“Sorry I frightened you,” he said contritely, turning the car into the Bladensburg Pike. “Have you ever been out this way?”
“No. Where did you say we are going?”
“Bladensburg; it’s a quaint old-fashioned little town and of historic interest because the Battle of Bladensburg was fought there in 1814....”
“When the British defeated our troops and captured Washington?”
“Correct. I’m glad to see, Miss Janet, you know American history. Not long ago I was asked to meet some nouveaux riches at dinner, and an American girl, who is now an English countess, broke into a discussion about Gettysburg to ask in a soft drawl: ‘Gettysburg? What is Gettysburg?’”
They had left the city’s unattractive outskirts behind, and were passing through more open country, and Janet, delighted and light-hearted, sat silently watching the landscape with ever-increasing interest.
“There’s Bladensburg,” Tom pointed to the church spires and roofs of houses showing plainly among the leafless trees. “These houses,” motioning to his right, “are some of them very old, the estates having been owned by prominent colonials.”
“Where’s the battlefield?”
“Right here,” indicating the road they were on. “The fighting began beyond the further bridge spanning the eastern branch of the Potomac, and our troops fell back through the village and down this turnpike, the British in hot pursuit.”
Janet’s active imagination instantly conjured up a vision of the fighting, flying men, and the quiet sleepy Maryland village became transformed to her; she could almost hear the rattle of muskets, hoarse commands, and the roar of cannon, so vivid was the illusion.