We rode rapidly, but before we were halfway to the place we met men running—frightened men at that. Their condition of mind showed plainly on their faces. They wore militia uniforms, and we knew them to be some of our citizen soldiery, who are sometimes a very speedy lot, not being trained to the military business. We tried to stop them and find out why they were running and whence they came; but all we could get out of them was, “The British are coming, with a hundred ships and forty thousand men!” At last, half by persuasion and half by force, we induced one man to halt; he explained that he had been sent with the others to man a battery of four guns on the point. When they saw the British fleet coming, some of the raw militia had taken fright and fled, carrying the others with them.
“But the ships may not be here for an hour,” I protested.
“So much the better,” he said, “for it gives us the more time.”
We released him, and he followed his flying comrades. Whitestone and I looked ruefully after them, but I suggested that we continue our ride to the point. Even with the ships abreast us in the river, it would be easy for us to ride away and escape the British. We rode as rapidly as the ground would allow, and soon reached the point and the deserted battery.
I could have sworn with vexation at the flight of our militia. It was a pretty battery, well planted, four trim eighteen pounders, plenty of powder, shot neatly piled, and a flag still flying from a tall pole. Whoever selected the place for the battery knew his business—which does not always happen in the military life. I looked again in the direction of the fleeing militia, but the back of the last man had disappeared.
“What a pity!” I said regretfully to Whitestone. “At least they might have trimmed the rigging a little for those British ships down yonder.”
“I don’t understand one thing,” said Whitestone.
“What is it?” I asked.