“Yes.”
“Good! But you can’t go in that Injun garb. Buckskin wouldn’t save you, either. The red-coats shoot at every moving thing. Wait here.” And Gist rapidly crawled away, darted from tree to tree and disappeared in the smoke.
He came back with a round hat and a round jacket; they were bloody, they had been worn by a wood chopper and Gist was bleeding, too, from a ball that had scraped his ear.
“On with these. You’ll have to make a run for it. The woods are full of death—those Injuns are everywhere. Find the colonel. Tell him I say to fetch on the Virginians; make those red-coats take to the trees; Braddock has got to fight Injun fashion or he’ll not have a soldier left. Run.”
Robert ran. He was seen—the bullets pinged after—they crossed his course—they fanned his cheeks, they seared his eyes, they ripped through his coat and hat; whether he was struck he did not know, although he thought he felt a sharp blow and a pain in one arm; but he left Gist and Scarouady and the little squad trying to keep the enemy at bay on this flank, and plunging on through the drifted smoke he emerged into the road.
This was turmoil, with soldiers stumbling down, some hatless, some wounded, all bewildered; and with soldiers marching up, pressing on cheering, their officers leading, until the crowd from up the slope met them and rammed in through them, for cover; and then there was another hurly-burly.
Even here on the outskirts Robert was shoved to and fro. A galloping horse knocked him over. He got up. The soldiers from below had formed again; they marched in a solid line, with their bayonets pointed, and a fine officer in scarlet and gold in front of them, to charge the hill. But the bullets crumpled them, and their tall hats flew, and they stopped as if a strong wind were blowing against them; and in a moment their officer was marching alone. So he had to come back.
Here, on the run, came part of the Virginia Long Knives, at last; they ran at double-quick, through the trees—the blue facing on their buckskin shirts twinkled amid the green leaves and the pale smoke. Washington had not waited, then! But where was Washington? There—galloping in amid the red-coat soldiers, swinging his hat and huzzahing. Robert made for him—arrived just as he was off his horse.
Washington had been riding upon a pillow; the pillow stayed on the saddle—he tossed the reins one side—“Hold this horse, somebody!” he rasped, and Robert grabbed the reins. [Washington] appeared to pay no attention, for he ran to one of the cannon, helped to point it into a ravine and fire it and load it.
Now he [was here, there, everywhere], with Robert trying to follow him and lead the rearing horse. No easy job this, while the bullets whined and men were falling. A horse made a good target, too.