A Soldier of Virginia | Page 6

walked beside me, saying nothing.
I glanced at his face, half shamed of my petulance, and I saw that he
was no longer smiling. His lips were closed in that firm straight line
which I had already seen once or twice, and which during years of trial
became habitual to him. My own petty anger vanished at the sight.
"I have not yet thanked you, Colonel Washington," I said at last, "for
securing me my appointment. I was eating my heart out to make the
campaign, but saw no way of doing so until your message reached me."
"Why, Tom," he laughed, "you were the first of whom I thought when
General Braddock gave me leave to fill some of the vacancies. Did you

think I had so soon forgot the one who saved my life at Fort
Necessity?"
I opened my mouth to protest, but he silenced me with a gesture.
"I can see it as though it were here before us," he continued. "The
French and Indians on the knoll yonder, my own men kneeling in the
trenches, almost waist-deep in water, trying in vain to keep their
powder dry; here and there a wounded man lying in the mud and
cursing, the rain and mist over it all, and the night coming on. And then,
suddenly, the rush of Indians at our back, and over the breastwork. I
had my pistol in my hand, you remember, Tom, but the powder flashed
in the pan, and the foremost of the savages was upon me. I saw his
tomahawk in the air, and I remember wondering who would best
command when I was dead. But your aim was true and your powder
dry, and when the tomahawk fell, it fell harmless, with its owner upon
it."
For a moment neither of us spoke. My eyes were wet at thought of the
scene which I so well remembered, and when I turned to him, I saw
that he was still brooding over this defeat, which had rankled as a
poisoned arrow in his breast ever since that melancholy morning we
had marched away from the Great Meadows with the French on either
side and the Indians looting the baggage in the rear. As we reached my
quarters, we turned by a common impulse and continued onward
through the darkness.
"This expedition must be more fortunate," he said at last, as though in
answer to his own thought. "A thousand regulars, as many more
provincials, guns, and every equipage,--yes, it is large enough and
strong enough, unless"--
"Unless?" I questioned, as he paused.
"Unless we walk headlong to our own destruction," he said. "But no, I
won't believe it. The general has been bred in the Coldstreams and
knows nothing of frontier fighting. But he is a brave man, an honest
man, and he will learn. Small wonder he believes in discipline after

serving half a century in such a regiment. Have you ever heard the
story of their fight at Fontenoy, ten years since, when they lost two
hundred and forty men? I heard it three nights ago at the general's table,
and 't was enough to make a man weep for very pity that such valor
should count for naught."
"Tell it me," I cried, for if there is one thing I love above all
others,--yea, even yet, when I must sit useless by,--it is the tale of brave
deeds nobly done.
"'T was on the eleventh day of May, seventeen forty-five," he said,
"that the English and the Dutch met the French, who were under
Marshal Saxe. Louis the Fifteenth himself was on the field, with the
Grand Dauphin by his side and a throng of courtiers about him, for he
knew how much depended on the issue of this battle. A redoubt, held
by the famous Guards, bristling with cannon, covered the French
position. The Dutch, appalled at the task before them, refused to
advance, but his Grace of Cumberland, who commanded the English,
rose equal to the moment. He formed his troops in column, the
Coldstreams at its head, and gave the word for the assault. The batteries
thundered, the redoubt was crowned with flame, but the Coldstreams
turned neither to the right nor left. Straight on they marched,--to
annihilation, as it seemed,--reforming as they went, over hill and gully,
as steadily as on parade. At last they reached their goal, and an instant's
silence fell upon the field as they faced the French. The English officers
raised their hats to their adversaries, who returned the salute as though
they were at Versailles, not looking in the eyes of death.
"'Gentlemen of the French Guard,' cried Lord Charles Hay, 'fire, if you
please.'
"'Impossible, monsieur,' cried the Count of Hauteroche; 'the French
Guards never fire first. Pray, fire