“Good; I know him. I was testing your tale, Mr. Wynne. One has need to be careful in these times.” For a few moments he was silent, and then asked sharply, “Where did you cross?”
I told him.
“And are there any outlying pickets above the upper ferry on the west bank!”
I thought not, and went on to tell of the bridging of the river, of the lines of forts, and of the positions held in the city by the Grenadiers and the Highlanders. A large part of the army, I said, was being withdrawn from Germantown, I supposed with a view to attack the forts below the city.
“What you say is valuable, Mr. Wynne.” And he quickened the pace with an order, and pushed on at speed.
It seemed to me time to know into whose company I had fallen, and who was the hardy and decisive rider at my side.
“May I take the liberty to ask with what command I am?”
“Certainly. I am Allan McLane, at your service. I will talk to you later; now I want to think over what you have told me. I tried to get into the city last week, dressed as an old woman; they took my eggs—Lord, they were aged!—but I got no farther than the middle ferry. Are you sure that troops are being withdrawn from Germantown?”
I said I was, and in large numbers. After this we rode on in silence through the twilight. I glanced now and then at my companion, the boldest of our partisan leaders, and already a sharp thorn in the side of General Howe’s extended line. He was slight, well made, and dark, with some resemblance to Arthur Wynne, but with no weak lines about a mouth which, if less handsome than my cousin’s, was far more resolute.
I was ready to drop from my rough steed when we began, about nine at night, to see the camp-fires of our army on either side of Skippack Creek. A halt at the pickets, and we rode on around the right flank among rude huts, rare tents, rows of spancelled horses,—we call it “hobbled” nowadays,—and so at last to a group of tents, the headquarters of the small cavalry division.