“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.”
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 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.