"That was a hard fight along the stone wall; you came out unhurt?"
"A slight bayonet wound, sir; nothing to incapacitate me from duty."
"Very well; take ten dragoons as escort. Hamilton will write you an order. I have told Arnold our victory is practically complete. Clinton may slip away in the night, for he is a wily old fox, but he has lost his power to injure us in the Jerseys. I hope to bottle him up before morning, so that any retreat will be impossible, but even if he succeeds in getting his army to the transports at Sandy Hook, he has lost prestige, and the victory is ours. Good-bye, Major, and the Lord guard you on your journey."
I felt the firm clasp of his hand, the calm, confident glance of his gray eyes, and bowed low, as I left the room. I could scarcely realize that this quiet, reserved man could be the raging tornado who that same morning had ridden up to Lee, blazing with indignation. His very presence, his evident trust in me, sent me forth upon my long ride renewed in strength of body and purpose, the fatigue of the day forgotten. Ten minutes later, mounted on a rangy sorrel, my dragoon escort trotting behind, I rode south on the Plainsboro road, as swiftly as its terrible condition would warrant.
The evidences of war, the wreckage of battle, were everywhere. Several times we were compelled to leap the stone walls to permit the passage of marching troops being hurried to some new position; several batteries passed us, rumbling grimly through the night, and a squadron of horse galloped by, the troopers greeting us with shouts of inquiry. The road was deeply rutted by heavy wheels, and littered with all manner of débris, broken-down wagons, dead horses, accoutrements thrown away, and occasionally the body of a man, overlooked by the burial squad. Our horses plunged from side to side in fright at the dim objects, snorting wildly, and we were obliged to ride with care, and a tight rein, under the faint guidance of the stars. For two miles the varied, ceaseless noises of a huge camp echoed from either side—the cries of men, the hammering of iron, the neighing of horses. Over there to the east, beyond that gloomy fringe of woods, were the masses of the enemy. Between where he rode, skirting their rear, lay our own battle-line, waiting daybreak, and out yonder, protected by the trees, extended the picket posts. From these would occasionally come a red spit of fire, and the dull bark of a musket.
We passed all this at last, only to discover the narrow road congested by long trains of commissary and ammunition wagons, every sort of vehicle one could imagine pressed hastily into service—huge Conestogas, great farm wagons, creaking horribly, light carts, even family carriages loaded to their tops, drawn by straining horses, mules, or oxen, their drivers swearing fiercely. We again took to the fields, but, as there seemed no end to the procession, I turned my horse's head eastward, confident we were already beyond the British rear-guard, and struck out across country for another north and south road. We advanced now at a swift trot, the sound of our horses' hoofs on the soft turf almost the only noise, and, within an hour, came again to parallel fences, and a well travelled road. It was a turnpike, the dust so thick that it rose about us in clouds, and, as we proceeded, we discovered many evidences along the way of a passing army. I reined back my horse to speak with the non-commissioned officer in charge of the escort, not entirely certain as to my whereabouts.
"Do you know this country, sergeant?"
"A little, sir; we scouted through here last summer, but I'm not a Jersey man."
"There have been troops marched along here by all the signs."
"Yes, sir," respectfully. "The Red-coats, probably on their way to Monmouth; this is the Mount Holly pike."