The English officers stared at him, and laughed.
“Ay, ’twas the Yankee idea of war,” said one of them. “Run for a stone wall, and, when the enemy’s back is turned, blaze away. I’d like to see a million of the clodhoppers compelled to stand up and face a line of grenadiers.”
“Ay, gimme ten companies of grenadiers,” cried one, who had doubtless heard of General Gage’s celebrated boast, “and I’ll go from one end of the damned country to the other, and drive ’em to their holes like foxes. Only ’tis better sport chasing handsome foxes in England than ill-dressed poltroons in Bumpkin-land.”
“They’re not all poltroons,” said Harry, repressing his feelings the more easily through long practice. “Some of them fought in the French war. There’s Putnam, and Pomeroy, and Ward. I heard Lieutenant-Colonel Abercrombie, of the Twenty-second, say yesterday that Putnam—”
“Cowards every one of ’em,” broke in another. “Cowards and louts. A lady told me t’other day there ain’t in all America a man whose coat sets in close at the back, except he’s of the loyal party. Cowards and louts!”
“Look here, damn you!” cried Peyton. “I want you to know I’m American born, and my people are American, and I don’t know whether they are of the loyal party or not!”
“Oh, now, that’s the worst of you Americans,—always will get personal! Of course, there are exceptions.”
“Then there are exceptions enough to make a rule themselves,” said Harry. “I’m tired hearing you call these people cowards before you’ve had a chance to see what they are. And you needn’t wait for that, for I can tell you now they’re not!”
“Well, well, perhaps not,—to you. Doubtless they’re very dreadful,—to you. You don’t seem to relish facing ’em, that’s a fact! You’ll be resigning your commission one o’ these days, I dare say, if it comes to blows with these terrible heroes!”