The troop, led by Wildfoot, numbered not more than fifty horsemen, but
all were strong and wiry, and bore themselves in the easy alert manner
that betokens experience, and much of it. Moreover, they were well
mounted, a point of extreme importance. Marcel and I deemed ourselves
fortunate to be included in such a band, and that we were high in the
partisan chief's favor, we had good evidence, because before we started
he brought us two exceptionally fine horses and bade us exchange our
mounts for them, temporarily.
"You must do it, as you are likely to need their speed and strength," he
said, when we showed reluctance, for good cavalry horses were worth
their weight in silver, at least in those days, and we did not like to
take the responsibility of their possible loss.
"Then you mean to give us some work, I take it," said Marcel.
"Not much to-day," replied the partisan, "as I operate best in the dark;
so shall I wait until sun-down, but I hope that we shall then get
through with a fair night's work."
Wildfoot's men seem to trust him absolutely. They never asked him where
they were going or what they were expected to do, but followed
cheerfully wherever he led. The partisan himself continued in the great
good humor that had marked him when we entered Philadelphia. He sang a
bit under his breath and smiled frequently. Whether he was happy over
deeds achieved or others to come, I could not tell. But I saw that our
duties were to be of a scouting nature, as was indicated clearly by the
character of the force under his command.
We rode for a while in the track of the British army, a huge trail made
by the passage of sixteen thousand troops, and a camp train twelve miles
long. Many Tories, too, not fortunate enough to secure passage on the
ships down the river, had followed the army, filled with panic and
dreading retaliation from the triumphant patriots whom some of their
kind had persecuted cruelly in the days when our fortunes were lower.
It was easy enough for us to overtake the British army, which was
dragging itself painfully over the hills and across the fields. A body
of fifteen or twenty thousand men can move but slowly in the best of
times, and in the terrible heat which had suddenly settled down, the
British forces merely crept towards New York. Soon we saw their red
coats and shining arms through the trees, and heard the murmur of the
thousands. However we bore off to one side, passing out of sight, and
made a wide curve, apparently for the purpose of examining the country,
and to see whether the British had sent out skirmishing or foraging
parties. But we saw neither, and shortly after sunset our curve brought
us back to the enemy's army, which had gone into camp for the night,
their fires flaring redly against the background of the darkness. We
stopped upon the crest of a little hill, from which we could see the
camp very well and sat there for a few minutes, watching. Being in the
darkness we were invisible, but many blazing heaps of wood shed their
light over the hostile army.
"They seem to be taking their ease," said Wildfoot. "It ought not to be
allowed, but we will not disturb them for the present."
Then he withdrew our men about a mile, and, halting them in a thick
wood, ordered them to eat of the food in their knapsacks. But Marcel and
me he summoned to go with him on a little journey that he purposed to
take.
"We shall not be gone more than an hour or two," he said, "and we will
find the men waiting for us here when we come back."
We curved again as we rode away. In truth, we had been making so many
curves that it was hard for me to retain any idea of direction. In a
half hour we saw a light, and then the house from which it came, a low
but rather large building of heavy logs, standing in a small clearing in
the forest.
Wildfoot had not spoken since we left the other men, and as he seemed to
be in deep thought we did not interrupt him with vain questions, merely
following him as he rode quietly into the thickest part of the woods
behind the house. When he slipped from his horse there, we did
likewise, and waited to see what he would do next.
"We will tie our horses here," he said. "No one will see them, and as
they are old campaigners, they are too well trained to make a noise."
Again we imitated his example, and tethered our horses to the boughs of
trees.
"Now," said Wildfoot, when that was done, "we will call on a lady."
The moon was shining a little, and I thought I saw a faint smile on his
face. I was full of curiosity, and Marcel beside me uttered a little
exclamation. The name of woman was always potent with this South
Carolina Frenchman; but we said nothing, content, perforce, to be silent
and wait.
"She is not so handsome as Miss Mary Desmond," continued Wildfoot,
smiling again a little, and this time at me. "Few are; but as she finds
no fault with it herself, none other should."
But Marcel had begun to brush his uniform with his hands, and settle the
handsome sword, which was his proudest adornment, a little more rakishly
by his side.
We walked to the door and knocked, and when some one within wished to
know in a strong voice who was there, Wildfoot responded with a
question.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yes," said the voice. "Who is it?"
"Wildfoot and two friends."
The door was opened at once, and we entered, beholding a woman who
seemed to be the sole occupant of the house. At least none other was
visible.
"I hope you are well, mother," said Wildfoot, and the woman nodded.
But I saw at once that she was no mother of his, although old enough.
She, too, was large and powerful, almost masculine in build, but there
was no similarity whatever in the features.
"Lieutenant Chester and Lieutenant Marcel of the American army, good
friends of mine and trusted comrades," said Wildfoot, "and this,
gentlemen," he continued to us, "is Mother Melrose, as loyal a patriot
as you can find in the Thirteen Colonies, and one who has passed many a
good bit of information from the British army in Philadelphia on to
those who needed it most. Mother, can't you find us something to eat
while we talk?"
The woman looked pleased with his praise, and speedily put upon a table
substantial food, which we attacked with the zest that comes of hard
riding. Yet from the first I studied the room and the woman with
curiosity and interest.
The note of Mother Melrose's manner and air was self-reliance. She
walked like a grenadier, and her look said very plainly that she feared
few things. She must have been at least sixty, and perhaps was never
beautiful. I surmised, from the complete understanding so evidently
existing between her and Wildfoot, that she helped him in his forays,
warning him of hostile expeditions, sending him news of wagon trains
that could be cut off, and otherwise serving the cause. There were many
such brave women who gave us great aid in this war. But I wondered at a
fortitude that could endure such a lonely and dangerous life.
"Do you know that the British army is encamped near you, mother?" asked
Wildfoot, as we drank a little wine that she brought from a recess,
probably captured by Wildfoot himself from some wagon train.
"I know it," she replied, her old eyes lifting up, "and glory be to God,
they have been forced to run away from Philadelphia at last!"
She passed presently into a rear room which seemed to be a kitchen, and
Marcel said:--
"A fine patriot, but has she no sons, nobody to help her here and to
protect her, maybe?"
"She can protect herself well enough," replied Wildfoot, "and there is
nobody else in this house except a serving lad, who, I suspect, is in
the kitchen helping himself to a little extra supper. But she has sons,
three of them. They're in our business, and far away from here."
"Three for the cause," I commented. "That is doing well."
"Two fight for the Congress and one for the king," said Wildfoot. "The
one who serves the king is her youngest and best beloved. Nothing can
change that, although, as far as her power goes, the king has no greater
opponent than she."
"Strange!" said Marcel.
But it did not seem so very strange to me.
The woman was coming back, and I looked at her with deeper respect than
ever. We talked a little more, and Wildfoot's questions disclosed that
his object in coming to the house was to see if she had any better
information than he had been able to pick up. But she could tell him of
no hostile party that he might cut off.
Our conversation was ended suddenly by a shock of red hair thrust in at
the door, and a voice, coming from somewhere behind the red hair,
announcing that some one was coming. It was the serving boy who gave us
the timely warning.
"It must be the enemy," said Wildfoot. "No Americans except ours are
near here, and they would not come contrary to my express order. How
many are they, Timothy?"
"Three men on horseback, and they are British," replied Timothy.
"You can go out the back way and escape into the forest without any
trouble," said the woman.
"I don't know that we want to escape," replied Wildfoot, "especially as
we are three to three. Neither are we looking for a skirmish just now;
so, by your permission, mother, we will step into the next room, and
wait for your new guests to disclose themselves."
Mother Melrose offered no objection, and we entered a room adjoining the
one in which we had been eating. It was unlighted, but the house seemed
to have been a sort of country inn in more peaceful times, and this
apartment into which we had just come, was the parlor.
"Leave the door ajar an inch or two, that we may see," said Wildfoot,
and the woman obeyed. A minute later there was a heavy knock, as if
whoever came, came with confidence. Mother Melrose opened the door in an
unconcerned manner, as if such knocks were a common occurrence at her
house, and three British officers entered, that is, two were Englishmen,
and the third was a Hessian. The faces of the Englishmen were young,
open, and attractive, but that of the Hessian I did not like. We did not
dislike the English officers in this war, who were mostly honest men
serving the cause of their country; but we did hate the Hessians, who
were mere mercenaries, besides being more cruel than the British, and
when I say "hate," I use the word with emphasis.
They, too, seemed to have taken the place for a sort of country inn, and
sat down at the table from which Mother Melrose had hastily cleared the
dishes of our own supper.
"Can't you give us something to eat, mistress?" asked one of the
Englishmen. "We are tired of camp fare, and we pay gold."
"Provisions are scarce," replied Mother Melrose; "but I am willing to do
my best, because you travel in such haste that I may never have another
chance to serve you."
"She has pricked you very neatly, Osborne," laughed the other
Englishman, "but I am free to confess that we would travel faster if the
weather were not so deucedly hot. We don't have such a Tophet of a
summer in England, and I'm glad of it. Any rebels about, mistress?"
It was the merest chance shot, as we were ahead of the British army
rather than behind it, and we were not expected in this quarter; but
Mother Melrose never flinched. "No, you are safe," she replied.
"That's for you, Hunston," said Osborne, laughing in his turn, "but I
would have you to know, good mistress, that we are giving up
Philadelphia to your great Mr. Washington out of kindness, pure
kindness. He starved and froze, out there at Valley Forge, so long that
we thought he needed a change and city comforts, and as there is plenty
of room for all of ours in New York, we concluded,--and again I say it
was out of the kindness of our souls,--to give him Philadelphia."
"Well, the Lord loveth a cheerful giver," said Mother Melrose, with
unction.
Both Englishmen laughed again, and with great heartiness. Evidently they
were men who knew that life was worth living, and were not prone to
grieve over evils unbefallen. I was sorry that I could not laugh with
them. There was no smile on the face of the ill-favored Hessian. His
eyes wandered about the room, but he seemed to have no suspicion. I took
it that his sour temper was the result of chronic discontent.
"What ails you, Steinfeldt?" asked Osborne. "Why don't you look happy?
Isn't the hospitality of the house all that you wish?"
"Haven't you any wine?" asked Steinfeldt. "I can't drink the cursed
drinks of this country, cider and such stuff! faugh!"
Mother Melrose produced the same bottle from which she had poured wine
for us, and filled the glasses.
"That's better," said Steinfeldt. "Fill them again, can't you?" His eyes
began to sparkle, and his face to flush. It was easy to tell his master
passion. But Mother Melrose filled the glasses again, and then a third
time, producing a second bottle. The house was better stocked than I had
thought it could possibly be. Steinfeldt's temper began to improve under
the influence of the liquor, and he grew talkative. Evidently Mother
Melrose's taunt about the British evacuation of Philadelphia rankled in
his mind, though the two Englishmen themselves had passed it off easily
enough.
"We will come back," he said. "You don't imagine that we will let Mr.
Washington keep Philadelphia long?"
"I don't think he will ask you about it," replied Mother Melrose.
"It's too good a country to give up," continued Steinfeldt, "and we must
keep it. It is rich land, and the women are fair. The men may not want
us; but the women do."
One of the Englishmen angrily bade him be silent; but the wine was in
his blood.
"But the women do want us, don't they?" he repeated to Mother Melrose.
She lifted her hand, which was both large and muscular, and slapped him
in the face. It was no light blow, the crack of it was like that of a
pistol-shot, and Steinfeldt reeled in his chair, the blood leaping to
his cheeks.
"Damnation!" he cried, springing to his feet, and snatching his sword
from its scabbard.
"Steinfeldt, stop!" cried Osborne, "you cannot cut down a woman."
"I wish you were a man," said the Hessian to Mother Melrose, "then you'd
have to fight for that."
"Don't trouble yourself about my not being a man," said she, coolly.
"I'll fight you any way."
One of the Englishmen had hung his sword and belt on the back of his
chair while he ate, and, to my unbounded surprise, Mother Melrose
stepped forward, took the sword, and putting herself in the attitude of
a genuine fencing-master, faced the German. I was about to make a
movement, but Wildfoot put a restraining hand on my shoulder. His other
hand was on Marcel's shoulder.
"Madame, what do you mean?" asked Osborne.
"The gentleman seems to be angry, and I am the cause of his anger, so I
offer him satisfaction," she replied. "He need not hesitate. I am
probably a much better swordsman than he."
Steinfeldt's face flushed. He raised his weapon, and the two swords
clashed together. But we did not intend that the matter should go
farther, and we stepped into the room just as the Englishmen also moved
forward to interfere.
Their surprise was intense, but they drew weapons promptly. Marcel,
whose blood was hotter than mine or Wildfoot's, raised his hand as a
signal to be quiet.
"Since the German gentleman wants to have satisfaction, he ought to have
it," he said, "and since he has insulted the women of our country, we
also want the satisfaction which we ought to have. If the quarrel is
not handsomely made up, I never heard of one that was. I'll take Mother
Melrose's place."
The woman put the sword on the table, and stepped aside, content with
the way affairs were going. The Englishmen looked dubiously at us.
"Why not?" asked Wildfoot.
His query seemed pertinent to me. According to the military law, all of
us ought to fight; but since we would make a most unpleasant muss in the
house it was best that a champion of each side should meet. It was
proper, too, that Marcel should be our man, since he was a better
swordsman than I. Wildfoot was our leader, and it was not fitting for
him to take the risk.
"Why not?" continued Wildfoot. "I may tell you, gentlemen, that I have a
large party near, and perhaps I could get help in time to make you
prisoners, but I assure you that the affair would interfere with other
and more important plans of mine. You would much better let them fight."
The Englishmen whispered together a moment or two.
"Let it be as you propose," said Osborne.
Their eyes began to sparkle, and I saw that the love of sport, inherent
in all Englishmen, was aroused. Marcel and Steinfeldt faced each other
and raised their swords. I was astonished at the animosity showing in
the eyes of these two men who had never seen each other until a few
minutes ago and who had no real cause of quarrel. Yet they seemed to me
at that moment to typify their two races which, since then, and in
these Napoleonic times, have come into such antagonism. Still it would
not be right to say that I care more for the French than for the
Germans, although Marcel, who was of French descent, was my fast friend.
I have no great admiration for the faults of either race.
Steinfeldt was the larger and apparently the stronger of the two; but
Marcel was more compact and agile, and I felt confident of his success.
They crossed swords, testing each other's attack and defence, and then
began to fight in earnest, their eyes gleaming, their faces hot, and
their breath coming short and hard. A candle on a table cast a dim
light, and shadows flickered on the floor.
The German was no bad swordsman, and the influence of the wine had
passed. At first he pressed Marcel back with fierce and rapid thrusts,
and for a moment I was alarmed for my friend. Then I saw that Marcel's
face was calm, and his figure seemed to gather strength. My eyes passed
on to Mother Melrose; but she stood, impassive, against the wall,
silently watching the swordsmen. A red head appeared at the kitchen
door, and there was the serving lad following the contest with staring
eyes. As for myself, I was uneasy. I did not like the situation; it
seemed to me irregular, and we might be interrupted at any time by a
force of the enemy. Yet I reasoned with myself that I should not be
disturbed when Wildfoot, who was a veteran, seemed not to be, and I soon
forgot my scruples in the ring of steel and the joy of combat that rose
in my blood, as it had risen in that of the Englishmen.
The Hessian paused a little, seeming to feel that he had been too
violent in the beginning, and I noticed that his breath had shortened.
Marcel, whose back was against the wall, feinted, and followed up the
feint with a thrust, quick as lightning. But the Hessian had no mean
skill, and he turned aside the blade which flashed by his arm with a
soft sound like scissors snipping through cloth. His coat-sleeve was
laid open and the flesh grazed.
"He guards well," said one of the Englishmen, nodding towards
Steinfeldt.
The Hessian heard the remark, and it seemed to give him new strength.
His sword became a beam of light, and he thrust so straight at Marcel's
breast that I held my breath in fear; but my comrade was quick, and the
blade, caught on his own, flashed harmlessly by.
"Well fought; well fought, by Pollux!" exclaimed the Englishman Osborne.
"This is worth seeing."
The duellists were now almost in the centre of the room, and they paused
a moment for breath. I knew, by the compression of their lips, that each
was preparing for his greatest effort, and we were silent, awaiting the
issue.
The sword play began again, and the weapons rang across each other. The
heavy breathing of the combatants sounded distinctly, and the soft beat
of their footsteps, as they shifted about the room, made a light,
sliding noise, like the restless tread of wild animals in a cage.
The Hessian's sword passed close to Marcel's side, cutting his coat;
but when Marcel's blade flashed in return, it came back with blood upon
it. The keen edge had passed along the Hessian's wrist, leaving a red
thread.
The cut was not deep, but it had a sting to it, and Steinfeldt shut his
teeth hard. Marcel's sword was now making lines of light about him, and
the Hessian's part in the combat soon became a defence only. He was
pressed back, an inch or two at a time, but without cessation. Then I
saw the great skill of my comrade. His lips were shut tight, but his
eyes remained calm and confident, and the sword seemed to have become a
part of himself, so truly did it obey his will.
The Hessian's face slowly darkened, and the light in his eyes, that had
been the light of anger and defiance, became the light of fear. And it
was the fear of death. He read nothing else in the gleaming blade and
calm look of the man before him. Two or three drops of perspiration
stood out on his forehead.
"Bad, bad! Steinfeldt has lost!" I heard the Englishman Osborne say
under his breath.
I studied Marcel's face, but I could not discover his intentions there.
That he carried the Hessian's life on the point of his sword, everyone
in the room now knew, and the Hessian himself knew it best of all. But
Steinfeldt had courage, I give him all credit for that, whatever else he
may have been. A man must be brave to fight on, in the face of what he
knows is certain death.
Back went the Hessian, closer and closer to the wall, and always before
him was the calm, unsmiling face and gleaming sword that whistled so
near and threatened every moment to strike a mortal blow. The suspense
became unbearable. I felt like crying out: "Have done and end such a
game," and I bit my lip to enforce my own silence.
The Hessian's back suddenly touched the wall, and the sword of Marcel
flashed a second time along his wrist, leaving another red thread beside
the first. Then it flashed back again, and the weapon of the Hessian,
drawn from his hand, fell clattering on the floor.
The defenceless man stood as if he expected a stroke; but I knew that
Marcel would never give it. He thrust his own sword into its scabbard,
bowed to his opponent with the easy and graceful politeness that he
loved, and turned to us as if awaiting our will. I have often wondered
where Marcel got that manner of his, and I have concluded that it came
from his French blood.
"Take your friend and go," said Wildfoot to the Englishmen. "He is not
hurt much, and it is time for all of us to rejoin our commands."
The Englishmen hesitated, as if it were not right for official enemies,
in the height of a hot campaign, to part in such a manner. In truth, it
was not, but Wildfoot had a set of military rules peculiarly his own,
and was not called to account for anything that he might do.
Their hesitation ceased quickly, and each taking an arm of Steinfeldt,
they hurried with him out of the room, not neglecting, however, to give
us a farewell salute. But they forgot to take Steinfeldt's sword, and
Marcel, picking it up, said that he would keep it as a remembrance.
"You must admit that Lieutenant Marcel made a good substitute for you,"
said Wildfoot, turning to Mother Melrose.
"None could have been better, but I might have beaten the Hessian
myself," she replied sturdily. "My husband was a great swordsman and he
taught me."
It was now our turn to go, and we bade this remarkable old woman
good-night. She showed no signs of fear and was already wiping from the
floor the drops of blood that had fallen from Steinfeldt's wrist.
We secured our horses again, and sprang upon their backs. I heard a
faint sound like a laugh, and saw a broad smile on the face of Wildfoot.
"I did not expect to see such fine sport when we went to the house," he
said.
The ranger obviously was enjoying himself. Events like this pleased his
wild and energetic nature. I saw that he was in truth a man of the
forests and the night and war, and loved danger.
"Aside from the risk of a fight with them, I did not wish to hold those
Englishmen," he continued. "Although they are not likely to report the
full and exact facts of our meeting, they will say, when they rejoin
their army, that the American forces are in the vicinity, and that is
what I wish the British to know. Unless you are planning a secret
attack, it is important to keep the enemy worried, to let him think
that you are everywhere, and it will exhaust his strength and patience.
Growing tired, he will do something rash and costly."
I understood Wildfoot's logic; but I wondered what would be his next
movement, waiting, however, as usual, to let the deed disclose itself.
We rejoined our men, who were resting in the wood undisturbed, and all
rode on another circuit.