‘Gallant friend,’ said Will,’ you’ve borne me well and done your best. Had you fallen in the village I should have been killed or captured.’
There was nothing to be done, so Jack drew his pistol and put Will’s horse out of its misery, after which Will mounted behind Jack, and, unpursued, they went on, guided by Sergeant Linham, who, old campaigner as he was, could tell his way by the stars.
Presently, away on their left, the glimmer of a line of camp-fires took their attention.
‘Our chaps,’ said Pearson. ‘I wonder at their bivouacking so far from the camp.’
‘It can’t be our outlying pickets at this distance,’ said the sergeant. ‘Yet, I don’t know. Perhaps we’ve come farther than we think.’
‘At any rate, we’d best advance cautiously,’ said Jack; ‘when we’re nearer we’ll go and reconnoitre.’
They advanced as close as they thought wise; then they halted. They were on rising ground, and on the road below them, which led through a valley, men, and what looked like a long line of wagons, could be dimly seen; but in the darkness nothing could be distinguished for certain.
‘Let Will and I creep forward and see who and what they are,’ said Jack; ‘we’re lighter and smaller than you or Pearson, and can move more easily.’
The sergeant demurred at first, but Jack pressed his point. He and Will divested themselves of swords, spurs, caps, trumpets, and bugles; then, having nothing on them that would glitter or jingle, and armed only with their pistols, they started off.
Quite noiselessly they moved forward until, as they got closer to the camp-fires, they could distinctly make out figures in uniforms, clearly Russians by their caps, moving about between the fires. They advanced still closer, and then they could see long lines of wagons—scores, nay, hundreds it seemed—drawn up beside the road. The native drivers were seated together in groups, eating their supper. It was clearly a convoy, and a large one too.