I remained for a minute or two in a stupor, superinduced by the
excitement of the fight and my great physical exertions. From this I was
aroused by Barton, who was now in command, Blake being disabled.
"It was gallantly done, Lieutenant Melville," he said. "You have saved
our captain's life."
"Are you sure he is still living?" I asked.
"He is stunned by the shock he received when that great rebel hurled him
to the ground," said Barton, "but he will be well enough in time."
"You have saved more lives than Blake's," whispered Marcel, as Barton
turned. "You have saved yours and mine, for that villain Belfort
suspected that you threw your horse purposely against his. In face of
this he dare not declare his suspicions."
"By the way," resumed Marcel, a moment later, "you might ask our haughty
Norman noble over there if the rebel dogs can fight."
I did not ask the question, though, had time and place been otherwise,
it would have pleased me much to do so.
All the troopers had dismounted and were putting themselves in posture
of defence behind the rocks, hillocks, and trees. Barton expected
another attack upon the instant, but it was not made. In fact, when he
examined with his field-glass the wood into which Wildfoot and his men
had withdrawn, he announced that he could see naught of them.
"I see nothing among those trees over there," he said; "not a horse, not
a man. Verily the fellows have learned to perfection the art of hiding
themselves. By St. George, they need it in their dealings with us!"
It was sometimes the temper of the British in our country to boast and
to show arrogance even when sore outwitted and outfought by us, and then
to wonder why we did not love them. Perhaps this fault was not theirs,
exclusively.
"Likely enough this silence is some new trick," said Belfort, "some
scheme to draw us into another ambush."
"I suspect that you speak the truth," replied Barton. "Stand close, men.
We have suffered too much already to risk another trap."
The men were quite willing to obey his order and stand close. Thus we
waited. Blake revived by and by, and a careful examination showed that
he had no bones broken, though he was sore in every muscle and still
somewhat dazed in mind. But he was urgent in entreating his officers not
to take excessive risks.
"I fancy that we have nothing to do but to wait here," said Barton to
him, "for the rebels will of a surety attack us again very soon."
But in this Barton was mistaken, for the Americans seemed to have gone
away. We waited a full hour, and then, as they gave no evidence of
being anywhere near us, a small scouting-party was sent out, which
presently returned with word that they were in truth gone, and that the
woods were empty.
"They feared to attack us when we were on our guard," said Barton,
triumphantly. "There is naught for us to do now but to go and escort the
wagon-train back to the city."
We gathered up the wounded and rode over the ridge in search of the
wagon-train. We found with ease the tracks of the wheels and followed
them towards the city, expecting to overtake the wagons. Presently, as
we turned around a hill, we rode almost full tilt into three or four of
them lying upon the ground, too much shattered and broken ever to be of
use again.
In his surprise Barton reined back his horse against mine, for I rode
just behind him.
"What is this?" he exclaimed.
"It seems that we have the wagon-train, or what is left of it," said
Marcel. "There is a placard; it may inform us."
A pine board was stuck in a conspicuous place upon one of the wagons,
and some words had been written upon it with a piece of charcoal. We
rode forward and read,--
"To Sir William Howe or His Representative.
For the Wagons and their Contents
We Are Much Indebted
As we were Hungry
And You Have Fed Us.
We Give You Leave to Take Repayment
At Such Time and Place
As You May Choose.
"WILLIAM WILDFOOT."
Barton swore in his rage. It was easy enough to see now why the patriots
had withdrawn after the first attack. The provision-train was more
valuable than arms or prisoners to the American army, and, barring the
broken wagons, Wildfoot and his men had carried off everything. Nor were
the British in any trim to pursue, a business at which, most like, they
would have had their faces slapped.
Barton swore with a force and fluency that I have seldom heard
surpassed, and Blake said with a melancholy smile,--
"It is well that I have this broken head to offer as some sort of an
excuse, or I think it would go hard with me."
He spoke truly, for, though his expedition had been a most dire failure,
his own condition was proof that he had done valiant duty.
The British gathered up their wounded again and began their march to the
city. The country glowed in the brilliant sunshine of a summer
afternoon, but I was in no mood to enjoy its beauty now. Our column
marched mournfully along, as sad as a funeral procession. Even though
the victory had gone where I wished it to go, yet there were others
before my eyes, and I felt sorrow for them in their wounds and defeat.
When we approached Philadelphia, some people on horseback turned and
galloped towards us. As they came nearer, I saw that two of them were
women, one of whom I recognized as Miss Desmond. They were accompanied
by two British officers whom I had seen at the banquet, Colonel Ingram
and Major Parsons. The other young woman I learned afterwards was the
daughter of a rich Tory of Philadelphia.
Belfort rode forward to meet them, and Marcel and I followed, though at
a somewhat slacker pace. We could take this privilege, as we were now
within the lines. I judged that the officers and the ladies had been
taking a ride for the sake of the air and the exercise, and such proved
to be the case.
"Here comes Blake's expedition," exclaimed Ingram, as they rode up, "and
I see wounded men. Verily I believe we have taken the rebel Wildfoot at
last."
"Is it true, Lieutenant Belfort?" asked Miss Desmond. "Has the robber
Wildfoot been taken?"
Belfort was thrown into a state of embarrassment by this question, to
which he knew he must return an unwelcome answer; and he hesitated,
pulling uneasily at his bridle-rein. But Marcel, the readiness of whose
wit was equalled only by his lack of a sense of responsibility, spoke
up.
"I fear, Miss Desmond," he said, "that we have but sad news. The wounded
men you see are not rebels, but our own. As for Mr. Wildfoot the robber,
we suspect that he has had fine entertainment at our expense. Of a
certainty he gave us all the sport we wanted."
"It was a trick, a dastard American trick!" exclaimed Belfort. "They
gave us no chance."
"Then you have not captured this Wildfoot?" asked Miss Desmond.
"No," replied Marcel. "He came much nearer to capturing us, and in
addition he has taken off our wagon-train, provisions, bullocks,
drivers, and all, which I dare say will be welcome food to the
Americans, drivers included, for we hear that they are starving."
"They did not stay to fight us to the end," broke in Belfort, "but ran
away with the spoil."
"No doubt they had obtained all they wanted," said Miss Desmond, dryly.
"Do not forget, Lieutenant Belfort, that, however misguided my
countrymen may be, they are able to meet anybody in battle, Englishmen
not excepted."
"For you to say anything makes it true," said Belfort.
"You should also take note," said Marcel, "that Miss Desmond is more
chivalrous than some other opponents of the Americans."
"I do not take your full meaning," said Belfort.
"It is easy enough to understand it," said Marcel. "Miss Desmond gives
to our enemies the credit for the bravery and skill which they have
shown so plainly that they possess."
"I think you have taken a very long journey for strange purposes," said
Belfort, "if you have come all the way from England to defend the rebels
and to insult the officers of the king."
A fierce quarrel between them might have occurred then, for it was
breeding fast, but Miss Desmond interfered.
"If you say any more upon this subject, gentlemen," she said, "I shall
not speak to either of you again."
"Where no other penalty might prevent us, Miss Desmond," said Marcel,
with a low bow, "that of a surety will."
Marcel was a graceless scamp, but I always envied his skill at saying
things which fitted the matter in hand.
Our shot-riddled party had now come up, and while the colonel and the
major were receiving the full story from Barton, I found myself for a
few moments the only attendant upon Miss Desmond.
"Since I can now do it without risk of sudden death, our friend
Lieutenant Belfort being absent, I assure you again that your countrymen
showed great bravery and military skill in our action with them," I
said.
"The appearance of your column," she replied, looking pityingly at the
wounded soldiers, "is proof that you came off none too well."
"It would be better," I said, "to avow the full truth, that we were
sadly beaten."
"Lieutenant Melville," she said, "why are you so quick in the defence
and even the praise of the rebels? Such is not the custom of most of the
British officers. It seems strange to me."
"Does it seem more strange," I asked, "than the fact that you, an
American, espouse the cause of the British?"
The question appeared to cause her some embarrassment. Her lip
quivered, and an unusual though very becoming redness came into her
face. But in a moment she recovered her self-possession.
"If you had been born an American, Lieutenant Melville," she asked,
"would you have fought with the Americans?"
"The question is unfair," I answered hastily.
"Then let the subject be changed," she said; and changed it was. In a
few more minutes we entered the city, where the news we brought, and the
abundant evidence of its truth that we likewise brought with us, carried
much disturbance, and I may also add joy too, for there were many good
and loyal patriots among the civilians of Philadelphia, and some who
feared not to show their feelings in the face of the whole British army.
My rescue of Blake, more the result of impulse than of resolution, came
in for much praise, which I would rather not have had, and of which I
was in secret not a little ashamed. But there was naught for me to do
but to receive it with a good grace, in which effort I was much aided by
the knowledge that the incident formed a coat of armor against any
suspicions that Belfort might have formed.
"Well, Lieutenant Melville," said Marcel, as we were returning to our
quarters, "you have distinguished yourself to-day and established
yourself in the esteem of your fellow-Britons."
"And you," I said, "have almost quarrelled with one of these same
Britons, who hates us both already and would be glad to see us hanged."
"My chief regret," replied Marcel, "is that it was not a quarrel in
fact. It would be the pleasantest task of my life to teach our haughty
Norman nobleman a lesson in manners."
"Such lessons might prove to be very dangerous to us just now," I
remarked.
"This one would be worth all the risk," replied he.
I saw that he was obstinate upon the point, and so I said no more about
it.