“Well, march, anyway,” cried the impatient washerwoman. “The black is there already, and it’s tardy the captain will think ye.”
“Are you sure that it was really a black man that brought the order?” said the sergeant, dropping in between the platoons, where he could converse with Betty, and be at hand, to lead on an emergency, either on an advance or on a retreat.
“Nay—and I’m sure of nothing, dear. But why don’t the boys prick their horses and jog a trot? The mare is mighty un’asy, and it’s no warm in this cursed valley, riding as much like a funeral party as old rags is to continental.”[[10]] “Fairly and softly, aye, and prudently, Mrs. Flanagan; it’s not rashness that makes the good officer. If we have to encounter a spirit, it’s more than likely he’ll make his attack by surprise; horses are not very powerful in the dark, and I have a character to lose, good woman.”
“Caractur! and isn’t it caractur and life too that Captain Jack has to lose!”
“Halt!” cried the sergeant. “What is that lurking near the foot of the rock, on the left?”
“Sure, it’s nothing, unless it be a matter of Captain Jack’s sowl that’s come to haunt ye, for not being brisker on the march.”
“Betty, your levity makes you an unfit comrade for such an expedition. Advance, one of you, and reconnoiter the spot; draw swords!—rear rank, close to the front!”
“Pshaw!” shouted Betty, “is it a big fool or a big coward that ye are? Jist wheel from the road, boys, and I’ll shove the mare down upon it in the twinkling of an eye—and it’s no ghost that I fear.”
By this time one of the men had returned, and declared there was nothing to prevent their advancing, and the party continued their march, but with great deliberation and caution.
“Courage and prudence are the jewels of a soldier, Mrs. Flanagan,” said the sergeant; “without the one, the other may be said to be good for nothing.”