“Yes,” answered the lad with bitterness. “He escaped. I do not expect you to be sorry, Peggy, but I would almost rather have died than to have it happen while he was in my charge. ’Tis a dire misfortune.”
“But not of such gravity as another that hath befallen us, my son,” said Colonel Owen coming into the room in time to hear the last remark. “The French fleet hath entered the Chesapeake, and now lies at anchor off the Gloucester shore. Peggy recognized it at once, though I see not how she knew. His lordship hath despatched a courier to find if there are others lower down the bay.”
“Why should the coming of the French fleet be of such consequence?” queried Harriet.
“It shuts off our communication with New York, which means that we can receive neither supplies nor reinforcements from Sir Henry Clinton. If our fleet doth not come to our assistance we may find ourselves in a desperate situation.”
“There is no cause for worry, sir,” spoke Clifford. “If we are cut off on the water side, what doth hinder us from retreating through North Carolina to our forces further South?”
“Thee can’t,” uttered Peggy breathlessly. “I am sorry for thee, Cousin William, and for thy army. Still I am glad that at last the long war may be brought to a close.”
“Peggy, just what do you mean?” demanded Colonel Owen sharply.
“I was considering our own forces,” answered Peggy who had spoken without thinking. “Would not the Marquis, and General Wayne, and all the militia try to keep thy people from cutting through?”
“‘Fore George, they would!” ejaculated the colonel. “At least they should try. By all the laws of military warfare they should have us surrounded, and if that be the case we are in for a siege. Come, Peggy, you are improving. We shall have a warrior of you yet.”
“Don’t, Cousin William,” cried Peggy. “’Tis not my wisdom at all. I but repeat what I have heard.”