"I fear it is only too possible," he answered gloomily. "If the general lives, he may order another advance; indeed, I am sure he will, in the hope of saving some fragment of his reputation. But if he dies, as seems most likely, Colonel Dunbar, who succeeds to the command, is not the man to imperil his prestige by taking such a risk."
"Risk?" I cried. "How is this any greater than the risk we took at the outset?"
"You forget, lieutenant," said Allen, "that all of our equipment was left on the field. The men flung away their arms, many of them even the clothes upon their backs. Everything was abandoned,—the general's private papers, and even the military chest, with £10,000 in it. These losses will not be easily repaired."
I could not but admit the truth of this, and said as much.
"And then," continued Allen, still more gloomily, "we have suffered another loss which can never be made good. The morale of the men is gone. They have no longer the confidence in themselves which a winning army must have. I doubt if many of them could be got to cross the Monongahela a second time."
Yes, that was also true, and we fell silent, each busy with his own thoughts. It seemed too horrible, too utterly fantastic. At last came the dawn, and the light of the morning disclosed us to each other. As I looked about me, I wondered if these scarecrows, these phantoms of men, could be the same who had gone into battle in all the pride of manhood and pageantry of arms the day before. Orme was ghastly, with his bandaged head and torn, mud-stained uniform, and as I looked at him, I recalled sadly the gallant figure I had met at Fort Necessity. Nor were the others better. Haggard faces, bloodshot eyes, lips drawn with suffering, hair matted with blood,—all the grim and revolting realities of defeat were there before us, and no longer to be denied. And I realized that I was ghastly as any. A bullet had cut open my forehead, leaving a livid gash, from which the blood had dried about my face. I had lost my hat, and my uniform was in tatters and stained with blood.
We soon met the men who had gone forward with Waggoner to secure us some supplies, and halted by a little brook to wash our injuries. Captain Orme and some others attended as well as they were able to the general, and gave him a little food, which was all too scarce, barely sufficient for a single meal. Fortunately, Doctor Craik, who had learned that the general was wounded, came up soon after, and made a careful examination of the injury. He came away, when he had finished, with grave face, and told us there was little hope, as the wound was already much inflamed and fevered, and the general was able to breathe only with great agony. He said there could be no question that the ball had entered the lung. The general fancied that he would be easier on horseback, so when the march was begun again, he was mounted on the horse Orme had been riding, but after half an hour his pain grew so intense that he had to be taken down. It was evident that he could not endure the jolting of the cart, and we finally rigged up a sort of litter out of a portion of the tumbrel top, and the men took turns in bearing him on this between them.
Daylight banished much of the terror of the night, and as we toiled onward, we began to talk a little, each to tell what part he had seen of the battle. It was here that I heard the story of Harry Gordon, the engineer who had been marking out the road in advance of the column, and who had first seen the enemy. They had appeared suddenly, coming through the wood at a run, as though hurrying from the fort, and led by a man whose silver gorget and gayly fringed hunting-shirt at once bespoke the chief. So soon as he saw Gordon, he halted and waved his hat above his head, and the rabble of savages at his heels had dispersed to right and left and disappeared as if by magic. An instant later came a tremendous rifle fire from either flank, which cut Gage's troops to pieces. They had rallied and returned the fire with spirit, so that for a time the issue hung in the balance; but the terrible fire to which they were subjected was too much for any discipline to withstand, and they had finally given way in confusion, just as Burton was forming to support them.
It was not until long afterward that I heard the French story of the fight, but I deem it best to set it down here. As our army had approached through the wilderness, the Indians who lurked upon our flanks had carried greatly exaggerated stories of our strength to Fort Duquesne, and M. de Contrecoeur prepared to surrender on terms of honorable capitulation, deeming it mere madness to oppose a force so overwhelming in strength and so well disciplined. To the French the reputation of General Braddock and of the Forty-Fourth and Forty-Eighth regiments of the line was well known and commanded the greatest respect. On the eighth of July, it was reported that the English were only a few miles from the fort, which they would probably invest the next day, and M. de Beaujeu, a captain of the regulars, asked the commandant for permission to prepare an ambuscade and contest the second passage of the Monongahela. Contrecoeur granted the request with great reluctance, and only on condition that Beaujeu obtain the assistance of the Indians, of whom there were near a thousand camped about the fort. Accordingly. Beaujeu at once called the warriors to a council, and urged that they accompany him against the English on the morrow. They received his proposition with marked coldness, and according to the Indian custom, asked until morning to consider their reply. In the morning, the council was called together again, and the Indians refused to take part in the expedition. At that moment a runner burst in upon them and announced that the enemy was at hand. Beaujeu, who knew well the inflammable nature of his hearers, was on his feet in an instant.
"I," he cried, "am determined to go out against the enemy. I am certain of victory. What! Will you suffer your father to depart alone?"