When we awoke the next morning we found that the man who had put our
uniforms in order and attended to the other duties about the quarters
was Waters. There he was, grinning at us in the familiar way that made
my anger rise. Again I became suspicious of the fellow, although there
was nothing particular upon which I could rest my apprehensions, unless
it was the air of secret knowledge and importance I fancied I saw so
often on his face. But I reflected that such looks were as much the
characteristic of fools as of sages, and with this reflection I turned
very cheerfully to receive the morning draught which Waters handed to
me. The taste of it left no doubt that he was a noble compounder of
beverages, and when I had drunk it all I readily forgave him his wise
looks, for, as everybody knows, a cool draught in the morning is a
necessity after a revel of the night before. Moreover, in a talkative
way he volunteered us much information concerning the army and its
prospects. Suspecting that this would be useful to us, we had no
hesitancy in listening to him.
I knew that the attendants about the quarters of the officers often came
into possession of valuable information, so I asked him, though I
pretended a very careless and indifferent manner, if anything weighty
were afoot.
"A company of mounted dragoons are looking for Wildfoot, the American
ranger," he said, "and a wagon-train loaded with provisions gathered
from the farmers is expected in the afternoon. The general thinks the
train may draw Wildfoot and his robbers, and then the dragoons will come
down on him and put an end to him and his band."
That Waters spoke the truth we soon had good proof, for somewhat later
both Marcel and I were ordered to join a troop commanded by Blake, which
was intended to co-operate with the body of dragoons already in search
of Wildfoot. Good horses had been secured for us, and we had no choice
but to go and serve against our own countrymen.
"Let us trust to the luck which has never deserted us yet," said Marcel.
"We may be of service to this Wildfoot without betraying ourselves."
That was a very reasonable and consoling way of putting the matter, and
I mounted my horse with a feeling of relief at the prospect of being out
in the country again. At least the hangman's noose was not drawn so
tightly around our necks there. We attracted attention from the populace
as we rode through the city, and in truth a fine body of men were we,
well mounted, well clothed, and well armed. Some of the people cheered
us, but I could see other faces glowering, and I liked them the better.
Though this Philadelphia, our finest city, lay under the heel of the
enemy, I knew it yet contained many faithful friends of the good cause.
A light rain had fallen in the morning, and the beads of water still lay
on bush and blade of grass. Forest and field glowed in living green, and
the south wind, which had the odor of flowers in its breath, was fresh
as the dew upon our faces.
"It makes one think of the mountains and lakes, and of sleep under the
trees," said Vivian, who was of our company.
"I warn you that you will not have a chance, Vivian, to go to sleep
under a tree or anywhere else," said Blake. "We have more important
business than day-dreaming in hand. This fellow Wildfoot, who is worse
than a plague, must be trapped to-day."
"I trust that we shall have him hanging from a strong oak bough before
nightfall," said Belfort, who also had been sent on the service.
"I can scarce say that," continued Blake, who was a gallant fellow. "I
would rather fight these people with the sword than with the cord."
The country seemed to be the abiding-place of peace. The district
through which we rode had not been harried, and we saw some farmers
going about their business.
They noticed us but little; doubtless soldiers had ceased long since to
be an unaccustomed sight to them. The fresh air and the beauty of the
country acted like a tonic upon us. We broke into a gallop, our sabres
clanking at our sides. I forgot for the moment that I was with
enemies,--official enemies.
"We should meet Barton somewhere near here," said Blake.
Barton was the commander of the first troop that had been sent out to
trap Wildfoot. Blake had been sent along later, for fear Barton's squad
would not be strong enough for its task. Blake was to command both
detachments when they united.
"Barton may not like to be superseded thus," said Blake, "but it is the
general's orders. He did not wish to take unnecessary risks."
"Anyway, we will make sure of the rebels," said Belfort, "and a bit of
service like this does not come amiss, after so many weeks of feasting
and dancing in Philadelphia."
"Those must be our friends on that distant hill-side yonder," broke in
Marcel, "for against the green of the grass there is a blur of red,
which I take to be British coats."
Marcel was right, and the two parties soon formed a junction. Barton, a
middle-aged officer, did not seem so displeased as Blake thought he
would be at the coming of the reinforcements and his own supersession in
the command.
"What news?" asked Blake eagerly of him. "Have you seen anything of the
rebels yet?"
"No," replied Barton; "but if you will ride with me to the crest of this
hill, I will show you the wagon-train."
Blake beckoned to several of us to accompany him, and we ascended the
hill, which was crowned with oak-trees.
"See, there they are," said Barton, pointing into the valley beyond,
"and I think those wagons carry enough food to tempt the starving
rebels to almost any desperate deed."
About thirty large Conestoga wagons, each drawn by four stout bullocks,
were moving along slowly and in single file. From where we stood we
could hear the creaking of the wagon wheels and the cracking whips of
the drivers.
"You are right about the temptation," said Blake, "and if Wildfoot and
his men mean to make the dash upon them according to our advices, this
is the place for it. It would be a matter of great ease for them to
surround the wagons in that valley. You have been careful to leave no
evidence of your presence, Barton?"
"Yes; this is the nearest that we have been to the wagons," replied
Barton. "If the rebels are about, they cannot suspect that the train has
other guard than the soldiers you see riding with it."
"I think it would be wise to keep watch as long as we can from this
summit," said Blake. "It is well wooded, and will serve to conceal us
from the rebels."
"Captain," said a soldier who had ridden up hastily, "Lieutenant Vivian
wishes your presence immediately."
Vivian had been left in charge for the moment of the soldiers down the
hill-side; and Blake, saying to us, "Come on, gentlemen," galloped back
to him. We found the entire troop drawn up as we had left them, but all
were gazing towards the north. We looked that way too, and at once saw
the cause of this concentrated vision. Just out of musket-range and
under the boughs of a large oak-tree were three or four horsemen. Their
reins hung loose, and their attitudes were negligent and easy, but all
wore the uniforms of Continental soldiers. Their coats were ragged and
faded, as in truth were all the uniforms in our army, but enough of the
color was left to allow no room for doubt.
"By heavens, this savors much of impertinence!" said Blake. "How came
they there?"
"We do not know," responded Vivian. "One of the men called my attention,
and we saw them sitting there just as they are now."
I had been examining the men with great attention. The one who was
nearest to us was large, dark, and apparently very powerful. His figure
did not appear altogether strange to me. I was vexing my brain in an
endeavor to account for the recollection, when Marcel leaned over and
whispered to me,--
"Behold him, Chester. It is the lively gentleman who chased us so hotly
when we fled into the arms of our friends the British."
"What is that you say?" asked Blake, who saw Marcel whispering to me.
"I was reminding Lieutenant Melville," replied Marcel, "that we had
unexpectedly renewed an acquaintance. The large man who sits nearest to
us is the leader of the band who chased us into the midst of your troop
the other day."
"We failed to take him then," responded Blake, quickly, "but I do not
think he can escape us now."
"It would be a pity to use arms on such skulkers," said Belfort. "They
should be lashed into submission with whips."
A hot reply was rising to my lips, but Blake said lightly: "Then we will
even delegate the task of lashing them to you, Belfort. We will look on
while you ride forward and perform your duty. But wait! what does that
fellow mean?"
The large man had taken notice of us apparently for the first time. With
deliberate action he hoisted a piece of white cloth on the muzzle of his
gun-barrel, and then began to ride slowly towards us.
"Does he mean that they surrender?" asked Blake.
"I think not," said Marcel. "That is a flag of truce. He wishes to
confer with you."
"I would hold no conference with him," said Belfort. "He is a rebel and
not worthy of it. Let us ride forward and shoot them down."
"Not so," said Blake; "we must recognize a certain degree of
belligerency in them, rebels though they be, and we will hear what he
may have to say. Let no one raise a weapon against him while he bears
that white flag. The honor of England forbids it."
Belfort was silent under the rebuke, but I could see that it stung him.
The American continued to approach, but when he was midway between us
and his companions he stopped.
"Come," said Blake, "we will meet him." Accompanied by a party of
officers--Marcel, Belfort, Vivian, and myself among the number--he rode
forward. We stopped within speaking-distance of the man, who waited
very composedly. Then Blake hailed him and demanded his name and his
errand.
"I am Captain William Wildfoot, of the American army," said the man,
"and I have somewhat to say to you that may be to your profit, if you
take heed of it."
There were some murmurs in our group when the famous ranger so boldly
announced himself, and Blake said, in an undertone, "It would in truth
be a great mischance if the fellow escaped us now."
Then he said to Wildfoot: "We have heard of you, and I may say have been
looking for you, but did not expect that you would come to meet us. What
is your message?"
"I demand the surrender of your command," replied the ranger. "I would
spare bloodshed, which is distasteful to me, and I pledge you my word
that I will treat you well, all of you, officers and men."
At this marvellous effrontery Blake swore a deep oath, and a murmur
arose from the soldiers behind us, who heard the demand, as the ranger
probably intended they should.
"You may be witty, but you are not wise, Sir Rebel," returned Blake.
"Yield yourself at once, and perhaps you may secure the pardon of Sir
William, our commander-in-chief, though your misdeeds are many."
"Not so fast, my friend," returned Wildfoot. "What you call my misdeeds
are deeds of which I am proud. At least they have been of some service
to our cause and of some disservice to yours, and that, I take it, is
the purpose of war. My demand for your surrender you may receive in
jocular vein, but I make it again."
The man spoke with dignity, but it made no impression upon the English
officers, some of whom angrily exclaimed, "Ride the insolent rebel
down!" But Blake again restrained them, calling their attention to the
flag of truce.
"Rejoin your companions," he said to Wildfoot "To that much grace you
are entitled, but no more, since you choose to boast of your treason and
other misdeeds."
"It shall be as you wish," rejoined Wildfoot, "but I will find means to
let Sir William Howe know that I gave you fair warning. He cannot say
that I took advantage of you."
He turned his horse and rode placidly back to his companions, while
Blake sat all a-tremble with rage. The moment Wildfoot reached his
comrades, who had been waiting for him in apparent listlessness, he
pulled off his wide-brimmed hat, which had shaded his face during the
interview, waved it to us, and galloped away through the forest, while
we, with a wild shout, galloped after him.
"He will soon bitterly rue his theatrical display," said Blake, "for I
doubt not that Sir William will show little mercy to such a marauder as
he. So ho, my lads! Yonder goes the chase! Lose not sight of them!"
The little American band had disappeared from our view for a moment, but
as we came into an opening we saw them again galloping ahead of us just
out of range.
"Give them a hunting call!" said Blake to a trumpeter who galloped by
his side. "We will show these fellows what we think of them."
The man raised the trumpet to his lips, and the clear and inspiriting
strains of a hunting catch rang through the forest. It was a note of
derision, a summons for the hunter to pursue the game, and in
recognition of its meaning the troopers burst into a cheer.
"It will be a fine hunt,--ay, finer than to pursue the fox or the deer,"
said Belfort.
The fugitives were well horsed, for the distance between them and the
pursuers did not diminish. Some scattering shots were fired at them, but
all fell short, and Blake commanded the firing to cease until the
opportunities for execution grew better.
The flight of the Americans led us gradually towards the foot of the
slope, and we came to a broad sweep of country which was free from trees
or undergrowth. Here the British pushed their horses to the utmost, and
Blake commanded his men to spread out fan-like, in the hope of enclosing
the fugitives if they sought to turn or double like foxes. There seemed
to be wisdom in this plan, for beyond the open the stretch of ground
practicable for horsemen narrowed rapidly. The country farther on was
broken by hillocks and curtained with scrubby woods.
"We have them now," exclaimed Blake, joyously. "So ho! So ho! my lads!"
The trumpeter again merrily blew his hunting catch, and the men cheered
its inspiring notes. I could easily understand why Blake was so eager to
overtake Wildfoot, who in himself would be a very important capture,
while his conduct on this occasion had been most irritating. It was his
wish to get within firing range of the fugitives before they crossed the
open stretch, but it was soon evident that such effort would be in vain.
The long easy stride of the horses that Wildfoot and his men rode showed
that they had strength in reserve.
"There is a ravine in front of that wood," exclaimed Belfort, who rode
at my left hand. "Mr. Fox and his friends have trapped themselves."
So it seemed. But, though Wildfoot must have seen the ravine, he and his
men galloped towards it without hesitation.
"Forward, my men," cried Blake; "we'll take them now."
Wildfoot and his men were at the edge of the gully, which we could now
see was wide and lined with bushes. They checked their horses, spoke to
them soothingly, and the next moment the gallant animals, gathering
themselves up, leaped over the bushes into the ravine, horses and men
alike disappearing from our view.
"'Tis but a last desperate trick to delude us," cried Blake. "On, my
lads!"
In a wide but converging line we swept down upon the gully. We were
scarce fifty feet from it when I heard a sharp, brief cry like a
command, and from the dense wood that lined its farther bank there burst
forth a flash of flame like the gleaming edge of a sword, only many
times longer and brighter, and the next moment we went down as if
smitten by a thunderbolt.
In war there is nothing that strikes fear to the heart like a surprise.
While the front ranks of the British force crumbled away like a wrecked
ship before the beat of the sea, cries of terror burst from those
behind, and, mingling with the groans and the terrified neighing of the
horses, produced a din that bewildered me. From this stupor I was
aroused by the plunging of my horse, which had been wounded in the neck.
I seized the reins, dropped from my hands in the first shock, and was
endeavoring to draw back the frightened animal, so that he might not
trample upon the fallen, when Marcel's face appeared through the dense
smoke, and he shouted to me,--
"Shelter yourself behind your horse as much as you can. It is time for
them to give us another volley!"
I took his advice not a whit too soon, for almost as he spoke, the
withering flame flashed from the wood a second time, and once again our
command cried out under the force of it.
But the British--I will give them credit for bravery and all soldierly
qualities--began to recover from their surprise. Blake shouted and
cursed, and the officers, with a fine display of gallantry, helped him
to restore order in the command. Thus was the column beaten at length
into some sort of shape and the fire of the ambushers returned, though
no one could see whether the counter-fire did any execution.
After a few moments of this fusillade the British began to retreat,
which was the wisest thing to do, for one who falls into a trap must
needs try to get out of it the best he can. But we heard a loud shout
on the slope above us, and a party of horsemen led by Wildfoot himself
burst from the covert and charged down upon us.
"Here are enemies whom we can see!" shouted Blake. "At them, my lads!"
The whole troop turned to meet the charge, but they were ill fitted to
endure it, for their flanks were still quivering beneath the fire from
beyond the gully. The two bodies of horsemen met with a crash, and the
British line staggered back. The next moment Wildfoot and his men were
among us.
"By all the saints, I will do for him!" exclaimed Belfort, who had a
ready pistol in his hand. Wildfoot and Blake were crossing swords in so
fierce a combat that the ring of their blades was like the beat of the
hammer upon the anvil.
Belfort levelled his pistol point-blank at the partisan, and would have
slain him then and there, but at that moment, why I need not say, my
horse stumbled and fell almost with his full weight against Belfort's.
His pistol was knocked from his hand, and he barely kept his seat in his
saddle.
"Damnation!" he roared. "What are--" and the rest of his words were lost
in the din.
Just then the duel between the two leaders ended. Blake was unable to
cope with his larger and more powerful antagonist, and his blade was
dashed from his hand. Wildfoot might have shorn his head from his
shoulders with one blow of his great sabre. Instead, he thrust the
weapon into his belt, seized Blake by both shoulders, and hurled him to
the earth, where the stricken man lay, prone and still.
Daunted by the fall of their leader, the British line bent and broke,
and the men fled towards the cover of the forest. My heart sickened at
the plight of Blake, enemy though he was.
The Americans, much to the surprise of the British, did not pursue, but
drew off towards cover. Blake lay between the two detachments, his face
almost concealed in the grass. I could not leave him there while life
might still be in his body, to be trampled to pieces in the next charge
of the horsemen, and driven by a sudden impulse, I sprang from my
saddle, ran forward, and seized him by the shoulders, just as the great
ranger whirled his horse and galloped by me. He had his sabre in his
hand again, and I thought he was going to cut me down, as he might
easily have done, but, to my unutterable surprise and relief, he made no
motion to strike. Instead he said to me, as he galloped by,--
"You are a brave man, but you are a fool, a most wondrous fool!"
I stayed not to reflect wherein I was a most wondrous fool, but, with a
strength which was a creation of the emergency and the excitement, I ran
back towards the British lines, dragging poor Blake after me. Every
moment I expected to feel an American bullet in my back, but none came,
nor did I hear the sound of shots.
Then, after a space of time which it seemed to me would never come to an
end, I reached the trees, and strong hands seized both Blake and me,
dragging us under cover.