“No, general, but I have had two horses shot under me. Here is my third one—mount!” And by the exertion of an almost superhuman strength he raised General Braddock’s bulky figure from the ground and placed him in the saddle.
“I am badly wounded,” said General Braddock, as he reeled slightly; “but I can sit my horse yet. Your Virginians are doing nobly, but they should form in columns.”
Besotted to the end, but seeing that the Virginians alone were standing their ground, General Braddock did not give a positive order, and George did not feel obliged to obey this murderous mistake. But General Braddock, after a gasp or two, turned a livid face towards George.
“Colonel Washington, the command is yours. I am more seriously wounded than I thought.” He swayed forward, and but for George would have fallen from his horse.
The panic was now at its height. Men, horses, wagons, all piled together in a terrible mêlée, made for the rear; but there, again, they were met by a hail of bullets. Staggered, they rushed back, only to be again mowed down by the hidden enemy. The few officers left commanded, begged, and entreated the men to stand firm; but they, who had faced death upon a hundred fields, were now so mad with fear that they were incapable of obedience. George, who had managed to have General Braddock carried to the rear with the aid of Dr. Craik, had got another horse, and riding from one end of the bloody field to the other, did all that mortal man could do to rally the panic-stricken men, but it was in vain. His clothes were riddled with bullets, but in the midst of the carnage around him he was unharmed, and rode over the field like the embodied spirit of battle.
The Virginians alone, cool and determined, fought steadily and sold their lives dearly, although picked off one by one. At last, after hours of panic, flight, and slaughter, George succeeded in bringing off the remnant of the Virginians, and, overtaking the fleeing mob of regular troops some miles from the scene of the conflict, got them across the ford of the Monongahela. They were safe from pursuit, for the handful of Frenchmen could not persuade their Indian allies to leave the plunder of the battle-field for the pursuit of the enemy. The first thing that George did was to send immediately for wagons, which had been left behind, to transport the wounded. General Braddock, still alive but suffering agonies from his wounds, was carried on horseback, then in a cart, and at last, the jolting being intolerable, on a litter upon the shoulders of four sturdy backwoodsmen. But he was marked for death. On the third day of this terrible retreat, towards sunset, he sank into a lethargy. George, who had spent every moment possible by his side, turned to Dr. Craik, who shook his head significantly—there was no hope. As George dismounted and walked by the side of the litter, the better to hear any words the dying soldier might utter, General Braddock roused a little.
“Colonel Washington,” he said, in a feeble voice, “I am satisfied with your conduct. We have had bad fortune—very bad fortune; but”—here his mind began to wander—“yonder is the smoke rising from the chimneys; we shall soon be home and at rest. Good-night, Colonel Washington—”
“GEORGE DID ALL THAT MORTAL MAN COULD DO”
The men with the litter stopped. George, with an overburdened heart, watched the last gasp of a rash but brave and honorable soldier, and presently gently closed his eyes. That night the body of General Braddock, wrapped in his military cloak, was buried under a great oak-tree in the woods by the side of the highway, and before daylight the mournful march was resumed.