These reports once received, we again broke camp and advanced toward the Monongahela. An unhappy accident marked the day. Three or four men who had loitered behind were surprised by some Indians, and killed and scalped, before assistance could be sent them. This so excited our scouting parties that they fired upon a body of our own Indians, notwithstanding the fact that they made the preconcerted signal by holding up a green bough and grounding arms. The son of Chief Monakatuca was killed by the discharge, and it was feared for a time that the Indians would leave in a body. But the general sent for them, condoled with them and made them presents, ordered that Monakatuca's son be given a military burial, and, in a word, handled them so adroitly that they became more attached to us than ever. Additional scouting parties were thrown out to right and left, and every precaution taken to prevent further mishap.

The next day we endeavored to pass a little stream called Turtle Creek, but found the road impracticable, so turned into the valley of another stream, known as Long Run, and on the night of the eighth encamped within a mile of the Monongahela, and only about ten from the fort. Here General St. Clair, who seems from the first to have feared for the result, advised that a detachment be sent forward to invest the fort, but it was finally judged best to send the detachment from the next camp, from which it could be readily reinforced in case it were attacked. We were to ford the Monongahela at Crooked Run, march along the west bank to the mouth of Turtle Creek, ford it a second time, and advance against the fort. Both fords were described by the guides as very good ones and easy of passage, while if we attempted to advance straight ahead on the east bank of the river, we should encounter a very rough road, beside passing through a country admirably fitted by nature for an ambuscade. Colonel Gage was to march before daybreak to secure both fords, and the men turned in with full assurance that the battle so long deferred and so eagerly awaited was not far distant.

That night it so happened that I was placed in charge of one of the rear pickets, and I sat with my back against a tree, smoking lazily and wondering what the morrow would bring forth, when I heard a horse galloping down the road, and a moment later the sharp challenge of a sentry. I was on my feet in an instant, and saw that the picket had evidently been satisfied that all was well, for he had permitted the rider to pass. As he reached the edge of the camp, he emerged from the shadow of the trees, and I started as I looked at him.

"Colonel Washington!" I cried, and as he checked his horse sharply, I was at his side.

"Why, is it you, Tom?" he asked, and as I took his hand, I noticed how thin it was. "Well, it seems I am in time."

"Yes," I said. "The battle, if there be one, must take place to-morrow."

"Why should there not be one?" he questioned, leaning down from his saddle to see my face more clearly.

"The French may run away."

"True," he said, and sat for a moment thinking. "Yet it is not like them to run without striking a blow. No, I believe we shall have a battle, Tom, and I am glad that I am to be here to see it."

"But are you strong enough?" I asked. "You have not yet the air of a well man."

He laughed lightly as he gathered up his reins. "In truth, Tom," he said, "I am as weak as a man could well be and still sit his horse, but the fever is broken and I shall be stronger to-morrow. But I must report to the general. He may have work for me," and he set spurs to his horse and was off.

I turned back to my station, musing on the iron will of this man, who could drag his body from a bed of sickness when duty called and yet think nothing of it. All about me gleamed the white tents in which the grenadiers and provincials were sleeping, dreaming perchance of victory. Alas, for how many of them was it their last sleep this side eternity!

The hours passed slowly and quietly. Presently the moon rose and illumined the camp from end to end. Here and there I could see a picket pacing back and forth, or an officer making his rounds. At headquarters lights were still burning, and I did not doubt that an earnest consultation was in progress there concerning the orders for the morrow.

At midnight came the relief, and I made the best of my way back to our quarters, crawled into the tent, whose flaps were raised to let in every breath of air stirring, and lay down beside Spiltdorph. I tried to move softly, but he started awake and put out his hand and touched me.

"Is it you, Stewart?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "just in from picket. Colonel Washington reached camp an hour ago, to be here for to-morrow's battle."

"To-morrow's battle," repeated Spiltdorph softly. "Ah, yes, I had forgot. Do you know, Stewart, if I were superstitious, I should fear the result of to-morrow's battle, for I had a dream about it."

"What was the dream?" I asked.

"No matter, we are not women," and he turned to go to sleep again. "Good-night."

"Good-night," I said, and in a few moments his deep breathing told me he was again in the land of dreams. It was long before my own eyes closed, and my dreams were not of battle, but of a bench upon the river's bank, and a figure all in white sitting there beside me.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS

"Wake up, man, wake up!" cried a voice in my ear, and I opened my eyes to see Spiltdorph's kindly face bending over me. "I let you sleep as long as I could," he added, as I sat up and rubbed my eyes, "for I knew you needed it, but the order has come for us to march."

"All right," I said. "I'll be ready in a minute," and I ran down to the brook and dipped my hands and face in the cool, refreshing water. A biscuit and a piece of cold beef formed my breakfast. Our company was striking tents and falling in for the march, and the camp was astir from end to end. The sun was just peeping over the tree-tops, for that fateful Wednesday, the ninth of July, 1755, had dawned clear and fair, and all the day rode through a sky whose perfect blue remained unbroken by a cloud.

We were soon ready for the road, and while waiting the word, Captain Waggoner told me that the advance had begun some hours before. At three o'clock. Colonel Gage had marched with two companies of grenadiers and two hundred rank and file to secure both crossings of the river, for it was believed that at the second crossing the French would attack us, unless they intended giving up the fort without a struggle. An hour later, Sir John St. Clair had followed with a working party of two hundred and fifty men, to clear the road for the passage of the baggage and artillery. And at last came the word for us.

The ground sloped gently down to the Monongahela, nearly a mile away. The river here was over three hundred yards in width, and the regulars had been posted advantageously to guard against surprise. The baggage, horses, and cattle were all got over safely, for the water was scarce waist-deep at any point, and then the troops followed, so that the whole army was soon across.

Before us stretched a level bottom, and here we were formed in proper line of march, with colors flying, drums beating, and fifes playing shrilly. The sun's slant rays were caught and multiplied a thousand times on polished barrel and gold-laced helmet and glittering shoulder-knot. Every man had been instructed to put off the torn and travel-stained garments of Osnabrig he had worn upon the march, and to don his best uniform, and very fresh and beautiful they looked, the Forty-Fourth with its yellow facings, the Forty-Eighth with buff. Nor was the showing made by the Virginia companies less handsome, though perhaps a shade more sober. Nowhere was there visible a trace of that terrible journey through the wilderness. It seemed that this splendent host must have been placed here by some magic hand, alert, vigorous, immaculate, eager for the battle. I have only to close my eyes to see again before me that brilliant and gallant array. The hope of a speedy ending to their struggle through the forest had brought new color to the faces of the men, and a light into their eyes, such as I had not seen there for many days. While we waited, the pieces were newly charged and primed, and the clatter of the cartouch boxes, as they were thrown back into place, ran up and down the lines.

At last came word from Gage that he had secured the second crossing, having encountered only a small party of Indians, who had run away at the first alarm, and that the route was clear. The drums beat the advance, and the army swept forward as though on parade. It was a thrilling sight, and in all that multitude there was not one who doubted the event. I think even Colonel Washington's misgivings must have melted away before that martial scene. The broad river rolled at our right, and beyond it the hills, crowned with verdure, looked down upon us. I do not doubt that from those heights the eyes of the enemy's spies were peering, and the sight of our gallant and seemingly invincible army must have startled and disheartened them. And as I looked along the ordered ranks, the barrels gleaming at a single angle, four thousand feet moving to the drum tap, I realized more deeply than ever that without training and discipline an army could not exist.

When we reached the second ford, about one in the afternoon, we found that the bank was not yet made passable for the wagons and artillery, so we drew up along the shingle until this could be done. Pickets were posted on the heights, and half the force kept under arms, in case of a surprise. Spiltdorph and I sauntered together to the water's edge, and watched the pioneers busy at their work. I saw that my companion was preoccupied, and after a time he ceased to regard the men, but sat looking afar off and pitching pebbles into the stream.

"Do you know, Stewart," he said at last, "I am becoming timid as a girl. I told you I had a dream last night, and 't was so vivid I cannot shake it off."

"Tell me the dream," I said.

"I dreamed that we met the French, and that I fell. I looked up, and you were kneeling over me. But when I would have told you what I had to tell, my voice was smothered in a rush of blood."

"Oh, come!" I cried, "this is mere foolishness. You do not believe in dreams, Spiltdorph?"

"No," he answered. "And yet I never had such a dream as this."

"Why, man," I said, "look around you. Do you see any sign of the French? And yet their fort is just behind the trees yonder."

He looked at me in silence for a moment, and made as if to speak, but the tap of the drum brought us to our feet.

"Come," he said, "the road is finished. We shall soon see what truth there is in dreams."

We took our places and the advance began again. First the Forty-Fourth was passed over and the pickets of the right. The artillery, wagons, and carrying horses followed, and then the provincial troops, the Forty-Eighth, while the pickets of the left brought up the rear. At the end of an hour the entire force was safe across, and as yet no sign of the enemy. Such good fortune seemed well-nigh unbelievable, for we had been assured there was no other place between us and the fort suited for an ambuscade.

Our company halted near a rude cabin which stood upon the bank. It was the house of Fraser, the trader, where Washington and Gist had found shelter after their perilous passage of the Allegheny near two years before. We had been there but a few minutes when Colonel Washington himself rode up.

"Captain Waggoner," he said, "you will divide your company into four flank parties, and throw them well out to the left of the line, fifty yards at least. See that they get to their places at once, and that they keep in touch, lest they mistake each other for the enemy."

He was off as Waggoner saluted, and I heard him giving similar orders to Peyronie's company behind us. It was certain that the general was taking no chance of ambuscade, however safe the road might seem. We were soon in place, Captain Waggoner himself in command of one party, Spiltdorph of the second, I of the third, and Lieutenant Wright of the fourth. As we took our places, I could see something of the disposition of our force and the contour of the ground. The guides and a few light horse headed the column, followed by the vanguard, and the advance party under Gage. Then came St. Clair's working party, two fieldpieces, tumbrels, light horse, the general's guard, the convoy, and finally the rear guard. Before us stretched a fertile bottom, covered by a fair, open walnut wood, with very little underbrush, and rising gradually to a higher bottom, which reached to a range of hills two or three hundred feet in height. Here the forest grew more closely, the underbrush became more dense, and a great thicket of pea-vines, wild grape, and trailers completely shut off the view.

So soon as the line was formed, the drums beat the forward, and the head of the column was soon out of sight among the trees, St. Clair's working party cutting the road as they advanced. We were nearing the tangle of underbrush, which I thought marked the course of a stream, when there came suddenly a tremendous burst of firing from the front, followed by a great uproar of yells. My heart leaped, for I knew the French were upon us.

"Close up, men!" shouted Waggoner. "Bring your party up here, Stewart!"

I obeyed the order, and the other two parties joined us in a moment. Scarcely had they done so, when the thicket in front of us burst into flame, and three or four men fell. The others, well used, for the most part, to this kind of fighting, took at once to the trees, and we gradually worked our way forward, keeping up a spirited fire till we reached the shelter of a huge log, which lay at the edge of the ravine. As I looked over it, I saw that the gully swarmed with Indians, firing at the main body of the troops, who seemed wedged in the narrow road. I could see no French, and so judged they were attacking on the other side.

"We've got 'em now!" yelled Waggoner. "Give it to 'em, men!" and we poured a well-directed volley into the yelling mob.

Fifteen or twenty fell, and the others, affrighted at the unexpected slaughter, threw down their guns and started to run. We were reloading with feverish haste, when from the woods behind us came a tremendous volley. We faced about to receive this new attack, for we thought the French were upon us. But we saw with horror that we were being fired at by the regulars, who had taken us for the enemy in their madness, and were preparing to fire again.

"You fools!" screamed Waggoner. "Oh, you fools!" and white with rage, he gave the order to retreat.

A moment later, as I looked around, I saw that Spiltdorph was not with us.

"Where is he?" I asked. "Where is Spiltdorph?"

Waggoner motioned behind us.

"He was hit," he said. "He was killed by those cowardly assassins."

"Perhaps he is not dead!" I cried, and before he could prevent me, I ran back to the log. Not less than twenty dead lay near it, and in an instant I saw my friend. I dropped beside him, and tore away his shirt. He had been hit in the side by two bullets, and as I saw the wounds, I cursed the insensate fools who had inflicted them. I tried to stanch the blood, and as I raised his head, saw his eyes staring up at me.

"The dream!" he cried. "The dream! Stewart, listen. There is a girl—at Hampton"—A rush of blood choked him. He tried to speak, clutched at my sleeve, and then his head fell back, a great sigh shook him, and he was dead.

The Indians were pouring back into the ravine, and I knew I could stay no longer. So I laid him gently down, and with my heart aching as it had not ached since my mother died, made my way back to my company. "There is a girl," he had said, "at Hampton." What was it he had tried to tell? Well, if God gave me life, I would find out.

But every other thought was driven from my mind in my astonishment and horror at the scene before me. Gage's advance party had given way almost at the first fire, just as Burton was forming to support them, and the two commands were mingled in hopeless confusion. The officers spurred their horses into the mob, and tried in vain to form the men in some sort of order. The colors were advanced in different directions, but there was none to rally to them, for the men remained huddled together like frightened sheep. And all around them swept that leaden storm, whose source they could not see, mowing them down like grain. They fired volley after volley into the forest, but the enemy remained concealed in the ravines on either side, and the bullets flew harmless above their heads.

At the moment I joined my company, General Braddock rode up, cursing like a madman, and spurred his horse among the men. I could see him giving an order, when his horse was hit and he barely saved himself from falling under it. Another horse was brought, and in a moment he was again raving up and down the lines.

"What means this?" he screamed, coming upon us suddenly, where we were sheltering ourselves behind the trees and replying to the enemy's fire as best we could. "Are you all damned cowards?"

"Cowards, sir!" cried Waggoner, his face aflame. "What mean you by that?"

"Mean?" yelled Braddock. "Damn you, sir, I'll show you what I mean! Come out from behind those trees and fight like men!"

"Ay, and be killed for our pains!" cried Waggoner.

"What, sir!" and the general's face turned purple. "You dare dispute my order?" and he raised his sword to strike, but his arm was caught before it had descended.

"These men know best, sir," cried Washington, reining in his horse beside him. "This is the only way to fight the Indians."

The general wrenched his arm away and, fairly foaming at the mouth, spurred his horse forward and beat the men from behind the trees with the flat of his sword.

"Back into the road, poltroons!" he yelled. "Back into the road! I'll have no cowards in my army!"

Washington and Waggoner watched him with set faces, while the men, too astounded to speak, fell slowly back into the open. Not until that moment did I comprehend the blind folly of this man, determined to sacrifice his army to his pride.

We fell back with our men, and there in the road found Peyronie, with the remnant of his company, his face purple and his mouth working with rage. All about us huddled the white-faced regulars,—the pride of the army, the heroes of a score of battles!—crazed by fright, firing into the air or at each other, seeing every moment their comrades falling about them, killed by an unseen foe. I turned sick at heart as I looked at them. Hell could hold no worse.

Hotter and hotter grew the fire, and I realized that it was not the French attacking us at all, but only their Indian allies. Not half a dozen Frenchmen had been seen. It was by the savages of the forest that the best troops in Europe were being slaughtered. Sir Peter Halket was dead, shot through the heart, and his son, stooping to pick him up, fell a corpse across his body. Shirley was shot through the brain. Poison was dead. Totten, Hamilton, Wright, Stone, were dead. Spendelow had fallen, pierced by three bullets. The ground was strewn with dead and wounded. Horses, maddened by wounds, dashed through the ranks and into the forest, often bearing their riders to an awful death. The Indians, growing bolder, stole from the ravines, and scalped the dead and wounded almost before our eyes. I began to think it all a hideous nightmare. Surely such a thing as this could not really be!

Colonel Burton had succeeded in turning some of his men about to face a hill at our right, where the enemy seemed in great number, and we of Waggoner's company joined him. A moment later, Colonel Washington, who alone of the general's aides was left unwounded, galloped up and ordered us to advance against the hill and carry it. With infinite difficulty, a hundred men were collected who would still obey the order. As we advanced, the enemy poured a galling fire upon us. A ball grazed my forehead and sent a rush of blood into my eyes. I staggered forward, and when I had wiped the blood away and looked about me, I saw with amazement that our men had faced about and were retreating. I rushed after them and joined two or three other officers who were trying to rally them. But they were deaf to our entreaties and would not turn.

As I glanced back up the slope down which we had come, I saw a sight which palsied me. Colonel Burton had fallen, seemingly with a wound in the leg, and was slowly dragging himself back toward the lines. Behind him, an Indian was dodging from tree to tree, intent on getting his scalp. Burton saw the savage, and his face grew livid as he realized how rapidly he was being overtaken. In an instant I was charging up the slope, and ran past Burton with upraised sword. The Indian saw me coming, and waited calmly, tomahawk in air. While I was yet ten or twelve paces from him, I saw his hand quiver, and sprang to one side as the blade flashed past my head. With a yell of disappointment, the Indian turned and disappeared in the underbrush. I ran back to Burton, and stooped to raise him.

"Allow me to aid you, Lieutenant Stewart," said a voice at my elbow, and there stood Harry Marsh, as cool as though there were not an Indian within a hundred miles. "I saw you turn back," he added, "and thought you might need some help."

I nodded curtly, for the bullets were whistling about us in a manner far from pleasing, and between us we lifted Burton and started back toward the lines.

"My left leg seems paralyzed," he said. "The bullet must have struck a nerve. If I could get on horseback, I should be all right again."

And then he staggered and nearly fell, for Marsh lay crumpled up in a heap on the ground.

"He is dead," said Burton, as I stared down in horror at what an instant before had been a brave, strong, hopeful human being. "A man never falls like that unless he is dead. He was doubtless shot through the heart. He was a brave boy. Did you know him?"

"His name was Marsh," I answered hoarsely. "He was my cousin."

"I shall not forget it," said Burton, and we stood a moment longer looking down at the dead.

But it was folly to linger there, and we continued on, I helping Burton as well as I could. And a great loathing came over me for this game called war. We reached the lines in safety, where Burton was taken to the rear and given surgical attention. His wound was not a bad one, and half an hour later, I saw that he had made good his assertion that he would be all right once he was on horseback.

In the mean time, affairs had gone from bad to worse, and the men were wholly unnerved. Those who were serving the artillery were picked off, and the pieces had been abandoned. A desperate effort was made to retake them, but to no avail. The Indians had extended themselves along both sides of the line, and had sharply attacked the baggage in the rear. The men were crowded into a senseless, stupefied mob, their faces blanched with horror and dripping with sweat, too terrified, many of them, to reload their firelocks. The general rode up and down the line, exposing himself with the utmost recklessness, but the men were long past the reach of discipline. After all, human nature has its depths which no drill-master can touch. Four horses were shot under him, and even while I cursed his folly, I could not but admire his courage. Nor was the conduct of his officers less gallant. Throwing themselves from the saddle, they formed into platoons and advanced against the enemy, but not even by this desperate means could the regulars be got to charge. So many officers fell that at last it was as difficult to find any to give orders as to obey them, and when, as a last desperate resort, the general, putting his pride in his pocket, yielded to Washington's advice, and directed that the troops divide into small parties and advance behind the trees to surround the enemy, there was none to execute the manoeuvre, which, earlier in the action, would have saved the day.

It was plain that all was lost, that there was nothing left but to retreat. We had no longer an army, but a mere mob of panic-stricken men. The hideous yelling of the savages, as they saw the slaughter they were doing and exulted in it, the rattle of the musketry, the groans and curses of the wounded who fell everywhere about us, the screams of the maddened horses, combined into a bedlam such as I hope never to hear again. Toward the last, the Virginia troops alone preserved any semblance of order. Away off to the right, I caught a glimpse of Peyronie rallying the remnant of his company, and I looked from them to the trembling regulars, and remembered with a rush of bitterness how they had laughed at us a month before.

Of a sudden there was a dash of hoofs beside me, and I saw the general rein up beneath a tree and look up and down the field. Colonel Washington was at his side, and seemed to be unwounded, though he had been ever where the fight was thickest.

"This is mere slaughter!" the general cried at last. "We can do no more. Colonel Washington, order the retreat sounded."

And as the drums rolled out the dismal strain which meant disgrace for him and the blighting of all his hopes, he sat his horse with rigid face and eyes from which all life had fled. He had been taught the lesson of the wilderness.



CHAPTER XVIII

DEFEAT BECOMES DISHONOR

But there was worse to follow, for scarce had the first tap of the drums echoed among the trees, when the mob of regulars became a mere frenzied rabble. The officers tried to withdraw them from the field in some semblance of order, but the men seemed seized with mad, blind, unreasoning terror, and were soon beyond all hope of control. They rushed from the field, sweeping their officers before them, and carrying with them the provincial troops, who would have stood firm and behaved as soldiers should. I was caught in one edge of the mob, as I tried to restrain the men about me, and flung aside against a tree with such force that I stood for a moment dazed by the blow, and then I saw I was beneath the tree where Washington and Braddock sat their horses, watching with grim faces the frenzied crowd sweep past. The soldiers flung away their guns and accoutrements, their helmets, even their coats, that they might flee the faster, and I saw one strike down a young subaltern who tried to stay them. They jostled and fell over one another as sheep pursued by dogs. I saw a horseman, his head bandaged in a bloody cloth, trying to make way toward us against this cursing torrent, and recognized Captain Orme. But he was dashed aside even as I had been, and for a moment I thought he had been torn from his horse and trodden underfoot. Torn from his horse he was, indeed, but escaped the latter fate, for some moments later he came to us on foot through the trees.

"Come, sir," he cried to the general, as he gained his side, "you must leave the field. There is no hope of getting a guard from among these cowards or persuading them to make a stand."

Braddock turned to answer him, but as he did so, threw up his hands and fell forward into the arms of his aide. I sprang to Orme's assistance, and between us we eased him down. His horse, doubtless also struck by a ball, dashed off screaming through the wood.

"They have done for me!" he groaned, as we placed his back against a tree. "Curse them, they have done for me."

Washington, who had left his horse the instant he saw the general fall, knelt and rested the wounded man's head upon his knee, and wiped the bloody foam from off his lips.

"Where are you hit?" he asked.

"Here," and the general raised his left hand and touched his side. "'Tis a mortal hurt, and I rejoice in it. I have no wish to survive this day's disgrace."

He cast his bloodshot eyes at the rabble of fleeing men.

"And to think that they are soldiers of the line!" he moaned, and closed his eyes, as though to shut out the sight.

"We must get him out of this," said Orme quietly, and he turned away to call to some of the Forty-Eighth who were rushing past. But they did not even turn their heads. With an oath, Orme seized one by the collar.

"A purse of sixty guineas!" he cried, dangling it before his eyes, but the man threw him fiercely off, and continued on his way. Orme turned back to us, his face grim with anger and despair.

"'Tis useless," he said. "We cannot stop them. The devil himself could not stop them now."

The general had lain with his eyes closed and scarce breathing, so that I thought that he had fainted. But he opened his eyes, and seemed to read at a glance the meaning of Orme's set face.

"Gentlemen," he said, more gently than I had ever heard him speak, "I pray you leave me here and provide for your own safety. I have but a little time to live at best, and the Indians will be upon us in a moment. Leave them to finish me. You could not do a kinder thing. I have no wish that you should sacrifice your lives so uselessly by remaining here with me. There has been enough of sacrifice this day."

Yes, he was a gallant man, and whatever of resentment had been in my heart against him vanished in that instant. We three looked into each other's eyes, and read the same determination there. We would save the general, or die defending him. But the situation was indeed a desperate one.

At that moment, a tumbrel drawn by two maddened horses dashed by. One wheel caught against a tree, and before the horses could get it free or break from the harness, I had sprung to their heads.

"Quick!" I cried, "I cannot hold them long."

They understood in a moment, and, not heeding the general's entreaties and commands that he be left, lifted him gently into the cart. Washington sprang in beside him, Orme to the front, and in an instant I was clinging to the seat and we were tearing along the road. It was time, for as I glanced back, I saw the Indians rushing from the wood, cutting down and scalping the last of the fugitives. I saw that Orme was suffering from his wound, which seemed a serious one, and so I took the lines, which he relinquished without protest, and held the horses to the road as well as I was able. The tumbrel thundered on, over rocks and stumps of trees, over dead men,—ay, and living ones, I fear,—to the river-bank, where a few of the Virginia troops, held together by Waggoner and Peyronie, had drawn up. It did my heart good to see them standing there, so cool and self-possessed, while that mob of regulars poured past them, frenzied with fear. And the thought came to me that never hereafter would a blue coat need give precedence to a red one.

We splashed down into the water and across the river without drawing rein, since it was evident that no chance of safety lay on that side. Waggoner seemed to understand what was in the cart, for he formed his men behind us and followed us across the river. Scarcely had we reached the other bank, when the Indians burst from the trees across the water, but they stopped there and made no further effort at pursuit, returning to the battleground to reap their unparalleled harvest of scalps and booty. About half a mile from the river, we brought the horses to a stop to see what would best be done.

"The general commands that a stand be made here," cried Washington, leaping from the cart, and Orme jumped down beside him, while I secured the horses.

"He is brave and determined as ever," said Washington in a low tone, "though suffering fearfully. The ball has penetrated his lung, I fear, for he can breathe only with great agony, and is spitting blood."

Colonel Burton joined us at that moment, and between us we lifted the general from the cart and laid him on a bed of branches on the ground.

"Rally the men here," he said, setting his teeth to keep back the groan which would have burst from him. "We will make a stand, and so soon as we can get our force in shape, will march back against the enemy. We shall know better how to deal with them the second time."

We turned away to the work of rallying the fugitives, but the task was not a light one, for the men seemed possessed with the fear that the savages were on their heels, and ran past us without heeding our commands to halt. At last we got together above a hundred men, posted sentries, and prepared to spend the night. Darkness was already coming on, and finally Captain Orme and Colonel Washington, after having searched in vain for Doctor Craik, themselves washed the general's wound and dressed it as best they could. They found that the ball had shattered the right arm, and then passed into the side, though how deeply it had penetrated they had no means of telling.

Despite his suffering, he thought only of securing our position, and so soon as his wound was dressed, he ordered Captain Waggoner and ten men to march to our last camp and bring up some provisions which had been left there. He directed Colonel Washington to ride at once to Colonel Dunbar's camp, and order up the reinforcements for another advance against the French. He dictated a letter to Dinwiddie calling for more troops, which Washington was to take with him, and forward by messenger from Dunbar's camp. Though so shaken in body he could scarce sit upright in the saddle, Washington set off cheerfully on that frightful journey. Orme and I watched him until he disappeared in the gloom.

"A gallant man," he said, as we turned back to the rude shelter which had been thrown up over the place where the general lay. "I do not think I have ever seen a braver. You could not see as I could the prodigies of valor he performed to-day. And he seems to bear a charmed life, for though his coat was pierced a dozen times and two horses were killed under him, he has escaped without a scratch."

We walked on in silence until we reached headquarters, where Colonel Burton was also sitting, suffering greatly from his wound now he was no longer on horseback.

"Lieutenant Stewart," he said to me, "I place you in charge of the sentries for the night. Will you make the rounds and see that all is well? I know the men are weary, but I need hardly tell you that our safety will depend upon their vigilance. Guard especially against a surprise from the direction of the river."

I saluted, and started away to make the round. The sun had long since sunk behind the trees in a cloud of blood-red vapor, which seemed to me significant of the day. All about us through the forest arose the chorus of night sounds, and afar off through the trees I could catch the glinting of the river. What was happening beyond it, I dared not think. And then I came to a sudden stop, for I had reached the spot where the first sentry had been posted, but there was none in sight.

I thought for a moment that in the darkness I must have missed the place, but as I looked about me more attentively, I saw that could not be. I walked up and down, but could find no trace of him. Could it be that the Indians had stolen upon him and killed him with a blow of knife or tomahawk before he could cry out? Yet if that had happened, where was the body?

I hurried on toward the spot where the next sentry had been posted, and as I neared it, strained my eyes through the gloom, but could see no trace of him. I told myself that I was yet too far away, and hurried forward, but in a moment I had reached the place. There was no sentry there. With the perspiration starting from my forehead, I peered among the trees and asked myself what mysterious and terrible disaster threatened us. The third sentry was missing like the others—the fourth had disappeared—I made the whole round of the camp. Not a single sentry remained. And then, of a sudden, the meaning of their absence burst upon me.

I hurried back to the camp, passing the spot where we had quartered the men whom we had rallied, but who were not placed on sentry duty.

As I expected, not one was there.

"All is well, I trust, Lieutenant Stewart?" asked Colonel Burton, as I approached. Then something in my face must have startled him, for he asked me sharply what had happened.

"I fear we cannot remain here, sir," I said, as calmly as I could. "All of our men have deserted us. There is not a single sentry at his post;" and I told him what I had found.

He listened without a word till I had finished.

"You will get the tumbrel ready for the general, lieutenant," he said quietly. "I will report this sad news to him. It seems that our defeat is to become dishonor."

I put the horses into harness again, and led them to the place where the general lay. He seemed dazed by the tidings of his men's desertion, and made no protest nor uttered any sound as we lifted him again into the cart and set off through the night. We soon reached the second ford, and on the other side found Colonel Gage, who had contrived to rally about eighty men and hold them there with him. But there seemed no hope of keeping them through the night, so we set forward again, and plunged into the gloomy forest.

An hour later, as I was plodding wearily along beside the cart, thinking over the events of this tragic day, I was startled by a white face peering from beneath the upraised curtain out into the darkness. It was the stricken man within, who was surveying the remnant of that gallant army which, a few short hours before, had passed along this road so gayly, thinking itself invincible. He held himself a moment so, then let the curtain drop and fell back upon his couch.



CHAPTER XIX

ALLEN AND I SHAKE HANDS

Of the horrors of the night which followed, my pen can paint no adequate picture. Fugitives panted past us in the darkness, pursued by phantoms of their own imagining, thinking only of one thing—to leave that scene of awful slaughter far behind. The wounded toiled on, groaning and cursing, for to drop to the rear or to wander from the way was to die, if not by knife or tomahawk, none the less surely by hunger. Here and there some poor wretch who could win no farther sat groaning by the roadside or rolled in delirium upon the ground. The vast, impenetrable darkness of the forest overshadowed us, full of threatening suggestion and peopled with nameless terrors.

Colonel Gage remained with us with such of his men as he could hold together, and among them I saw Lieutenant Allen. He had been wounded in the shoulder, and at the suggestion of Captain Orme mounted the tumbrel and drove the horses, while I walked beside it. What agonies the stricken man within endured, tossed from side to side as the cart bumped along the rough road, through ruts and over rocks and stumps of trees, must have been beyond description, but not once during all that long night did I hear a groan or complaint from him. Once he asked for water, and as Orme and I stooped over him I heard him murmur as though to himself, "Who would have thought it?" and again, "Who would have thought it?" Then he drank the water mechanically and lay back, and said no more.

The disaster had been too sudden, too unexpected, too complete, for any of us to fully realize. It seemed impossible that this handful of terror-stricken fugitives should be all that remained of the proud army to which we had belonged, and that this army had been defeated by a few hundred Indians. Few of us had seen above a dozen of the enemy,—we of Waggoner's company were the only ones who had looked down upon that yelling mob in the ravine,—and scarce knew by whom we had been slaughtered. It was incredible that two regiments of the best troops in England should have been utterly routed by so contemptible a foe. The reason refused to acknowledge such a thing.

I was plodding along, wearily enough, thinking of all this, when I heard my name called, and glancing up, saw Allen looking round the corner of the wagon cover.

"Won't you come up here, Lieutenant Stewart?" he asked. "There is ample room for two, and 't is no use to tire yourself needlessly."

I accepted gratefully, though somewhat astonished at his courtesy, and in a moment was on the seat beside him. He fell silent for a time, nor was I in any mood for talk, for Spiltdorph's fate and young Harry Marsh's sudden end weighed upon me heavily.

"Lieutenant Stewart," he said at last, "I feel that I did you and the Virginia troops a grave injustice when I chose to question their courage. What I saw to-day has opened my eyes to many things. In all the army, the Virginia troops were the only ones who kept their wits about them and proved themselves men. I wish to withdraw the expressions I used that night, and to apologize for them most sincerely."

My hand was in his in an instant.

"With all my heart," I said. "I have thought more than once since then that we were both too hasty."

He laughed,—a short laugh, in which there was no mirth.

"I think there are many of us who have been too hasty in this campaign," he said. "It is easy enough to see now that regulars are worth little in this frontier warfare, where their manoeuvres count for nothing, and that the provincials should have been left to fight in their own fashion. It is not a pleasant thought that all my work in drilling them was worse than wasted, and that every new manoeuvre I taught them impaired their efficiency by just so much."

"'Twas not quite so bad as that," I protested. "The Virginia troops have much to thank you for, and we shall know better how to deal with the enemy next time."

"Next time?" he repeated despondently. "But when will next time be, think you?"

"Why, at once, to be sure!" I cried. "We have still, with Colonel Dunbar's companies, over a thousand men. So soon as we join with him, and get our accoutrement in order, we can march back against the enemy, and we shall not be caught twice in the same trap."

He did not answer, and there was a moment's silence. I glanced at his face and saw that it was very grave.

"You do not mean," I asked, with a great fear at my heart, "that you think it possible we shall retreat without striking another blow?"

"I fear it is only too possible," he answered gloomily. "If the general lives, he may order another advance; indeed, I am sure he will, in the hope of saving some fragment of his reputation. But if he dies, as seems most likely, Colonel Dunbar, who succeeds to the command, is not the man to imperil his prestige by taking such a risk."

"Risk?" I cried. "How is this any greater than the risk we took at the outset?"

"You forget, lieutenant," said Allen, "that all of our equipment was left on the field. The men flung away their arms, many of them even the clothes upon their backs. Everything was abandoned,—the general's private papers, and even the military chest, with L10,000 in it. These losses will not be easily repaired."

I could not but admit the truth of this, and said as much.

"And then," continued Allen, still more gloomily, "we have suffered another loss which can never be made good. The morale of the men is gone. They have no longer the confidence in themselves which a winning army must have. I doubt if many of them could be got to cross the Monongahela a second time."

Yes, that was also true, and we fell silent, each busy with his own thoughts. It seemed too horrible, too utterly fantastic. At last came the dawn, and the light of the morning disclosed us to each other. As I looked about me, I wondered if these scarecrows, these phantoms of men, could be the same who had gone into battle in all the pride of manhood and pageantry of arms the day before. Orme was ghastly, with his bandaged head and torn, mud-stained uniform, and as I looked at him, I recalled sadly the gallant figure I had met at Fort Necessity. Nor were the others better. Haggard faces, bloodshot eyes, lips drawn with suffering, hair matted with blood,—all the grim and revolting realities of defeat were there before us, and no longer to be denied. And I realized that I was ghastly as any. A bullet had cut open my forehead, leaving a livid gash, from which the blood had dried about my face. I had lost my hat, and my uniform was in tatters and stained with blood.

We soon met the men who had gone forward with Waggoner to secure us some supplies, and halted by a little brook to wash our injuries. Captain Orme and some others attended as well as they were able to the general, and gave him a little food, which was all too scarce, barely sufficient for a single meal. Fortunately, Doctor Craik, who had learned that the general was wounded, came up soon after, and made a careful examination of the injury. He came away, when he had finished, with grave face, and told us there was little hope, as the wound was already much inflamed and fevered, and the general was able to breathe only with great agony. He said there could be no question that the ball had entered the lung. The general fancied that he would be easier on horseback, so when the march was begun again, he was mounted on the horse Orme had been riding, but after half an hour his pain grew so intense that he had to be taken down. It was evident that he could not endure the jolting of the cart, and we finally rigged up a sort of litter out of a portion of the tumbrel top, and the men took turns in bearing him on this between them.

Daylight banished much of the terror of the night, and as we toiled onward, we began to talk a little, each to tell what part he had seen of the battle. It was here that I heard the story of Harry Gordon, the engineer who had been marking out the road in advance of the column, and who had first seen the enemy. They had appeared suddenly, coming through the wood at a run, as though hurrying from the fort, and led by a man whose silver gorget and gayly fringed hunting-shirt at once bespoke the chief. So soon as he saw Gordon, he halted and waved his hat above his head, and the rabble of savages at his heels had dispersed to right and left and disappeared as if by magic. An instant later came a tremendous rifle fire from either flank, which cut Gage's troops to pieces. They had rallied and returned the fire with spirit, so that for a time the issue hung in the balance; but the terrible fire to which they were subjected was too much for any discipline to withstand, and they had finally given way in confusion, just as Burton was forming to support them.

It was not until long afterward that I heard the French story of the fight, but I deem it best to set it down here. As our army had approached through the wilderness, the Indians who lurked upon our flanks had carried greatly exaggerated stories of our strength to Fort Duquesne, and M. de Contrecoeur prepared to surrender on terms of honorable capitulation, deeming it mere madness to oppose a force so overwhelming in strength and so well disciplined. To the French the reputation of General Braddock and of the Forty-Fourth and Forty-Eighth regiments of the line was well known and commanded the greatest respect. On the eighth of July, it was reported that the English were only a few miles from the fort, which they would probably invest the next day, and M. de Beaujeu, a captain of the regulars, asked the commandant for permission to prepare an ambuscade and contest the second passage of the Monongahela. Contrecoeur granted the request with great reluctance, and only on condition that Beaujeu obtain the assistance of the Indians, of whom there were near a thousand camped about the fort. Accordingly. Beaujeu at once called the warriors to a council, and urged that they accompany him against the English on the morrow. They received his proposition with marked coldness, and according to the Indian custom, asked until morning to consider their reply. In the morning, the council was called together again, and the Indians refused to take part in the expedition. At that moment a runner burst in upon them and announced that the enemy was at hand. Beaujeu, who knew well the inflammable nature of his hearers, was on his feet in an instant.

"I," he cried, "am determined to go out against the enemy. I am certain of victory. What! Will you suffer your father to depart alone?"

It was the one spark needed to set the Indians on fire. They were frantic with excitement. Barrels of bullets and casks of powder were rolled from the fort, and their heads knocked out, so that each Indian could take what he needed. War paint was donned, and in an hour the band, nine hundred strong, of whom near seven hundred were Indians and the remainder Canadians and regulars, set off silently through the forest. Beaujeu calculated, at the most, on giving us a severe check as we crossed the second ford, but long ere he reached the river, the beating of the drums and the tramp of the approaching army told him that he was too late, and that we had already crossed. Quickening their pace to a run, in a moment they came upon our vanguard, and as Beaujeu gave the signal, the Indians threw themselves into two ravines on our flanks, while the Canadians and French held the centre. The first volley of Gage's troops killed Beaujeu, and was so tremendous that it frightened the Indians, who turned to flee. But they were rallied by a few subalterns, and finding that the volleys of the regulars did little damage except to the trees, returned to the attack, and during the whole engagement were perfectly sheltered in the ravines, rifle and artillery fire alike sweeping above them. They lost altogether but twenty-five or thirty men, and most of these fell before the volley which we of Waggoner's company had fired into the ravine.

After our retreat, no pursuit was attempted, the Indians busying themselves killing and scalping the wounded and gathering up the rich booty which the army had left behind. They decked themselves in British uniforms, stuck the tall caps of the grenadiers above their painted faces, wound neck, wrist, and ankle with gold lace, made the wood to echo with the dreadful scalp-halloo. Such an orgy of blood they never had before; not another such will they ever have.

One other horror must I record, which chokes me even yet to think of. A score of regulars, surrounded by savages and cut off in their retreat from the remainder of the army, yielded themselves captive to the victors, thinking to be treated as prisoners of war have ever been in Christian nations. But the Indians knew only their own bloodthirsty customs. Half of the captives were tomahawked on the spot. The others were stripped of clothing, their faces blackened, their hands bound behind them, and were driven forward to the Allegheny, where, just across from Fort Duquesne, a stake had been set in the river's bank. Arrived there, the prisoners began to understand the fate prepared for them, yet they could not believe. A hundred yards away across the river stood the walls of the fort, crowded with soldiers, the fair lilies of France waving lazily above their heads. Calmly they watched the terrible preparations,—Contrecoeur, Dumas, and all the others,—and not one raised a hand to rescue those unhappy men, or uttered a word to mitigate their torture. From dark to dawn the flames shimmered across the water,—for the English went to their fate singly,—and things were done to turn one sick with horror; yet did the French look tranquilly from their bastions and joke one to another. Our flag, thank God, has never been sullied by a deed like that!

Early the next morning, the Indians started westward to their homes, laden with booty, sated with slaughter, leaving the French to take care of themselves as best they might. The latter remained for a week in great fear of another attack, which they would have been quite unable to withstand, little thinking that our army was fleeing back to the settlements with feet winged by an unreasoning terror.

We reached Gist's plantation at ten o'clock on the night of the tenth, and here we were compelled to stop because of our own exhaustion and the great suffering of the general. And here, early the next morning, came Colonel Washington, sitting his cushioned saddle like some gaunt spectre, and bringing with him wagons loaded with provision. The general still persisted in the exercise of his duties, despite his suffering, and he at once detailed a party to proceed toward the Monongahela with a supply of food, for the succor of the stragglers and the wounded who had been left behind,—a duty which was ill fulfilled because of the cowardice of those to whom it was intrusted. Meanwhile we pushed on, and reached Dunbar's camp that night.

We found it in the utmost confusion. At five o'clock on the morning after the battle, a teamster, who had cut loose his horse and fled at the first onset, had ridden madly into the camp crying that the whole army was destroyed and he alone survived. At his heels came other teamsters, for with an appalling cowardice, which makes me blush for my countrymen, they had one and all cut loose their teams at the first fire, and selecting the best horse, had fled precipitately from the field. Toward noon, Colonel Washington had arrived, bringing the first accurate news of the disaster, and at once setting on foot the relief expedition. After him came troops of haggard, toil-worn, famished men, without arms, bewildered with terror, fearing a second ambuscade at every step, and with the yells of the Indians still ringing in their ears. The news of the disaster and the incoherent stories of these half-crazed fugitives spread consternation through the camp. Men deserted by scores and started hot-foot for the settlements, and all pretense of discipline vanished. Nor did the arrival of the general greatly better matters. He was fast sinking, and long periods of delirium sapped his strength. It was evident that the end was near.

On the morning of the twelfth, I was engaged in collecting such of the Virginia troops as I could find about the camp, when I saw Colonel Washington approaching with a face so gloomy that I foresaw some new disaster.

"What is it?" I asked, almost before he had reached me.

"Have you not heard?" and he looked meaningly back toward a spring near which a number of men were unheading some casks. "We are to destroy all our powder and stores, burn our wagons, and flee back to the settlements, like so many children."

"Why, 'tis folly!" I cried. "'Tis monstrous! Who gave such an order?"

"I know not," and Washington smiled bitterly. "It is certain that the general did not, since he has been raving with fever all the night. Besides, his one thought has been to march back against the French the instant he could get his troops together. Come, walk over with me and let us watch this unhappy work."

I followed him, and witnessed a sight which filled me with speechless anger and indignation. Powder casks were being knocked open and their contents cast into the spring, cohorns broken, shells burst, provisions destroyed, and upwards of a hundred and fifty wagons burned. I remembered bitterly what work we had had to obtain those wagons. Such a scene of senseless and wanton destruction I had never seen before, and hope never to see again. A frenzy of terror seemed to possess officers and men alike, and I turned away, raging at heart, to think that to such men as these had been intrusted the defense of our country. At last the work of destruction was complete. With barely enough provision to carry us to Fort Cumberland, and with no ammunition save that in our cartouch boxes, the retreat commenced, if the flight of a disordered and frenzied rabble can be dignified by such a name.



CHAPTER XX

BRADDOCK PAYS THE PRICE

It was the morning of Sunday, July 13, that this shameful flight began. Its arrant cowardice weighed on many of the officers who were left alive, and even on some of the men, especially, I am glad to say, on many of the Virginians. Whose fault was it? Well, Colonel Dunbar was in command, since the general was no longer conscious, and must take the blame.

Colonel Washington had asked me to remain near him, if possible. He had secured me a horse, and together with Captain Orme, who was no less depressed, we formed the escort to the litter whereon lay the dying man. Doctor Craik came to us from time to time, but the general was far beyond human aid. I had never respected him so much as in this hour, for of his downright valor I had had every proof. If only his pride had been a little less, that his valor might have counted! It was while I was riding thus, absorbed in melancholy thought, that a horse cantered up beside me, and looking up, I saw Lieutenant Allen.

"Confess I was a true prophet, Lieutenant Stewart," he remarked, with a sorry attempt at a smile, "though damme if I could have foretold that act of folly back yonder! You see, I know our new commander better than do you."

"So it seems," I answered, and at that moment caught Colonel Washington's astonished eyes fixed upon us. Allen followed my glance, and smiled as he saw the expression of Washington's face.

"He cannot understand our friendliness," he laughed. "He is doubtless wondering if we are arranging the preliminaries for the desperate encounter for which we were booked. Let me explain the situation to him," and he spurred to Washington's side. "I had occasion to say to Lieutenant Stewart a few evenings ago," he said, "that I had been grievously mistaken in my estimate of his courage, and that of the Virginia companies, and that I was truly sorry that I had ever questioned them. In the light of to-day's event, I am still more sorry, and I wish to add to you, Colonel Washington, that I regret the words I used to you, and that I sincerely ask your pardon."

"'Tis granted with all my heart!" cried Washington, his face illumined with that fine smile which always lighted it before any deed of courage or gentleness, and the two shook hands warmly. "'Twas granted before you asked it. I am not such a fire-eater as Tom, back there. I have regretted that foolish quarrel many times, and had determined that it should not lead to another meeting between you, which would have been mere folly. Come here, sir," he called to me. "I wish to tell you how pleased I am that this quarrel has been adjusted."

"No more pleased than I, I assure you, colonel," I laughed. "Lieutenant Allen gave me a sample of his swordsmanship I shall not soon forget. I should have been as helpless before him as a lamb in the jaws of a tiger."

"Now you are mocking me!" cried Allen, and as I related to Colonel Washington the story of his little bout with Langlade, we rode on laughing, the best of friends.

"But, believe me, Lieutenant Stewart," he said, when I had finished, "it was not self-complacency which urged me to take up the foils that day. I merely wished to show you that you had need to keep in practice, and so prevent you from becoming over-sure."

"'T was well done," said Washington heartily. "I appreciate your conduct, Lieutenant Allen."

"And I certainly took the lesson to heart," I laughed. "Just before you came, I had conceived a most exalted opinion of my own abilities. I shall not make the mistake a second time."

Presently Allen fell back to rejoin the rear-guard, with which he had been stationed, and we rode on beside the general's litter. He was delirious most of the time, and was fighting the battle of the Monongahela over and over again, giving orders and threshing from side to side of his couch in his agony. In one of his intervals of consciousness, he called my companion to him.

"Colonel Washington," he said in a low tone, "I feel that I have done you great injustice. Had I followed your advice, this catastrophe might not have happened. But my eyes were not opened until too late. Had I lived, I should not have forgot you. I am sure you cannot withhold your pardon from a dying man."

Washington's lips were trembling as he bent over the litter.

"If there is anything to pardon, general," he said softly, "be sure I pardon you with all my heart. You have the love of all your officers, sir, who revere you as a brave and gallant man."

"Ay, but a proud and stubborn one," and he smiled sadly. "Would God I had had the grace to see it while it was yet time. Colonel Washington," he added, "I wish you to have my charger, Bruce, and my body servant, Bishop. These two gentlemen are witnesses that I give them to you."

Orme and I bowed our assent, and Washington thanked him with a trembling voice. He was soon wandering again, this time, apparently, among the scenes of his earlier manhood.

"Messieurs de la Garde Francaise," he cried, "tirez, s'il vous plait!"

"Ah," murmured Orme, "he is at Fontenoy."

And again,—

"Poor Fanny, I always thought she would play till she would be forced to tuck herself up."

"She was his sister," said Orme, answering our questioning glances. "She ruined herself at cards and then hanged herself. It was a sad story."

And yet again,—

"No, I'll not take your purse!" he cried; and then after a moment, "nor ask my life at your hands. Do what you will."

I could bear no more, and rode forward out of earshot. To see this gallant man lying there, slowly dying, bereft at one stroke of life and that far dearer to him than life, his military reputation, moved me as few things had ever done. He had another lucid interval toward the middle of the afternoon, and warmly praised the conduct of his officers.

"They were gallant boys, every one," he said. "They did their duty as brave men should. How many of them fell?" he asked suddenly, turning to Orme.

"Sixteen," answered Orme sadly.

"And how many were wounded?"

"Forty-seven."

"Sixty-three,—and there were only eighty-nine," and Braddock sighed heavily. "And how went it with the men?"

Orme hesitated, fearing to disclose the extent of the disaster, but the general's eyes were on his and would take no denial.

"They suffered very heavily," said Orme at last. "Less than five hundred escaped unharmed. All of the wounded who remained on the field were killed by the Indians."

"And we went into battle with near fifteen hundred men," said Braddock. "Why, it was mere slaughter. There has never an army gone into battle which lost such proportion of its numbers. Ah, well, I shall soon join them. And they are happier than I, for they went to their end honored and applauded, whilst I am a broken and ruined man, who will be remembered only to be cursed."

He turned his head away from us, and a great tear rolled down his cheek. Orme was crying like a child, and made no effort to conceal it, nor were Washington and I less moved.

"At least," he said at last, turning back to us with a smile, "it were better to have died than to have lived. I am glad I do not have to live."

He soon lapsed again into delirium, and seemed to be living over a second time a meeting with some woman.

"Dear Pop," he said, "we are sent like sacrifices to the altar. They have given me a handful of men and expect me to conquer whole nations. I know that I shall never see you more. Good-by, Pop, and God bless you."

Orme turned away for a moment to master his emotion.

"'T was his last night in London," he said when he could speak. "He was to set out on the morrow, and he asked Colonel Burton and myself to go with him to visit a very dear protegee of his, George Anne Bellamy, the actress, to whom, I think, he has left all his property. He used to her almost the same words he has just repeated."

"So he had doubts of his success," said Washington musingly. "Well, he was a brave man, for he never permitted them to be seen."

He was fast growing weaker. His voice faltered and failed, and he lay without movement in his litter, continuing so until eight o'clock in the evening. We had halted for the night, and had gathered about his couch, watching him as his breathing grew slowly fainter. At last, when we thought him all but gone, he opened his eyes, and seeing the ring of anxious faces about him, smiled up at them.

"It is the end," he said quietly. "You will better know how to deal with them next time;" and turning his head to one side, he closed his eyes.

We buried him at daybreak. The grave was dug in the middle of the road, so that the wagons passing over it might efface all trace of its existence and preserve it inviolate from the hands of the Indians. Our chaplain, Mr. Hughes, had been severely wounded, so it was Colonel Washington who read the burial service. I shall not soon forget that scene,—the open grave in the narrow roadway, the rude coffin draped with a flag, the martial figure within in full uniform, his hands crossed over the sword on his breast, the riderless charger neighing for its master, and the gray light of the morning over it all. The burial service has never sounded more impressively in my ears than it did as read that morning, in Colonel Washington's strong, melodious voice, to that little group of listening men, in the midst of the wide, unbroken, whispering forest. How often have I heard those words of hope and trust in God's promise to His children, and under what varying circumstances!

We lowered him into the grave, and lingered near until the earth was heaped about it. Then the drums beat the march, the wagons rolled over it, and in half an hour no trace of it remained. So to this day, he lies there undisturbed in the heart of the wilderness, in a grave which no man knows. Others have railed at him,—have decried him and slandered him,—but I remember him as he appeared on that last day of all, a brave and loyal gentleman, not afraid of death, but rather welcoming it, and the memory is a sweet and dear one. If he made mistakes, he paid for them the uttermost penalty which any man could pay,—and may he rest in peace.

Of the remainder of that melancholy flight little need be said. We struggled on through the wilderness, bearing our three hundred wounded with us as best we could, and marking our path with their shallow graves, as they succumbed one after another to the hardships of the journey. On the twenty-second day of July we reached Fort Cumberland, and I learned with amazement that Dunbar did not propose to stop here, although he had placed near a hundred and fifty miles between him and the enemy, but to carry his whole army to Philadelphia, leaving Virginia open to Indian and French invasion by the very road which we had made. He alleged that he must go into winter quarters, and that, too, though it was just the height of summer. Colonel Washington ventured to protest against this folly, but was threatened with court-martial, and came out of Dunbar's quarters red with anger and chagrin.

And sure enough, on the second of August, Dunbar marched away with all his effective men, twelve hundred strong, leaving at the fort all his sick and wounded and the Virginia and Maryland troops, over whom he attempted to exercise no control. I bade good-by to Orme and Allen and such other of the officers as I had met. Colonel Burton took occasion to come to me the night before he marched, and presented me with a very handsome sword in token of his gratitude, as he said, for saving his life,—an exploit, as I pointed out to him, small enough beside a hundred others that were done that day.

The sword he gave me hangs above my desk as I write. I am free to confess that I have performed no great exploits with it, and when I took it down from its hook the other day to look at it, I found that it had rusted in its scabbard.



CHAPTER XXI

VIRGINIA BIDS US WELCOME

"To my mind, there is only one thing to be done. That is to retire."

The speaker was Colonel Henry Innes, commandant of the fort, but as he looked up and down the row of faces opposite him, he saw few which showed assent. Scarcely had the rear-guard of Dunbar's troops disappeared among the trees which lined the narrow military road, when Colonel Innes had called this meeting of the officers left at the fort, "to decide," as the summons put it, "on our future course of action." As if, I thought indignantly to myself, there could be any question as to what our future course of action should be.

"We are left here," continued the speaker, in a louder voice and growing somewhat red in the face, "with scarce five hundred men, all provincials, and most of them unfit for service. A great part of the army's equipment has been abandoned or destroyed back there in the woods. In short, we are so weak that we can hope neither to advance against the enemy nor to repel an assault, should they march against us in force, as they are most like to do."

For a moment there was an ominous silence.

"May I ask what it is you propose, Colonel Innes?" asked Captain Waggoner at last.

"I propose to abandon the place," replied Innes, "and to fall back to Winchester or some other point where our wounded may lie in safety and our men have opportunity to recover from the fatigues of the campaign."

Again there was a moment's silence, and all of us, as by a common impulse, glanced at Colonel Washington, who sat at one end of the table, his head bowed in gloomy thought. The fever, which he had shaken off for a time, had been brought back by the arduous work he had insisted on performing, and he was but the shadow of his former self. He felt our eyes upon him and suddenly raised his head.

"Do you really anticipate that the French will march against us, Colonel Innes?" he asked quietly. "There were scarce three hundred of them at the fort three weeks ago, hardly enough for an expedition of such moment, and it is not likely that they can be reinforced to undertake any campaign this summer."

"There would be little danger from the French themselves," retorted Innes, with an angry flush, "but they will undoubtedly rally the Indians, and lead them against us along the very road which Braddock cut over the mountains. Fort Cumberland stands at one end of that road."

Washington smiled disdainfully.

"I have heard of few instances," he said, "where Indians have dared attack a well-manned fortification, and of none where they have captured one. To retreat from here would be to leave our whole frontier open to their ravages, and would be an act of cowardice more contemptible than that which Colonel Dunbar performed this morning, when he marched his troops away."

I had never seen him so moved, and I caught the infection of his anger.

"Colonel Washington is right!" I cried hotly. "Our place is here."

Innes did not so much as look at me. His eyes were on Washington, and his face was very red.

"Colonel Washington," he sneered, his lips curling away from his teeth with rage, "was, I believe, an aide on the general's staff. Since the general is dead, that position no longer exists. Consequently, Colonel Washington is no longer an officer of the army, and I fail to see what right he has to take part in this discussion."

Half a dozen of us were on our feet in an instant, but Washington was before us and waved us back with a motion of his hand.

"Colonel Innes is right," he said, his deep-set eyes gleaming like two coals of fire. "I am no longer an officer of the army, and I thank God this is so, since it is about to further disgrace itself."

"Take care, sir," cried Innes, springing to his feet. "You forget there is such a thing as court-martial."

"And you forget that I am no longer of the army, and so can defy its discipline."

He stood for a moment longer looking Innes in the eyes, and then, without saluting, turned on his heel and left the place. A moment later the council broke up in confusion, for Innes saw plainly that the sentiment of nearly all the other officers present was against him, and he did not choose to give it opportunity of expression. I had scarcely reached my quarters when I received a note from his secretary stating that as the mortality among the Virginia companies had been so heavy, it had been decided to unite the three into one, and my lieutenancy was therefore abolished. Trembling with anger, I hurried to Washington's quarters and laid the note before him.

"Why, Tom," he said, with a short laugh, after he had read it, "we seem to have fallen into disgrace together. But come," he added more cheerfully, seeing my downcast face, "do not despair. We may yet win out. The governor and the House of Burgesses will not receive so quietly this project to retire from the frontier. I had a letter from Dinwiddie but the other day, in which he said as much. In the mean time, I am going home to Mount Vernon to rest, and you must come with me."

I accepted readily enough, for I knew not what else to do, and on the morrow we set out. Colonel Washington was so ill that we could proceed but slowly. We finally reached Winchester, and from there, because of the better road, crossed the river to Frederick, where a great surprise awaited us. For scarcely were we off our horses at the little tavern, than the host, learning our names, rushed away down the wide, rambling street, crying the news aloud, to our great wonderment, who saw not why it should interest any one. In an incredibly short time, above a hundred people had gathered before the inn, cheering and hallooing with all their might, while we looked at them in dumb amazement. We sent for the host to learn what this might mean, thinking doubtless there was some mistake, and even as he entered, a dozen men burst into the room, and insisted that we should not be permitted for a moment to think of putting up at an inn, but should accompany them home.

"But, gentlemen," protested Washington, "you have mistaken us for some one else. We have done nothing to deserve your hospitality."

"Have you not?" they cried, and they hustled us out into the yard. There was no denying them, so off we rode again, greatly bewildered, and in the course of half an hour were being introduced by our self-appointed entertainer to his wife and three pretty daughters.

"'T is Colonel Washington, you understand, wife," he cried. "Colonel Washington, whose advice, had it been followed, would have saved the expedition."

A great light broke upon me. So my friend's merits were to be recognized at last,—were to win him something more than contumely and insult,—and as he would have made denial, I cut him short.

"Do not listen to him!" I cried. "'T is true, every word of it, and much more besides."

Whereat the girls smiled at me very sweetly, our host wrung my hand again, and I swear there were tears in Washington's eyes as he looked at me in feigned anger. Such a night's entertainment as was given us I shall not soon forget, nor Colonel Washington either, I dare say. Word of our presence had got about the neighborhood with singular speed, and the people flocked in by dozens, until the great hallway, which ran through the house from front to rear, was crowded from end to end. Then, nothing would do but that Colonel Washington must tell the story of the advance, the ambuscade, and the retreat, which he did with such consummate slighting of his own part in the campaign that I interrupted him in great indignation, and, unheeding his protests, related some of the things concerning him which I have already written, and which, I swear, were very well received.

"But Lieutenant Stewart says nothing of what he himself did," cried Washington, when I had finished.

"Because I did nothing worth relating," I retorted, my cheeks hot with embarrassment at the way they looked at me.

"Ask him how he won that sword he wears at his side," he continued, not heeding my interruption, his eyes twinkling at my discomfiture. "Believe me, 'tis not many Virginia officers can boast such a fine one."

And then, of course, they all demanded that he tell the story, which he did with an exaggeration that I considered little less than shameful. In some mysterious manner, tankards of cold, bitter Dutch beer, the kind that is so refreshing after a journey or at the close of a hot day's work, had found their way into the right hand of every man present, and as Washington ended the story and I was yet denying, our host sprang to his feet.

"We'll drink to the troops of Maryland and Virginia," he cried, "who behaved like soldiers and died like men, teaching England's redcoats a lesson they will not soon forget, and to two of the bravest among them, Colonel Washington and Lieutenant Stewart!"

It was done with a cheer that made the old hall ring, and when, half an hour later, I found myself beside the prettiest of the three daughters of the house, I was not yet quite recovered. Only this I can say,—it is a pleasant thing to be a hero, though trying to the nerves. I had only the one experience, and did not merit that, as the reader has doubtless decided for himself.

Of course there was a dance,—what merrymaking would be complete without one?—and Colonel Washington walked a minuet with a certain Mistress Patience Burd, with a grace which excited the admiration of every swain in the room, and the envy of not a few,—myself among the number, for I was ever but a clumsy dancer, and on this occasion no doubt greatly vexed my pretty partner. But every night must end, as this one did at last. Colonel Washington was much better next morning, for his illness had been more of the mind than of the body, and our kind reception had done wonders to banish his vexation. Our friends bade us Godspeed, and we rode on our way southward. I never saw the house again, and it is one of my great regrets and reasons for self-reproach that I have forgot the name of the honest man who was our host that night, and remember only that the name of his prettiest daughter was Betty.

As we reached a part of the country which was more closely settled, I soon perceived that however great dishonor had accrued to British arms and British reputations as the result of that battle by the Monongahela, Colonel Washington had won only respect and admiration by his consistent and courageous conduct. We were stopped a hundred times by people who asked first for news, and when they heard my companion's name, vied with one another to do him honor. It did me good to see how he brightened under these kind words and friendly acts, and how the color came again into his face and the light into his eyes. And I hold that this was as it should be, for I know of nothing of which a man may be more justly proud than of the well-earned praises of his fellows.

At last, toward the evening of a sultry August day, we turned our horses' heads into the wide road which led up to Mount Vernon, and drew near to that hospitable and familiar mansion. News of our approach must have preceded us, for there, drawn up in line, were the bowing and grinning negroes, while at the entrance gate were Mrs. Washington and her children, as well as a dozen families assembled from as many miles around to do honor to the returning warrior. My heart beat more quickly as I ran my eyes over this gathering, but fell again when I saw that the family from Riverview was not there.

And such a greeting as it was! We all remained a space apart until Mrs. Washington had kissed her son, as something too sacred for our intrusion. But when he turned to greet his neighbors, I have rarely seen such genuine emotion shown even in our whole-hearted Virginia. At the great dinner which followed, with Mrs. Washington at the head of the table and her son at the foot, we told again the story of the campaign, and the men forgot to sip their wine until the tale was ended. Yet with all this largess of goodwill, I was not wholly happy. For I had no home to go to, nor was there any waiting to welcome me, and the woman I loved seemed farther away than ever, though now she was so near.



CHAPTER XXII

A NEW DANGER AT RIVERVIEW

But Dorothy was not so near as I had thought, for next morning came a message from my aunt. It was delivered almost as soon as I was out of bed by a negro boy who had ridden over at daybreak. It was dated but two days before, and began very formally.

"Sir," it ran, "since you no doubt will wish to recuperate from the fatigues of the campaign so unfortunately ended, and as there is no place where you can do this so well as at Riverview, I hasten to assure you that the place is entirely at your service."

I paused a moment to get my breath. Her reference to the campaign was intended as a stab, of course, yet could it be she was relenting? But hope fell as I read on.

"In order that you may feel at liberty to avail yourself of this invitation," the note continued, "my daughter and I have accepted one of long standing to spend a month, or perhaps two months, at the home of a relative. James is at Williamsburg, so that you may be entirely free to occupy your leisure at Riverview as best pleases you. Do not think that you have driven us from the place, for that is not at all the case. I have long felt the need of rest, and take advantage of this opportunity, while there is little doing on the plantation, to secure it. I trust to your sense of honor to make no inquiries as to where we are stopping, nor to attempt to see my daughter, who, I believe, has already discovered that any fancy she may ever have seemed to entertain for you was more imaginary than real."

Here was a blow, straight from the shoulder, and I winced under it.

"I could never consent," the note concluded, "to any attachment of a serious nature between you, having quite other views for my daughter, which, I am sure, will be for her happiness and well-being."

I read the note through a second time before I realized what a blow it gave to all my hopes. I had had little cause to anticipate any other treatment, it is true, and yet I have often observed that men hope most who have least reason for it, and this was so in my case. As I read the note again, I could not but admire the adroitness of its author. She had placed me upon honor—without my consent, 't is true—to make no effort to see Dorothy. I stood biting my lips with anger and vexation, and then, with sudden resolve, turned back to the messenger.

"Go around to the kitchen and get something to eat, if you are hungry," I said to him. "I shall be ready to ride back with you in half an hour;" and as he disappeared around a corner of the house, agrin from ear to ear at the prospect of refreshment, I sought Mrs. Washington and told her that I had just received a note from my aunt and would ride to Riverview at once. How much she suspected of my difference with my aunt, I do not know, but if she experienced any surprise at my sudden departure, she certainly did not show it, saying only that she regretted that I must go so soon, and that I must always consider Mount Vernon no less my home than Riverview,—an assurance which Colonel Washington repeated when the moment came to say good-by, and I rode away at last with a very tender feeling in my heart for those two figures which stood there on the steps until I turned into the road and passed from sight.

"And how is everything at Riverview, Sam?" I asked of the boy, as we struck into the road and settled our horses into an easy canter. He did not answer for a moment, and when I glanced at him to see the cause of his silence, I was astonished to find him rolling his eyes about as though he saw a ghost.

"What's the matter, boy?" I asked sharply. "Come, speak out. What is it?"

He looked behind him and all around into the woods, and then urged his horse close to mine.

"Mas' Tom," he said, almost in a whisper, "dere's gwine t' be hell at d' plantation foh long. Youse stay 'way fum it."

I looked at him, still more astonished by his singular behavior. A full-blooded negro does not turn pale, but under the influence of great terror his skin grows spotted and livid. Sam's was livid at that moment.

"See here, Sam," I said sharply, "if you have anything to tell, I want you to tell me right away. What are you afraid of?"

"D' witch man," he whispered, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his forehead suddenly beading with perspiration.

"The witch man? Has a witch man come to Riverview?"

He nodded.

"And what is he doing there, Sam?"

"He says d' French dun whopped d' English, an' a-comin' t' set all d' niggahs free. He says we mus' holp, an' dere won't be no mo' slaves. All ub us be free, jus' like white folks."

It took me a minute or two to grasp the full meaning of this extraordinary revelation.

"He says the French are coming to set all the niggers free?" I repeated.

Sam nodded.

"And that the niggers must help them?"

Again Sam nodded.

"Help them how, Sam?"

He hesitated.

"By killing the English, Sam?"

"I reckon dat 's it," he said reluctantly.

"And burning down their houses, perhaps?"

"I 'se hearn dat talked erboat, too."

I drew my horse in with a jerk, and catching Sam's by the bridle, pulled it to me.

"Now, boy," I said, "you must tell me all about this. I promise you that no one shall harm you."

He began to whimper.

"I'll tell yo', Mas' Tom," he stuttered, "but yo' mus' n' hurt d' witch man."

"Who is this witch man?" I demanded.

"Ole uncle Polete."

"Polete's no witch man. Why, Sam, you 've known him all your life. He's nothing but an ordinary old nigger. He's been on the plantation twenty or thirty years. All that he needs is a good whipping."

But the boy only shook his head and sobbed the more.

"Ef he's a-killed," he cried, "his ha'nt 'll come back fo' me."

I saw in a moment what the boy was afraid of. It was not of old Polete in the flesh, but in the spirit. I thought for a moment. Well, I had no reason to wish Polete any harm, yet if it were discovered that he had been inciting the slaves to insurrection, there was no power in the colony could save his life. If his owner did not execute him, the governor would take the matter out of his hands, and order it done himself.

"I tell you what I'll do, Sam," I said at last. "You tell me everything you know, and I'll do all I can to save Polete. I believe I can stop this thing without calling in any outside help."

He agreed to this, and as we jogged along I gradually drew the details of the plot from him. The news of our defeat had, it seemed, stirred up the negroes at the plantation, and in some way the wild rumor had been started that a great force of French was marching over the mountains to conquer Virginia and all the other English colonies; that emissaries had come to the negroes and promised them that if they would assist the invading army, they would be given their freedom and half of the colony to live in. It was at this time that old Polete, crazed, perhaps, by working in the tobacco fields under the blazing sun, had suddenly developed into a witch man, and proclaimed that he could see the French army marching, and urged the negroes to strike a blow at once in order to merit their freedom when the French should come. Meetings were held almost nightly in the woods some miles from their cabins, whence they stole away after dark by twos and threes. Just what their plans were Sam did not know, as he did not belong to the inner council, but he believed that something would happen soon because of the increasing excitement of the older negroes who were acquainted with the plans.

I rode on for some time in silence, thinking over this story and trying to decide what I would better do. I did not know until months later that signs of unrest had been observed among the slaves all over the colony, and that the governor had considered the situation so serious that he had sent out many warnings concerning the danger. It was as well, perhaps, that I did not know this then, for I might not have thought my own portion of the problem so easy of solution. At the time, I had no thought but that the outbreak was the result of old Polete's prophecies, and was confined alone to Riverview.

Sam was cantering along behind me, his face still livid with terror, and as I caught sight of it again, I wondered what impulse it was had moved him to confide in me, with such fancied peril to himself.

"I would n' tole nobody else," he said, in answer to my question, "but you tole a lie fo' me oncet, an' saved me a lickin'."

"Told a lie for you, Sam?" I questioned in astonishment. "When was that?"

"Don' yo' 'membah boat d' whip, Mas' Tom, what I stole?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment before that incident of my boyhood came back to me.

"Why, yes, I remember it now," I said. "But that was years ago, Sam, and I had forgotten it. Besides, I didn't tell a lie for you. I only told old Gump that I wished to give you the whip."

"Well," said Sam, looking at me doubtfully, "yo' saved me a lickin' anyhow, an' I did n' f 'git it," and he dropped back again.

Well, to be sure, an act of thoughtfulness or mercy never hurts a man, a fact which I have since learned for myself a hundred times, and wish all men realized.

We were soon at Riverview, and I ordered Sam to ride out to the field where the men were working, and tell the overseer, Long, that I wished to see him. Sam departed on the errand, visibly uneasy, and I wandered from my room, where I had taken my pack, along the hall and into my aunt's business room while I waited his return. I stood again for a moment at the spot on the staircase where I had kissed Dorothy that morning,—it seemed ages ago,—and as I looked up, I fancied I could still see her sweet face gazing down at me. But it was only fancy, and, with a sigh, I turned away and went down through the hall.

There were reminders of her at every turn,—there was the place where she had sat sewing in the evenings; over the fireplace hung a little picture she had painted, rude enough, no doubt, but beautiful to my eyes. With a sudden impulse, I ran down the steps and to the old seat under the oaks by the river. Nothing had changed,—even the shadows across the water seemed to be the same. But as I ran my hand mechanically along the arm of the seat on the side where Dorothy always sat my fingers felt a roughness which had not been there before, and as I looked to see what this might be, I saw that some one had cut in the wood a T and a D, intertwined, and circled by a tiny heart. Who could have done it? I had no need to ask myself the question. My heart told me that no one but Dorothy could have done it, and that she knew that I should come and sit here and live over again the long evenings when she had sat beside me. It was a message from my love, and with trembling lips I bent and kissed the letters which she had carved. As I sat erect again, I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Long approaching.

"You sent for me, Mr. Stewart?" he asked. "I saw you sitting here, and decided you were waiting for me."

"Yes," I said, and I shook hands with him, for he was an honest man and a good workman.

"I am glad to see you back again, sir, though looking so ill," he added. "I trust the air of Riverview will soon bring you around all right," and from his eyes I knew he meant it.

I thanked him, and bade him sit beside me. Then, in a few words, I told him what I had learned of the negro meetings, and saw his face grow grave.

"'Tis what I have always feared," he said, when I had finished. "There are too many of them in the colony, and they feel their strength. If they had a leader and a chance to combine, they might do a great deal of harm. However, we shall soon knock this in the head."

"How?" I asked.

"Make an example of Polete," he answered decidedly. "That's the best way, sir. Put him out of the way, let the other niggers see us do it, and they'll quiet down fast enough."

"Undoubtedly that is the easiest way," I said, smiling, "but, unfortunately, I had to promise the person who gave me the information that Polete should not be harmed."

Long stared at me for a moment in amazement.

"It would be unfortunate if any of the other planters should hear of that promise, Mr. Stewart," he said at last. "They would probably take Polete's case into their own hands."

I laughed at his evident concern.

"No doubt," I said, "but they are not going to hear of it. I intend telling no one but yourself, for we two are quite sufficient to stop this thing right here, and it need go no further."

"Perhaps we are," he answered doubtfully. "What is your plan, sir?"

"Polete will hold a meeting to-night over there in the woods. Well, we will be present at the meeting."

He looked at me without saying a word. "Our visit will probably not be very welcome," I continued, "but I believe it will produce the desired effect. Will you go with me?"

"Certainly," he answered readily, "but I still think my plan the best, sir."

"Perhaps it is," I laughed, "but we will try mine first," and he went back to the field, agreeing to be at the house at eight o'clock.

I covered with my hand the tiny letters on the arm of the bench, and, looking out across the broad river, drifted into the land of dreams, where Dorothy and I wandered together along a primrose path, with none to interfere.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE GOVERNOR SHOWS HIS GRATITUDE

I ate my supper in solitary splendor in the old dining-room, with my grandfather's portrait looking down upon me, and Long found me an hour later sitting in the midst of a wreath of smoke just within the hallway out of the river mist.

"'T was as you said, Mr. Stewart," he remarked, as he joined me. "Fully a hundred of the niggers stole off to the woods to-night so soon as it was dark. They went down toward the old Black Snake swamp."

"Very well," I said, rising. "Wait till I get my hat, and I am with you."

"But you will go armed?" he asked anxiously.

I paused to think for a moment.

"No, I will not," I said finally. "A brace of pistols would avail nothing against that mob, should they choose to resist us, and our going unarmed will have a great moral effect upon them as showing them that we are not afraid."

"You have weighed fully the extent of the risk you are about to run, I hope, sir," protested Long.

"Fully," I answered. "'T is not yet too late for you to turn back, you know. I have no right to ask you to endanger your life to carry out this plan of mine. Perhaps it would be wiser for you not to go."