A detachment of our army entered Philadelphia the next day, hot upon the
heels of the retreating British, and Marcel and I were among the first
dozen Americans who rode into the city, Wildfoot, the ranger, commanding
the little band which had the honor of taking the lead. Seldom have
happier horsemen galloped to the music of triumph.
"See, Lieutenant Chester!" said Wildfoot to me, pointing across the
fields.
I followed his long forefinger with my eyes, and saw the tips of
Philadelphia's spires, a most stimulating sight. Philadelphia was then
our largest, richest, and most important city. The great Declaration had
been made there, and in a way we considered it our capital. It had been
a heavy blow to us, when we were forced to yield it to Howe, and now
when his successor, Clinton, felt himself obliged to give it back to us,
our spirits, so long depressed, sprang up with a bound.
"Aye, it's Philadelphia," said Wildfoot, "and we've worked and waited
long to get it back again."
I thought I saw a mist appear in the eyes of the strong backwoodsman,
and I knew that he was deeply moved. Certainly no one had worked more
than he, and perhaps none other had taken such great risks. He was
entitled to the honor of leading the vanguard.
We expected to find skirmishers and bands of the British prepared to
make our way troublesome; but we met no foe and galloped, unopposed,
into the city, from which the British had gone but a few hours, and from
which more than three thousand Tories, too, had fled. The departure of
the enemy had been so abrupt, and we were so close behind, that several
British officers, either laggards or late risers, were captured by our
men, and our little troop, scattering, galloped about the streets,
hoping to take more such trophies.
Marcel and I turned into one of the cross streets, and saw a hundred
yards ahead of us two officers in red-coats, riding at a great rate.
"British!" cried Marcel.
"So they are!" I replied, "and they must be ours!" We were wild with
enthusiasm, and even with General Washington's lesson fresh in our
memories, we thought little of consequences while in that state of mind.
We shouted to our horses, and followed the Englishmen at full speed,
eager to make the capture. They heard the clattering of hoofs, and,
seeing us, fled at a greater speed. We were but two, and no doubt they
would have turned and fought us; but they knew the American army to be
at our back, and there was nothing for them to do but gallop.
On they sped, lashing their horses, and after them came Marcel and I,
also lashing our horses. The dust flew from the street, and pedestrians
scuttled to safety.
"It will be something for us to talk of if we take them!" said Marcel.
"It must be done!" I replied, as I sought to draw more speed from my
panting horse. The distance between us was decreasing, slowly it is
true, but yet at a rate that could be noticed. I called Marcel's
attention to our gain, and his face flushed with the hope of triumph.
"We shall take them to the general himself," he said, "and it will help
us in his eyes."
The horses of the fugitives began to stagger, and I noticed it with
exultation. Obviously, they could not escape us now. We soon gained
rapidly, and I shouted to them to halt. One of the men whirled about
quickly and fired a pistol. The bullet whizzed between Marcel and me,
and its only result was to add anger to the motives that drew us on. We
gained yet more rapidly, and cried anew to them to halt. A second pistol
bullet was the reply, but, like its predecessor, it went wide of the
target. We galloped on, and each of them fired at us again, and missed.
"We have them now!" cried Marcel. "Their pistols are empty, and they
cannot reload them while going at this pace!"
In truth they were doomed apparently to be our prisoners and that, too,
speedily. Our horses were the swifter and stronger, and our loaded
pistols were in our belts. The fugitives seemed helpless.
"Stop or we fire!" we shouted.
They looked back as if studying their chances, and I saw their faces
clearly. When they had fired their pistols, the glimpse had been too
fleeting, but I knew them now. They were Vivian and Belfort.
My heart thrilled with various emotions. Vivian was our good friend, a
man of whom we had the most pleasant memories. We could not fire upon
him. Belfort was my enemy, yet I believed that I had triumphed over him,
and surely one can afford to forgive the enemy from whom he has taken
the victory. I could not fire upon him, in such a situation, any more
than I could fire upon Vivian.
"Lower your pistol!" I cried to Marcel. "Do you not see who they are?"
"I do see, and you are right," said Marcel, as he replaced his weapon in
its holster. We gradually checked the speed of our horses, and in a few
moments the fugitives began to draw away from us. Five minutes later
they galloped across the fields and to the safety of their own army.
Whether they recognized us or not, I do not know.
As we turned and rode back through the suburbs, a woman on horseback met
us. It was Mary Desmond.
"Why did you let them go?" she asked, speaking to me, rather than to
Marcel.
"They were Vivian and Belfort," I replied. "Surely you would not have
had us to fire upon either?"
"I should not have forgiven you, if you had," she replied.
She said that she had come out to meet the American force, and she had
seen part of our pursuit. She, too, bore the flush of triumph upon her
face, and in truth it was a great day for her as well as for us. She had
done a man's work, and more than a man's work in the cause of her
country.
"Yes, I am glad you let them go," she repeated as we rode back together.
"It is not likely that we shall ever see either again."
We rode with her to her father's house, and then went to quarters. Just
about sunset a colored man came to us with a note from John Desmond,
asking us to dinner at his house that night. No excuse would be
accepted, he said, and as for leave, that had been granted already by
our colonel. There was no probability that either Marcel or I would seek
an excuse to stay away from John Desmond's house, and as soon as we
could put our toilets in proper trim we went to his residence, a great
square brick building, lighted with many lights. Some carriages stood in
the street in front, yet we were badly prepared for a company of the
extent and rank that we found assembled there, with General Washington
himself at its head. In truth, we were somewhat abashed, thinking
ourselves out of place with generals and colonels; but the
commander-in-chief shook our hands, and seemed to be in a gay humor,
uncommon for him.
"Mr. Desmond and his daughter were bound to have you," he said. "They
told me that they met you first at a banquet under embarrassing
circumstances, and it is only fair to have you now at a dinner where
everybody appears as what he is."
Mary Desmond came in presently, and never before had I seen a woman so
shine as she did that night. She had dressed herself as for a triumph,
and jewels glittered on her neck and in her hair. Her face was illumed
by a great joy, all her reserve was gone, but the charm which had first
drawn me to her cast a more potent spell than ever. If I had not already
been deep in love with her, I should have become so then. I wondered why
every man present was not eager to lay his heart at her feet. Perhaps I
was not the only one present who was!
Our dinner was brief, for the generals could linger only a little when
an enemy must be pursued. In truth, the main army was already in
pursuit, and it was known to only a few that General Washington was at
John Desmond's house. His was but a flying visit. Yet the dinner was
joyous. All believed that this return to Philadelphia marked the swift
rise of our fortunes. Presently wine-glasses were filled, and General
Washington stood up.
"I have heard of a toast that some drank in the presence of Sir William
Howe," he said, "and I wish to return it. Let us drink to the health of
John Desmond, one of our truest and most useful patriots."
We drank, and the old man flushed deep with gratified pride.
"And now," resumed the general, "let us drink to the best patriot of
all, the daring messenger and horsewoman, Miss Mary Desmond. Happy the
country that can claim her, and happy the man! To Miss Mary Desmond!"
No toast was ever drunk with a better will.
The commander-in-chief and the generals went away in a few minutes, but
Marcel and I stayed a little longer.
"We pursue the enemy to-morrow," I said to Mary Desmond as I bade her
good-night, "and there will soon be a battle."
She looked steadily into my eyes, but in a moment a light flush swept
over her beautiful face.
"May you come back safely, Lieutenant Chester," she said.
"Will you care?" I asked.
"I do care," she replied. I thought I felt her fingers quiver as she
gave me her hand, but she withdrew it in an instant, and I came away.
Our vanguard under Wildfoot, with Marcel and me by his side, began the
pursuit of the British the next day.