When I opened my eyes again—to the circle of blue sky and the feathery tree-tops waving about the little clearing—the man was standing over me, a dark figure leaning on his gun. He was looking down at me. As soon as I could direct my mind to him, “You have the advantage of me, stranger,” he said dryly. “A redcoat’s no more to me than a quail. But shooting a man who shams to be dead is not in my way. It’s you, that will pay the price, however.”
“You’d not shoot a wounded man,” I muttered—not that for the moment I seemed to care greatly.
“Who shot them at the Waxhaws?” he retorted savagely. “And hung them at Augusta? And gave them to the Indians to do worse things with? By G—d!” and with that he stopped speaking, and with an ugly look, he handled his rifle as if he were going to knock out my brains with the stock.
But I was past fear and I was in pain. “Do your worst!” I said recklessly, “And God save the King!”
He lowered his gun and seemed to think better of it. He even smiled in an acrid sort of fashion, as he looked down at me. “Well, Britisher,” he said, “you have the advantage of me! But if you can tell me what I am going to do with you—”
“Hospital,” I murmured.
“Hospital!” he repeated. “Jerusalem! He says Hospital! Man, do you know that there are nine here who lost their folks at the Waxhaws, and thirty who are akin to them, and who’ve sworn, every man of them, to give no quarter to a Tory or an Englishman! And I’ll not deny,” he continued in a lower tone, “that I’ve sworn the same, and am perjured this moment. And he says—Hospital!”
“But the laws of war!” I protested weakly.
“Ay, you score them plainly enough on your poor devils’ backs!”
“You make a mistake,” I said. I was becoming a little clearer in my mind. “Those are the Articles of war.”