“You are right, my son,” she answered, presently. “I will not say another word to detain you, but will once more give you into the hands of the good God to take care of for me.”
That night, before twelve o’clock, George reported at Alexandria to General Braddock as his aide.
On the 20th of April, near the time that George had set out the year before, General Braddock began his march from Alexandria in Virginia to the mountains of Pennsylvania, where the reduction of Fort Duquesne was his first object. There were two magnificent regiments of crack British troops and ten companies of Virginia troops, hardy and seasoned, and in the highest spirits at the prospect of their young commander being with them. They cheered him vociferously when he appeared riding with General Braddock, and made him blush furiously. But his face grew very long and solemn when he saw the immense train of wagons to carry baggage and stores which he knew were unnecessary, and the general at that very moment was storming because there were not more.
“These,” he said, “were furnished by Mr. Franklin, Postmaster-General of Pennsylvania, and he sends me only a hundred and fifty at that.”
“A hundred too many,” was George’s thought.
The march was inconceivably slow. Never since George could remember had he so much difficulty in restraining his temper as on that celebrated march. As he said afterwards, “Every mole-hill had to be levelled, and bridges built across every brook.” General Braddock wished to march across the trackless wilderness of the Alleghanies as he did across the flat plains of Flanders, and he spent his time in constructing a great military road when he should have been pushing ahead. So slow was their progress that in reaching Winchester George was enabled to make a détour and go to Greenway Court for a few hours. The delight of Lord Fairfax and Lance was extreme, but in a burst of confidence George told them the actual state of affairs.
“What you tell me,” said the earl, gravely, “determines me to go to the low country, for if this expedition results disastrously I can be of more use at Williamsburg than here. But, my dear George, I am concerned for you, because you look ill. You are positively gaunt, and you look as if you had not eaten for a week.”
“Ill!” cried George, beginning to walk up and down the library, and clinching and unclinching his lists nervously. “My lord, it is my heart and soul that are ill. Can you think what it is to watch a general, brave but obstinate, and blind to the last degree, rushing upon disaster? Upon my soul, sir, those English officers think, I verily believe, that the Indians are formed into regiments and battalions, with a general staff and a commissary, and God knows what!” And George raved a while longer before he left to ride back to Winchester, with Billy riding after him. This outbreak was so unlike George, he looked so strange, his once ruddy face was so pallid at one moment and so violently flushed at another that the earl and Lance each felt an unspoken dread that his strong body might give way under the strain upon it.
George galloped back into Winchester that night. Both his horse and Billy’s were dripping wet, and as he pulled his horse almost up on his haunches Billy said, in a queer voice:
“Hi, Marse George, d’yar blood on yo’ bridle. You rid dat boss hard, sho’ nough!”