A detachment of our army entered Philadelphia the next day, hot upon the heels of the retreating British, and Marcel and I were among the first dozen Americans who rode into the city, Wildfoot, the ranger, commanding the little band which had the honor of taking the lead. Seldom have happier horsemen galloped to the music of triumph.

"See, Lieutenant Chester!" said Wildfoot to me, pointing across the fields.

I followed his long forefinger with my eyes, and saw the tips of Philadelphia's spires, a most stimulating sight. Philadelphia was then our largest, richest, and most important city. The great Declaration had been made there, and in a way we considered it our capital. It had been a heavy blow to us, when we were forced to yield it to Howe, and now when his successor, Clinton, felt himself obliged to give it back to us, our spirits, so long depressed, sprang up with a bound.

"Aye, it's Philadelphia," said Wildfoot, "and we've worked and waited long to get it back again."

I thought I saw a mist appear in the eyes of the strong backwoodsman, and I knew that he was deeply moved. Certainly no one had worked more than he, and perhaps none other had taken such great risks. He was entitled to the honor of leading the vanguard.

We expected to find skirmishers and bands of the British prepared to make our way troublesome; but we met no foe and galloped, unopposed, into the city, from which the British had gone but a few hours, and from which more than three thousand Tories, too, had fled. The departure of the enemy had been so abrupt, and we were so close behind, that several British officers, either laggards or late risers, were captured by our men, and our little troop, scattering, galloped about the streets, hoping to take more such trophies.

Marcel and I turned into one of the cross streets, and saw a hundred yards ahead of us two officers in red-coats, riding at a great rate.

"British!" cried Marcel.

"So they are!" I replied, "and they must be ours!" We were wild with enthusiasm, and even with General Washington's lesson fresh in our memories, we thought little of consequences while in that state of mind.

We shouted to our horses, and followed the Englishmen at full speed, eager to make the capture. They heard the clattering of hoofs, and, seeing us, fled at a greater speed. We were but two, and no doubt they would have turned and fought us; but they knew the American army to be at our back, and there was nothing for them to do but gallop.

On they sped, lashing their horses, and after them came Marcel and I, also lashing our horses. The dust flew from the street, and pedestrians scuttled to safety.

"It will be something for us to talk of if we take them!" said Marcel.

"It must be done!" I replied, as I sought to draw more speed from my panting horse. The distance between us was decreasing, slowly it is true, but yet at a rate that could be noticed. I called Marcel's attention to our gain, and his face flushed with the hope of triumph.

"We shall take them to the general himself," he said, "and it will help us in his eyes."

The horses of the fugitives began to stagger, and I noticed it with exultation. Obviously, they could not escape us now. We soon gained rapidly, and I shouted to them to halt. One of the men whirled about quickly and fired a pistol. The bullet whizzed between Marcel and me, and its only result was to add anger to the motives that drew us on. We gained yet more rapidly, and cried anew to them to halt. A second pistol bullet was the reply, but, like its predecessor, it went wide of the target. We galloped on, and each of them fired at us again, and missed.

"We have them now!" cried Marcel. "Their pistols are empty, and they cannot reload them while going at this pace!"

In truth they were doomed apparently to be our prisoners and that, too, speedily. Our horses were the swifter and stronger, and our loaded pistols were in our belts. The fugitives seemed helpless.

"Stop or we fire!" we shouted.

They looked back as if studying their chances, and I saw their faces clearly. When they had fired their pistols, the glimpse had been too fleeting, but I knew them now. They were Vivian and Belfort.

My heart thrilled with various emotions. Vivian was our good friend, a man of whom we had the most pleasant memories. We could not fire upon him. Belfort was my enemy, yet I believed that I had triumphed over him, and surely one can afford to forgive the enemy from whom he has taken the victory. I could not fire upon him, in such a situation, any more than I could fire upon Vivian.

"Lower your pistol!" I cried to Marcel. "Do you not see who they are?"

"I do see, and you are right," said Marcel, as he replaced his weapon in its holster. We gradually checked the speed of our horses, and in a few moments the fugitives began to draw away from us. Five minutes later they galloped across the fields and to the safety of their own army. Whether they recognized us or not, I do not know.

As we turned and rode back through the suburbs, a woman on horseback met us. It was Mary Desmond.

"Why did you let them go?" she asked, speaking to me, rather than to Marcel.

"They were Vivian and Belfort," I replied. "Surely you would not have had us to fire upon either?"

"I should not have forgiven you, if you had," she replied.

She said that she had come out to meet the American force, and she had seen part of our pursuit. She, too, bore the flush of triumph upon her face, and in truth it was a great day for her as well as for us. She had done a man's work, and more than a man's work in the cause of her country.

"Yes, I am glad you let them go," she repeated as we rode back together. "It is not likely that we shall ever see either again."

We rode with her to her father's house, and then went to quarters. Just about sunset a colored man came to us with a note from John Desmond, asking us to dinner at his house that night. No excuse would be accepted, he said, and as for leave, that had been granted already by our colonel. There was no probability that either Marcel or I would seek an excuse to stay away from John Desmond's house, and as soon as we could put our toilets in proper trim we went to his residence, a great square brick building, lighted with many lights. Some carriages stood in the street in front, yet we were badly prepared for a company of the extent and rank that we found assembled there, with General Washington himself at its head. In truth, we were somewhat abashed, thinking ourselves out of place with generals and colonels; but the commander-in-chief shook our hands, and seemed to be in a gay humor, uncommon for him.

"Mr. Desmond and his daughter were bound to have you," he said. "They told me that they met you first at a banquet under embarrassing circumstances, and it is only fair to have you now at a dinner where everybody appears as what he is."

Mary Desmond came in presently, and never before had I seen a woman so shine as she did that night. She had dressed herself as for a triumph, and jewels glittered on her neck and in her hair. Her face was illumed by a great joy, all her reserve was gone, but the charm which had first drawn me to her cast a more potent spell than ever. If I had not already been deep in love with her, I should have become so then. I wondered why every man present was not eager to lay his heart at her feet. Perhaps I was not the only one present who was!

Our dinner was brief, for the generals could linger only a little when an enemy must be pursued. In truth, the main army was already in pursuit, and it was known to only a few that General Washington was at John Desmond's house. His was but a flying visit. Yet the dinner was joyous. All believed that this return to Philadelphia marked the swift rise of our fortunes. Presently wine-glasses were filled, and General Washington stood up.

"I have heard of a toast that some drank in the presence of Sir William Howe," he said, "and I wish to return it. Let us drink to the health of John Desmond, one of our truest and most useful patriots."

We drank, and the old man flushed deep with gratified pride.

"And now," resumed the general, "let us drink to the best patriot of all, the daring messenger and horsewoman, Miss Mary Desmond. Happy the country that can claim her, and happy the man! To Miss Mary Desmond!"

No toast was ever drunk with a better will.

The commander-in-chief and the generals went away in a few minutes, but Marcel and I stayed a little longer.

"We pursue the enemy to-morrow," I said to Mary Desmond as I bade her good-night, "and there will soon be a battle."

She looked steadily into my eyes, but in a moment a light flush swept over her beautiful face.

"May you come back safely, Lieutenant Chester," she said.

"Will you care?" I asked.

"I do care," she replied. I thought I felt her fingers quiver as she gave me her hand, but she withdrew it in an instant, and I came away.

Our vanguard under Wildfoot, with Marcel and me by his side, began the pursuit of the British the next day.

Chapter Twenty-five – The Widow's Might

The troop, led by Wildfoot, numbered not more than fifty horsemen, but all were strong and wiry, and bore themselves in the easy alert manner that betokens experience, and much of it. Moreover, they were well mounted, a point of extreme importance. Marcel and I deemed ourselves fortunate to be included in such a band, and that we were high in the partisan chief's favor, we had good evidence, because before we started he brought us two exceptionally fine horses and bade us exchange our mounts for them, temporarily.

"You must do it, as you are likely to need their speed and strength," he said, when we showed reluctance, for good cavalry horses were worth their weight in silver, at least in those days, and we did not like to take the responsibility of their possible loss.

"Then you mean to give us some work, I take it," said Marcel.

"Not much to-day," replied the partisan, "as I operate best in the dark; so shall I wait until sun-down, but I hope that we shall then get through with a fair night's work."

Wildfoot's men seem to trust him absolutely. They never asked him where they were going or what they were expected to do, but followed cheerfully wherever he led. The partisan himself continued in the great good humor that had marked him when we entered Philadelphia. He sang a bit under his breath and smiled frequently. Whether he was happy over deeds achieved or others to come, I could not tell. But I saw that our duties were to be of a scouting nature, as was indicated clearly by the character of the force under his command.

We rode for a while in the track of the British army, a huge trail made by the passage of sixteen thousand troops, and a camp train twelve miles long. Many Tories, too, not fortunate enough to secure passage on the ships down the river, had followed the army, filled with panic and dreading retaliation from the triumphant patriots whom some of their kind had persecuted cruelly in the days when our fortunes were lower.

It was easy enough for us to overtake the British army, which was dragging itself painfully over the hills and across the fields. A body of fifteen or twenty thousand men can move but slowly in the best of times, and in the terrible heat which had suddenly settled down, the British forces merely crept towards New York. Soon we saw their red coats and shining arms through the trees, and heard the murmur of the thousands. However we bore off to one side, passing out of sight, and made a wide curve, apparently for the purpose of examining the country, and to see whether the British had sent out skirmishing or foraging parties. But we saw neither, and shortly after sunset our curve brought us back to the enemy's army, which had gone into camp for the night, their fires flaring redly against the background of the darkness. We stopped upon the crest of a little hill, from which we could see the camp very well and sat there for a few minutes, watching. Being in the darkness we were invisible, but many blazing heaps of wood shed their light over the hostile army.

"They seem to be taking their ease," said Wildfoot. "It ought not to be allowed, but we will not disturb them for the present."

Then he withdrew our men about a mile, and, halting them in a thick wood, ordered them to eat of the food in their knapsacks. But Marcel and me he summoned to go with him on a little journey that he purposed to take.

"We shall not be gone more than an hour or two," he said, "and we will find the men waiting for us here when we come back."

We curved again as we rode away. In truth, we had been making so many curves that it was hard for me to retain any idea of direction. In a half hour we saw a light, and then the house from which it came, a low but rather large building of heavy logs, standing in a small clearing in the forest.

Wildfoot had not spoken since we left the other men, and as he seemed to be in deep thought we did not interrupt him with vain questions, merely following him as he rode quietly into the thickest part of the woods behind the house. When he slipped from his horse there, we did likewise, and waited to see what he would do next.

"We will tie our horses here," he said. "No one will see them, and as they are old campaigners, they are too well trained to make a noise."

Again we imitated his example, and tethered our horses to the boughs of trees.

"Now," said Wildfoot, when that was done, "we will call on a lady."

The moon was shining a little, and I thought I saw a faint smile on his face. I was full of curiosity, and Marcel beside me uttered a little exclamation. The name of woman was always potent with this South Carolina Frenchman; but we said nothing, content, perforce, to be silent and wait.

"She is not so handsome as Miss Mary Desmond," continued Wildfoot, smiling again a little, and this time at me. "Few are; but as she finds no fault with it herself, none other should."

But Marcel had begun to brush his uniform with his hands, and settle the handsome sword, which was his proudest adornment, a little more rakishly by his side.

We walked to the door and knocked, and when some one within wished to know in a strong voice who was there, Wildfoot responded with a question.

"Are you alone?" he asked.

"Yes," said the voice. "Who is it?"

"Wildfoot and two friends."

The door was opened at once, and we entered, beholding a woman who seemed to be the sole occupant of the house. At least none other was visible.

"I hope you are well, mother," said Wildfoot, and the woman nodded.

But I saw at once that she was no mother of his, although old enough. She, too, was large and powerful, almost masculine in build, but there was no similarity whatever in the features.

"Lieutenant Chester and Lieutenant Marcel of the American army, good friends of mine and trusted comrades," said Wildfoot, "and this, gentlemen," he continued to us, "is Mother Melrose, as loyal a patriot as you can find in the Thirteen Colonies, and one who has passed many a good bit of information from the British army in Philadelphia on to those who needed it most. Mother, can't you find us something to eat while we talk?"

The woman looked pleased with his praise, and speedily put upon a table substantial food, which we attacked with the zest that comes of hard riding. Yet from the first I studied the room and the woman with curiosity and interest.

The note of Mother Melrose's manner and air was self-reliance. She walked like a grenadier, and her look said very plainly that she feared few things. She must have been at least sixty, and perhaps was never beautiful. I surmised, from the complete understanding so evidently existing between her and Wildfoot, that she helped him in his forays, warning him of hostile expeditions, sending him news of wagon trains that could be cut off, and otherwise serving the cause. There were many such brave women who gave us great aid in this war. But I wondered at a fortitude that could endure such a lonely and dangerous life.

"Do you know that the British army is encamped near you, mother?" asked Wildfoot, as we drank a little wine that she brought from a recess, probably captured by Wildfoot himself from some wagon train.

"I know it," she replied, her old eyes lifting up, "and glory be to God, they have been forced to run away from Philadelphia at last!"

She passed presently into a rear room which seemed to be a kitchen, and Marcel said: —

"A fine patriot, but has she no sons, nobody to help her here and to protect her, maybe?"

"She can protect herself well enough," replied Wildfoot, "and there is nobody else in this house except a serving lad, who, I suspect, is in the kitchen helping himself to a little extra supper. But she has sons, three of them. They're in our business, and far away from here."

"Three for the cause," I commented. "That is doing well."

"Two fight for the Congress and one for the king," said Wildfoot. "The one who serves the king is her youngest and best beloved. Nothing can change that, although, as far as her power goes, the king has no greater opponent than she."

"Strange!" said Marcel.

But it did not seem so very strange to me.

The woman was coming back, and I looked at her with deeper respect than ever. We talked a little more, and Wildfoot's questions disclosed that his object in coming to the house was to see if she had any better information than he had been able to pick up. But she could tell him of no hostile party that he might cut off.

Our conversation was ended suddenly by a shock of red hair thrust in at the door, and a voice, coming from somewhere behind the red hair, announcing that some one was coming. It was the serving boy who gave us the timely warning.

"It must be the enemy," said Wildfoot. "No Americans except ours are near here, and they would not come contrary to my express order. How many are they, Timothy?"

"Three men on horseback, and they are British," replied Timothy.

"You can go out the back way and escape into the forest without any trouble," said the woman.

"I don't know that we want to escape," replied Wildfoot, "especially as we are three to three. Neither are we looking for a skirmish just now; so, by your permission, mother, we will step into the next room, and wait for your new guests to disclose themselves."

Mother Melrose offered no objection, and we entered a room adjoining the one in which we had been eating. It was unlighted, but the house seemed to have been a sort of country inn in more peaceful times, and this apartment into which we had just come, was the parlor.

"Leave the door ajar an inch or two, that we may see," said Wildfoot, and the woman obeyed. A minute later there was a heavy knock, as if whoever came, came with confidence. Mother Melrose opened the door in an unconcerned manner, as if such knocks were a common occurrence at her house, and three British officers entered, that is, two were Englishmen, and the third was a Hessian. The faces of the Englishmen were young, open, and attractive, but that of the Hessian I did not like. We did not dislike the English officers in this war, who were mostly honest men serving the cause of their country; but we did hate the Hessians, who were mere mercenaries, besides being more cruel than the British, and when I say "hate," I use the word with emphasis.

They, too, seemed to have taken the place for a sort of country inn, and sat down at the table from which Mother Melrose had hastily cleared the dishes of our own supper.

"Can't you give us something to eat, mistress?" asked one of the Englishmen. "We are tired of camp fare, and we pay gold."

"Provisions are scarce," replied Mother Melrose; "but I am willing to do my best, because you travel in such haste that I may never have another chance to serve you."

"She has pricked you very neatly, Osborne," laughed the other Englishman, "but I am free to confess that we would travel faster if the weather were not so deucedly hot. We don't have such a Tophet of a summer in England, and I'm glad of it. Any rebels about, mistress?"

It was the merest chance shot, as we were ahead of the British army rather than behind it, and we were not expected in this quarter; but Mother Melrose never flinched. "No, you are safe," she replied.

"That's for you, Hunston," said Osborne, laughing in his turn, "but I would have you to know, good mistress, that we are giving up Philadelphia to your great Mr. Washington out of kindness, pure kindness. He starved and froze, out there at Valley Forge, so long that we thought he needed a change and city comforts, and as there is plenty of room for all of ours in New York, we concluded, – and again I say it was out of the kindness of our souls, – to give him Philadelphia."

"Well, the Lord loveth a cheerful giver," said Mother Melrose, with unction.

Both Englishmen laughed again, and with great heartiness. Evidently they were men who knew that life was worth living, and were not prone to grieve over evils unbefallen. I was sorry that I could not laugh with them. There was no smile on the face of the ill-favored Hessian. His eyes wandered about the room, but he seemed to have no suspicion. I took it that his sour temper was the result of chronic discontent.

"What ails you, Steinfeldt?" asked Osborne. "Why don't you look happy? Isn't the hospitality of the house all that you wish?"

"Haven't you any wine?" asked Steinfeldt. "I can't drink the cursed drinks of this country, cider and such stuff! faugh!"

Mother Melrose produced the same bottle from which she had poured wine for us, and filled the glasses.

"That's better," said Steinfeldt. "Fill them again, can't you?" His eyes began to sparkle, and his face to flush. It was easy to tell his master passion. But Mother Melrose filled the glasses again, and then a third time, producing a second bottle. The house was better stocked than I had thought it could possibly be. Steinfeldt's temper began to improve under the influence of the liquor, and he grew talkative. Evidently Mother Melrose's taunt about the British evacuation of Philadelphia rankled in his mind, though the two Englishmen themselves had passed it off easily enough.

"We will come back," he said. "You don't imagine that we will let Mr. Washington keep Philadelphia long?"

"I don't think he will ask you about it," replied Mother Melrose.

"It's too good a country to give up," continued Steinfeldt, "and we must keep it. It is rich land, and the women are fair. The men may not want us; but the women do."

One of the Englishmen angrily bade him be silent; but the wine was in his blood.

"But the women do want us, don't they?" he repeated to Mother Melrose.

She lifted her hand, which was both large and muscular, and slapped him in the face. It was no light blow, the crack of it was like that of a pistol-shot, and Steinfeldt reeled in his chair, the blood leaping to his cheeks.

"Damnation!" he cried, springing to his feet, and snatching his sword from its scabbard.

"Steinfeldt, stop!" cried Osborne, "you cannot cut down a woman."

"I wish you were a man," said the Hessian to Mother Melrose, "then you'd have to fight for that."

"Don't trouble yourself about my not being a man," said she, coolly. "I'll fight you any way."

One of the Englishmen had hung his sword and belt on the back of his chair while he ate, and, to my unbounded surprise, Mother Melrose stepped forward, took the sword, and putting herself in the attitude of a genuine fencing-master, faced the German. I was about to make a movement, but Wildfoot put a restraining hand on my shoulder. His other hand was on Marcel's shoulder.

"Madame, what do you mean?" asked Osborne.

"The gentleman seems to be angry, and I am the cause of his anger, so I offer him satisfaction," she replied. "He need not hesitate. I am probably a much better swordsman than he."

Steinfeldt's face flushed. He raised his weapon, and the two swords clashed together. But we did not intend that the matter should go farther, and we stepped into the room just as the Englishmen also moved forward to interfere.

Their surprise was intense, but they drew weapons promptly. Marcel, whose blood was hotter than mine or Wildfoot's, raised his hand as a signal to be quiet.

"Since the German gentleman wants to have satisfaction, he ought to have it," he said, "and since he has insulted the women of our country, we also want the satisfaction which we ought to have. If the quarrel is not handsomely made up, I never heard of one that was. I'll take Mother Melrose's place."

The woman put the sword on the table, and stepped aside, content with the way affairs were going. The Englishmen looked dubiously at us.

"Why not?" asked Wildfoot.

His query seemed pertinent to me. According to the military law, all of us ought to fight; but since we would make a most unpleasant muss in the house it was best that a champion of each side should meet. It was proper, too, that Marcel should be our man, since he was a better swordsman than I. Wildfoot was our leader, and it was not fitting for him to take the risk.

"Why not?" continued Wildfoot. "I may tell you, gentlemen, that I have a large party near, and perhaps I could get help in time to make you prisoners, but I assure you that the affair would interfere with other and more important plans of mine. You would much better let them fight."

The Englishmen whispered together a moment or two.

"Let it be as you propose," said Osborne.

Their eyes began to sparkle, and I saw that the love of sport, inherent in all Englishmen, was aroused. Marcel and Steinfeldt faced each other and raised their swords. I was astonished at the animosity showing in the eyes of these two men who had never seen each other until a few minutes ago and who had no real cause of quarrel. Yet they seemed to me at that moment to typify their two races which, since then, and in these Napoleonic times, have come into such antagonism. Still it would not be right to say that I care more for the French than for the Germans, although Marcel, who was of French descent, was my fast friend. I have no great admiration for the faults of either race.

Steinfeldt was the larger and apparently the stronger of the two; but Marcel was more compact and agile, and I felt confident of his success. They crossed swords, testing each other's attack and defence, and then began to fight in earnest, their eyes gleaming, their faces hot, and their breath coming short and hard. A candle on a table cast a dim light, and shadows flickered on the floor.

The German was no bad swordsman, and the influence of the wine had passed. At first he pressed Marcel back with fierce and rapid thrusts, and for a moment I was alarmed for my friend. Then I saw that Marcel's face was calm, and his figure seemed to gather strength. My eyes passed on to Mother Melrose; but she stood, impassive, against the wall, silently watching the swordsmen. A red head appeared at the kitchen door, and there was the serving lad following the contest with staring eyes. As for myself, I was uneasy. I did not like the situation; it seemed to me irregular, and we might be interrupted at any time by a force of the enemy. Yet I reasoned with myself that I should not be disturbed when Wildfoot, who was a veteran, seemed not to be, and I soon forgot my scruples in the ring of steel and the joy of combat that rose in my blood, as it had risen in that of the Englishmen.

The Hessian paused a little, seeming to feel that he had been too violent in the beginning, and I noticed that his breath had shortened. Marcel, whose back was against the wall, feinted, and followed up the feint with a thrust, quick as lightning. But the Hessian had no mean skill, and he turned aside the blade which flashed by his arm with a soft sound like scissors snipping through cloth. His coat-sleeve was laid open and the flesh grazed.

"He guards well," said one of the Englishmen, nodding towards Steinfeldt.

The Hessian heard the remark, and it seemed to give him new strength. His sword became a beam of light, and he thrust so straight at Marcel's breast that I held my breath in fear; but my comrade was quick, and the blade, caught on his own, flashed harmlessly by.

"Well fought; well fought, by Pollux!" exclaimed the Englishman Osborne. "This is worth seeing."

The duellists were now almost in the centre of the room, and they paused a moment for breath. I knew, by the compression of their lips, that each was preparing for his greatest effort, and we were silent, awaiting the issue.

The sword play began again, and the weapons rang across each other. The heavy breathing of the combatants sounded distinctly, and the soft beat of their footsteps, as they shifted about the room, made a light, sliding noise, like the restless tread of wild animals in a cage.

The Hessian's sword passed close to Marcel's side, cutting his coat; but when Marcel's blade flashed in return, it came back with blood upon it. The keen edge had passed along the Hessian's wrist, leaving a red thread.

The cut was not deep, but it had a sting to it, and Steinfeldt shut his teeth hard. Marcel's sword was now making lines of light about him, and the Hessian's part in the combat soon became a defence only. He was pressed back, an inch or two at a time, but without cessation. Then I saw the great skill of my comrade. His lips were shut tight, but his eyes remained calm and confident, and the sword seemed to have become a part of himself, so truly did it obey his will.

The Hessian's face slowly darkened, and the light in his eyes, that had been the light of anger and defiance, became the light of fear. And it was the fear of death. He read nothing else in the gleaming blade and calm look of the man before him. Two or three drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"Bad, bad! Steinfeldt has lost!" I heard the Englishman Osborne say under his breath.

I studied Marcel's face, but I could not discover his intentions there. That he carried the Hessian's life on the point of his sword, everyone in the room now knew, and the Hessian himself knew it best of all. But Steinfeldt had courage, I give him all credit for that, whatever else he may have been. A man must be brave to fight on, in the face of what he knows is certain death.