“If my horse is not able to travel in the morning,” said Ben to Paddy, as they prepared for bed in the dim candle-light, “I’ll have to go on to my father’s and get another.”
“That will require us to be stirring early then, if we expect to get back to camp at any reasonable hour.”
Ben shook his head.
“I’m afraid the ride back will be much shorter than you think.”
“What! Do you suppose——”
“That the army is going to fall back? Yes. And,” with a sigh, “it may continue to fall back.”
As Ben stretched himself upon the pallet, his mind was busy with the consequences that would attend these constant retreats. The hands of Washington’s enemies would be strengthened; should Gates meet with a success in the north, he would stand before the unthinking as the shining military light of the nation, and Congress might go to the length of placing him at the head of the army. The boy’s knowledge of military tactics was necessarily limited, but he was aware of the almost certain fatality that would attach to this action. The powerful intellect and unshaken fortitude of Washington replaced by the petty vanity of Gates meant but one thing.
“Destruction,” muttered Ben. “Such a man as General Gates could not sustain a series of disasters. He would collapse under discouragement, and the army would melt away.”
Here Paddy blew out the candle, and crawled into bed. As he lay there, a single spot of light upon the ceiling attracted his attention.
“What’s that?” said he, and arose upon one elbow. Ben did likewise, and both stared at the spot of light. Then they noticed a thin beam coming up through the floor.