“Albert,” I asked, “what do you Tories say now to the capture of an entire British army by us ragged Continentals?”
He flushed very red.
“You haven’t done it,” he replied. “Clinton will come yet.”
We talked a little further, and then he went back into his camp.
The talk of the generals lasted all that day and the next, and was still of spirit and endurance on the third. We soldiers and subalterns, having little to do, cultivated the acquaintance of the enemy whom we had fought so long. Some very lively conversations were carried on across the earthworks, though, of course, we never went into their camp, nor did they come into ours.
On the third day, when I turned away after exchanging some civilities with a very courteous Englishman, I met a common-looking man whose uniform was a Continental coat, distressingly ragged and faded, the remainder of his costume being of gray homespun. He nodded as he passed me, and strolled very close to the British lines. In fact, he went so close that he seemed to me to intend going in. Thinking he was an ignorant fellow who might get into trouble by such an act, I hailed him and demanded where he was going.
He came back, and laughed in a sheepish way.
“I thought it was no harm,” he said.