“Mr. Shelby,” said the colonel, “we took prisoner this morning a man bearing important dispatches from Clinton to Burgoyne—you have heard about it, doubtless; it seems to be known all over the camp—and I am directly responsible for his safe keeping for the time being. He is in that tent which you can see on the hillside. Take three men and guard him. You need not intrude upon him, though; he seems to be a very gentlemanly fellow.”
Of course I chose Whitestone as one of my three men, and we began our guard over the tent. I understood from the gossip Whitestone had picked up that the generals were debating what movement to make after the important news obtained, and probably they would examine the prisoner again later on. It was not at all likely that the prisoner, placed as he was in the center of our camp, could escape, but there might be reasons for keeping him close in the tent; so our watch was very strict.
Nevertheless, Whitestone and I chatted a bit, which was within our right, and tried to guess what would be the result of the campaign if we had to turn southward and fight Clinton, with Burgoyne on our rear. Doubtless some of these comments and queries were heard by the prisoner, whose feet I could see sticking out in front of the tent flap, but whose body was beyond our view. But I did not see that it mattered, and we talked on with freedom. Once I saw the prisoner’s feet bob up a bit, as if he suffered from some kind of nervous contraction, but I made very slight note of it.
The debate of the generals lasted long, and I inferred, therefore, that their perplexity was great. Whitestone and I ceased to talk, and as I, having command of the little detachment, was under no obligation to parade, musket on shoulder, I sat down on a stone near the flap of the tent and made myself as comfortable as I could. From my position I could still see the prisoner’s boots, a substantial British pair, of a kind that we could envy, for most of the time we were nearly bare of foot, sometimes entirely so.
The camp was peaceful, on the whole. The rattle of drums, the sound of voices, rose in the regular, steady fashion which becomes a hum. The prisoner was silent—unusually silent. He seemed to have no curiosity about us, and to prefer to remain in the shadow of his tent. In his place, I would have had my head out looking at everything. I noticed presently the attitude of his boots. They were cocked up on their heels, toes high in the air. I inferred immediately that the man was lying flat on his back, which was not at all unreasonable, as he probably needed rest after traveling all night.
The hum of the camp became a murmur, and it was answered by a slighter murmur from the tent. The prisoner was snoring. He was not only flat upon his back, but asleep. I felt an admiration for the calmness of mind which could turn placidly to slumber in such an exciting situation. A curiosity about this prisoner, already born in me, began to grow. He was most likely a man worth knowing.
I concluded that I would take a look at the sleeping Englishman despite my orders. I did not mention my idea to Whitestone, because I thought he might object, and hint it was none of my business to go in. I stooped down and entered the tent, which was a small one. As I surmised, the prisoner was lying upon his back and was fast asleep. The snore, which became much more assertive now that I had entered the tent, left no doubt about his slumbers. Yet I could not see his face, which was far back under the edge of the tent.
I reached back and pulled the tent-flap still farther aside, letting in a fine flow of sunlight. It fell directly upon the face of the prisoner, bringing out every feature with the distinctness of carving.
My first emotion was surprise; my second, wrath; my third, amusement.