“In a case of this kind,” he replied, “I’m glad that I’m a humble sergeant, and not a general. Let the generals settle it. Take another piece of the bacon; it’s crisp and fresh.” “Have you seen this captured messenger?” I asked. “No,” replied Whitestone. “They have him in a tent over yonder, and I think the officers have been busy with him, trying to pump him.” As soon as I finished the bacon I walked about the camp to see if I could learn anything further concerning the matter, in which attempt I failed. I saw, however, its effect upon the army, which vented its feelings largely in the way of swearing. The soldiers expected we would have to leave Burgoyne and turn southward to fight Clinton. Some said luck was always against us. I was interrupted in my stroll by a message from my colonel to come at once. I hurried to him with some apprehension. He had expressed his high confidence in me of late, and, as I have said before, these high confidences bring hard duties. But the matter was not so difficult as I had expected. “Mr. Shelby,” said the colonel, “we took prisoner this morning a man bearing important dispatches from Clinton to Burgoyne--you have heard about it, doubtless; it seems to be known all over the camp--and I am directly responsible for his safe keeping for the time being. He is in that tent which you can see on the hillside. Take three men and guard him. You need not intrude upon him, though; he seems to be a very gentlemanly fellow.” Of course I chose Whitestone as one of my three men, and we began our guard over the tent. I understood from the gossip Whitestone had picked up that the generals were debating what movement to make after the important news obtained, and probably they would examine the prisoner again later on. It was not at all likely that the prisoner, placed as he was in the center of our camp, could escape, but there might be reasons for keeping him close in the tent; so our watch was very strict. Nevertheless, Whitestone and I chatted a bit, which was within our right, and tried to guess what would be the result of the campaign if we had to turn southward and fight Clinton, with Burgoyne on our rear. Doubtless some of these comments and queries were heard by the prisoner, whose feet I could see sticking out in front of the tent flap, but whose body was beyond our view. But I did not see that it mattered, and we talked on with freedom. Once I saw the prisoner’s feet bob up a bit, as if he suffered from some kind of nervous contraction, but I made very slight note of it.