Sergeant Whitestone rose quickly to his feet, smothered the fire in his pipe, and put 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 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?”