Upon Dorothy fell the duty of looking after the household, and she went about it cheerfully and willingly. Her mornings were passed in instructing the servants in their duties and seeing that their work was properly done. There were visits to the pantry and kitchen, and a long conference with the cook, so that noon was soon at hand. The afternoon was spent in the great workroom on the upper floor, into which I ventured to peep once or twice, only to be bidden to go about my business. But it was a pleasant sight, and I sometimes gathered courage to steal down the corridor for a glimpse of it. There sat Dorothy in a dainty gown of Covent Garden calico, directing half a dozen old negro women, who were cutting out and sewing together the winter clothing of fearnaught for the slaves. Two or three girls had been brought in to be taught the mysteries of needle-craft, and Dorothy turned to them from time to time to watch their work and direct their rebellious fingers. I would fain have taken a lesson, too, but when I proposed this one day, representing how great my need might be when I was over the mountains far away from any woman, Dorothy informed me sternly, amid the titters of the others, that my fingers were too big and clumsy to be taught to manage so delicate an instrument as a needle, and sent me from the room.

Young James had also much to occupy his time. His mother was as yet in doubt whether he should complete his education at William and Mary, as I had done, or should be sent to London to acquire the true polish. The boy greatly favored the latter course, as any boy of spirit would have done, and his mother would have yielded to him readily, but for the stories she had heard of the riotous living which prevailed among the young blades in London, and of which she had had ample confirmation from Parson Scott, who, I suspect, before coming to his estate at Westwood, had ruffled it with the best of them. Whether it should be Williamsburg or London, the boy was required to be kept at his books every morning, and was off every afternoon to the Dumfries tavern, where there was always a crowd of ne'er-do-wells, promoting a cock-fight, or a horse race, or eye-gouging contest. Sometimes, he elected to spend the evening in this company, and it was then that Dorothy and I were left alone together on the seat beside the river.

But when Sunday came, there was another story. The great coach was brought from the stable and polished till it shone again,—indeed, it had been polished so often and so vigorously that its gilding and paint began to show the marks of it. The four horses were led out, rubbed down from nose to heel, and harnessed in their brightest trappings. The driver, footman, and two outriders donned their liveries, in which they were the envy of all the other servants, and the coach was driven around to the front of the house, from which presently emerged Madame Stewart, in a stately gown of flowered calamanco, her fan and gold pomander in her hand. Then came Dorothy, her sweet face looking most coquettish under her Ranelagh mob of gauze, the ribbons crossed beneath her chin and fluttering half a yard behind. As she tripped down the stops and lifted her tiffany petticoat ever so little, I could catch a glimpse of the prettiest pair of ankles in the world in silk-clocked hose, for the reader can guess without my telling that I was close behind, holding her kerchief or her fan or her silver etui until she should be safely seated in the coach. And that once done, the whip cracked, the wheels started, and I swung myself on horseback and trotted along beside the window, on Dorothy's side, you may be sure.

So, in great state, we proceeded to the new Quantico church near Dumfries, a prodigious fine structure of brick, built the year before at a cost of a hundred thousand weight of tobacco, of which my aunt had contributed a tenth. The other members of the congregation awaited our arrival, grouped before the door, and, entering after us, remained decently standing till we had mounted to the loft and taken our seats, a show of deference which greatly pleased my aunt. The church was built in a little recess from the road, in the midst of a grove of ancient trees, cruciform, as so many others were throughout the colony, and stands today just as it stood then,—as I have good cause to know, for 't was in that church, before that altar—But there, you shall learn it all in time.

Doctor Scott was a goodly preacher, but the one portion of the service for me was the singing, when I might stand beside Dorothy and listen to her voice. She sang with whole heart and undivided mind, recking nothing of me standing spellbound there. Indeed, I think the pastor shrewdly saw that her singing was a means of grace no less than his expounding, and he never failed to journey to Riverview on a Friday to talk over with her what should be her part in the service on the coming Sunday. Nor did I ever know her to refuse this labor,—not because she was vain of her power, but because she saw the good it did.

The service once over, there were greetings to exchange, the news of the neighborhood to talk over, crops to discuss, and what not. My heart would burn within me as I saw the men buzzing about Dorothy like flies about a dish of honey, though my jealousy was lightened when I saw that while she had a gay word for each of them, she smiled on all alike. The minx could read my mind like an open book, whether I was moping in one corner of the churchyard or on the bench beside her, and she loved to tease me by pretending great admiration for this man or that, and consulting me about him as she would have done a brother. Which, I need hardly say, annoyed me vastly.

The gossip over, we drove home again to lunch, after which, on the wide veranda or the bench by the river's edge, I would read Dorothy some bits of Mr. Addison or Mr. Pope, which latter she could not abide, though his pungent verses fell in exceeding well with my melancholy humor. Evening past and bedtime come, I lighted Dorothy's candle for her at the table in the lower hall, where the silver sticks were set out in their nightly array like French soldiers, gleaming all in white, and when I gave it to her and bade her good-night at the stair-foot, I got her hand to hold for an instant. Then to my room, where over innumerable pipes of sweet-scented, I struggled with some halting verses of my own until my candle guttered in its stick.

Hours and hours did I pass thinking how I might tell her of my love, but at the last I concluded it were better to say nothing, until I had something more to offer her. What right had I, I questioned bitterly, to offer marriage to any maid, when I had no home to which to take a wife, and I had never felt the irksomeness of my circumstances as I did at that moment. Something of my thought she must have understood, for she was very kind to me, and never by any word or act showed that she thought of the poverty of my condition.

So August and September passed, and great events were stirring. The House of Burgesses had met, and had been much impressed by the showing we had made against the French, so that they passed a vote of thanks to Colonel Washington for his distinguished services, and to the officers and men who had been with him. Dinwiddie was most eager that another advance should be made at once against Duquesne, but Colonel Washington pointed out how hopeless any such attempt must be against the overwhelming odds the enemy would bring against us.

The news of French aggression on the Ohio and of our defeat at Fort Necessity had opened the eyes of the court to the danger which threatened the colonies, and great preparations were set on foot for an expedition to be sent to Virginia in the early spring. Parliament voted L50,000 toward its expenses, and it was proposed to equip it on such a scale that the French could not hope to stand before it. So it was decided that nothing more should be attempted by the colony until the forces from England had arrived. And then, one day, came the astounding news that Colonel Washington had resigned from the service and returned to Mount Vernon. A negro whom Dorothy had sent on some errand to Betty Washington had brought the news back with him. I could scarcely credit it, and was soon galloping toward Mount Vernon to confirm it for myself. I dare say the ten miles of river road were never more quickly covered. As I turned into the broad graveled way which led past the garden up to the house, I saw a tall and well-known figure standing before the door, and he came toward me with a smile as I threw myself from the saddle.

"Ah, Tom," he cried, "I thought I should see you soon," and he took my hand warmly.

"Is it true," I asked, too anxious to delay an instant the solution of the mystery, "that you have left the service?"

"Yes, it is true."

"And you will not make the campaign?"

"I see no prospect now of doing so."

"But why?" I asked. "Pardon me, if I am indiscreet."

"'Tis a reason which all may know," and he smiled grimly, "which, indeed, I wish all to know, that my action may not be misjudged."

We were walking up and down before the door, and he paused a moment as though to choose his words, lest he say more than he desired.

"You know there has been great unpleasantness," he said at last, "between officers holding royal commissions and those holding provincial ones, concerning the matter of precedence. You may remember that Captain Mackay held himself my superior at Fort Necessity, because he had his commission from the crown."

Of course I remembered it, as well as the many disagreements which the contention had occasioned.

"It was evident that the question must be settled one way or another," continued Washington, "and to do this, an order has just been issued by the governor. The order provides that no officer who does not derive his commission immediately from the king can command one who does."

It was some minutes before I understood the full effect which such an order would have.

"Do you mean," I asked at last, "that you would be outranked by every subaltern in the service who holds a royal commission?"

"Unquestionably," and Washington looked away across the fields with a stern face.

"But that is an outrage!" I cried. "What, every whippersnapper in the line be your superior? Why, it's rank folly!"

"So I thought," said Washington, "and therefore I resigned, and refused to serve under such conditions."

"And you did right," I said warmly. "You could have taken no other course."

But much pressure was brought to bear upon him to get him back into the service. General Sharpe was most anxious to secure the services of the best fighter and most experienced soldier in Virginia, and urged him to accept a company of the Virginia troops; but he replied shortly that, though strongly bent to arms, he had no inclination to hold a commission to which neither rank nor emolument attached. And that remained his answer to all like importunities. Whereat the authorities were greatly wroth at him, from Governor Dinwiddie down, and seeking how they might wound him further, cut from the rolls the names of half a dozen officers whom they knew to be his friends. I was one of those who got a discharge, the reason alleged in my case being that the companies had been so reduced in number that there was not need of so many officers. It was a heavy blow to me, I admit, and I think for a time Washington wavered in his purpose; but his friends, of whom many now came to Mount Vernon, persuaded him to remain firm in his resolution, confident that when the commander-in-chief arrived and learned how matters stood, he would make every reparation in his power. At the bottom of the entire trouble was, I think, Dinwiddie's jealousy of Washington's growing popularity and influence, a jealousy which had been roused by every man who had come into great favor with the people since Dinwiddie had been lieutenant-governor of Virginia.

During the months that followed I was much at Mount Vernon. Indeed, it was during that winter that we formed the warm attachment which still continues. The family life there attracted me greatly, and I cannot sufficiently express my admiration for Mrs. Washington. She was slight and delicate of figure, but not even her eldest son, who towered above her, possessed a greater dignity or grace. I loved to sit at one corner of the great fireplace and see her eyes kindle with pride and affection as she gazed at him, nor did her other children love him less than she.

With the new year came renewed reports of activity in England. Two regiments under command of Major-General Braddock were to be sent to Virginia, whence, after being enforced by provincial levies, they were to march against the French. I need not say how both Colonel Washington and myself chafed at the thought that we were not to make the campaign; but when he suggested accepting a commission as captain of the provincial troops, his friends protested so against it that he finally abandoned the idea for good and all, and we settled down to bear the inactivity as best we could. But at last the summons came.

It was Colonel Washington's twenty-third birthday, and there was quite a celebration at Mount Vernon. The members of the family were all there, as were Dorothy, her brother, and myself, as well as many other friends from farther down the neck. Dinner was served in the long, low-ceilinged dining-room, with the wide fireplace in one corner. What a meal it was, with Mrs. Washington at the table-head and her son at the foot, yes, and Dorothy there beside me with the brightest of bright eyes! I was ever a good trencherman, and never did venison, wild turkey, and great yellow sweet potatoes taste more savorsome than they did that day, with a jar of Mrs. Washington's marmalade for relish. At the end came Pompey with a great steaming bowl of flip, and as the mugs were filled and passed from hand to hand, Dorothy and Betty Washington plunged in the red-hot irons with great hissing and sizzle and an aroma most delicious. We pledged our host, the ladies sipping from our cups—need I say who from mine?—with little startled cries of agitation when the liquor stung them. Then they left us to our pipes; but before the smoke was fairly started, there came the gallop of a horse up the roadway past the kitchen garden, and a moment later the great brass knocker was plied by a vigorous hand. We sat in mute expectancy, and presently old Pompey thrust in his head.

"Gen'leman t' see you, sah," he said to Colonel Washington.

"Show him in here, Pomp," said the colonel; and a moment later one of the governor's messengers entered, booted and spurred, his clothing splashed with mud.

"I have a message for you from the governor, Colonel Washington," he said, saluting, and holding out a letter bearing the governor's great seal.

Washington took it without a trace of emotion, though I doubt not his heart was beating as madly as my own.

"Sit down, sir," he said heartily to the messenger, "and taste our punch. I am sure you will find it excellent;" and when he had seen him seated and served, he turned away to the window and opened the letter. I watched him eagerly as he read it, and saw a slow flush steal into his cheeks.

"There is nothing here I may not tell, gentlemen," he said after a moment, turning back to the group about the table. "Governor Dinwiddie writes me that General Braddock and the first of the transports have arrived safely off Hampton, and that he desires me to meet him in Williamsburg as soon as possible, as he thinks my knowledge of the country may be of some value. I shall start in the morning," he added, turning to the messenger. "I trust you will remain and be our guest till then."

"Gladly," answered the man, "and ride back with you." So it was settled.

We were not long away from the women after that, for they must hear the great news. Colonel Washington refused to speculate about it, but I was certain he was to be proffered some employment in the coming campaign commensurate with his merit. The afternoon passed all too quickly, and the moment came for us to start back to Riverview. Dorothy ran upstairs to don her safeguard, the horses were brought out, and James and I struggled into our coats. Dorothy was back in a moment, kissed Mrs. Washington and Betty, and I helped her adjust her mask and lifted her to the saddle. I felt my cheeks burning as I turned to bid good-by to Colonel Washington, who had followed us from the house.

"If it should be an appointment," I began, as I grasped his hand.

"You maybe sure I shall not forget you, Tom," he said, smiling down into my eager face. "I think it very likely that we shall march together to fight the French."

And those last words rang in my ears all the way back to Riverview.



CHAPTER XII

DOROTHY MAKES HER CHOICE

I had been much from home during the winter, and, engrossed in my own thoughts, had taken small account of what was passing, but I soon found enough to occupy me. Dorothy had spent a month at Mount Pleasant, the seat of the Lees, some distance down the river, and when she returned, I soon began to suspect that she had left her heart there; for one day there came riding up to Riverview Mr. Willoughby Newton, whose estate was near Mount Pleasant, and the way that Dorothy blushed when she welcomed him aroused my ire at once. Now Mr. Willoughby Newton was a very handsome and proper gentleman, and on his broad acres grew some of the sweetest tobacco that ever left Virginia; but I could scarce treat him civilly, which only shows what an insufferable puppy I still was, and I made myself most miserable. His learning was more of the court and camp than of the bookshelf,—a defect which I soon discovered,—and I loved to set him tripping over some quibble of words, a proceeding which amused me vastly, though my mirth was shared by none of the others who witnessed it. In fact, Madame Stewart was partial to the man from the first, in which I do not blame her, for a better match could not have been desired for her daughter. She made him see his welcome, and he doubtless thought the road to Dorothy's heart a fair and easy one. I certainly thought so, and I spent my days in moping about the place, cutting a most melancholy and unattractive figure.

I can look back now with a smile upon those days, realizing what a ridiculous sight I must have been, but at the time, their tragedy was for me a very real and living one. Newton had passed some years in London, and had picked up there the graces of the court, as well as much of its frippery gossip, which latter he was fond of retailing, to my great disgust, but to the vast entertainment of the ladies, who found no fault with it, though it was four or five years old. He could tell a story well and turn a joke to a nicety,—a fact which I was at that time far from admitting,—and under other circumstances I should have found him a witty and amusing friend. I think he soon saw what my feelings were,—indeed, even a more obtuse man would have had no difficulty in understanding them,—and he treated me with a good-humored condescension which irritated me beyond measure. And yet, unquestionably, it was the only treatment my behavior merited.

The climax came one evening after dinner. We had both, perhaps, had a glass of wine too much before we joined the ladies. Certainly, no words had passed between us when they had left the table, and there was nothing to do but drink, which we did with moody perseverance. But once before the fire in the great hall, with Madame Stewart knitting on one side and Dorothy bending over her tambour on the other, his mood changed and he grew talkative enough, while I sat down near the candles and pretended to be absorbed in a book.

"Do you know, ladies," he said, "this reminds me of nothing so much as a night in London just five years ago, when the great earthquake was. We were sitting around the fire, just as we are siting now, Tommy Collier on my right, and Harry Sibley on my left, when the bottles on the table began to clink and the windows to rattle, and poor Harry, who was leaning back in his chair, crashed over backwards to the floor. We picked him up and went out into the street, where there was confusion worse confounded. Windows were thrown open, women were running up and down clad only in their smocks, and one fellow had mounted a barrel and was calling on the people to repent because the Day of Judgment was at hand. Somebody predicted there would be another earthquake in a week, and so the next day the people began to pour out of town, not because they were frightened, but 'Lord, the weather is so fine,' they said, 'one can't help going into the country.'"

"You found the country very pleasant, Mr. Newton, I dare say," I remarked, looking up from my book. He did not at once understand the meaning of my question, but Dorothy did, and flushed crimson with anger. The sight of her disapproval and Madame Stewart's frowning face maddened me.

"No," he said slowly, after a moment, "I did not leave the city, but hundreds of people did. Within three days, over seven hundred coaches were counted passing Hyde Park corner, with whole families going to the country. The clergy preached that it was judgment on London for its wickedness, and that the next earthquake would swallow up the whole town. The ridotto had to be put off because there was no one to attend it, and the women who remained in town spent their time between reading Sherlock's sermons and making earthquake gowns, in which they proposed to sit out of doors all night."

"Pray, what was the color of your gown, Mr. Newton?" I inquired, with a polite show of interest.

Newton rose slowly from his chair and came toward me.

"Am I to understand that you mean to insult me, sir?" he asked, when he had got quite near.

"You are to understand whatever you please," I answered hotly, throwing my book upon the table.

"Tom," cried Dorothy, "for shame, sir! Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Do not be frightened, I beg of you, Miss Randolph," interrupted Newton, restraining her with one hand. "I assure you that I have no intention of injuring the boy."

"Injuring me, indeed!" I cried, springing to my feet, furious with rage, for I could not bear to be patronized. "It is you who are insulting, and by God you shall answer for it!"

"As you will," he said, with a light laugh, and turned back to the fire.

I knew that I had got all the worst of the encounter, that I had behaved with a rudeness for which there was no excuse, and that I cut a sorry figure standing there, and my face burned at the knowledge. But preserving what semblance of dignity I could, I stalked from the hall and upstairs to my room. I sat a long time thinking over the occurrence, and the more I pondered it, the more clearly I saw that I had played the fool. I did not know then, but I learned long afterward, that my conduct that night came near losing me the great happiness of my life. My cheeks flush even now as I think of my behavior. How foolish do the tragedies of youth appear, once time has tamed the blood!

I did not wonder in the morning to receive a summons from my aunt, and I found her in her accustomed chair before the table piled with papers. She glanced at me coldly as I entered, and finished looking over a paper she held in her hand before she spoke to me.

"I need not tell you," she said at length, "how greatly your boorish conduct of last night surprised me. To insult a guest, and especially to do so without provocation, is not the part of a gentleman."

I flushed angrily, for the justness of this statement only irritated me the more. I think it is always the man who is in the wrong that shows the greatest violence, and the man that most deserves rebuke who is most impatient of it.

"There is no need for you to counsel me how a gentleman should behave," I answered hotly.

"I did not summon you here to counsel you," she said still more coldly, "but to inform you that this disgraceful affair is to go no further, at least beneath this roof. Mr. Newton has promised me to overlook your behavior, which is most generous on his part, and I trust you will see the wisdom of making peace with him."

"And why, may I ask, madame?"

"Because," she said, looking me in the eyes, "it is most likely that he will marry my daughter, and nothing is more vulgar than a family whose members are forever quarreling."

I clenched my hands until the nails pierced the flesh. She had hit me a hard blow, and she knew it.

"And what does Dorothy think of this arrangement?" I asked, with as great composure as I could muster.

She smiled with a calm assurance which made my heart sink. "Dorothy would be a fool not to accept him, for he is one of the most eligible gentlemen in Virginia. Indeed, perhaps she has already done so, for I gave him leave to speak to her this morning," and she smiled again as she noted my trembling hands, which I tried in vain to steady. "You seem much interested in the matter."

I turned from her without replying,—I could trust myself no further. Not that I blamed her for hating me,—for she loved her son and I was the shadow across his path,—but she was pressing me further than I had counted on. I snatched up my hat as I ran along the hall and out the great door toward the river. Spring was coming, the trees were shaking out their foliage, along the river the wild flowers were beginning to show their tiny faces, but I saw none of these as I broke my way through the brush along the water's edge,—for perhaps even now he was asking Dorothy to be his wife, and she was yielding to him. The thought maddened me,—yet why should she do otherwise? What claim had I upon her? And yet I had builded such a different future for her and me.

I had walked I know not how long when I came out suddenly upon the road which wound along the bank and finally dipped to the ferry, and here I sat down upon a log to think. If Dorothy accepted him, I could no longer stay at Riverview. I must go away to Williamsburg and seek employment in the campaign, if only as a ranger. It must soon commence, and surely they would not refuse me in the ranks. As I sat absorbed in bitter thought, I heard the sound of hoof beats up the road and saw a horseman coming. I drew back behind a tree, for I was in no mood to talk to any one, and gloomily watched him as he drew nearer. There seemed something strangely familiar about the figure, and in an instant I recognized him. It was Willoughby Newton. In another moment he had passed, his face a picture of rage and shame. He was riding away from Riverview in anger, and as I realized what that meant, I sprang forward with a great cry of joy. He must have heard me, for he turned in the saddle and shook his whip at me, and for an instant drew rein as though to stop. But he thought better of it, for he settled again in the saddle, and was soon out of sight down the road.

I had not waited so long, for settling my hat on my head, I set off up the road as fast as my legs would carry me. It seemed to me I should never reach the house, and I cursed the folly which had taken me so far away, but at last I ran up the steps and into the hall. As I entered, I caught a glimpse of a well-known gown in the hall above, and in an instant I was up the stairs.

"Dorothy!" I gasped, seizing one of her hands, "Dorothy, tell me, you have told him no?"

I must have been a surprising object, covered with dust and breathless, but she leaned toward me and gave me her other hand.

"Yes, Tom," she said very softly, "I told him no. I do not love him, Tom, and I could not marry a man I do not love."

"Oh, Dorothy," I cried, "if you knew how glad I am! If you knew how I was raging along the river at the very thought that he was asking you, and fearing for your reply; for he is a very fine fellow, Dorothy," and I realized with amazement that all my resentment and anger against Newton had vanished in an instant. "But when I saw him ride by like a madman, I knew you had said no, and I came back as fast as I could to make certain."

Somehow, as I was speaking, I had drawn her toward me, and my arm was around her.

"Can you not guess, dear Dolly," I whispered "why I was so angry with him last night? It was because I knew he was going to ask you, and I feared that you might say yes."

I could feel her trembling now, and would have bent and kissed her, but that she sprang from me with a little frightened cry, and I turned to see her mother standing in the hall below.

"So," she said, mounting the steps with an ominous calmness, "my daughter sees fit to reject the addresses of Mr. Newton and yet receive those of Mr. Stewart. I perceive now why he was so deeply concerned in what I had to tell him this morning. May I ask, Mr. Stewart, if you consider yourself a good match for my daughter?"

"Good match or not, madame," I cried, "I love her, and if she will have me, she shall be my wife!"

"Fine talk!" she sneered. "To what estate will you take her, sir? On what income will you support her? My daughter has been accustomed to a gentle life."

"And if I have no estate to which to take her," I cried, "if I have no income by which to support her, remember, madame, that it is from choice, not from necessity!"

I could have bit my tongue the moment the words were out. Her anger had carried her further than she intended going, but for my ungenerous retort there was no excuse.

"Am I to understand this is a threat?" she asked, very pale, but quite composed.

"No, it is not a threat," I answered. "The words were spoken in anger, and I am sorry for them. I have already told you my intentions in that matter, and have no purpose to change my mind. I will win myself a name and an estate, and then I will come back and claim your daughter. We shall soon both be of age."

She laughed bitterly.

"Until that day, then, Mr. Stewart," she said, "I must ask you to have no further intercourse with her. Perhaps at Williamsburg you will find a more congenial lodging while you are making your fortune."

My blood rushed to my face at the insult, and I could not trust myself to answer.

"Come, Dorothy," she continued, "you will go to your room," and she pushed her on before her.

I watched them until they turned into the other corridor, and then went slowly down the stairs. As I emerged upon the walk before the house, I saw a negro riding up, whom I recognized as one of Colonel Washington's servants. Some message for Dorothy from Betty Washington, no doubt, and I turned moodily back toward the stables to get out my horse, for I was determined to leave the place without delay. But I was arrested by the negro calling to me.

"What is it, Sam?" I asked, as he cantered up beside me.

"Lettah f'um Kuhnal Washin'ton, sah," he said, and handed me the missive.

I tore it open with a trembling hand.

DEAR TOM [it ran],—I have procured you an appointment as lieutenant in Captain Waggoner's company of Virginia troops, which are to make the campaign with General Braddock. They are now in barracks at Winchester, where you will join them as soon as possible.

Your friend, G. WASHINGTON.

"Sam," I said, "go back to the kitchen and tell Sukey to fill you up on the best she's got," and I turned and ran into the house. I tapped at the door of my aunt's room, and her voice bade me enter.

"I have just received a note from Colonel Washington," I said, "in which he tells me that he has secured me a commission as lieutenant for the campaign, so I will not need to trespass on your hospitality longer than to-morrow morning."

There was a queer gleam in her eyes, which I thought I could read aright.

"Yes, there are many chances in war," I said bitterly, "and I am as like as another to fall."

"I am not quite so bloodthirsty as you seem to think," she answered coldly, "and perhaps a moment ago I spoke more harshly than I intended. Everything you need for the journey you will please ask for. I wish you every success."

"Thank you," I said, and left the room. My pack was soon made, for I had seen enough of frontier fighting to know no extra baggage would be permitted, and then I roamed up and down the house in hope of seeing Dorothy. But she was nowhere visible, and at last I gave up the search and went to bed.

I was up long before daylight, donned my old uniform, saw my horse fed and saddled, ate my breakfast, and was ready to go. I took a last look around my room, picked up my pack, and started down the stairs.

"Tom," whispered a voice above me, and I looked up and saw her. "Quick, quick," she whispered, "say good-by."

"Oh, my love!" I cried, and I drew her lips down to mine.

"And you will not forget me, Tom?" she said. "I shall pray for you every night and morning till you come back to me. Good-by."

"Forget you, Dolly? Nay, that will never be." And as I rode away through the bleak, gray morning, the mist rolling up from hill and river disclosed a world of wondrous fairness.

Which brings me back again to the camp at Winchester,—but what a journey it has been! As I look back, nothing strikes me so greatly as the length of the way by which I have come. I had thought that some dozen pages at the most would suffice for my introduction, but memory has led my pen along many a by-path, and paused beside a score of half-forgotten landmarks. Well, as it was written, so let it stand, for my heart is in it.



CHAPTER XIII

LIEUTENANT ALLEN SHOWS HIS SKILL

The days dragged on at Winchester, as days in camp will, and I accepted no more invitations to mess with the officers of the line. Indeed, I received none, and we provincial officers kept to ourselves. Major Washington had returned to Mount Vernon, but I found many of my old friends with the troops, so had no lack of company. There was Captain Waggoner, who had got his promotion eight months before, and Peyronie, recovered of his wound and eager for another bout with the French. He also had been promoted for his gallantry, and now had his own company of rangers. There was Captain Polson, for whom a tragic fate was waiting, and my old captain, Adam Stephen. And there was Carolus Spiltdorph, advanced to a lieutenancy like myself, and by great good fortune in my company. We began to chum together at once,—sharing our blankets and tobacco,—and continued so until the end.

Another friend I also found in young Harry Marsh, a son of Colonel Henry Marsh, who owned a plantation some eight or ten miles above the Frederick ferry, and a cousin of my aunt. Colonel Marsh had stopped one day at Riverview, while on his way home from Hampton, and had made us all promise to return his visit, but so many affairs had intervened that the promise had never been kept. The boy, who was scarce nineteen, had secured a berth as ensign in Peyronie's company, and he came frequently with his captain to our quarters to listen with all his ears to our stories of the Fort Necessity affair. He was a fresh, wholehearted fellow, and though he persisted in considering us all as little less than heroes, was himself heroic as any, as I was in the end to learn. We were a hearty and good-tempered company, and spent our evenings together most agreeably, discussing the campaign and the various small happenings of the camp. But as Spiltdorph shrewdly remarked, we were none of us so sanguinary as we had been a year before. I have since observed that the more a man sees of war, the less his eagerness for blood.

From Lieutenant Allen I kept aloof as much as possible, and he on his part took no notice whatever of me. Some rumor of my affair with him had got about the camp, but as neither of us would say a word concerning it, it was soon forgot in the press of greater matters. Whatever Allen's personal character may have been, it is not to be denied that he labored with us faithfully, though profanely, drilling us up and down the camp till we were near fainting in the broiling sun, or exercising us in arms for hours together, putting us through the same movement a hundred times, till we had done it to his satisfaction. We grumbled of course, among ourselves, but at the end of another fortnight the result of his work began to be apparent, and Sir Peter Halket, when he inspected us just before starting for Fort Cumberland, as the fortification at Will's Creek was named, expressed himself well pleased with the progress we had made.

For the order to advance came at last, and after a two weeks' weary journey along the road which had been widened for the passage of wagons and artillery, we reached our destination and went into quarters there. The barracks were much better appointed than were the ones at Winchester, for this was to be the rendezvous of the entire force, and the independent companies which Colonel Washington had stationed here the previous summer had been at work all winter clearing the ground and building the fort. They had cleared a wide space in the forest, and on a little hill some two hundred yards from Will's Creek and four hundred from the Potomac, had erected the stockade. It was near two hundred yards in length from east to west, and some fifty in width, but rude enough, consisting merely of a row of logs set upright in the ground and projecting some twelve feet above it, loopholed, and sharpened at the top. There were embrasures for twelve cannon, ten of which, all four-pounders, were already mounted. Though frail as it could well be, it was deemed sufficient to withstand any attack likely to be brought against it. A great two-storied barrack for the officers of the line had been erected within the stockade, and two magazines of heavy timber. The men were camped about the fort, and half a mile away through the forest a hundred Indians had pitched their wigwams. And here, on the tenth of May, came the Forty-Eighth under Colonel Dunbar, and General Braddock himself in his great traveling chariot, his staff riding behind and a body of light horse on either side. We were paraded to welcome him, the drums rolled out the grenadiers, the seventeen guns prescribed by the regulations were fired, and the campaign was on in earnest.

The morning of the next day, the general held his first levee in his tent, and all the officers called to pay their respects. He was a heavy-set, red-faced man of some sixty years, with long, straight nose, aggressive, pointed chin, and firm-set lips, and though he greeted us civilly enough, there was a touch of insolence in his manner which he made small effort to conceal, and which showed that it was not upon the Virginia troops he placed reliance. Still, there was that in his heavy-featured face and in his bearing which bespoke the soldier, and I remembered Fontenoy and the record he had made there. In the afternoon, there was a general review, and he rode up and down with his staff in front of the whole force, most gorgeous in gold lace and brilliant accoutrement. Of the twenty-two hundred men he looked at that day, the nine Virginia companies found least favor in his eyes, for he deemed them listless and mean-spirited,—an opinion which he was at no pains to keep to himself, and which had the effect of making the bearing of his officers toward us even more insulting.

As we were drawn up there in line, the orders for the camp were published, the articles of war were read to us, and in the days that followed there was great show of discipline. But it was only show, for there was little real order, and even here on the edge of the settlements, the food was so bad and so scarce that foraging parties were sent to the neighboring plantations to seize what they could find, and a general market established in the camp. To encourage the people to bring in provisions, the price was raised a penny a pound, and any person who ventured to interfere with one bringing provisions, or offered to buy of him before he reached the public market, was to suffer death. These regulations produced some supplies, though very little when compared to our great needs.

A thing which encouraged me greatly to believe in the sagacity of our commander was the pains he took to engage the good offices of the Indians,—such of them, that is, as had not already been hopelessly estranged by the outrages committed upon them by traders and frontiersmen. Mr. Croghan, one of the best known of the traders, had brought some fifty warriors to the camp, together with their women and children, and on the morning of the twelfth, a congress was held at the general's tent to receive them. All the officers were there, and when the Indians were brought, the guard received them with firelocks rested. There was great powwowing and smoking the pipe, and the general gave them a belt of wampum and many presents, and urged them to take up the hatchet against the French. This they agreed to do, and doubtless would have done, but for the conduct of some of the officers of the line.

The Indian camp, with its bark wigwams and tall totem pole, had become a great place of resort with certain of the officers. They had been attracted first by the dancing and queer customs of the savages, and had they come away when once their curiosity was satisfied, little harm had been done. Unfortunately, after looking at the men they looked at the women, and found some of them not unattractive. So, for want of something better to do, they set about debauching them, and succeeded so well that the warriors finally took their women away from the camp in disgust, and never again came near it. Other Indians appeared from time to time, but after begging all the rum and presents they could get, they left the camp and we never saw them again. Many of them were Delawares, doubtless sent as spies by the French. Another visitor was Captain Jack, the Black Rifle, known and feared by the Indians the whole length of the frontier. He had sworn undying vengeance against them, having come home to his cabin one night to find his wife and children butchered, and had roamed from the Carolinas to the Saint Lawrence, leaving a trail of Indian blood behind him. He would have made a most useful ally, but he took offense at some fancied slight, and one day abruptly disappeared in the forest.

Never during all these weeks did the regulars get over their astonishment at sight of the tall warriors stalking through the camp, painted in red, yellow, and black, and greased from head to foot, their ears slit, their heads shaved save for the scalp-lock with its tuft of feathers; nor did they cease to wonder at their skill in throwing the tomahawk and shooting with the rifle, a skill of which we were to have abundant proof erelong.

It was not until four or five days after his arrival with General Braddock that I had opportunity to see Colonel Washington. I met him one evening as I was returning from guard duty, and I found him looking so pale and dispirited that I was startled.

"You are not ill?" I cried, as I grasped his hand.

"Ill rather in spirit than in body, Tom," he answered, with a smile. "Life in the general's tent is not a happy one. He has met with nothing but vexation, worry, and delay since he has been in the colony, and I believe he looks upon the country as void of honor and honesty. I try to show him that he has seen only the darker side, and we have frequent disputes, which sometimes wax very warm, for he is incapable of arguing without growing angry. Not that I blame him greatly," he added, with a sigh, "for the way the colonies have acted in this matter is inexcusable. Wagons, horses, and provisions which were promised us are not forthcoming, and without them we are stalled here beyond hope of advance."

He passed his hand wearily before his eyes, and we walked some time in silence.

"'Tis this delay which is ruining our great chance of success," he continued at last. "Could we have reached the fort before the French could reinforce it, the garrison must have deserted it or surrendered to us. But now they will have time to send whatever force they wish into the Ohio valley, and rouse all the Indian tribes for a hundred miles around. For with the Indians, the French have played a wiser part than the English, Tom, and have kept them ever their friends, while to-day we have not an Indian in the camp."

"They will return," I said. "They have all promised to return."

Washington shook his head.

"They will not return. Gist knows the Indians as few other white men do, and he assures me that they will not return."

"Well," I retorted hotly, "Indians or no Indians, the French cannot hope to resist successfully an army such as ours."

For a moment Washington said nothing.

"You must not think me a croaker, Tom," and he smiled down at me again, "but indeed I see many chances of failure. Even should we reach Fort Duquesne in safety, we will scarce be in condition to besiege it, unless the advance is conducted with rare skill and foresight."

I had nothing to say in answer, for in truth I believed he was looking too much on the dark side, and yet did not like to tell him so.

"How do you find the general?" I asked.

"A proud, obstinate, brave man," he said, "who knows the science of war, perhaps, but who is ill fitted to cope with the difficulties he has met here and has still to meet. His great needs are patience and diplomacy and a knowledge of Indian warfare. I would he had been with us last year behind the walls of Fort Necessity."

"He has good advisers," I suggested. "Surely you can tell him what occurred that day."

But again Washington shook his head.

"My advice, such as I have ventured to give him, has been mostly thrown away. But his two other aides are good men,—Captain Orme and Captain Morris,—and may yet bring him to reason. The general's secretary, Mr. Shirley, is also an able man, but knows nothing of war. Indeed, he accepted the position to learn something of the art, but I fancy is disgusted with what knowledge he has already gained. As to the other officers, there is little to say. Some are capable, but most are merely insolent and ignorant, and all of them aim rather at displaying their own abilities than strengthening the hands of the general. In fact, Tom, I have regretted a score of times that I ever consented to make the campaign."

"But if you had not, where should I have been?" I protested.

"At least, you had been in no danger from Lieutenant Allen's sword," he laughed. "I have heard many stories of his skill since I have been in camp, and perhaps it is as well he was in wine that night, and so not at his best. How has he used you since?"

"Why, in truth," I said, somewhat nettled at his reference to Allen's skill, "he has not so much as shown that he remembers me. But I shall remind him of our engagement once the campaign is ended, and shall ask my second to call upon him."

Washington laughed again, and I was glad to see that I had taken his mind off his own affairs.

"I shall be at your service then, Tom," he said. "Remember, he is one of the best swordsmen in the army, and you will do well to keep in practice. Do not grow over-confident;" and he bade me good-by and turned back to the general's quarters.

I thought his advice well given, and the very next day, to my great delight, found in Captain Polson's company John Langlade, the man of whom I had taken a dozen lessons at Williamsburg. He was very ready to accept the chance to add a few shillings to his pay, so for an hour every morning we exercised in a little open space behind the stockade. I soon found with great satisfaction that I could hold my own against him, though he was accounted a good swordsman, and he complimented me more than once on my strength of wrist and quickness of eye.

We were hard at it one morning, when I heard some one approaching, and, glancing around, saw that it was Lieutenant Allen. I flushed crimson with chagrin, for that he guessed the reason of my diligence with the foils, I could not doubt. But I continued my play as though I had not seen him, and for some time he stood watching us with a dry smile.

"Very pretty," he said at last, as we stopped to breathe. "If all the Virginia troops would spend their mornings to such advantage, I should soon make soldiers of them despite themselves. Rapier play is most useful when one is going to fight the French, who are masters at it. I fear my own arm is growing rusty," he added carelessly. "Lend me your foil a moment, Lieutenant Stewart."

I handed it to him without a word, wondering what the man would be at. He took it nonchalantly, tested it, and turned to Langlade.

"Will you cross with me?" he said, and as Langlade nodded, he saluted and they engaged. Almost before the ring of the first parade had died away, Langlade's foil was flying through the air, and Allen was smiling blandly into his astonished face.

"An accident, I do not doubt," he said coolly. "Such accidents will happen sometimes. Will you try again?"

Langlade pressed his lips together, and without replying, picked up his foil. I saw him measure Allen with his eye, and then they engaged a second time. For a few moments, Allen contented himself with standing on the defensive, parrying Langlade's savage thrusts with a coolness which nothing could shake and an art that was consummate. Then he bent to the attack, and touched his adversary on breast and arm and thigh, his point reaching its mark with ease and seeming slowness.

"Really, I must go," he said at length. "The bout has done me a world of good. I trust you will profit by the lesson, Lieutenant Stewart," and he handed me back my foil, smiled full into my eyes, and walked away.

We both stared after him, until he turned the corner and was out of sight.

"He's the devil himself," gasped Langlade, as our eyes met. "I have never felt such a wrist. Did you see how he disarmed me? 'Twas no accident. My fingers would have broken in an instant more, had I not let go the foil. Who is he?"

"Lieutenant Allen, of the Forty-Fourth," I answered as carelessly as I could.

Langlade fell silent a moment.

"I have heard of him," he said at last. "I do not wonder he disarmed me. 'Twas he who met the Comte d'Artois, the finest swordsman in the French Guards, in a little wood on the border of Holland, one morning, over some affair of honor. They had agreed that it should be to the death."

"And what was the result?" I questioned, looking out over the camp as though little interested in the answer.

"Can you doubt?" asked Langlade. "Allen returned to England without a scratch, and his opponent was carried back to Paris with a sword-thrust through his heart, and buried beside his royal relatives at Saint Denis. I pity any man who is called upon to face him. He has need to be a master."

I nodded gloomily, put up the foils, and returned to my quarters, for I was in no mood for further exercise that morning. What Allen had meant by his last remark I could not doubt. The lesson I was to profit by was that I should stand no chance against him.



CHAPTER XIV

I CHANCE UPON A TRAGEDY

As the first weeks of May passed, we slowly got into shape for the advance, and I began to realize the magnitude of the task before us. Our march to Great Meadows the year before, arduous as it had been, was mere child's play to this, and I did not wonder that on every hand the general found himself confronting obstacles well-nigh insurmountable. And each day, as though to cover other defects, the discipline grew more exacting. Arms were constantly inspected and overhauled; roll was called morning, noon, and night; each regiment attended divine service around the colors every Sabbath, though neither officers nor men got much good from it that I could see; guard mount occurred each morning at eight o'clock; every man was supplied with twenty-four rounds and extra flints, and also a new shirt, a new pair of stockings and of shoes, and Osnabrig waistcoats and breeches, the heat making the others insupportable, and with bladders for their hats.

On the sixteenth, Colonel Gage, with two companies of the Forty-Fourth and the last division of the train, toiled into camp, very weary and travel-stained, and on this day, too, was the first death among the officers, Captain Bromley, of Sir Peter Halket's, succumbing to dysentery. Two days later, we all attended his funeral, and a most impressive sight it was. A captain's guard marched before the coffin, their firelocks reversed, and the drums beating the dead march. At the grave the guard formed on either side, and the coffin, with sword and sash upon it, was carried in between and lowered into place. The service was read by Chaplain Hughes, of the Forty-Fourth, the guard fired three volleys over the grave, and we returned to quarters.

There was a great demonstration next day to impress some Indians that had come into camp. All the guns were fired, and drums and fifes were set to beating and playing the point-of-war, and then four or five companies of regulars were put through their manoeuvres. The Indians were vastly astonished at seeing them move together as one man, and even to us provincials it was a thrilling and impressive sight. And on the twentieth happened one of the pleasantest incidents of the whole campaign.

The great difficulty which confronted our commander from the first was the lack of means of transport. Of the three thousand horses and three hundred wagons promised from the colonies, only two hundred horses and twenty wagons were forthcoming, so that for a time it seemed that the expedition must be abandoned. Small wonder the general raved and swore at provincial perfidy and turpitude, the more so when it was discovered that a great part of the provision furnished for the army was utterly worthless, and the two hundred horses scarce able to stand upon their feet.

Let me say here that I believe this purblind policy of delaying the expedition instead of freely aiding it had much to do with the result. Virginia did her part with some degree of willingness, but Pennsylvania, whence the general expected to draw a great part of his transport and provision, would do nothing. The Assembly spent its time bickering with the governor, and when asked to contribute toward its own defense, made the astounding statement that "they had rather the French should conquer them than give up their privileges." Some of them even asserted that there were no French, but that the whole affair was a scheme of the politicians, and acted, to use Dinwiddie's words, as though they had given their senses a long holiday.

Yet, strangely enough, it was from a Pennsylvanian that aid came at last, for just when matters were at their worst and the general in despair, there came to his quarters at Frederick a very famous gentleman,—more famous still in the troublous times which are upon us now,—Mr. Benjamin Franklin, of Philadelphia, director of posts in the colonies and sometime printer of "Poor Richard." The general received him as his merit warranted, and explained to him our difficulties. Mr. Franklin, as Colonel Washington told me afterward, listened to it all with close attention, putting in a keen question now and then, and at the end said he believed he could secure us horses and wagons from his friends among the Pennsylvania Dutch, who were ever ready to turn an honest penny. So he wrote them a diplomatic letter, and the result was that, beside near a hundred furnished earlier, there came to us at Cumberland on the twentieth above eighty wagons, each with four horses, and the general declared Mr. Franklin the only honest man he had met in America. We, too, had cause to remember him, for all the officers were summoned to the general's tent, and there was distributed to each of us a package containing a generous supply of sugar, tea, coffee, chocolate, cheese, butter, wine, spirits, hams, tongues, rice, and raisins, the gift of Mr. Franklin and the Philadelphia Assembly.

There was high carnival in our tent that night, as you may well believe. We were all there, all who had been present at Fort Necessity, and not since the campaign opened had we sat down to such a feast. And when the plates were cleared away and only the pipes and wine remained, Peyronie sang us a song in French, and Spiltdorph one in German, and Polson one in Gaelic, and old Christopher Gist, who stuck in his head to see what was toward, was pressed to pay for his entertainment by giving us a Cherokee war-song, which he did with much fire and spirit. We sat long into the night talking of the past and of the future, and of the great things we were going to accomplish. Nor did we forget to draft a letter of most hearty thanks to Mr. Franklin, which was sent him, together with many others, among them one from Sir Peter Halket himself.

The arrival of the wagons had done much to solve the problem of transport, and on the next day preparations for the advance began in earnest. The whole force of carpenters was put to work building a bridge across the creek, the smiths sharpened the axes, and the bakers baked a prodigious number of little biscuits for us to carry on the march. Two hundred pioneers were sent out to cut the road, and from one end of the camp to the other was the stir of preparation.

So two days passed, and on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, Spiltdorph and myself crossed the creek on the bridge, which was well-nigh completed, and walked on into the forest to see what progress the pioneers were making. We each took a firelock with us in hope of knocking over some game for supper, to help out our dwindling larder. We found that the pioneers had cut a road twelve feet wide some two miles into the forest. It was a mere tunnel between the trees, whose branches overtopped it with a roof of green, but it had been leveled with great care,—more care than I thought necessary,—and would give smooth going to the wagons and artillery. We reached the end of the road, where the axemen were laboring faithfully, and after watching them for a time, were turning back to camp, when Spiltdorph called my attention to the peculiar appearance of the ground about us. We were in the midst of a grove of chestnuts, and the leaves beneath them for rods around had been turned over and the earth freshly raked up.

"What under heaven could have caused that?" asked Spiltdorph.

"Wild turkeys," I answered quickly, for I had often seen the like under beeches and oaks as well as chestnuts. "Come on," I added, "perhaps they are not far away."

"All right," said Spiltdorph, "a wild turkey would go exceeding well on our table;" and he followed me into the forest. The turkeys had evidently been frightened away by the approach of the pioneers, and had stopped here and there to hunt for food, so that their track was easily followed. I judged they could not be far away, and was looking every moment to see their blue heads bobbing about among the underbrush, when I heard a sharp fusilade of shots ahead.

"Somebody 's found 'em!" I cried. "Come on. Perhaps we can get some yet."

We tore through a bit of marshy ground, up a slight hill, and came suddenly to the edge of a little clearing. One glance into it sent me headlong behind a bush, and I tripped up Spiltdorph beside me.

"Good God, man!" he cried, but I had my hand over his mouth before he could say more.

"Be still," I whispered "an you value your life. Look over there."

He peered around the bush and saw what I had seen, a dozen Indians in full war paint busily engaged in setting fire to a log cabin which stood in the middle of the clearing. They were going about the task in unwonted silence, doubtless because of the nearness of our troops, and a half dozen bodies, two of women and four of children, scattered on the ground before the door, showed how completely they had done their work. Even as we looked, two of them picked up the body of one of the women and threw it into the burning house.

"The devils!" groaned Spiltdorph. "Oh, the devils!" and I felt my own blood boiling in my veins.

"Come, we must do something!" I said. "We can kill two of them and reload and kill two more before they can reach us. They will not dare pursue us far toward the camp, and may even run at the first fire."

"Good!" said Spiltdorph, between his teeth. "Pick your man;" but before I could reply he had jerked his musket to his shoulder with a cry of rage and fired. An Indian had picked up one of the children, which must have been only wounded, since it was crying lustily, and was just about to pitch it on the fire, when Spiltdorph's bullet caught him full in the breast. He threw up his hands and fell like a log, the child under him. Quick as a flash, I fired and brought down another. For an instant the Indians stood dazed at the suddenness of the attack, and then with a yell they broke for the other side of the clearing. Spiltdorph would have started down toward the house, but I held him back.

"Not yet," I said. "They will stop so soon as they get to cover. Wait a bit."

We waited for half an hour, watching the smoke curling over the house, and then, judging that the Indians had made off for fear of being ambushed, we crossed the clearing. It took but a glance to read the story. The women had been washing by the little brook before the cabin, with the children playing about them, when the Indians had come up and with a single volley killed them all except the child we had heard crying. They had swooped down upon their victims, torn the scalps from their heads, looted the house, and set fire to it. We dragged out the body of the woman which had been thrown within, in the hope that a spark of life might yet remain, but she was quite dead. Beneath the warrior Spiltdorph had shot we found the child. It was a boy of some six or seven years, and so covered with blood that it seemed it must be dead. But we stripped it and washed it in the brook, and found no wounds upon it except in the head, where it had been struck with a hatchet before its scalp had been stripped off. The cold water brought it back to life and it began to cry again, whereat Spiltdorph took off his coat and wrapped it tenderly about it.

We washed the blood from the faces of the women and stood for a long time looking down at them. They were both comely, the younger just at the dawn of womanhood. They must have been talking merrily together, for their faces were smiling as they had been in life.

As I stood looking so, I was startled by a kind of dry sobbing at my elbow, and turned with a jerk to find a man standing there. He was leaning on his rifle, gazing down at the dead, with no sound but the choking in his throat. A brace of turkeys over his shoulder showed that he had been hunting. In an instant I understood. It was the husband and father come home. He did not move as I looked at him nor raise his eyes, but stood transfixed under his agony. I glanced across at Spiltdorph, and saw that his eyes were wet and his lips quivering. I did not venture to speak, but my friend, who was ever more tactful than I, moved to the man's side and placed his hand gently on his shoulder.

"They died an easy death," he said softly. "See, they are still smiling. They had no fear, no agony. They were dead before they knew that danger threatened. Let us thank God that they suffered no worse."

The man breathed a long sigh and his strength seemed to go suddenly from him, for he dropped his rifle and fell upon his knees.

"This was my wife," he whispered. "This was my sister. These were my children. What is there left on earth for me?"

I no longer sought to control the working of my face, and the tears were streaming down Spiltdorph's cheeks. Great, gentle, manly heart, how I loved you!

"Yes, there is something!" cried the man, and he sprang to his feet and seized his gun. "There is vengeance! Friends, will you help me bury my dead?"

"Yes, we will help," I said. He brought a spade and hoe from a little hut near the stream, and we dug a broad and shallow trench and laid the bodies in it.

"There is one missing," said the man, looking about him. "Where is he?"

"He is here," said Spiltdorph, opening his coat. "He is not dead. He may yet live."

The father looked at the boy a moment, then fell on his knees and kissed him.

"Thank God!" he cried, and the tears burst forth. We waited in silence until the storm of grief was past. At last he wrapped the coat about the child again, and came to us where we stood beside the grave.

"Friends," he said, "does either of you know the burial service? These were virtuous and Christian women, and would wish a Christian burial."

Spiltdorph sadly shook his head, and the man turned to me. Could I do it? I trembled at the thought. Yet how could I refuse?

"I know the service," I said, and took my place at the head of the grave.

The mists of evening were stealing up from the forest about us, and there was no sound save the plashing of the brook over the stones at our feet. Then it all faded from before me and I was standing again in a willow grove with an open grave afar off.

"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,'" It was not my voice, but another ringing up to heaven from beside me. And the voice kept on and on until the last amen.

We filled in the shallow grave and covered it with logs and rocks. Night was at hand before we finished.

"You must come with us," said Spiltdorph to the stranger. "The doctor at the fort will do what he can for the child. If you still think of vengeance, you can march with us against the Indians and the French who set them on."

He made a gesture of assent, and we set off through the forest.

"Stewart," asked Spiltdorph, in a low voice, after we had walked some time in silence, "how does it happen you knew the burial service?"

"I have read it many times in the prayer-book," I answered simply. "Moreover, I heard it one morning beside my mother's grave, and again beside my grandfather's. I am not like to forget it."

He walked on for a moment, and then came close to me and caught my hand in his.

"Forgive me," he said softly. "You have done a good and generous thing. I can judge how much it cost you," and we said no more until we reached the fort.

The news that the Indians had pushed hostilities so near the camp created no little uproar, and a party was sent out at daybreak to scour the woods and endeavor to teach the marauders a lesson, but they returned toward evening without discovering a trace of them, and it was believed they had made off to Fort Duquesne. The Indians whom we had killed were recognized as two of a party of Delawares who had been in camp a few days before, and who, it was now certain, had been sent as spies by the French and to do us what harm they could. Wherefore it was ordered that no more Delawares should be suffered to enter the camp.

We turned the child over to Doctor Craik, and took the man, whose name, it seemed, was Nicholas Stith, to our tent with us, where we gave him meat and drink, and did what we could to take his mind from his misfortune. He remained with us some days, until his child died, as it did at last, and then, finding our advance too slow to keep pace with his passion for revenge, secured a store of ball and powder from the magazine, slung his rifle across his back, and disappeared into the forest.

In the mean time our preparations had been hurried on apace. It was no light task to cut a road through near a hundred and fifty miles of virgin forest, over two great mountain ranges and across innumerable streams, nor was it lightly undertaken. Captain Waggoner brought with him to table one night a copy of the orders for the march and for encampment, which were adhered to with few changes during the whole advance, and we discussed them thoroughly when the meal was finished, nor could we discover in them much to criticise.

It was ordered that, to protect the baggage from Indian surprise and insult, scouting parties were to be thrown well out upon the flanks and in front and rear, and every commanding officer of a company was directed to detach always upon his flanks a third of his men under command of a sergeant, the sergeant in turn to detach upon his flanks a third of his men under command of a corporal, these outparties to be relieved every night at retreat beating, and to form the advanced pickets. The wagons, artillery, and pack-horses were formed into three divisions, and the provisions so distributed that each division was to be victualed from the part of the line it covered, and a commissary was appointed for each. The companies were to march two deep, that they might cover the line more effectively. Sir Peter Halket was to lead the column and Colonel Dunbar bring up the rear. An advance party of three hundred men was to precede the column and clear the road.

The form of encampment differed little from that of march. The wagons were to be drawn up in close order, the companies to face out, the flanking parties to clear away the underbrush and saplings, half the company remaining under arms the while, and finally a chain of sentries was to be posted round the camp. Sir Peter Halket, with the Forty-Fourth, was to march with the first division; Lieutenant-Colonel Burton with the independent companies, provincials, and artillery, was to form the second; and Colonel Dunbar, with the Forty-Eighth, the third.

I confess that when I had become acquainted with these orders, they seemed to me most soldier-like. A copy of them lies before me now, and even at this day, when I scan again the plan of march, I do not see how it could be improved. I admit that there are others who know much more of the art of war than I, and to them defects in the system may be at once discernible. But at the time, these orders gave us all a most exalted opinion of our general's ability, and I remembered with a smile the gloomy prophecies of Colonel Washington. Surely, against such a force, so ably handled, no army the French might muster could avail, and I awaited the event with a confidence and eager anticipation which were shared by all the others.



CHAPTER XV

WE START ON A WEARY JOURNEY

The twenty-ninth of May dawned clear and bright in pleasant contrast to the violent storm which had raged the day before. Long ere daybreak, the camp was alive with hurrying men, for the first detachment was to march under command of Major Campbell, and the sun had scarce risen above the horizon when the gates were thrown open and the troops filed out. Six hundred of them there were, with two fieldpieces and fifty wagons of provision, and very smart they looked as they fell into rank beyond the bridge and set off westward. The whole camp was there to see them go, and cheered them right heartily, for we were all of us glad that the long waiting and delay had come to an end at last.

All day we could see them here and there in the intervales of the forest pushing their way up a steep hill not two miles from the camp, and darkness came before they passed the summit. Three wagons were utterly destroyed in the passage, and new ones had to be sent from camp to replace them, while many more were all but ruined. Spiltdorph and I walked out to the place the next day and found it an almost perpendicular rock, though two hundred men and a company of miners had been at work for near a week trying to make it passable. We could see the detachment slowly cutting its way through the valley below, and I reflected gloomily that, at so slow a rate, the summer would be well-nigh gone before the army could reach its destination. Indeed, I believe it would have gone to pieces on this first spur of the Alleghenies, had not Lieutenant Spendelow, of the seamen, discovered a valley round its foot. Accordingly, a party of a hundred men was ordered out to clear a road there, and worked to such purpose that at the end of two days an extremely good one was completed, falling into the road made by Major Campbell about a mile beyond the mountain.

On the seventh, Sir Peter Halket and the Forty-Eighth marched, in the midst of a heavy storm, and at daybreak the next day it was our turn. Under command of Lieutenant-Colonel Burton, all of the independent companies and rangers left the camp, not, indeed, making so brilliant an appearance as the regulars,—who stood on either side and laughed at us,—but with a clearer comprehension of the work before us and a hearty readiness to do it. It was not until the tenth that the third division under Colonel Dunbar left the fort, and finally, on the eleventh, the general joined the army where it had assembled at Spendelow camp, five miles from the start.

Our tent that night was a gloomy place, for I think most of us, for the first time since the campaign opened, began to doubt its ultimate success. We soon finished with the food, and were smoking in gloomy silence, when Peyronie came in, and after a glance around at our faces, broke into a laugh.

"Ma foi!" he cried, "I thought I had chanced upon a meeting of our Philadelphia friends,—they of the broad hats and sober coats,—and yet I had never before known them to go to war."

"Do you call this going to war?" cried Waggoner. "I'm cursed if I do!"

Peyronie laughed louder than ever, and Waggoner motioned him to the pipes and tobacco.

"By God, Peyronie!" he said. "I believe you would laugh in the face of the devil."

Peyronie filled his pipe, chuckling to himself the while, and when he had got it to drawing nicely, settled himself upon a stool.

"Why, to tell the truth," said he, "I was feeling sober enough myself till I came in here, but the sight of you fellows sitting around for all the world like death-heads at an Egyptian feast was too much for me. And then," he added, "I have always found it better to laugh than to cry."

Waggoner looked at him with a grim smile, and there was a gleam in Spiltdorph's eyes, though he tried to conceal himself behind a cloud of smoke. Peyronie's good humor was infectious.

"Let me see," continued the Frenchman, "when was it the first detachment left the fort?"

"The twenty-ninth of May," answered Waggoner shortly.

"And what day is this?"

"The eleventh of June."

"And how far have we come?"

"Five miles!" cried Waggoner. "Damn it, man, you know all this well enough! Don't make me say it! It's incredible! Five miles in thirteen days! Think of it!"

I heard Spiltdorph choking behind his cloud of smoke.

"Oh, come," said Peyronie, "that's not the way to look at it. Consider a moment. It is one hundred and fifty miles to Fort Duquesne, so I am told. At five-thirteenths of a mile a day, we shall arrive there nicely in—in—let me see."

"In three hundred and ninety days!" cried Spiltdorph.

"Thank you, lieutenant," and Peyronie bowed toward Spiltdorph's nimbus. "I was never good at figures. In three hundred and ninety days, then. You see, we shall get to Fort Duquesne very comfortably by the middle of July of next year. Perhaps the French will have grown weary of waiting for us by that time, and we shall have only to march in and occupy the fort."

Waggoner snorted with anger.

"Come, talk sense, Peyronie," he said. "What's to be done?"

Peyronie smiled more blandly than ever.

"I fancy that is just what's troubling the general," he remarked. "I met Colonel Washington a moment ago looking like a thunder-cloud, and he said a council of war had been called at the general's tent."

"There was need of it," and Waggoner's brow cleared a little. "What think you they will do?"

"Well," said Peyronie deliberately, "if it were left to me, the first thing I should do would be to cut down Spiltdorph's supply of tobacco and take away from him that great porcelain pipe, which must weigh two or three pounds."

"I should like to see you do it," grunted Spiltdorph, and he took his pipe from his lips to look at it lovingly. "Why, man, that pipe has been in the family for half a dozen generations. There's only one other like it in Germany."

"A most fortunate thing," remarked Peyronie dryly; "else Virginia could not raise enough tobacco to supply the market. But, seriously, I believe even the general will see the need of taking some radical action. He may even be induced to leave behind one or two of his women and a few cases of wine, if the matter be put before him plainly."

"Shut up, man!" cried Waggoner. "Do you want a court-martial?" And we fell silent, for indeed the excesses of the officers of the line was a sore subject with all of us. But Peyronie had made a good guess, as we found out when the result of the council was made known next day.

It was pointed out that we had less than half the horses we really needed, and those we had were so weak from the diet of leaves to which they had been reduced that they could do little work. So the general urged that all unnecessary baggage be sent back to the fort, and that as many horses as possible be given to the public cause. He and his staff set the example by contributing twenty horses, and this had so great effect among the officers that near a hundred were added to the train. They divested themselves, also, of all the baggage they did not need, most of them even sending back their tents, and sharing the soldiers' tents for the remainder of the campaign. Enough powder and stores were left behind to clear twenty wagons, and all the king's wagons were returned to the fort as being too heavy. A deprivation which, I doubt not, cost some of the officers more than any other, was that of their women, who were ordered back to the fort, and only two women for each company were allowed to be victualed upon the march, but in this particular the example set by the general was not so commendable as in the matter of the horses. Three hundred lashes were ordered to any soldier or non-commissioned officer who should be caught gaming or seen drunk in camp, but these rigors did not affect those higher up, and the officers still spent half the night over the cards or dice, and on such occasions there was much wine and spirits drunk.

We of Waggoner's and Peyronie's companies fared very well, for though we gave up one of our tents, it was only to bunk together in the other. There was no room to spare, to be sure, and Peyronie grumbled that every time a man turned over he disturbed the whole line of sleepers, but we put the best face possible on the situation, and had little cause for complaint, except at the food, which soon became most villainous. I think Spiltdorph had some twinges concerning his pipe, for he was a conscientious fellow, but he could not decide to give it up, and finally kept it with him, arguing artfully that without it he must inevitably fall ill, and so be of no use whatever. Dear fellow, I wonder what warrior, the envy of his tribe, smokes it now in his wigwam beside the Miami?

It took two days to repair our wagons and get our baggage readjusted, and finally, on the thirteenth, the army set in motion again, winding along the narrow road through the forest like some gigantic, parti-colored serpent, with strength barely sufficient to drag its great length along. It was noon of the next day before we reached Martin's plantation, scarce five miles away. Yet here we had to stay another day, so nearly were the horses spent, but at daybreak on the fifteenth the line moved again, and we toiled up an extremely steep ascent for more than two miles. The horses were quite unable to proceed, so half the troops were ordered to ground arms and assist the wagons. It was weary work, nor was the descent less perilous, and three of the wagons got beyond control and were dashed to pieces at the bottom. So we struggled on over hills and through valleys, until on the eighteenth we reached the Little Meadows. Here the army was well-nigh stalled. The horses had grown every day weaker, and many of them were already dead. Nor were the men in much better case, so excessive had been the fatigues of the journey, for on many days they had been under arms from sunrise till late into the night.

It was here, for the first time since our departure from Fort Cumberland, that I chanced to see Colonel Washington, and I was shocked at the change in his appearance. He was wan and livid, and seemed to have fallen away greatly in flesh. To my startled inquiry, he replied that he had not been able to shake off the fever, which had grown worse instead of better.

"But I will conquer it," he said, with a smile. "I cannot afford to miss the end. From here, I believe our advance will be more rapid, for the general has decided that he will leave his baggage and push on with a picked body of the troops to meet the enemy."

I was rejoiced to hear it, though I did not learn until long afterwards that it was by Colonel Washington's advice that this plan was adopted. A detachment of four hundred men was sent out to cut a road to the little crossing of the Yoxiogeny, and on the next day the general himself followed with about nine hundred men, the pick of the whole command. The Virginia companies were yet in fair condition, but the regulars had been decimated by disease. Yet though our baggage was now reduced to thirty wagons and our artillery to four howitzers and four twelve-pounders, we seemed to have lost the power of motion, for we were four days in getting twelve miles. Still, we were nearing Fort Duquesne, and the Indians, set on by the French, began to harass us, and killed and scalped a straggler now and then, always evading pursuit. On the evening of the nineteenth, the guides reported that a great body of the enemy was advancing to attack us, but they did not appear, though we remained for two hours under arms, anxiously awaiting the event. From that time on, the Indians hung upon our flanks, but vanished as by magic the moment we advanced against them.

In consequence of these alarms, more stringent orders were issued to the camp. On no account was a gun to be discharged unless at an enemy, the pickets were always to load afresh when going on duty, and at daybreak to examine their pans and put in fresh priming, and a reward of five pounds was offered for every Indian scalp. Day after day we plodded on, and it was not until the twenty-fifth of June that we reached the Great Meadows.

I surveyed with a melancholy interest the trenches of Fort Necessity, which were yet clearly to be seen on the plain. Our detachment halted here for a space, and it was while I was walking up and down along the remnants of the old breastwork that I saw an officer ride up, spring from his horse, and spend some minutes in a keen inspection of the fortification. As he looked about him, he perceived me similarly engaged, and, after a moment's hesitation, turned toward me. He made a brave figure in his three-cornered hat, scarlet coat, and ample waistcoat, all heavy with gold lace. His face was pale as from much loss of sleep, but very pleasing, and as he stopped before me, I saw that his eyes were of a clear and penetrating blue.

"This is the place, is it not," he asked, "where Colonel Washington made his gallant stand against the French and Indians last year?"

"This is indeed the place, sir," I answered, my face flushing; "and it warms my heart to know that you deem the action a gallant one."

"No man could do less," he said quickly. "He held off four times his number, and at the end marched out with colors flying. I know many a general who would have been glad to do so well. Do I guess aright," he added, with a smile, "when I venture to say that you were present with him?"

"It was my great good fortune," I answered simply, but with a pride I did not try to conceal.

"Let me introduce myself," he said, looking at me with greater interest. "I am Captain Robert Orme, of General Brad dock's staff, and I have come to admire Colonel Washington very greatly during the month that we have been associated."

"And I," I said, "am Lieutenant Thomas Stewart, of Captain Waggoner's Virginia Company."

"Lieutenant Stewart!" he cried, and his hand was clasping mine warmly. "I am happy to meet you. Colonel Washington has told me of the part you played."

"Not more happy than am I, captain, I am sure," I answered heartily. "Colonel Washington has spoken to me of you and in terms of warmest praise."

"Now 'tis my turn to blush!" he cried, laughing, and looking at my cheeks which had turned red a moment before, "but my blood has been so spent in this horrible march that I haven't a blush remaining."

"And how is Colonel Washington?" I questioned, glad to change the subject. "The last I saw him, he seemed most ill."

Captain Orme looked at me quickly, "Have you not heard?" he asked, and his face was very grave.

"I have heard nothing, sir," I answered, with a sinking heart. "Pray tell me."

"Colonel Washington has been ill almost from the first. His indomitable will kept him on horseback when he should have been in bed. At last, when the fever had wasted him to a mere skeleton, and he spent his nights in sleepless delirium, he broke down utterly. His body was no longer able to obey his will. At the ford of the Yoxiogeny he attempted to mount his horse and fell in a faint. He was carried to a tent and left with two or three guards. So soon as he recovered consciousness, he tried to get up to follow us, and was persuaded to lie still only when the general promised he would send for him in order that he might be present when we meet the French. He is a man who is an honor to Virginia," concluded Orme, and he turned away hastily to hide his emotion, nor were my own eyes wholly dry.

"Come," I said, "let me show you, sir, how the troops lay that day," and as he assented, I led the way along the lines and pointed out the position held by the enemy and how we had opposed them; but my thoughts were miles away with that wasted figure tossing wearily from side to side of a rude camp cot on the bank of the Yoxiogeny, with no other nurses than two or three rough soldiers.

"'Twas well done," said Orme, when I had finished. "I see not how it could have been better. And I trust the victory will be with us, not with the French, when we meet before Duquesne."

"Of that there can be no question!" I cried. "Once we reach the fort, it must fall before us."

"Faith, I believe so," laughed Orme. "My only fear is that they will run away, and not stay to give us battle. Our spies have told us that such was their intention," and he laughed again as he saw my fallen face. "Why, I believe you are as great a fire-eater as the best of us, lieutenant."

"In truth, sir," I answered, somewhat abashed at his merriment, "I decided long ago that since I held no station in the world, I needs must win one with my sword, but if I can find no employment for it, I see small hope of advancement."

"Well, do not repine," and he smiled as he shook my hand, "for if the French do not wait to meet us here, we shall yet find plenty of fighting before us. This is only the first stage in the journey, and Duquesne once ours, we press forward to join forces with the expeditions which are moving against Canada. If I hear more from Colonel Washington, I shall let you know."

I thanked him for his kindness, and watched him as he rode away across the plain. When he was out of sight, I turned back to join my company, and I felt that I had made a new friend, and one whom I was proud to have.



CHAPTER XVI

THE END IN SIGHT

The country beyond Great Meadows was exceeding mountainous, and we could proceed only a few miles each day, and that with the greatest difficulty. The horses were by this time well-nigh useless, and at every little hill half the men were compelled to ground arms and take a hand at the wagons. It was work fatiguing beyond description, and our sick list grew larger every day, while those who remained upon their feet were in scarce better plight.

On the evening of the twenty-sixth, we reached the pass through which had come the party of French and Indians to attack us at Fort Necessity. They must have thought for a time to oppose us here, for we came upon traces of a camp just broken up, with embers still glowing in the hollow, over which they had prepared their food. Both French and Indians had been present, for the former had written on the trees many insolent and scurrilous expressions,—which gave me a poorer opinion of them than I had yet entertained,—and the Indians had marked up the number of scalps they had taken, some eight or ten in all. Whatever their intention may have been, the sight of our strength had frightened them away, and we saw no sign of them as we descended into the valley on the other side.

We toiled on all the next day over a road that was painfully familiar to most of us, and in the evening came to Christopher Gist's plantation. Spiltdorph and I made a circuit of the place that night, and I pointed out to him the dispositions we had made for defense the year before. The French had burned down all the buildings, but the half-finished trenches could yet be seen, and the logs which were to have made the breastwork still littered the ground.

Beyond Gist's, it was a new country to all of us, and grew more open, so that we could make longer marches. We descended a broad valley to the great crossing of the Yoxiogeny, which we passed on the thirtieth. The general was under much apprehension lest the French ambush us here, and so advanced most cautiously, but we saw no sign of any enemy. Beyond the river was a great swamp, where a road of logs had to be built to support the wagons and artillery, but we won through without accident, and two days later reached a place called Jacob's cabin, not above thirty miles, as the bird flies, from Fort Duquesne. Here the rumor ran through the camp that we were to be held till Colonel Dunbar's division could be brought up from the Little Meadows, and there was much savage comment at our mess that evening.

"Why," cried Peyronie, who voiced the sentiment of all of us, "'twould take two weeks or more to bring Dunbar up, and what are we to do meantime? Sit here and eat this carrion?" and he looked disgustedly at the mess of unsavory beef on the table, which was, to tell the truth, most odoriferous. "'Tis rank folly to even think of such a course."

"So the general believes," said a pleasant voice, and I turned with a start to see a gallant figure standing by the raised flap of the tent.

"Captain Orme!" I cried, springing to my feet, and I brought him in and presented him to all the others. We pressed him to sit down, and though he laughingly declined to partake of our rations, against which, he said, Peyronie's remark had somehow prejudiced him, he consented to join us in a glass of wine,—where Waggoner found the bottle I could never guess,—in which we pledged the success of the campaign.

"So we are not to stop here?" asked Peyronie, when the toast was drunk.

"No," and Orme set down the glass. "The suggestion was made by Sir John St. Clair, and a council was held half an hour since to consider it. It was agreed without debate that we could not afford the delay, as the provision is running low, and so we shall press on at once."

"'Tis the wiser course," said Waggoner. "We have men in plenty."

"So the general thinks," said Orme. "He has learned that there is only a small garrison at the fort, which can scarce hope to resist us. But 'twas not to talk of the campaign I came here. I had a note this evening from Colonel Washington, which I knew Lieutenant Stewart would wish to see."

"Oh, yes!" I cried. "What says he, sir?"

Orme glanced about at the circle of attentive faces.

"I see Colonel Washington has many friends here," he said, with a smile. "He writes that he is improving, and hopes soon to join us, and implores me not to neglect to warn him so that he can be present when we meet the French. I shall not neglect it," he added.

"Captain Orme," said Peyronie, after a moment, "I am sure I speak for all these gentlemen when I say we deeply appreciate your kindness in coming here to-night. There is not one of us who does not love Colonel Washington. We thank you, sir," and Peyronie bowed with a grace worthy of Versailles.

"Nay," protested Orme, bowing in his turn, "it was a little thing. I, too, think much of Colonel Washington. Good-evening, gentlemen," and we all arose and saluted him, remaining standing till he was out of sight.

"A gentleman and a soldier, if ever I saw one!" cried Peyronie. "A man whom it is a privilege to know." And we all of us echoed the sentiment. So, the next morning, the order was given to march as usual, and we made about five miles to a salt lick in the marsh, where we camped for the night. The next day we reached a little stream called Thicketty Run, and here there was a longer halt, until we could gain some further information of the enemy. Christopher Gist, by dint of many gifts and much persuasion, had secured the services of eight Iroquois, lazy dogs, who up to the present time had done little but eat and sleep. But we were now so near the enemy that it was imperative to reconnoitre their position, so, after much trouble, two of the Indians were induced to go forward, and Gist himself was sent after them to see that they really did approach the fort and not try to deceive us. This was the fourth of July, just one year since we had marched away from Fort Necessity. All the next day we remained at Thicketty Run, waiting for the scouts to come in, but they did not appear until the sixth.

The Indians returned early in the morning, bringing with them the scalp of a French officer they had killed near the fort, and stated that they had seen none of the enemy except the one they had shot, and that the French possessed no pass between us and Duquesne, and had seemingly made no preparation to resist us. Gist got back later in the day, having narrowly escaped capture by two Delawares, and confirmed this story. Such carelessness on the part of the French seemed incredible, as the country was very favorable to an ambuscade, and the officers were almost unanimously of the opinion that it was their purpose to abandon the fort at our approach.