“’Tis sound policy, wherever you may have heard it,” declared Colonel Owen. “Though I hope for our sakes that the rebels may not enforce it. Come, my son. We have no time for further loitering.”
Roused from his dream of security at last Cornwallis, as had been foreseen, meditated a retreat through the Carolinas. It was too late. The James River was filled with armed vessels covering the transfer of French troops which had been brought to the assistance of Lafayette. He reconnoitered Williamsburg, but found it was too strong to be forced. Cut off in every direction, he now proceeded to strengthen his defenses, sending repeated expresses to Sir Henry Clinton to apprise him of his desperate situation.
The days that ensued were days of anxiety. All sorts of rumors were afloat in the encircled garrison. One stood forth from among the rest and was repeated insistently until at length it crystallized into verity: Washington himself was coming with his army and the allies. Colonel Owen’s face was grave indeed as he confirmed the tidings.
“I cannot understand how the rebel general could slip away from the Hudson with a whole army right under Sir Henry’s nose,” he complained. “I know that the commander-in-chief expected an attack, and was preparing for it; for that very reason he should have been more keenly upon the alert. Where were his scouts, his spies, that he did not know what his adversary was doing? Had he no secret service? He grows sluggish, I fear me.”
The situation brightened for Cornwallis when part of the English fleet under Admiral Graves took a peep in at the Chesapeake, but only a slight action with the French vessels followed, and then the English ships sailed away to New York. Once more the black cloud lowered, and soon it burst in all its fury over the doomed army. On the twenty-eighth of September the videttes came flying in to report that the combined army of Americans and French were advancing in force. Seeing himself outflanked the British commander withdrew into the town and the inner line of defenses, and began a furious cannonading to prevent the advance of the allies. And now from Sir Henry came the cheering intelligence that the British fleet would soon come to his relief.
Colonel Owen and Clifford were on duty almost constantly, and the two girls were much alone. The servants left precipitately, and the maidens gladly undertook the housework as a relief from anxiety. Soon the firewood gave out, and they were reduced to the necessity of living on uncooked food. Encompassed on every side there was no opportunity for foraging, and the supplies of the garrison depleted rapidly. But meagerness of rations could be borne better than sound of cannon, although there was as yet no bombardment from the Americans—a state of affairs, however, that did not last long.
On the afternoon of the eighth of October Peggy and Harriet sat on the small portico of the dwelling listening to the cannonading which had been going on all day from the British works.
“Harriet,” spoke Peggy abruptly, “does thee remember that father is outside there with the army?”
“Oh, Peggy,” gasped her cousin. “How dreadful! Suppose that father, or Clifford, should hurt him? Wouldn’t it be awful?”
“Yes,” assented Peggy paling. “Or if he should hurt them.”