The flare of several camp-fires lit up the outside of the fort, as the prisoner and his captors rode through the stockade gate. Here were assembled several companies of foot soldiers, and half a troop of French cavalry, under the command of Captain Rachepin, a burly fellow, who had won his position by daring work in the campaigns gone by.
“An English prisoner, eh?” he said, as he gazed at Henry. “That makes the third this week. Well, the more the merrier.” And without further ado Henry was thrown into a low, dirty hut, that did duty as a prison.
Two other prisoners were already in the hut, one an English grenadier, and the other a ranger from New Hampshire. Both were half-starved, and each had been captured while miles away looking for game for their own camp larder.
“Hit’s ’ard luck, my boy,” sighed the grenadier gloomily. “Hi didn’t hexpect nothink like hit when I took the King’s shilling, Hi can tell ye that.”
“Never seed nothin’ like them pesky garlic-eaters,” said the ranger. “Neow deown ter our camp we treated the prisoners fair an’ square, but here—gee shoo! Why, the eatin’ aint fit for hogs, let alone human critters!”
“Perhaps they haven’t enough for themselves,” answered Henry.
“They ’ave that,” put in the grenadier. “Hi ’ave seen hit with my hown blessed heyes. But the bloomin’ tykes are selfish. They ’ave flip and spruce beer galore, but hit is nothink but cold water fer us, with stale bread an’ salt pork as is worse than stale!” And the grenadier heaved a long sigh. “Hif ever Hi git ’ome again, strike me dead hif Hi leave a second time!”
“An’ thet aint the wust on it, not by er jugful,” continued the ranger, who rejoiced in the name of Pity-All-Sinners Skinner, but was called Pit for short. “When I got ketched I had a’most seven shillin’s in my pocket, an’ neow I aint got a smell on’t, flay ’em!”
“I don’t suppose you gave them the money,” remarked Henry.
“Gave it to ’em? Not by er jugful! I’ll see ’em all drawn an’ quartered fust! They took it—stole it plain and simple. But yeou jest wait! This here war aint done yet—an’ Pit Skinner aint dead yet nuther!” concluded the ranger, with a wrathful shake of his head.