“I suppose that you Americans are very sanguine just now, and expect to take our entire army,” said the oldest and apparently the highest of the officers—colonel or general, something or other—to me.
I noted that he was overwhelmingly polite in tone. Moreover, my will was acquiring mastery over Dick Shelby’s humming head. I made an ambiguous reply, and he went further into the subject of the campaign, the other officers joining him and indulging slightly in jest at our expense, as if they would lead me on to boast. To make a clean confession in the matter, I felt some inclination to a little vaunting. He said something about our hope to crush Burgoyne, and laughed as if it were quite impossible.
“English armies are never taken,” said he.
“But they have never before warred with the Americans,” I said.
I recalled afterward that some of the officers applauded me for that reply, which was strange considering their sympathies. The old officer showed no offense.
“Have you heard that Sir Henry Clinton is coming to our relief with five thousand men?” he asked.
“No; have you?” I replied.
I was applauded again, and the officer laughed.
“You take me up quickly. You have a keen mind, Mr. Shelby; it’s a pity you’re not one of us,” he said.
“That would be bad for me,” I said, “as I do not wish to become a prisoner.”