9 As Seen in a Dream

We were young and vigorous. The girl was tall, straight, almost as strong as I, and mile after mile dropped behind us. The air had the crisp, fresh coolness of a South Carolina winter, like a Northern day in autumn. The sun, climbing steadily towards the heavens, shone in full splendor and in an atmosphere as pure as that over the sea. We could see far to right and left and before us, but we saw neither men nor horses, just the rolling hills and valleys and the straggling forests.

“So much the better,” I said to Julia, “for the lonelier the country the less obstacle there will be to our flight. Morgan is retreating towards the Broad River, and as we have surely passed around Tarleton by this time, we ought to overtake him by night. I hope he will have plenty to eat, for I think that you and I will miss our dinner.”

“Do you know,” said she, “I begin to hope that Tarleton will not catch Morgan? It would be an awful scene, and perhaps some of the rebels are good men after all.”

“Perhaps.”

“Couldn’t the war be ended in some way without more years of fighting — by some sort of compromise? Suppose each side should give up a little?”

“We might make the proposition, you and I, to Congress and the King.”

“Don’t jest. I’m in earnest.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s no chance for a compromise, and there hasn’t been for four or five years. Either we go free or we do not. You English like to boast of your courage and tenacity, and we make the same boast of ourselves. It has to be fought out to the end, win or lose.”

“I am sorry.”

She spoke truthfully, as she looked her sadness, but the wind soon blew it away, bringing back the sparkle to her eyes and the rose-flush to her cheeks. We stopped about noontime to rest, and Old Put made use of the opportunity to hunt for green grass, stopping at times to look benevolently at us and to indicate that his state of mind was content. We were both hungry, but we had nothing better to do than to watch Old Put nibble for his dinner, which he did very industriously until I called to him and told him it was time to start.

Julia again refused to mount the horse, and we strolled on together. I felt safe now, and, coming to a cabin whose owner had been bold enough to remain and guard his own, I offered to trade him the fine British coat I wore for any coat of his own, however old, provided it would hold together on my shoulders. He produced the garment and made the trade, by which he was a great gainer, and asked me no questions, differing therein from the country-people of the Northern regions through which I had campaigned so long. Moreover, he looked very curiously at the tall girl with me.

“You are American,” he said to me just before we started.

“Yes.”

“The lady looks English.”

“She is English.”

“It is very strange.”

“You are right. It is strange.”

Such were my thoughts as we walked away. The man, who seemed to live there alone, half hunter, half farmer, stood in his cabin-door and watched us until we passed out of sight.

I prevailed upon the girl to ride awhile, but after an hour on horseback she dismounted again, saying that she preferred to walk. About the middle of the afternoon we met a farmer who confirmed my belief that Morgan had passed on towards the Broad River, though he knew nothing of Tarleton. An hour later, as we were passing through thick woods, someone cried out to us to halt. I almost sprang up in my astonishment, and the girl uttered a little cry of fright, for neither of us supposed anyone to be near, having seen and heard nothing, and Old Put, I suppose, was tired or dreaming.

“Stop,” I said to Julia; “it may be friends.”

Two men on horseback came from a position among the dense trees. They were dressed in rough homespun gray, and looked like Americans, the two facts together inducing the belief that they were militia scouts of Morgan’s.

“An American and his lady,” said the foremost to me. “You are a soldier, are you not?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“And on the way to Morgan too, I take it. Keep straight to the northwest, and you will overtake him. We are good patriots too.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Morgan seems to keep a sharp watch. I hope that we shall overtake him before nightfall.”

He had ridden very close to me.

“I don’t think it, my fine fellow,” he said. “We will take good care of both you and the lady, for we are Tarleton’s scouts, not Morgan’s.”

I saw then that the appearance and manner of the men had deceived me, but no thought of surrender to them entered my mind. I snatched at my pistol. The fellow, who was as wary as a panther, saw the movement and drew his own weapon. We fired almost at the same time. I saw him reel in his saddle, but not fall, and I was conscious of a thrill of pain in my head, followed by a heavy, crushing sensation, as if I had been struck by a hammer. I staggered, falling to the ground upon my hands and knees. Consciousness left me entirely for a few minutes and then came back dimly, just enough for me to dream and to create events for myself.

In this dream I saw a girl with tawny gold hair and blue eyes raise a pistol and fire at the second rider, who had drawn a cavalry sabre. The man, shouting with pain, dropped his sabre, clapped his other hand to his shoulder, and galloped after his comrade, whose horse, frightened by the shots, was running away with him. Both disappeared in the wood, and the girl, who stood for a minute or two watching, the empty pistol in her hand, seemed to feel sure that they would not come back, for she rushed to the wounded man on the ground and raised his head in her arms.

I watched her with a curious interest, this blond girl who had been so bitter of speech and yet so much the master of herself. The man had risen to his knees once, but had fallen back from weakness. His eyes closed almost, his face became very white, and there was blood on his hair. She raised his head and kissed his face, once, twice, and more, and begged him not to die. “Live! Live for yourself and for me, Philip, for I love you, my hero!” she said, and a great bay horse stood looking and listening. She flew to a little brook she saw flowing through the wood, and bringing water in her cap poured it upon the man’s face, while the horse nodded approval. Then she washed the blood out of his hair and bound up the wound with something white. “No, Put, I will never leave him,” she said, “I will never leave him, for he has saved me from death and worse, and I love him—I tell you I love him!” whereupon the great horse nodded his approval with extreme vigor.

I came to myself, and I was sorry that the dream was over. It had been pleasant, very pleasant, and I was willing to dream on. I had a headache, but when I put my hand to the spot which ached I knew that the wound was not serious,—that it was nothing but a trifle. A bullet, clipping under the skin, had glanced along my skull and passed on, inflicting a slight concussion, like a heavy blow from a man’s fist, but that was all. I had seen many men who had suffered similar wounds in battle and were as good as ever the next day.

“You are not going to die, are you, Mr. Marcel?” tearfully asked the most modest and demure of blond English maidens, standing before me.

“My intentions are the precise opposite,” I replied. “I have so much to live for.”

It is curious how rapidly the feelings develop under the stress of great hardships and danger. The day and a half that I had been with her were equal to a year and a half of ordinary time.

“Would you bring me a little of that cool water to drink in your cap?” I asked. “I see that the cap is wet already, and it won’t hurt it.”

She brought the water, and I drank. It was as cold as ice and as refreshing as nectar as it ran down my throat. I have seen men lying on the battlefield begging for water as if it were the one great gift of heaven to our kind.

I felt twice the man that I was a minute before. The girl was strangely quiet, even shy, and more than ever I believed it my chief duty to protect her.

“No, Julia,” I said; “this rebel against the King means to live. So far from dying, I haven’t had anything more than a knockdown which has left a sore spot on my head and a little ache inside it, but I can travel as well as ever. Here, Old Put is waiting for you. Get up and ride.”

But she declined with indignation.

“I will not do that,” she said. “You may be a rebel—in fact, I know you are—but you shall not walk while you are wounded. You must ride.”

As I was still a little dizzy I yielded at last, though I did not like to do it, and rode for a couple of hours. Then, feeling as strong as ever, I dismounted and made Julia take her turn on horseback. But at the end of an hour she too dismounted, and we walked on together as before, not talking much, but happy. The sun was again retreating before the night, and the western skies were aflame. The light fell full upon the girl’s face, and her beauty, splendid and glowing before, was tender and spiritual now.

“We shall be in Morgan’s camp soon, Julia,” I said, “and I will have to resign my prisoner.”

“I shall consider myself your prisoner until I am retaken by the English,” she said.

I did not reply, but I was willing to accept my responsibilities.

Old Put, who was walking slowly behind us, after his custom, raised his head and neighed. It was not a whinny, but a loud, sonorous neigh that could be heard afar. It was full of meaning too. And a quarter of a mile ahead of us on one of the open ridges I saw the cause—a troop of a dozen horsemen riding towards us at a half-gallop. Old Put neighed again, long and loud.

“Ought we not to escape into the wood?” exclaimed Julia in alarm. “There is time yet. Those troopers may be English.”

She did not seem to notice the strangeness of a suggestion from her that she hide from the English, but I was confident.

“They are not English,” I said. “They are Americans. Old Put knows his friends. Trust him.”

In truth, the horse uttered his loud and joyous neigh a third time, and I had not the slightest apprehension, for it was impossible to deceive Old Put when he was wide awake.

The horsemen saw us and quickened their pace to a gallop. As they approached I could recognize the Continental buff and blue, and, telling Julia that it was all right, we walked gravely on to meet them. Old Put, his demonstrations of joy made, followed after with equal sobriety.

They were dashing riders, those men, and their curiosity must have been aroused by the sight of the girl, for they came on at the long, swinging gallop of the good cavalryman, and quickly enclosed us.

“Good-evening, Colonel,” I said to the leader, saluting. “I am happy to see you again and to join your command.”

It was Colonel William Washington, the distant cousin of our great Commander-in-Chief, one of the finest cavalry commanders of our time, a fine, open-faced man of about thirty.

“Why, Marcel—Phil Marcel!” he cried in surprise, “is it you?”

“Yes, it is I, Colonel.”

“And the lady?”

“The lady is my prisoner, Colonel, an English spy!”

“Did she give you that wound on your head?”

“I said a lady, Colonel.”

Every hat came off, and there was admiration as well as respect in the bow that each trooper made.

“The lady carried the news of our most important movements,” I said, “and I was compelled to hold her a prisoner.”

“You have done well, Mr. Marcel,” said my Colonel.

I thought so too. Perhaps I had done better than I thought.

“Now that I have brought the prisoner in,” I said, “I will have to resign her into your hands, Colonel.”

“It will be but for a brief space, as the camp of Morgan is only three miles back. There are some American women there who will take care of her.”

“But I wish to remind you of one thing, Colonel.”

“What is that?”

“A lady cannot be shot or hanged as a spy, even though she be a spy.”

He laughed the hearty laugh that I like to hear from a man. “Have no fear,” he said. “We are Americans.” Then he laughed again that deep, resonant laugh which I like. “I will send two men back with you and the prisoner, but I am on a scout to find Tarleton and ascertain when he is likely to attack us.” “Do we mean to make a stand?” I asked. For the third time he laughed. “Why, boy,” he said, “you don’t expect Morgan, who, with Arnold, was the hero of Saratoga, to run away, do you? He only wanted a little time to drill his men and get his grip on them, and now he’s ready to welcome Tarleton to the fray.”

“Then you will have Tarleton by morning,” I said, and I explained all that I had heard or learned otherwise in my flight with the prisoner, to which he listened with an interest that indicated its importance and made me feel mine.

“Good! Good, Marcel!” he exclaimed more than once. “This is precisely what we wanted to know. And so Mr. Tarleton is hot on our heels and will attack in the morning? Well, Philip Marcel, I think you will see to-morrow as pretty a little battle as was ever fought on this continent, and neither Colonel Tarleton nor I nor any other can tell yet what the result will be.”

Julia was standing by me, and her old spirit suddenly flamed up.

“I can,” she said, “and I only hope that instead of falling in the battle you will be taken a prisoner, for to-morrow night your army will not exist.”

“Miss Howard,” said Colonel Washington, bowing—I had given her name—“we have more admiration for the ladies than confidence in their military predictions.”

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