Near Milton, New York
November 1863
John Lane was sitting on the cold ground beside a campfire flanked by two British soldiers sitting on camp stools. He wasn’t clear whether he was a prisoner or whether General Burgoyne had simply requested that he stay in camp until such time as they could finish their conversation. Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere.
With the news that Custer’s troops had been spotted a mere fifteen miles away, Lane witnessed the British camp come alive, orders bellowing, tents struck, wagons quickly loaded, and regiments formed in line of march. Ninety minutes after the courier had arrived, the camp was empty save for Lane and a small contingent guarding the supplies left behind. It was all too familiar to John Lane who realized he didn’t miss it at all.
The two soldiers were heating water for tea and engaged in army banter. Lane listened, and noted that one was clearly Irish, though certainly not a Corkman. He thought it might be a western accent.
“Will you have some tea?” the soldier asked.
“I will sure,” replied Lane in Irish.
“We’ve none of that here” was the sharp reply, in English. “What color is this uniform, lad?”
Lane sat quietly, then asked, “What drove you to join the British Army?”
“Probably the same thing that drove you to America. I didn’t fancy starving to death.”
Fair enough, thought Lane.
“You’re from the west.”
“I am. Mayo. Crossmolina. The name’s Staunton,” the corporal said.
“What do you grow there?”
“Rocks mostly, some thistles. Potatoes in a good year, but there were precious few of those starting in ’46. Black ’47 was worse. I was sixteen and walked to Castlebar and joined the regiment. Sixteen years a soldier.”
“And a corporal’s stripes for his troubles. There’s no telling how far he’ll advance, given time. In another thirty years he could be Sergeant Michael Staunton.” His comrade, Robert Jenkins, laughed.
The Irish soldier handed Lane tea in a tin cup. No milk and no sugar, but it was steaming hot and most welcome all the same.
Lane considered, again, his brief conversation with Burgoyne. The general hadn’t thrown him out. He’d listened, asked questions. His interest is obviously piqued. He’ll want to know how he can be sure that I can deliver. That won’t be easy since I certainly don’t know if I can deliver.
Lane heard a familiar creaking sound from the road, and looked up as Viola drove by in her wagon. Spotting Lane at the same time, she brought the wagon to a halt with a practiced “whoa.”
“You want a ride back to Albany?”
Lane looked at the soldiers, then back to Viola. “I’ve business here.”
Viola looked surprised, hesitating a moment before saying, “Fine. I’ll be back tomorrow with another load. If you’re finished with your business, I can take you back.” She clicked her tongue a couple of times and the wagon started forward with a slight jerk.
She didn’t mention the brother in Glens Falls, thought Lane.
Corporal Staunton eyed Lane with a smile. “You’ve unusual friends. Or is she your wife?”
Lane pondered a moment. Well. Do I have a brother in Glens Falls, or business in Albany? “We’re business partners. We buy and sell potatoes.”
The soldier laughed. “Sure, you’ve traveled a long way to stay in the family business. You couldn’t find anything better to do in America than sell praties?”
Lane held up his stump. “I tried soldiering. On the one hand, I was good at it. But on the other hand . . .”
Both soldiers laughed.
Lane knew from experience that in the next hours he would hear the distant sounds of battle. He sipped his tea and wondered what in God’s name he was going to say to convince Burgoyne upon his return.