THE CROSSING OF SWORDS
Sunrise, two days later, found Mr. Richard Ringgold and myself
stamping our feet in the snow on the pike, half-way between the
hostile lines.
"I suppose they will let us fight here without interruption," said
Dick.
"No danger from that," I replied. "We will fight in that little
hollow, where the outposts cannot see us."
"Here they come," said Dick. We saw two officers approaching across
the snow from the Highland outpost.
They soon came up, and we saluted, while Dick and Captain Forbes,
Farquharson's second, soon agreed upon the preliminaries.
"Will you lead the way, gentlemen?" said Forbes.
Dick and I led them to the little hollow between the hills, where a
slight meadow formed a platform, as it were, for us to act our drama
upon.
Since my first duel with Rodolph on the banks of the Elk I had seen
something of war and of battles, and considered myself an old hand in
such encounters.
And so I found myself looking Farquharson over and estimating his
strength and his skill, for I knew him to be one of the best swordsmen
among the Highlanders, while I could claim, with all due modesty, to
be the best in the Maryland Line.
He was a notable swordsman, you could see that at a glance; the
powerful figure, yet as light and active as a cat, the muscles of his
sword arm telling of long and patient handling of the weapon, while
his cold gray eye spoke for his coolness and determination.
He glanced at me, as we threw off our coats, in almost an indifferent
manner, as if he had a duty to perform, which was to be done as
quickly as possible, the mere suppression of a country bumpkin by a
gentleman of fashion. I knew that would change as soon as our swords
crossed, and smiled to myself. Then, being stripped to our shirts, we
took our places and saluted.
Click, and our swords rang true. Though he fenced somewhat carelessly
at first, there came a surprised look and a sudden change in his
manner, as I parried a skilful thrust and touched him lightly on the
shoulder. He seemed to realise that he had no ordinary swordsman
opposed to him, and quickly brought into play all his skill and
fierceness in attack, throwing me on the defensive and forcing me
gradually back.
It could not last; no strength could stand it. When he found that the
steel guard met every attack, that every thrust was parried, he
relaxed the fierceness of his attack and began to fence with more
skill and caution.
Thus it was we fenced for several minutes, the clash of the steel
ringing out in the cold, crisp air across the snow, and it came to my
opponent that he had at last met a swordsman who was his equal in
skill. From this on every moment he developed some new feint, some new
attack, and, though I met them every one, it took my utmost skill to
do so.
But at last there came the end. He had assumed the offensive again and
was pressing hard upon me, when he placed his foot upon a loose stone
in the snow, which rolled. The sword flew from out his hand and he
was down upon his knee.
My sword was at his throat, and then my hand was stayed, for there
came before me the vision of the Tory maid, standing with face averted
in the square brick house in the city. That she might care, that she
might be in terror then as to the fate that might befall him, flashed
through my brain. I brought my sword to a salute, and returned it to
its scabbard.
"Sir," said I, as Farquharson rose, "it is a pleasure to have fought
with so gallant a gentleman."
"And I, sir," he returned, "am happy to have met so skilful a
swordsman." And then, like gallant men who have fought and know each
other's worth, we shook hands on the spot where a moment before our
blades were thirsting for each other's blood.
"It gives me pleasure," he continued, "to withdraw my remarks at
Colonel Gordon's, as they arose from a misapprehension."
"I will consider them as if they had never been said," I replied, "and
I beg of you, on your return, to present my compliments to Mistress
Gordon, and tell her that I send you to her as my wedding gift."
"Why, is she to be married?" he asked in a startled way.
"I believe so," I answered, "but she will tell you all about it."
And so we returned to the pike, where we all saluted again, and
retraced our steps to the lines.
The spring was late that year. April had come before there came a soft
warm breeze from the Southland, waking nature into life, and covering
the hard frozen face of mother earth with wreaths and clouds of mist
and moisture. From every hillside, from every frost-bound plain, the
smoke of spring arose, and through the air there breathed the spirit
of the reincarnated life of the world.
How we of the Southland hailed it with joy, and drank in with our
lungs this promise of a new life! We who loved the sunshine and the
balmy breezes, the great joy of living amid fragrant fields and
green-clad forests, we who hated the storms, the wind and cold of the
North,--ah, how the blood in our veins welcomed this soft caress of
the South! We threw off the terror of the winter, looked forward with
glee to the opening of the spring campaign, and counted in
anticipation the honours we were to win, the glory that would be ours.
New life sprang up all through the camp; the troops left the busy duty
of hugging the fires, the ranks filled up, and order and discipline
once more became the order of the day.
Rumours soon came creeping through the lines of a change in the
leadership of the enemy's forces, but as yet they lay quietly within
the city and showed not the teeth of offence. Thus we lay on the green
hillsides of Valley Forge, busily preparing for the struggle which was
certain to come, until far into the spring, without a sign of a
movement on the part of the enemy.
But with May came their new Commander-in-Chief, Sir Henry Clinton, and
the departure of Lord Howe, and we knew that the time had at last come
when some bold stroke would be played in the game of war.
The gaps in our ranks had been somewhat filled, and we were ready and
eager for active service as soon as the great General would give the
command.
At last came rumours of a retreat, that the English were preparing to
desert the city and march across the plains of Jersey to where New
York lay, sheltered by the waters of the sea and the rivers. We
marched toward the Delaware to be ready to strike them when they
moved.
So, one day, as I stood on the outpost, guarding the nearest road to
the city, I saw Jones approaching at full speed on an old horse, which
he had evidently borrowed. I was ready for his news.
"The British are crossing the Delaware; we will catch them in Jersey
now or never," he cried, and then he had dashed past on his way to
headquarters.
My little guard received the news with a yell, and we looked forward
eagerly for the order to join our regiment on the march.
It was not long in coming, and on that night, the 18th of June, we
crossed the Delaware, and started on the race across Jersey that was
to end at Monmouth.