The Sun of Saratoga

ON WATCH.

“You will watch this hollow and the hill yonder,” said the general, “and see that not a soul passes either to the north or to the south. Don’t forget that the fate of all the colonies may depend upon your vigilance.”

Then he left me.

I felt much discomfort. I submit that it is not cheering to have the fate of thirteen large colonies and some two or three million people, men, women, and children, depend upon one’s own humble self. I like importance, but not when it brings such an excess of care.

I looked to Sergeant Whitestone for cheer.

“We are not the only men on watch to cut off their messengers,” he said. “We have our bit of ground here to guard, and others have theirs.”

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Then he sat down on the turf and smoked his pipe with provoking calm, as if the troubles of other people were sufficient to take our own away. I decided to stop thinking about failure and address myself to my task. Leaving the sergeant and the four men who constituted my small army, I took a look about me. The hollow was but a few hundred yards across, sparse-set with trees and bushes. It should not be difficult to guard it by day, but by night it would be a different matter. On the hill I could see the walls and roof of the Van Auken house. That, too, fell within my territory, and for reasons sufficient to me I was sorry of it.

I walked part of the way up the hillside, spying out the ground and seeing what places for concealment there might be. I did not mean to be lax in my duty in any particular. I appreciated its full import. The great idea that we might take Burgoyne and his whole army was spreading among us, and it was vital that no news of his plight should reach Clinton and the other British down below us.

I came back to Sergeant Whitestone, who
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was still sitting on the ground, puffing out much smoke, and looking very content.

“I don’t think we need fear any attempt to get through until night,” he said. “The dark is the time for messengers who don’t want to be seen.”

I agreed with him, and found a position of comfort upon the grass.

“There’s our weak point,” said the sergeant, waving his hand toward the Van Auken house.

I was sorry to hear him say so, especially as I had formed the same opinion.

“But there’s nobody up there except women,” I said.

“The very reason,” replied the sergeant.

I occupied myself for a little while tossing pebbles at a tree. Then I disposed my men at suitable distances along our line, and concluded to go up to the house, which going, in good truth, was part of my duty.

I was near the top of the hill when I saw Kate Van Auken coming to meet me.

“Good morning, Dick,” she said.

“Good morning, Mistress Catherine,” I replied.

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It had been my habit to call her Kate when we were children together, but I could not quite manage it now.

“You are set as a guard upon us?” she said.

“To protect you from harm,” I replied with my most gallant air.

“Your manners are improving,” she said in what I thought rather a disdainful tone.

“I must search the house,” I continued.

“You call that protecting us?” she said with the same touch of sarcasm.

“Nevertheless it must be done,” I said, speaking in my most positive manner.

She led the way without further demur. Now I had every confidence in Kate Van Auken. I considered her as good a patriot as myself, though all her family were Tory. It did not seem to me to be at all likely that any spy or messenger of the British had reached the concealment of the house, but it was my duty to be sure.

“Perhaps you would not care to talk to my mother?” she asked.

“No!” I replied in such haste that she laughed.

I knew Madame Van Auken was one of the
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most fanatic Tories in New York colony, and I had no mind to face her. It is curious how women are more hard-set than men in these matters. But in my search of the house I was compelled to pass through the room where she sat, most haughty and severe. Kate explained what I was about. She never spoke to me, though she had known me since I was a baby, but remained rigid in her armchair and glowered at me as if I were a most wretched villain. I confess that I felt very uncomfortable, and was glad when we passed on to another room.

As I had expected, I found nothing suspicious in the house.

“I hope you are satisfied?” said Miss Van Auken when I left.

“For the present,” I replied, bowing.

I rejoined Sergeant Whitestone in the hollow. He was still puffing at his pipe, and I do not think he had changed his position by the breadth of a hair. I told him I had found nothing at the house, and asked what he thought of the case.

“We may look for work to-night, I think,” he replied very gravely. “It’s most likely that the British will try to send somebody through
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at this point. All the Van Aukens, except the women, are with Burgoyne, and as they know the ground around here best they’ll go to Burgoyne and have him send the men this way.”

That was my thought too. Whitestone is a man of sound judgment. I sent two of our lads toward the house, with instructions to watch it, front and rear. It was my intent to visit them there later.

Then I joined Whitestone in a friendly pipe and found much consolation in the good tobacco. Kate’s manner had nettled me the least bit, but I reflected that perhaps she was justified, as so many of her people were with Burgoyne, and, moreover, she was betrothed to Chudleigh, an Englishman. Chudleigh, an officer with Tryon in New York before the war, had come down from Canada with Burgoyne. So far as I knew he had passed safely through the last battle.

I had naught in particular against Chudleigh, but it seemed to me that he might find a wife in his own country.

The day was slow. I would rather have been with the army, where there was bustle and the hope of great things, but Whitestone, a pack of
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lazy bones, grunted with content. He stretched his long body on the ground and stared up at the sky through half-closed eyes. A mellow sun shone back at him.

Toward noon I sent one of the men to the house with a request for some small supply of provision, if they could spare it. We had food, a little, but we wanted more. Perhaps I ought to have gone myself, but I had my reasons. The man came back with two roast chickens.

“The old lady gave me a blessing,” he said with a sour face, “and said she’d die before she’d feed rebels against the best king that ever lived; but the girl gave me these when I came out the back way.”

We ate our dinner, and then I changed the sentinels at the house. Whitestone relapsed into his apparent lethargy, but I knew that the man, despite his seeming, was all vigilance and caution.

We looked for no happenings before dark, but it was yet a good four hours to set of sun when we heard a noise in the south and saw some dust rising far down the hollow.

Sergeant Whitestone rose quickly to his feet, smothered the fire in his pipe, and put
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his beloved companion in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

“A party coming,” I said.

“Yes, and a lot of ’em, too, I think,” he replied, “or they wouldn’t raise so much dust.”

One of the men ran down from the hill where the view was better, and announced that a large body of soldiers was approaching. I called all the others and we stood to our arms, though we were convinced that the men marching were our own. Either the British would come with a great army or not at all.

The approaching troops, two hundred at least, appeared down the valley. The dust encased them like armor, and one can not tell what a soldier is by the dirt on his uniform. Whitestone took one long and critical look and then unbuttoned his coat and drew out his pipe.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Virginians,” he replied. “I know their stride. I’ve served with ’em. Each step they take is exactly two inches longer than ours. They got it hunting ’possums at night.”

They were in loose order like men who have marched far, but their faces were eager, and
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they were well armed. We halted them, as our duty bade us, and asked who they were.

“Re-enforcements for the Northern army,” said the captain at their head. He showed us an order from our great commander-in-chief himself.

“Where is Burgoyne?” he asked as soon as I had finished the letter. “Is he still coming south?”

“He is but a few miles beyond you,” I replied, “and he will come no farther south. There has been a great battle and we held him fast.”

They gave a cheer, and some threw up their hats. To understand our feelings one must remember that we had been very near the edge of the ice, and more than once thought we would go over.

All their weariness gone, these long-legged Southerners shouldered their rifles and marched on to join the great belt of strong arms and stout hearts that was forming around the doomed Burgoyne and his army. As they passed, Sergeant Whitestone took his pipe out of his mouth and said:

“Good boys!”

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Which was short, but which was much for him.

I watched their dusty backs as they tramped up the valley.

“You seem to admire them,” said some one over my shoulder.

“It is they and their fellows who will take Burgoyne, Mistress Catherine,” I replied.

“They can’t stand before the British bayonet,” she said.

“Sorry to dispute the word of so fair a lady,” I replied, meaning to be gallant, “but I was at the last battle.”

She laughed, as if she did not think much of my words. She said no more, but watched the marching Virginians. I thought I saw a little glow as of pride come in her face. They curved around a hill and passed out of sight.

“Good-by!” said Mistress Kate. “That’s all I wanted to see here.”

She went back to the house and we resumed our tedious watch. Whitestone had full warrant for his seeming apathy. After the passage of the Virginians there was naught to stir us in the slightest. Though born and bred a countryman, I have never seen anything more quiet and
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peaceful than that afternoon, although two large armies lay but a short distance away, resting from one bloody battle and waiting for another.

No one moved at the house. Everybody seemed to be asleep there. Some birds chattered undisturbed in the trees. The air had the crisp touch of early autumn, and faint tokens of changing hues were appearing already in the foliage. I felt a sleepy languor like that which early spring puts into the blood. In order to shake it off I began a thorough search of the country thereabouts. I pushed my way through the bushes, and tramped both to the north and to the south as far as I dared go from my post. Then I visited the guards who adjoined my little detachment on either side. They had to report only the same calm that prevailed at our part of the line. I went back to Sergeant Whitestone.

“Better take it easy,” advised he. “When there’s nothing to do, do it, and then be fresh to do it when there’s something to do.”

I took his advice, which seemed good, and again made myself comfortable on the ground, waiting for the coming of the night. It was still
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an hour to set of sun when we saw a mounted officer coming from the north where our army lay. We seemed to be his destination, as he rode straight toward us. I recognized Captain Martyn at once. I did not like this man. I had no particular reason for it, though I have found often that the lack of reason for doing a thing is the very strongest reason why we do it. I knew little about Captain Martyn. He had joined the Northern army before I arrived, and they said he had done good service, especially in the way of procuring information about the enemy.

Whitestone and I sat together on the grass. The other men were on guard at various points. Captain Martyn came on at a good pace until he reached us, when he pulled up his horse with a smart jerk.

“Your watch is over,” he said to me without preliminary. “You are to withdraw with your men at once.”

I was taken much aback, as any one else in my place would have been also. I had received instructions to keep faithful guard over that portion of the line for the long period of twenty-four hours—that is, until the next morning.

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“But this must be a mistake,” I protested. “There is nobody to relieve us. Surely the general can not mean to leave the line broken at this point.”

“If you have taken the direction of the campaign, perhaps you had best notify our generals that they are superseded,” he said in a tone most ironical.

He aroused my stubbornness, of which some people say I have too much, and I refused to retire until he showed me a written order to that effect from the proper officer. Not abating his ironical manner one whit, he held it toward me in an indifferent way, as much as to say, “You can read it or not, just as you choose; it does not matter to me.”

It was addressed to me, and notified me briefly to withdraw at once with my men and rejoin my company, stationed not less than ten miles away. Everything, signature included, was most proper, and naught was left for me to do but to obey. The change was no affair of mine.

“Does that put your mind at rest?” asked Martyn.

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“No, it does not,” I replied, “but it takes responsibility from me.”

Sergeant Whitestone called the men, and as we marched over the hill Martyn turned his horse and galloped back toward the army. When he had passed out of sight behind the trees I ordered the men to stop.

“Whitestone,” said I to the sergeant, who, as I have said before, was a man of most acute judgment, “do you like this?”

“Small liking have I for it,” he replied. “It is the most unmilitary proceeding I ever knew. It may be that our relief is coming, but it should have arrived before we left.”

I took out the order again, and after scanning it with care passed it to Whitestone.

Neither of us could see anything wrong with it. But the sergeant’s manner confirmed me in a resolution I had taken before I put the question to him.

“Sergeant,” I said, “every man in our army knows of what great import it is that no messenger from the British should get through our lines. We are leaving unguarded a place wide enough for a whole company to pass. I think
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I’ll go back there and resume guard. Will you go with me?”

He assented with most cheerful alacrity, and when I put the question to the others, stating that I left them to do as they pleased, all joined me. For what they believed to be the good of the cause they were willing to take the risks of disobedience, and I was proud of them.

I looked about me from the crest of the hill, but Martyn was out of sight. We returned to the valley and I posted my men in the same positions as before, my forebodings that it would be a night of action increased by this event.

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