In his surprise Barton reined back his horse against mine, for I rode just behind him.
"What is this?" he exclaimed.
"It seems that we have the wagon-train, or what is left of it," said Marcel. "There is a placard; it may inform us."
A pine board was stuck in a conspicuous place upon one of the wagons, and some words had been written upon it with a piece of charcoal. We rode forward and read,—
"To Sir William Howe or His Representative.
For the Wagons and their Contents
We Are Much Indebted
As we were Hungry
And You Have Fed Us.
We Give You Leave to Take Repayment
At Such Time and Place
As You May Choose.
"William Wildfoot."
Barton swore in his rage. It was easy enough to see now why the patriots had withdrawn after the first attack. The provision-train was more valuable than arms or prisoners to the American army, and, barring the broken wagons, Wildfoot and his men had carried off everything. Nor were the British in any trim to pursue, a business at which, most like, they would have had their faces slapped.
Barton swore with a force and fluency that I have seldom heard surpassed, and Blake said with a melancholy smile,—
"It is well that I have this broken head to offer as some sort of an excuse, or I think it would go hard with me."
He spoke truly, for, though his expedition had been a most dire failure, his own condition was proof that he had done valiant duty.
The British gathered up their wounded again and began their march to the city. The country glowed in the brilliant sunshine of a summer afternoon, but I was in no mood to enjoy its beauty now. Our column marched mournfully along, as sad as a funeral procession. Even though the victory had gone where I wished it to go, yet there were others before my eyes, and I felt sorrow for them in their wounds and defeat.