There was a swishing sound, as Brereton swung his sword aloft and brought it down on the extended arm. Using what remained of the momentum of the stroke, the aide let the flat of the weapon fall sharply on Joggles’ flank; the horse bounded forward, and, in a dozen strides, had passed through the disordered troop.
A shrill cry of pain came from the officer, followed by a dozen exclamations and oaths from the troopers, and then a sharp order, “Catch or kill him!”
“Ha, Joggles, old boy,” chuckled his rider, “there ’s not much chance of our being cold yet a while. But we know the roads, and we’ll show them a trick or two if they’ll but stick to us long enough.”
Bang! bang! bang! went some horse-pistols.
“Shoot away!” jeered the aide, softly, though he leaned low in the saddle as he wheeled through the small opening in the hedge and galloped over the garden beds. “’T is only British dragoons who’d blindly waste lead on a northeaster. ’T is lucky the snow took no offence at my curses of it an hour ago.”
XXIX
ON CONTINENTAL SERVICE
Once across the garden, the aide rode boldly, trusting to the snow overhead to hide his doings and the snow underfoot to keep them silent. Turning northward, he kept Joggles galloping for five minutes, then confident that his pursuers had been distanced, or misled, he varied the pace, letting the horse walk where the snow was drifted, but forcing him to his best speed where the road was blown clear.
“We know the route up to Middlebrook, Joggles; but after that we get into the hills, and blindman’s work ’t will be for the two of us. So ’t is now we must make our time, if we are to be in Morristown by morning.”
The rider spoke truly, for it was already six o’clock when he reached the cross-roads at Baskinridge. Halting his horse at the guide-post, he drew his sword and struck the crosspiece a blow, to clear it of its burden of snow.
“Morristown, eight miles,” he read in the dark grayness of approaching day. “Hast go enough in thee left to do it, old fellow? Damn Lee for his tardiness and folly, which forces man and beast to journey in such cold.” Pulling a flask from his pocket, he uncorked it. “There’s scarce a drop left, but thou shouldst have half, if it would serve thee,” he said, as he put it to his lips and drained it dry. “’T is the last I have, and eight miles of Lee way still to do!” He laughed at his own pun, and pricked up the horse. Just as the weary animal broke into a trot, the rider pulled rein once more and looked up at a signboard which had attracted his notice by giving a discordant creak as the now dying storm swung it.