Peale traveled with as much speed as the nag would allow, which was not
a great deal, considering the beast’s lack of stamina and the burden it
had to carry. The road had seen a great deal of traffic and was in
execrable condition, deeply rutted and pock-marked throughout by other
hoofs sinking to the fetlock. Over this the unfortunate animal slipped
and grunted.
“We should make as good time walking, I swear,” remarked Peale. “Should
have requisitioned one of the man’s plough horses. Less spirit in a nag
I have never seen. A decent feed of grain would founder the poor brute.”
“We have been fortunate,” interposed the girl, clinging to his arm. “Are
we not within sight of safety?”
“’Tis but a dim sight,” said he, throwing an arm toward the fog. “Well,
it has been a cloak to us. Without it we should never have ventured
abroad.”
He stopped the horse and turned in the saddle; but there was no sound he
could definitely distinguish, so he resumed travel and began a
calculation of the distance yet to go.
“We have covered a mile—which makes it something like three miles to
Maxwell’s outguards, I should judge. ’Tis a dangerous neighborhood for
British horse to invade. Yet with this fog they might safely do it. I
have a feeling Tremble is not far behind. The man is stubborn. Press
along, Bluegrass! Now where is that sound?”
He did not pause this time, though it trembled on his eardrums,
something too vague to place, and too distinctive to dismiss.
“If we are overtaken, Jane, you will drop—”
Then the troop was upon him without further warning. The fog, long
useful, had played him false and blanketed the approach of the dragoons
until they were within striking distance. The swash of hoofs and the
clinking of furniture rose from a vague echo to a plain alarm. He
stopped the horse.
“Down! Into the brush! I’ll run them out and come back. If not, make
your way—”
She was half across the road. The nag trembled at the haunches and
sprang on as he drew his pistols and glanced behind. The van of the
dragoons dashed through the swirling curtain, Tremble foremost, dark
face grimly satisfied.
“Halt, sir! Sergeant, aside into that brush! The girl’s taken cover!”
A pair of dragoons forged ahead of the captain, swinging their carbines
clear of the leather buckets. Peale fired at the foremost and saw him
fall, the rest of the troop jamming up in the road. Tremble cried like a
madman—
“On, you fools!” And presently he was to the fore again.
Peale heard the girl utter a short scream of alarm and surmised that she
had been overtaken. It set his pulse racing, and of a sudden he swung
from the highway and dashed into the brush, determined to make some sort
of stand of it. That folly lasted but an instant—long enough for the
leading dragoons to follow him into the thicket—and in a very clear
vision he saw that for the present he had to count the girl out. There
was a dossier resting beneath his coat which came before all else.
It could not be far off to American cavalry. Tremble had put himself in
a convenient trap. Jaded horses—a long distance from the British lines—
The broad chest of a dragoon presented itself; a carbine exploded in his
face, so near that he tasted powder smoke. Then he caught the fellow
with his second pistol, dropped it and went to his sword. In the
confusion he slipped farther through the brush and for a moment had the
screening fog as shelter. Again a figure penetrated it and spurred up to
where his own frightened mount was pitching—a gaudy non-commissioned
officer with a leathern face.
The non-com crowded abreast and slashed down with his heavy saber. Peale
ducked aside and parried. Out of the dragoon’s throat emerged a rusty
shout. The momentum of the blade carried him off balance and, as he
bent, Peale’s weapon flashed through the red tunic. Again he was away
while the pursuit eddied and clamored. Captain Tremble’s voice rose to a
frantic timbre.
The woods crashed under the fanwise spread of the dragoons. Peale turned
his nag and raced for the road. Then, through the morning’s mist, came
the thrum of other troops advancing at the gallop. The bushes were
flailed flat beside him and Tremble sprang to view, hatless, eyes
bitter-bright. He, too, had caught the approaching echo and now,
balanced between pursuit and retreat he came to a halt, sword poised.
His men were collecting out on the road to meet this unknown troop, the
sergeant’s voice summoning them from all quarters. Peale drew his
breath.
“Y’ve over-reached yourself, Tremble,” said he.
“Ha!” muttered Tremble, eyes cocked toward the distance. He was about to
fling himself back toward his detachment and Peale knew it. So, swinging
the sorry nag around, he blocked the captain’s passage.
“You came too far in search of satisfaction, sirrah,” he repeated.
“There’s an American patrol come to investigate this hullabaloo. You’re
done for. Dismount and show me your metal.”
The oncoming patrol swept by and without warning collided with the
English dragoons. There was a shot or two and a ringing command that
rang through the obscured area. Then blade beat upon blade and the lust
after victory resounded high and imperious. Tremble scowled tremendously
at his opponent.
“D’ye think your scurvy mounted men can beat me? No, sir! Do you
surrender?”
“Dismount.”
“I shall kill you quick enough,” answered Tremble dropping from the
saddle, itching to be with his party. “Hurry, man!”
They faced each other quite warily, circling slowly in the small glade,
testing their footing on the sodden carpet of leaves, and reading such
emotions as flashed to the surface of the opposite’s countenance. For
quite as much does victory depend on the forward spirit as on the
sensitive blade; and by that token Peale knew he had come upon a
redoubtable foe.
That British captain knew no fear. His was an arrogant, zealous courage.
His blade whipped over the intervening space and touched Peale’s weapon
with a skimming sound. His knees bent and his free arm began to dance
outward at his side.
“On guard, you fool! _I_ have never yet missed my man.”
“You will need that breath later,” said Peale very grimly.
And with that they were met. Peale had selected his spot and was
determined to hold it. Within the first three parries he had forgotten
the resolution and was circling. Here was no bludgeoning opponent; the
steel had a diabolical lightness about it. When he countered and closed
he saw Tremble’s nut-brown face to be utterly expressionless save for a
sparkle coming through half-shut eyes and a slight flare of nostrils.
The man had well learned his lesson; he was a bundle of muscle, a
storehouse of swift energy. Peale, stiffening his defense, withstood a
slashing attack and drove home his point. He had broken up that advance.
On retreating he found his vision obscured; there was blood dripping
down his brow.
“Do you give?” demanded Tremble. “I most assuredly will kill you and I’d
rather have the pleasure—ah, sir, take _care_!—of seeing you hang.”
It was not braggadocio. The man was serenely confident. On that
confidence he harried Peale mercilessly around the glade, flicking away
the other’s guard with careless effort. The American, worn down by
twenty hours of constant travel, began to feel a treacherous weight
steal along his shoulder and into his fingers.
That would never do! He could afford no handicaps with this master of
the duello. Spurred by the knowledge of his weakness, he began to throw
away caution. He closed. The glade rang with the sharp exchange. Of a
sudden the gallant captain, unmindful of his slippery footing, made a
long thrust and went down on a knee.
Peale sprang back and dropped the point of his weapon, waiting.
It was a natural gesture, yet it came so much as a surprize to Tremble
that he forebore rising for a second.
“Gallant, eh?” he snarled. “Whyn’t ye take advantage?”
“Up!”
“Ah, ye think ye need no advantage?”
And thereupon Tremble lost a measure of his confidence, never to regain
it. The man was unafraid! He rose and assumed a more cautious posture.
Thus Peale brought the battle to him and time after time was beaten
away. The captain never moved a step. There was an endless repetition of
movement. In darted the American’s blade, to be parried and thrown out.
This was novice work! And the stealthy weight was tricking Peale. He was
excessively hot and somewhat blurred of vision. He saw Tremble standing
so sure and so solid. There must be an end of this!
The glade rang again, the steel snarled. Peale towered over his man. The
captain broke—and broke again. Peale filled his lungs and sent a long,
rollicking cry over Tremble’s head and drove. The steel whined. One
blade wavered uncertainly—and was down. Down! Home, point!
“Touch,” said Tremble, imperturbably. He stood like a statue. “A touch
for Mr. Peale.”
Down some distance in the road the fight lost its tenor and fell to a
low note. A horse galloped toward the glade. Peale shook the persistent
sweat out of his eyes and tried to draw a full breath. He was winded,
useless of shoulder. He could not have lifted his weapon horizontal for
all the mortal danger in the world. But there was no need to. Tremble’s
face became quite saturnine and his legs failed him. Down he went in a
heap. There was one burst of energy left in him and he used it
characteristically. Up came arm and sword and he flung the blade
straight at Peale, then fell back dead. The weapon missed its mark and
dropped harmlessly on the leaf mold.
The leaves shivered and a ruddy youth burst through, in the saddle, and
whirled around to keep from riding over Peale.
“Cornered, sir! What the ——?”
“Peale—of Maxwell’s brigade, Lieutenant,” explained the victor, shaking
his head wearily. There was a tugging at his elbow and unexpectedly he
found himself resting on the girl’s shoulder, quite glad to have the
support. His muscles quivered.
“——!” exclaimed the patrol lieutenant. “It _must_ have been a sight!”
“The best swordsman,” said Peale simply, “lost. My shout, I believe,
took him off guard. Have you routed the party?”
“Somewhat!” said the lieutenant energetically.
“Pick us up, then,” said Peale. “I bear despatches for General Maxwell.
The lady must find warm shelter very soon or she’ll take cold.”
“If I may observe,” said the officer, “y’ve a nasty cut there.”
“Come, no delay!”
The patrol leader rode to the highway and began to collect his men. From
some particular source the girl had gotten a piece of cloth and wrapped
it around Peale’s head.
“Infernal headache the captain bequeathed me,” said he. “My lady, you
said you had folks around here. I shall have the pleasure of ordering
these men to escort you there.”
“To the nearest tavern then.”
“But your folks—”
“I have no folks. Neither here nor elsewhere.”
His head cleared somewhat; he found himself looking at a very bedraggled
girl whose eyes were at this moment sober and resigned. Her courage
seemed to have deserted her. In truth, she was forlorn. And she answered
his inspection with a very meek explanation.
“’Twas fiction I told you in New York. But I feared you would not care
to be bothered with taking me if I said it elsewise. I am very grateful,
Mr. Peale. To the first tavern, then, and I shall no longer be a
burden—”
“Oh, ——,” exclaimed the harassed young man, entirely to himself.
“_That’s_ an ill-sounding reason.” He put a muddy finger under her chin.
“After all’s passed am I to be thrown over like a worn shoe? Look you,
Jane—there’s a chaplain in the brigade.”
“Take me to the first tavern sir! La, I’d not have you askin’ me while I
looked like this! I’d think it was marriage out of pity!”
He led her to the road and in a moment both were riding south toward the
American lines. He had been rebuffed, undoubtedly; but on a second
glance he knew he had won another victory. He leaned over and spoke in a
humble subdued tone.
“I shall send you home to my mother, then.”
“Jeffry, no. It’s not in me to be so far away. I follow you as close as
fortune will let me. Do not other officers’ ladies make their homes on
the edge of the camp?”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
July 15, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]