“Good day,” they replied.
Then we left them, and when I looked back, at our first turning, they were still standing at the door of the tavern. But I gave them little further thought, for Clinton and his advancing fleet and army must now receive the whole attention of the sergeant and myself.
It was obvious that we must leave Albany, go down the river, and get exact news about the British. It was easy enough for us to pass out of the town and continue our journey. We had been provided with the proper papers in case of trouble.
We had given our horses rest and food in Albany, and rode at a good pace for an hour. Not far away we could see the Hudson, a great ribbon of silver or gray, as sunshine or cloud fell upon it. I was occupied with the beauty of the scene, when Whitestone called my attention and pointed ahead. Fifty yards away, and in the middle of the road, stood two horsemen motionless. They seemed to be planted there as guards, yet they wore no uniforms.
I felt some anxiety, but reflected that the horsemen must be countrymen waiting, through curiosity or friendship, for approaching travelers in such troublous times. But as we rode nearer I saw that I was mistaken.
“Our inquiring friends of the tavern,” said Whitestone.
He spoke the truth. I recognized them readily. When we were within fifteen feet they drew their horses across the way, blocking it.
“What does this mean, gentlemen? Why do you stop us?” I asked.
“We are an American patrol,” replied the foremost of the two, the one who had questioned me at the tavern, “and we can not let anybody pass here. It is against our orders.”
Both wore ragged Continental coats, which I suppose they had brought out of some recess before they started on the circuit ahead of us.