived once and remained under water a long time, with the probable intent of deceiving me in regard to his course. But the trick worked against him rather than for him; when he came up he was nearer to me than before. I thought also that his strokes were growing weaker, and I was confirmed in such belief by the amount of water he splashed about, as if his efforts were desperate rather than judicious.
I swam, my strokes long and steady, and gained upon him with much rapidity. We were approaching the shore, when he, looking back,perceived that I must overtake him before he could reach land.
With an abruptness for which I was unprepared, he swam about and faced me as much as to say: “Come on; if you take me, you must fight me first.”
Chudleigh, with only his head above water, was not especially beautiful to look at. The dirt with which he had disguised himself when he played false guide to us was washed off partly, and remained partly in streaks of mud, which made him look as if a hot gridiron had been slapped of a sudden upon his face. Moreover, Chudleigh was angry, very angry; his eyes snapped as if he were wondering why I could not let him alone.
I may have looked as ugly as Chudleigh, but I could not see for myself. I swam a little closer to him, looking him straight in the eye, in order that I might see what he intended to do the moment he thought it.
“Why do you follow me?” he asked, with much anger in his tone.
“Why do you run from me?” I asked.
“What I do is no business of yours,” he said.
“Oh, yes, it is,” I replied. “You’re Captain Chudleigh of the British army, an escaped prisoner, and I’ve come to recapture you.”
“I don’t see how you’re going to do it,” he said.
“I do,” I replied, though, to tell the truth, I had not yet thought of a way to manage the matter, which seemed to present difficulties. In the meantime I confined myself to treading water. Chudleigh did the same.
“That was a dirty trick you played on us back there,” I said, “palming yourself off on us as a guide.”
“I didn’t do it,” he replied in an injured tone. “You’re to blame yourself. You forced me at the pistol’s muzzle.”
He told the truth, I was forced to confess.
“We’ll let that pass,” I said. “Now, will you surrender?”
“Never!” he replied, in manner most determined.
“Then you will force me to a violent recapture,” I said.
“I fail to see how you are going to do it,” he said with much grimness. “If you seize me here in the water, I will seize you, and then wewill drown together, which will be very unpleasant for both of us.”
There was much truth in what he said. A blind man or a fool could see it.
“Let us swim to land and fight it out with our fists,” I proposed, remembering how I had overcome Albert, and confident that I could dispose of Chudleigh in similar fashion.
“Oh, no,” he said decidedly, “I am very comfortable where I am.”
“Then you like water better than most British officers,” I said.
“It has its uses,” he replied contentedly.
There was nothing more to do just then but to tread water and think.
“Come, come, captain,” I said after a while, “be reasonable. I’ve overtaken you. You can’t get away. Surrender like a gentleman, and let’s go ashore and dry ourselves. This water’s getting cold.”
“I see no reason why I should surrender,” he replied. “Besides, the water is no colder for you than it is for me.”
There was no answer to this logic. Moreover, what he said sounded like a challenge. So I set myself to thinking with moreconcentration than ever. There was another and longer interval of silence. I hoped that Whitestone or Adams would appear, but neither did so. After all, I had little right to expect either. We had left them far behind, and also we had changed our course. There was nothing to guide them.
I addressed myself once more to Chudleigh’s reason.
“Your errand is at an end,” I said. “Whether I take you now or not, you can not shake me off. You will never get through to Clinton. Besides, you are losing all your precious time here in the river.”
But he preserved an obstinacy most strange and vexatious. He did not even reply to me, but kept on treading water. I perceived that I must use with him some other means than logic, however sound and unanswerable the latter might be.
Sometimes it happens to me, as doubtless it does to other people, that after being long in a puzzle, the answer comes to me so suddenly and so easily that I wonder why I did not see it first glance.
Without any preliminaries that would seemto warn Chudleigh, I dived out of sight. When I came up I was in such shallow water that I could wade. Near me was a huge bowlder protruding a good two feet above the water. I walked to it, climbed upon it, and taking a comfortable position above the water, looked at Chudleigh, who seemed to be much surprised and aggrieved at my sudden countermarch.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, “except that I am tired of treading water. Come and join me; it’s very pleasant up here.”
He declined my invitation, which I had worded most courteously. I remained silent for a while; then I said:
“Better come. You can’t tread water forever. If you stay there much longer you’ll catch the cramp and drown.”
I lolled on the bowlder and awaited the end with calmness and satisfaction. My signal advantage was apparent.
“I’ll swim to the other shore,” said he presently.
“You can’t,” I replied. “It’s too far; you haven’t strength enough left for it.”
I could see that he was growing tired. Helooked around him at either shore and up and down the river, but we were the only human beings within the circle of that horizon.
“What terms of surrender do you propose?” he said at last, with a certain despair in his tone.
“Unconditional.”
“That is too hard.”
“My advantage warrants the demand.”
He was silent again for a few moments, and was rapidly growing weaker. I thought I would hasten matters.
“I will not treat you badly,” I said. “All I want to do is to take you back to our army.”
“Well, I suppose I must accept,” he said, “for I am growing devilish cold and tired.”
“Pledge your honor,” I said, “that you will make no attempt to escape, with the understanding that the pledge does not forbid rescue.”
“I give you my word,” he said.
Whereupon he swam to shore, to the great relief of us both.
We climbed up the bank, and sat for some time drying in the sun. We were wet, and, moreover, had drunk large quantities of the Hudson River. As a regular thing, I prefer dry land as a place of inhabitation.
While the sun dried our bodies and clothing I was thinking. Though I had taken my man, and that, too, single-handed, my position was not the best in the world. I was now on the wrong side of the river, and I had lost my weapons and my comrades. Also I was hungry.
“Chudleigh,” I asked, “are you hungry?”
“Rather,” he replied with emphasis.
“How are we to get something to eat?” I asked.
“That’s your affair, not mine,” he replied. “I have nothing to do but to remain captured.”
I thought I saw in him an inclination to bedisagreeable, which, to say the truth, was scarce the part of a gentleman after the handsome fashion in which I had treated him. In the face of such ingratitude, I resolved to use the privileges of my superior position.
“Are you about dry?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then get up and march.”
He seemed to resent my stern tone, but inasmuch as he had provoked it he had no cause for complaint. If he intended to assert all the rights of a prisoner, then I equally would assert all the rights of a captor.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Northward, along the river bank. Keep in front of me,” I said.
Obedient to my orders he stalked off at a pretty gait, and I followed. We marched thus for half a mile. Chudleigh glanced back at me once or twice. I seemed not to notice it, though I could guess what was passing in his mind.
“If I hadn’t given my word,” he said, “I think I’d fight it out with you, fist and skull.”
“I offered you the chance,” I said, “when we were in the river, but you would not accept it. You’ve heard many wise sayings about lostopportunities, and this proves the truth of them.”
“That’s so,” he said with a sigh of deep regret.
“Besides,” I added, in the way of consolation for his lost opportunity, “you would gain nothing by it but bruises. I am larger and stronger than you.”
He measured me with his eye and concluded that I spoke truth, for he heaved another sigh, but of comfort.
“Now, Chudleigh,” I said, “a man can be a fool sometimes and lose nothing, but he can’t be a fool all the time and gather the profits of the earth. Drop back here with me and let us talk and act sensibly.”
He wrinkled his brow a moment or two, as if in thought, and accepted my invitation. Whereupon we became very good companions.
In reality I felt as much trouble about Chudleigh as myself. It was like the trouble I had felt on Albert’s account. He had penetrated our lines in citizen’s clothes, and if I took him back to our camp in the same attire he might be regarded as a spy, with all the unpleasantconsequences such a thing entails. Having spared Chudleigh’s life once from scruples, I had no mind to lead him to the gallows. I must get a British uniform for him, though how was more than I could tell. The problem troubled me much.
But the advance of hunger soon drove thoughts of Chudleigh’s safety out of my mind, and, stubborn Englishman though he was, he was fain to confess that he too felt the desire for food. Along that side of the river the settlements were but scant, and nowhere did we see a house.
That we would encounter Whitestone and Adams was beyond all probability, for they would never surmise that we had crossed the river. Chudleigh and I looked ruefully and hungrily at each other.
“Chudleigh,” I said, “you are more trouble a captive than a fugitive.”
“The responsibility is yours,” he said. “I decline to carry the burdens of my captor. Find me something to eat.”
We trudged along for more than an hour, somewhat gloomy and the pains of hunger increasing. I was about to call a halt, that wemight rest and that I might think about our difficulties, when I saw a column of smoke rising above a hill. I called Chudleigh’s attention to it, and he agreed with me that we ought to push on and see what it was.
I was convinced that friends must be at the bottom of that column of smoke. If any British party had come so far north, which in itself was improbable, it could scarce be so careless as to give to the Americans plain warning of its presence.
It was a long walk, but we were cheered by the possibility that our reward would be dinner. Chudleigh seemed to cherish some lingering hope that it was a party of British or Tories who would rescue him, but I told him to save himself such disappointments.
In a short time we came in view of those who had built the fire, and I was delighted to find my surmise that they were Americans was correct.
They numbered some fifty or a hundred, and I guessed they were a detachment on the way to join the northern army beleaguering Burgoyne.
“Chudleigh,” I said as we approached thefirst sentinel, “will you promise to do all that I say?”
“Of course; I am your prisoner,” he replied.
I hailed the sentinel, and my uniform procured for me a friendly reception. Chudleigh I introduced vaguely as a countryman traveling northward with me. The men were eating, and I told them we were making close acquaintance with starvation. They invited us to join them, and we fell to with great promptitude.
I could tell them something about affairs at the north, and they could give me the latest news from the south. They told me that Clinton was still below Albany, hesitating and awaiting with impatience some message from Burgoyne.
I rejoiced more than ever that I had stopped Chudleigh, and felt pride in my exploit. I hope I can be pardoned for it. It was but natural that Chudleigh’s emotions should be the opposite of mine, and I watched his face to see how he would take this talk. It was easy enough to see regret expressed there, though he sought to control himself.
The talk of these recruits was very bitter against the British. The Indians with Burgoyne had committed many cruel deeds before they fled back to Canada, and these countrymen were full of the passion for revenge. I often think that if the British in London knew what atrocities their red allies have committed in their wars with us they would understand more easily why so many of us are inflamed against the Englishman.
These men were rehearsing the latest murders by the Indians, and they showed very plainly their desire to arrive at the front before Burgoyne was taken. Nor did they spare the name of Englishman. I was sorry on Chudleigh’s account that the talk had taken such drift. He took note of it from the first, because his red face grew redder, and he squirmed about in the manner which shows uneasiness.
“Chudleigh,” I whispered at a moment when the others were not looking, “keep still. Remember you are my prisoner.”
But he sat there swelling and puffing like an angry cat.
While the others were denouncing them, I made some excuses, most perfunctory, it is true,for the British; but this was only an additional incitement to a bellicose man named Hicks. He damned the British for every crime known to Satan. Chudleigh was so red in the face I thought the blood would pop out through his cheeks, and, though I shoved him warningly with my boot, he blurted out his wrath.
“The English are as good as anybody, sir, and you accuse them falsely!” he said.
“What is it to you?” exclaimed Hicks, turning to him in surprise and anger.
“I am an Englishman, sir,” said Chudleigh with ill-judged haughtiness, “and I will not endure such abuse.”
“Oh, you are an Englishman, are you, and you won’t endure abuse, won’t you?” said Hicks with irony; and then to me, “We did not understand you to say he was an Englishman.”
I saw that we were in a pickle, and I thought it best to tell the whole truth in a careless way, as if the thing were but a trifle.
“The man is an English officer, an escaped prisoner, whom I have retaken,” I said. “I did not deem it worth while to make long explanations, especially as we must now push on after you have so kindly fed us.”