At the close of one cold, gray day spent on guard the officer in charge of the guard said to Rodney: “Can ye keep awake all night? I needn’t ask ye though; ye’ve got to, fer thar be no men left to do the job.”
“I’ll try. What is it?”
“This mornin’ one of our scouts saw a British officer ride to a house ’bout half a mile from here. We sent three Rangers down thar an’ hunted high an’ low, but hide nor hair could they find. I ’low he’s thar an’ to-night he’ll try to git ter Philadelphy. You got ter go down thar an’ stop him. If a word won’t do, try a bullet.”
It was a dismal prospect. The wind was cutting, and Rodney’s clothes were worn thin. The weather was almost too cold for snow, but by night it fell in fine, stinging particles. Out on the road young Allison tramped to and fro to keep warm, occasionally stopping to thresh his arms. Late in the evening he saw someone go to the stable, and soon after a double 242 team was driven out. The door of the house opened and a woman came out and entered the carriage. There were good-byes spoken in loud tones with no apparent attempt at concealment. Rodney was no coward, but in his heart he was glad that, instead of two men, he had only one and a woman to deal with. The woman might scream but probably wouldn’t shoot.
The driver cracked his whip and the team came down the road at a rattling pace.
“Halt!”
The word rang sharply on the ears of the driver, a black man, and he quickly brought his horses to a standstill.
“Drive back. My orders are to allow no one to leave that house.”
“You surely aren’t making war on women,” said the girl, opening the door of her carriage, and her voice sounded strangely familiar.
“I am making war on no one who obeys orders,” he replied, his rifle levelled at the driver.