"Across there in the bluffs," pointing, "where the road turns in between the high clay banks. We'll leave our horses here, an' cross on foot. Is that the right plan, boys?"
There was a murmur of acquiescence, a few questions, and then the silence of approval. It was evident these minute men were under small discipline, and their officers led only by force of character. Without orders the horses were led away, tied securely in the black depths of the woods, and the men came straggling back, rifles in hand, grouping themselves along the edge of the stream. There was no attempt at military formation, but Duval straightened them out so as to count the number present.
"Sixty-nine, all told," he announced briefly. "All right, boys, come on, and keep your powder out of the water."
It was firm bottom, but the water rose above the waist, with sufficient current so we had to brace against it in mid-stream. We trailed dripping up the eastern bank, coming out upon a well-travelled road. A hundred feet beyond was the cleft through the clay, and there Farrell halted us, dividing the men into two parties. Under his orders they disappeared like magic, the silent night engulfing them completely. The three of us, Duval, Farrell, and myself, alone remained in the deserted road.
"Duval," said the blacksmith quietly, "you an' the Major feel your way along to the top, an' discover what is happening. I'll stay here, an' take care of the boys."
The road was a gradual rise, the clay packed hard under foot, but from the summit we could look away for some distance over a level country, dimly revealed under the new moon. There was nothing in sight, and no sound disturbed the solitude. We sat down on a bunch of turf, rifles in hand, to wait patiently, our eyes scanning the distance.
"Who are those fellows back there?" I questioned at last, made nervous by the silence.
"The boys in the gulch? Jersey militiamen," he explained shortly. "You see there's some of us that can't get away all the time, because of the women and children, and the farm work. Besides, regular soldiering don't just appeal to our sort. So we do our fighting round home in our own way. However, the most of us manage to have a hand in the real thing once in a while even at that. We were over at Germantown, and down at Brandywine. Farrell's got a commission, but the rest of us are taking our chances. It's neighbor against neighbor. Whatever we've got left has been held at the point of the rifle. We're doing our share in this war, an' Washington knows it. Over there to the east 'Red' Fagin, Old Man Kelly, an' their gangs of Pine Robbers, are making the fields red; sometimes they get down this far raiding the farms, but mostly, we're fighting foragers out of Philadelphia, and they're not much better. Half the houses in this country have been burned, and mercy isn't very common on either side. Those lads yonder are not pretty soldiers to look at, but they're wolves to fight, and hungry for it."
"They are called on whenever Farrell wishes?"
"Well, yes; those come who can. They're not always the same bunch. You see Farrell covers quite a bit of country, with a lieutenant in each section who is in touch with the neighbors there. I belong in Camden, and don't go outside very often, but there is a sort of organization all the way between here and New York. Whenever there is a big fight on, the most of us get into it somehow. Washington counts on us in a pinch, but mostly we're raiding or cutting off British supplies. Say, Major, isn't that those fellows coming?"