Part 31 (1/2)

”Then up with you. Give him a leg.”

I wanted none, and was up in a moment on the bare back of a big farm mare; their errand had been, I learned, the purchase of horses. The captain bade me ride with him, and, turning north, we rode away, while the big brute under me jolted my sore bones.

”And now,” said the captain, ”let me hear, Mr. Wynne, what you have to say. Take a pull at my flask.”

I did so, and went on to relate my adventures briefly--the duck-shooting, which much amused him, the escape at the forge, and what else seemed to be needed to set myself right. He looked me over again keenly.

”You had a close thing of it.”

”Yes,” said I; ”you are a terrible swordsman, and a good one, if you will pardon me.”

”I meant to cut him on the head, but he put his neck where his head should have been. There is one rascal the less; but I missed the leader.

Hang him!”

”He will take care of that,” said I.

Then my companion said I must join his troop, and would I excuse his rough dealing with me?

I declared myself well content, and explained as to his offer that I was much obliged, and would think it over; but that I desired first to see the army, and to find my friend, Captain Warder, of the Pennsylvania line.

”Yes; a stout man and dark?”

”No; slight, well built, a blond.”

”Good; I know him. I was testing your tale, Mr. Wynne. One has need to be careful in these times.” For a few moments he was silent, and then asked sharply, ”Where did you cross?”

I told him.

”And are there any outlying pickets above the upper ferry on the west bank!”

I thought not, and went on to tell of the bridging of the river, of the lines of forts, and of the positions held in the city by the Grenadiers and the Highlanders. A large part of the army, I said, was being withdrawn from Germantown, I supposed with a view to attack the forts below the city.

”What you say is valuable, Mr. Wynne.” And he quickened the pace with an order, and pushed on at speed.

It seemed to me time to know into whose company I had fallen, and who was the hardy and decisive rider at my side.

”May I take the liberty to ask with what command I am?”

”Certainly. I am Allan McLane, at your service. I will talk to you later; now I want to think over what you have told me. I tried to get into the city last week, dressed as an old woman; they took my eggs--Lord, they were aged!--but I got no farther than the middle ferry.

Are you sure that troops are being withdrawn from Germantown?”

I said I was, and in large numbers. After this we rode on in silence through the twilight. I glanced now and then at my companion, the boldest of our partisan leaders, and already a sharp thorn in the side of General Howe's extended line. He was slight, well made, and dark, with some resemblance to Arthur Wynne, but with no weak lines about a mouth which, if less handsome than my cousin's, was far more resolute.

I was ready to drop from my rough steed when we began, about nine at night, to see the camp-fires of our army on either side of Skippack Creek. A halt at the pickets, and we rode on around the right flank among rude huts, rare tents, rows of spancelled horses,--we call it ”hobbled” nowadays,--and so at last to a group of tents, the headquarters of the small cavalry division.

”Halt!” I heard; and I literally almost tumbled off my horse, pleased to see the last of him.

”This way, sir,” said McLane. ”Here is my tent. There is a flask under the pine-needles. I have no feather-bed to offer. Get an hour's rest; it is all you can have just now. When I find out the headquarters, you must ride again.” And he was gone.

I found a jug of water and a towel; but my attempts to get the blood and mud out of my hair and neck were quite vain. I gave it up at last. Then I nearly emptied the flask which McLane had left me, set my sack under my head, pulled up a blanket, and in a minute was out of the world of war and sound asleep.