1 A Trying Situation

I looked at the prisoner, and I was vexed by doubt. With a battle on one side of him and a woman on the other, what is a man to do? She returned my gaze with great, pure eyes, which seemed to say I was a villain, a monster; yet I had been doing my exact duty, that of a faithful soldier in the cause of the Continental Congress and freedom, while she—a woman, a girl—had presumed to turn from the things for which God had intended her and to meddle with war. I was more than vexed—I was angry: angry at her for attempting such a task, and angry at myself for being forced into a situation so full of troubles.

On the right, in the fringe of woods a quarter of a mile away, the last rifle-shot had been fired, and its echo was speeding across the far hills. The powder flashed no more, and the smoke rose in lazy coils over the ground on which men had fought and some had died. The victors, the captured detail with them, were riding away. I almost fancied I could hear the beat of their horses’ hoofs, and the dead, I knew, lay with their faces upturned to the sun, waiting there until the last trump called them to rise again. And here was I, an atom, left in the drift of the armies, cut off from my comrades, and alone with this girl.

The horses shifted about uneasily, stamped their feet, and once mine raised his head and neighed, as if in truth he heard the beating hoofs of the galloping detachment. He knew that his comrades too were leaving him, though I cannot say that it was a desertion intended by either horse or man.

The girl’s look of reproach turned to one of inquiry. She sat on a log, her little riding-whip hanging idly in her hand. For the first time I took note of her face—the delicate but firm moulding of each feature; the clear depths of her dark-blue eyes; the bronze gold of her hair, clustering in tiny curls around her forehead; the rose red of her cheeks, like a flush; her lithe, strong young figure. Why is it that when God wishes to make women especially wicked and troublesome He makes them beautiful?

“Well, you rebel,” she said, “when do you propose to set me free?”

“When you give your word of honor that you will tell Cornwallis nothing about the strength of Morgan’s forces and our present movements.”

“That I will not do.”

“Then you remain my prisoner.”

Yet I would have been a fool even to have taken her word of honor. What woman has any regard for the truth in military matters? If she could find a chance, she would certainly give information that would bring Cornwallis, as well as Tarleton, on Morgan.

“I think that it is enough for Englishmen themselves to fight us without sending their daughters also against us,” I said.

“My father did not send me,” she said quickly; “I came of my own accord.”

“So much the worse,” I replied.

But nothing was to be gained by standing there and talking. Besides, it is never well for a soldier to dispute with his prisoner. A captor should bear himself with dignity and reserve. I would show my quality.

I untied the horses and led them to the log on which she was sitting.

“Get up!” I said curtly and in a tone of command.

The natural rose-flush of her cheeks deepened a little.

“You speak as if you were my master,” she said.

“That is just what I am—for the present,” I replied. “Mount your horse at once.”

She gave me a sidewise look from eyes that flashed, but she stood upon the log.

“This log is too low, and the saddle is too high,” she said.

I stepped forward and held out my hand to assist her.

“Don’t touch me, you rebel!” she cried, and leaped lightly into the saddle.

I felt hurt.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me a rebel,” I said.

“Why?”

“It’s impolite.”

“But it’s true.”

“Well, perhaps it is in a way, and in a way too I am proud of it. Are you proud of your King?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t take much to arouse English pride.”

“You will think more of him when the war is over. It will pay you to do so.”

“Meanwhile we will wait until then.”

“What do you purpose to do with me—keep me a prisoner?”

“It is my misfortune.”

“The courtesy of a rebel.”

“I shall take you to General Morgan.”

“Then Tarleton will rescue me. Your Morgan cannot stand before him.”

I was afraid that she spoke the truth. We were outnumbered, and, besides, more than half our force was raw militia. The odds were great against us, and knowing it, I did not reply to her taunt.

While we were talking she sat in the saddle with the easy seat of a good horsewoman. I held my horse loosely by the bridle. She was twiddling the whip in her hands. Suddenly she leaned over and lashed my horse across the eyes with her whip. The blow was given with all her might, and the startled animal reared, jerked the bridle out of my hand, and ran away.

“Good-by, Mr. Rebel!” she shouted, and drawing her whip across her own horse galloped off in the opposite direction.

I believe I swore. I was angry and alarmed too, for this girl, with her messages and accurate news about us, was a formidable enemy, escaped, who might cause the destruction of the entire army of the south and the loss of all the southern colonies. I drew a pistol, it being my idea to kill the horse, but it was a shot that I could not risk. I thrust the weapon back in my pocket and ran after my horse. He was thirty or forty yards away, half-mad with rage and pain, his bridle swinging beside him.

I am a very good runner, but I do not claim to be as swift as a horse. Nevertheless, I made speed as I ran after him, and I whistled and shouted with a vigor that must have convinced him of my intentions. I looked back once, and the girl and the horse she rode were growing smaller as they sped over the desolate and unfenced fields. My need of a horse too was growing more pressing. Mounted, there was hope; afoot, there was none.

I whistled all the calls that a friendly and well-treated horse should know, and meantime did not neglect to run after him with the best speed that I could command. Presently he seemed to understand and to remember that I was not responsible for the blow. He slackened his pace, looked back over his shoulder at me, and whinnied. I whistled encouragingly, he whinnied again, and, remembering who I was, his best friend, came to a full stop, for he was a most intelligent animal. In half a minute I overtook him, leaped into the saddle, and turned his head the other way.

“Now, old horse,” I cried, “you can gallop, but you gallop my way.”

I wore my spurs, and I gave him a touch of the steel. That was enough, for he was always ambitious and proud of his speed, and away we flew over the fields after the disappearing girl. She was a full quarter of a mile away, and her figure was growing dim on the horizon. Another quarter of a mile and she would be in the woods, where the concealment of the trees would enable her to elude my pursuit. Moreover, these English girls are often daring horsewomen, and even at the distance I could see that she rode like a trooper. But I knew the country and she did not, and I hoped to secure from it some chance that would enable me to overtake her.

I encouraged my horse. I did more than encourage—I appealed to his pride and his sense of gratitude. I reminded him how I had ridden him all the way from the Hudson when I came south with Greene; how I had tended him and cared for him and fed him, often when I was compelled to go hungry myself. I appealed to him now not to let that girl escape when so much depended on her capture, when I would be eternally disgraced, and he with me, if we permitted ourselves to be tricked and outwitted at such a time by one red-cheeked English girl.

He was a sensible animal, and he understood. He said nothing, not even a little snort, but his stride lengthened, and the swift and regular beat of his hoofs on the turf was music.

“Good horse, Old Put, good lad!” I said. I had named him Put, after Old Put, the famous Connecticut General, because he was so reliable and steady. He shook his ears slightly as a sign that he would do his best for me, having no time to say more, and ran a little faster. I kept a sharp watch for stones and holes in the ground, having no mind to risk a fall, which might ruin all, and nursed my comrade’s strength, for on land as well as sea a stern chase is a long one.

The figure of the girl and the horse she rode was growing larger; good proof that I was gaining, which was not enough, however, for I might continue to do so, and yet she could elude me in the woods unless I was close upon her when she reached them. Her long hair had fallen down and was streaming behind her like a ribbon of spray with the sunshine on it, but I felt like giving that yellow hair a jerk just then could I have put my hands upon it.

“Steady, Put!” I said to my faithful comrade. “Do you see that girl with the yellow hair? Yes? Well, note the horse that she is riding, a common troop-horse, clumsy, ill-bred, no pedigree. Are you going to let yourself be beaten by him?”

His ears wagged violently, and he ran a foot to the second faster. We struck a piece of beautiful turf, evidently an old field left to itself until it could recover its fertility, and with the soft grass deadening and easing his footfalls Old Put raced for life. I could almost count the yards that we gained, and still she was not in the forest. She had not looked back until then, and it was a hasty glance, followed by a quick lashing of her mount. I judged that she too had noticed the gain and would now be unmerciful to her horse. I was exultant, willing to boast of it, and I shared my feelings with Old Put.

“Notice that yellow-haired girl again, Put,” I said. “When we catch her this time we will take care that she does not serve us such a trick again. If we cannot trust an Englishman, Put, how on earth can we put any faith in an English woman?”

Put had received a slight slash once from the sabre of an Englishman who, offering to surrender to me, had tried to back out of it, and he knew what I meant. For the first time he uttered a slight snort, called one new muscle into play, and we steadily shortened the distance between us and the girl.

She would have got into the wood a few moments later, but she abruptly reined in her horse, turned him half about, and galloped off to the left. I guessed the trouble at once. The heavy rains often wash great gullies in our South Carolina soil, and a kind Providence, wishing to oblige me, had placed one of these in her way. It was equal to a gain of two hundred feet without an effort, and I turned Old Put at once into the course she was taking.

“Don’t you see, Put,” I said, “that the Lord is on our side, and she and that burnt-brown cob of hers, who has passed most of his life hitched to a sutler’s wagon, will be delivered into our hands?”

Old Put fairly neighed, his first real expression of triumph. He was as sure of the victory now as I, and I had confidence in the judgment of my old comrade.

“Stop! stop!” I shouted to the girl. “If you don’t stop, I’ll shoot!”

I had a long-barrelled horse-pistol, which I drew and flourished magnificently. I was within hearing though not shooting range, and I trusted that I would be able to frighten her into yielding.

But she did not stop. She had worn her whip into shreds, and thin red streams of blood zigzagged across the horse’s sides, but she pounded on with the stump. I felt a genuine pity for her horse, hack though he was, but none for her.

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