Through the din and disorder of this fight, it is fit that I should take time to mark the wanderings of Galbraith Robinson, whose exploits this day would not ill deserve the pen of Froissart. The doughty sergeant had, for a time, retained his post in the ranks of the Amherst Rangers, and with them had travelled towards the mountain top, close in the rear of Campbell's line. But when the troops had recoiled before the frequent charges of the royalists, finding his station, at best, but that of an inactive spectator, he made no scruple of deserting his companions and trying his fortune on the field in such form of adventure as best suited his temper. With no other weapon than his customary rifle, he stood his ground when others retreated; and saw the ebb and flow of "flight and chase" swell round him, according to the varying destiny of the day. In these difficulties, it was his good fortune to escape unhurt; a piece of luck that may, perhaps, be attributed to the coolness with which he either galloped over an adversary or around him, as the emergency rendered most advisable.
In the midst of this busy occupation, at a moment when one of the refluxes of battle brought him almost to the summit, he descried a small party of British dragoons, stationed some distance in the rear of Ferguson's line, whose detached position seemed to infer some duty unconnected with the general fight. In the midst of these, he thought he recognised the figure and dress of one familiar to his eye. The person thus singled out by the sergeant's glance stood bare-headed upon a projecting mass of rock, apparently looking with an eager gaze towards the distant combat. No sooner did the conjecture that this might be Arthur Butler flash across his thought, than he turned his steed back upon the path by which he had ascended, and rode with haste towards the Rangers.
"Stephen Foster," he said, as he galloped up to the lieutenant, and drew his attention by a tap of the hand upon his shoulder, "I have business for you, man—you are but wasting your time here—pick me out a half-dozen of your best fellows and bring them with you after me. Quick—Stephen—quick!"
The lieutenant of the Rangers collected the desired party and rode after the sergeant, who now conducted this handful of men with as much rapidity as the broken character of the ground allowed, by a circuit for a considerable distance along the right side of the mountain, until they reached the top. The point at which they gained the summit brought them between Ferguson's line and the dragoons, who, it was soon perceived, were the party charged with the custody of Butler, and who had been thus detached in the rear for the more safe guardianship of the prisoner. Horse Shoe's manœuvre had completely cut them off from their friends in front, and they had no resource but to defend themselves against the threatened assault, or fly towards the parties who were at this moment engaged with the flanking divisions of the Whigs. They were taken by surprise—and Horse Shoe, perceiving the importance of an immediate attack, dashed onwards along the ridge of the mountain with precipitate speed, calling out to his companions to follow. In a moment the dragoons were engaged in a desperate pell-mell with the Rangers.
"Upon them, Stephen! Upon them bravely, my lads! Huzza for Major Butler! Fling the major across your saddle—the first that reaches him," shouted the sergeant with a voice that was heard above all the uproar of battle. "What ho—James Curry!" he cried out, as soon as he detected the presence of his old acquaintance in this throng; "stand your ground, if you are a man!"
The person to whom this challenge was directed had made an effort to escape towards a party of his friends, whom he was about summoning to his aid; and in the attempt had already ridden some distance into the wood, whither the sergeant had eagerly followed him.
"Ah ha, old Truepenny, are you there?" exclaimed Curry, turning short upon his pursuer, and affecting to laugh as if in scorn. "Horse Shoe Robinson, well met!" he added sternly, "I have not seen a better sight to-day than that fool's head of yours upon this hill. No, not even when just now Patrick Ferguson sent your yelping curs back to hide themselves behind the trees."
"Come on, James!" cried Horse Shoe, "I have no time to talk. We have an old reckoning to settle, which, perhaps, you mought remember. I am a man of my word; and, besides, I have set my eye upon Major Butler," he added, with a tone and look that were both impressed with the fierce passion of the scene around him.
"The devil blast you, and Major Butler to boot!" exclaimed Curry, roused by Horse Shoe's air of defiance. "To it, bully! It shall be short work between us, and bloody," he shouted, as he discharged a pistol-shot at the sergeant's breast; which failing to take effect, he flung the weapon upon the ground, brandished his sword, and spurred immediately against his challenger. The sweep of the broadsword fell upon the barrel of Horse Shoe's uplifted rifle, and in the next instant the broad hand of our lusty yeoman had seized the trooper by the collar and dragged him from his horse. The two soldiers came to the ground, locked in a mutual embrace; and, for a brief moment, a desperate trial of strength was exhibited in the effort to gain their feet.
"I have you there," said Robinson, as at length, with a flushed cheek, quick breath, and blood-shot eye, he rose from the earth and shook the dragoon from him, who fell backwards on his knee. "Curse you, James Curry, for a fool and villain! You almost drive me, against my will, to the taking of your life. I don't want your blood. You are beaten, man, and must say so. I grant you quarter upon condition—"