“But I did not say from which army you came,” he said, assuming an air of great acuteness and knowledge.
I was in doubt. Did the man take us for Tory spies—I grew angrier still at the thought—or was he merely trying to draw us on to the telling of what he knew? While I hesitated, he added:
“I know that Burgoyne held his own in a severe battle fought yesterday. That is no news to you. But if you go about the town a little, you will also know what I know, that Clinton, in overwhelming force, will soon be at Albany.”
I was convinced now that the man was trying to draw from me the facts about the battle, and I believed more than ever that he and his comrades were Tory spies. I regretted that Whitestone and I had not removed the dust of travel before we entered the tavern. I regretted also that so many of our countrymen should prove faithless to us. It would have been far easier for us had we only the British and the hired Hessians to fight.
Whitestone was leaning against his horse, bridle in hand, looking at the solitary cloud that the sky contained. Apparently the sergeant was off in dreams, but I knew he was listening intently. He let his eyes fall, and when they met mine, he said, very simply and carelessly:
“I think we’d better go.”
As I said, the sergeant is a very handy man to have about in an emergency. His solution was the simplest in the world—merely to ride away from the men and leave them.
We mounted our horses.
“Good day, gentlemen,” we said.