12 Looking Ahead

I returned towards the Broad River, where, under the lee of a little hill, a tent had held six or seven friendly women. Julia came out, her face still pale, for she had heard all the crash and tumult of the battle.

“It is over, Julia,” I said,—I had hid my bloody sword,—“and the British army no longer exists.”

“And the victory is yours! Yesterday I thought it impossible.”

“Your countrymen make the same mistake over and over again, but they pay the price.”

We walked towards the field, and we met some men bringing in a gray-haired prisoner, a tall, fine-looking officer. Julia, crying aloud in her joy, ran forward and embraced him. He returned the embrace again and again with the greatest tenderness.

“Father,” said Julia, “we are now prisoners together.”

I watched them for a few minutes, and then I stepped forward and said:

“Good-morning, Major Howard.”

He stared at me in the icy way of the Englishman who has been addressed by a stranger.

“I do not know you, sir,” he said.

“My name is Philip Marcel, and I am your future son-in-law.”

He was now unable to speak.

“It is true, sir,” I said. “Ask your daughter.”

He looked at her. She smiled and reddened.

Old Put was standing by, and he nodded his head in approval. He had liked her from the first.

“Your daughter is to be my wife,” I continued with emphasis, “and you are to live with us and like us.”

These were resounding boasts for a young soldier to make, but they all came true after Yorktown.

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