2 Keeping a Prisoner

No more gullies thrust themselves across the way, and the girl was within twenty feet of the wood. She took another hurried look at me, and seeing my rapid gain, alarm appeared on her face. She drew a little toy pistol from the cloak she wore and levelled it at me, or at least that seemed to be her intention. I call it a toy pistol, because I, a full-grown soldier, would have felt deep shame had I been caught with such a weapon in my possession. She pulled the trigger, and the bullet cut the uncomplaining air somewhere, but not in my neighborhood. This bombardment cost her at least twenty feet of the distance between us, but she thrust the terrible weapon back in her cloak and galloped on, with Old Put thundering at her heels. Then she was into the wood, and I was not far behind, shouting to her to stop, telling her that I would surely overtake her and she was merely wasting the breath of both our horses and our own. Still she paid no heed, guiding her horse between the trees and through the bushes with considerable skill.

But, seeing the wood thicken presently, I was tempted to laugh. It was obvious now that the end of the race had come and I was the winner. The forest became so dense, the bushes clustering in thickets and the vines interlacing from tree to tree, that it formed an impenetrable wall. What I had feared would help her had been my best ally.

She stopped short and sat stiffly on her horse, her back turned to me. I wondered if she would draw out that amazing pistol again and threaten me with it, but she made no such attempt, evidently having arrived at wisdom at last. She dropped the stump of her switch on the ground and kept the back of her head towards me. Some beams of sunshine came through the tall trees and gleamed across the long curls of tawny gold, tinging them for the moment as if with fire.

I rode up by her side, and then, as she seemed to ignore me, I asked Old Put to take me around in front of her. There I could see her face. It was pale, sad, and reproachful, and a tear ran down either cheek. For the moment I felt a little pity for her despite her perverse nature and all the trouble she had given me. .

“I am sorry I have to do this,” I said.

“Sorry for what?” she asked.

I saw that I had made a mistake. One should always be polite to a woman, but never apologetic.

“That I had to overtake you,” I replied.

“Yours is the better horse,” she said, wiping away the tears with an angry little brush of the hand. “I like to ride, and I always enjoy a good race. That was the reason I challenged you to it, though I did not know you had such a good horse.”

This was a new view of the case, but I had a thought, or, rather, a reflection.

“It was a good race,” I said, “but wasn’t that a false start?”

“How so?”

“Didn’t you take an advantage?”

“I was entitled to it. I am a woman.”

“So women expect to carry that rule even into warfare?”

“Certainly.”

I was glad that I had never been forced to wage war with one of the feminine sex before, and hoped never to meet the necessity again. One likes to stick to the rules in military matters, and then he has some idea what to expect.

“The horses are very tired,” I said.

“They look like it,” she replied.

The poor animals were panting, and their coats were damp. I took the reins of her horse from her hand and held them firmly in mine.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I think I’d better hold the reins of both,” I said. “Will you please dismount?”

I set her a good example by jumping down myself. She could not say that the prisoner was compelled to walk while the captor rode. I stepped forward to assist her, but again she refused my help, and sprang to the ground unassisted.

Old Put gazed angrily at the girl who had struck him. Then he snorted with triumph and looked contemptuously at the horse beside him. The latter seemed to be ashamed of himself, and his attitude was apologetic, but he had done his best, and therefore should not have been blamed.

“Come,” I said, “we will get out of this wood and walk back across the fields. Keep by my side. I will watch you; I do not want any more treachery.”

I spoke with great sternness, as the mite of pity I felt when I saw the tears had gone. She obeyed with surprising meekness and walked beside me, while I led the horses, holding both bridles in one hand. I was glad that I had been so sharp with her, and I saw now it was the proper way with rebellious women. A man has only to show towards them a stern, unyielding temper, and they submit at once. She was crushed, and again that mite of pity rose up in my breast, for nearly always we feel a trace of sympathy for those whom we have vanquished.

Her head drooped, there was a faint appeal in her eyes, and her walk showed weariness. She seemed to have forgotten that her hair was loose down her back, as she let it hang in long curls of gold, burnished where the sunshine fell upon it, dark in the shadow.

The yellow of the sun was deepening into red, a sign that the afternoon was waning, and I was anxious about the future, for which, like a good soldier, I felt it my duty to provide. She must have seen the care in my face, for she asked,—

“Are you thinking how we shall reach General Morgan?”

“General Morgan or someone else.”

“Is it far to his camp?”

“I cannot say. I do not know where he is. The American camp just now is of a shifting character.”

“To keep out of Tarleton’s way, I suppose?”

“Either that or to find him.”

Then she seemed to repent of her gibe at our running away from the British.

“But General Morgan is a brave man, I have heard,” she said.

That warmed my heart.

“He is a brave man,” I replied, “and, what is more, he is a fine soldier and general.”

“What a pity he is not on the right side!”

“Let’s not quarrel about that again.”

I thought I could afford to be generous, my situation was so superior to hers.

After that we walked along in silence for several minutes. The red tint of the sun deepened; faint shadows appeared in the blue velvet of the sky.

“I want to ask you one question,” she said presently.

“There is nothing to prevent your asking it.”

“But I want an answer, direct and correct.”

“If it does not interfere with the progress of the campaign.”

“I don’t think it will do that.”

“What is it?”

“What is your name?”

I laughed. It had never occurred to me before to tell her.

“It is true,” I said, “that we have not had an introduction, though we are seeing a good deal of each other’s society, but it is not too late. My name is Philip Marcel.”

“Why, that sounds like French, and I thought you were an American.”

“Both are true. I am an American, and the name Marcel used to be French. I am of French descent partly, and I may have British blood too, though I shall not boast of it. There are many of us in South Carolina.”

“But I thought you were Northern. You said you had been serving in the Northern army of the rebels——”

“The patriots!”

“Well, the patriots, then, under Mr. Washington.”

“General Washington!”

“Well, General Washington.”

“Yes, I have been serving in the Northern army of the patriots under General Washington, but he has sent me south with General Greene and the others, mostly Southerners themselves, to redeem this part of the country from the British raiders. But I am a South Carolinian.”

She relapsed into silence again, and I imitated her example. I had enough of importance anyhow to think about without talking to a girl, an enemy, but presently I recollected.

“Pardon me,” I said, “but you have forgotten something too.”

“What is it?”

“You have not told me your name.”

“That is true, and the introduction cannot be complete until I do.”

“Certainly not.”

“My name is Howard.”

“Howard! What Howard?”

“Julia Howard. My father is John Sinclair Howard, major in Tarleton’s legion. I was born in Devonshire, England, and I am here with my father, having nobody else to look after me, until such time as these rebellious colonies are put down and restored in their allegiance to their lawful sovereign, George III., King of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, God bless him!”

I thought that God could find something better to do than to waste His time blessing King George, a fat German blockhead, but I kept the thought to myself just then.

“Then, mark my words, Miss Julia Howard, of Devonshire, England,” I said, “you have come here to stay.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It is a prediction; it will come true.”

Her look was full of unbelief, and we relapsed into silence again. The shadows grew in the sky. The sun blazed like fire, and my old trouble about the future came back.

The horses ceased to pant and walked now with springy steps, their weariness gone. Old Put thrust his nose under my arm and whinnied gently. He was talking in the language that we two understood. I rubbed his soft nose.

“Yes, old fellow,” I said to him, “you have done your duty well, as you always do. We’ll stop soon, and then I’ll find you something to eat.”

He whinnied again and rubbed his nose on my sleeve, for he understood.

“He looks like a good horse,” said the girl.

“Never better,” I replied, and with emphasis.

“I like a good horse,” she said.

“So do I. That’s the reason I’m so fond of Old Put.”

“I wonder if he would be as friendly with me?”

“I don’t know. He usually likes old friends best, but still he is a horse of fine taste.”

Her evident admiration of Old Put appealed to me, and I thought I would give her the little compliment. Women like such things, and, again, I felt as if I could afford to be generous.

She put her hand upon his nose and stroked it gently. It was a white, well-shaped hand, with pretty, tapering fingers. Old Put must have admired it. He assisted in the rubbing task, swaying his nose gently to and fro, and he whinnied once softly, after his custom when he was talking to me. He seemed to have forgotten the blow she had given him.

“See,” she said triumphantly, “he has found a new friend, a good friend, and he knows it. He is almost as fond of me as he is of you.”

I was surprised, greatly surprised. Heretofore Old Put had always proved himself to be an excellent judge of character, and now he was putting his trust in this English girl, who had shown herself to be unworthy of any confidence whatever. Poor Old Put! Another masculine dupe! He was growing old; he was falling into his dotage. I felt a certain sadness at these signs of mental decay in my faithful horse. But they marched on, his silky nose pressed closely against her arm, and meanwhile the sun was sinking and the shadows were deepening and lengthening.

“I do not think it is necessary for us to walk any more,” I said. “The horses are now thoroughly rested from their race and are willing to do their part, which is to carry us.”

She looked at her ugly brown hack in some dismay.

“He’s such a rough traveller, I believe I’d rather continue walking,” she said.

He certainly had a most irregular, jumping kind of gait, which would make him an unpleasant mount for anybody, but there seemed to be no resource. Horses were not running loose around us for me to catch.

“But we can’t help it,” I said. “We can ride slowly. If he misbehaves, use that switch you have picked up.”

She walked steadily on.

“Now, if he were like this one,” she said, stroking Old Put’s nose, “I would be glad to ride again.”

“Suppose I change the saddles, then,” I said, “and let you ride Old Put?”

It was a great concession for me to make, but her appreciation of my horse had touched me for the moment.

“Do you think he would let me?” she said, looking at Old Put doubtfully and timidly.

Now I was indignant. It was a slur upon the character of Old Put, one of the gentlest and best bred of horses, to insinuate that he would behave badly with a lady on his back.

“No man except myself has ridden him in years,” I replied. “Perhaps no woman has ever ridden him at all, but that is no reason why one should not ride him now.”

“But I am afraid,” she protested again in timid fashion. All her courage seemed to have gone. Again I say you have only to be stern with a woman to keep her at your feet.

“Nonsense!” I said a little roughly. “We’ll stop talking about this and do it at once.”

I halted the horses and changed the saddles, while she looked doubtfully on. Old Put submitted like an angel, and I drew the girth tight. Then I continued,—

“Now, if you would know what a real saddle-horse is, Miss Howard, just jump up there.”

“Will you help me?”

Another proof of her subdued condition!

I held out my hand in most gallant fashion. She leaned on it a moment for support, and sprang into the saddle. Then, giving Old Put a cut with the switch which she had picked up, she galloped away.

“Good-by, Mr. Marcel!” she shouted. “I ride the better horse now.”

She turned Old Put’s nose to the southwest, and away she went at the very best speed of which my good horse was capable, and that was much. Her yellow hair flew in the wind, as before, like the streamers of a defiant battle-flag, and either with or without intent the red cap she wore was set rakishly and saucily on one side of her head.

►   ▲