"Sixteen," answered Orme sadly.
"And how many were wounded?"
"Forty-seven."
"Sixty-three,—and there were only eighty-nine," and Braddock sighed heavily. "And how went it with the men?"
Orme hesitated, fearing to disclose the extent of the disaster, but the general's eyes were on his and would take no denial.
"They suffered very heavily," said Orme at last. "Less than five hundred escaped unharmed. All of the wounded who remained on the field were killed by the Indians."
"And we went into battle with near fifteen hundred men," said Braddock. "Why, it was mere slaughter. There has never an army gone into battle which lost such proportion of its numbers. Ah, well, I shall soon join them. And they are happier than I, for they went to their end honored and applauded, whilst I am a broken and ruined man, who will be remembered only to be cursed."
He turned his head away from us, and a great tear rolled down his cheek.
Orme was crying like a child, and made no effort to conceal it, nor were
Washington and I less moved.
"At least," he said at last, turning back to us with a smile, "it were better to have died than to have lived. I am glad I do not have to live."
He soon lapsed again into delirium, and seemed to be living over a second time a meeting with some woman.