When I rejoined Whitestone he assured me that nothing whatever had happened in my absence, and, besides the men of our immediate command, he had not seen a soul of either army. I did not dispute his word, for I was satisfied. All night long the bustle continued in Burgoyne’s camp, and there was no doubt of its meaning. Burgoyne would retreat on the morrow, in a desperate attempt to gain time, hoping always that Clinton would come. The next day this certainty was fulfilled. The British army drew off, and we followed in overwhelming force, content, so our generals seemed, to wait for the prize without shedding blood in another pitched battle. CHAPTER XII. WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. But it is not sufficient merely to win a battle. One must do more, especially when another hostile army is approaching and one does not know how near that army is, or how much nearer it will be. It was such a trouble as this that afflicted our generals after the morning of the great victory. That other British army down the river bothered them. They wanted exact information about Clinton, and my colonel sent for me. “Mr. Shelby,” he said, “take the best horse you can find in the regiment, ride with all haste to Albany, and farther south, if necessary, find out all you can about Clinton, and gallop back to us with the news. It is an important and perhaps a dangerous duty, but I think you are a good man for it, and if you succeed, those much higher in rank than I am will thank you.” I felt flattered, but I did not allow myself to be overwhelmed. “Colonel,” I said, “let me take Sergeant Whitestone with me; then, if one of us should fall, the other can complete the errand.” But I did not have the possible fall of either of us in mind. Whitestone and I understand each other, and he is good company. Moreover, the sergeant is a handy man to have about in an emergency. The colonel consented promptly. “It is a good idea,” he said. “I should have thought of it myself.” But then colonels don’t always think of everything. Whitestone was very willing. “I don’t think anything will happen here before we get back,” he said, looking off in the direction of Burgoyne’s army. In a half hour, good horses under us, we were galloping southward. We expected to reach Albany in four hours. For a half hour we rode along, chiefly in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Then I saw Whitestone fumbling in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and I knew that the pipe was coming. He performed the feat of lighting it and smoking it without diminishing speed, and looked at me triumphantly. I said nothing, knowing that no reply was needed.