Part 4

"Hold your tongue!" shouted George, in a tone that Billy had never heard from him before; and then, in the next minute, he said, confusedly, "I did not mean to speak so, but my head is in a whirl; I think I must be ill."

And as he spoke he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen had not Billy run forward and caught him. He staggered into the house where he had lodgings, and got into his bed, and by midnight he was raving with fever.

Billy had sense enough to go for Dr. Craik, George's old acquaintance, who had volunteered as surgeon to General Braddock's staff. He was a bright-eyed, determined-looking man, still young, but skilled in his profession. By morning the fever was reduced, and Dr. Craik was giving orders about the treatment as he sat by George's bedside, for the army was to resume its march that day.

"Your attack is sharp," said the doctor, "but you have an iron constitution, and with ordinary care you will soon be well."

George, pale and haggard, but without fever, listened to the doctor's directions with a half smile. The troops were already on the move; outside could be heard the steady tramp of feet, the thunder of horses' hoofs, the roll of artillery-wagons, and the commotion of an army on the move. In a few moments the doctor left him, saying,

"I think you will shortly be able to rejoin the army, Colonel Washington."

"I think so too," answered George.

As soon as the doctor was out of the room George turned to Billy, and said,

"Help me on with my clothes, and as soon as the troops are well out of the town fetch the horses."

When the soldiers halted at noon, General Braddock, sitting under a tree by the road-side, was asking Dr. Craik's opinion of the time that Colonel Washington could rejoin, when around the corner of a huge bowlder rode George with Billy behind him. He was very pale, but he could sit his horse. He could not but laugh at the doctor's angry face, but said, deprecatingly, to him,

"I would have fretted myself more ill had I remained at Winchester, for I am not by nature patient, and I have been ill so little that I do not know how to be ill."

"I see you don't," was the doctor's dry reply.

For four days George kept up with the army, and managed, in spite of burning fevers, of a horrible weakness and weariness, of sleepless nights racked with pain, to ride his horse. On the fifth he was compelled to take to a covered wagon. There, on a rough bed, with Billy holding his burning head, he was jolted along for ten days more, each day more agonizing than the one before. In that terrible time master and man seemed to have changed places. It was George who was fretful and unreasonable and wildly irritable, while Billy, the useless, the lazy, the incorrigible, nursed him with a patience, a tenderness, a strange intelligence that amazed all who saw it, and was even dimly felt by George. The black boy seemed able to do altogether without sleep. At every hour of the day and night he was awake and alert, ready to do anything for the poor sufferer. As the days passed on, and George grew steadily worse, the doctor began to look troubled. In his master's presence Billy showed no sign of fear, but he would every day follow Dr. Craik when he left, and ask him, with an ashy face, "Marse doctor, is Marse George gwi' die?"

"I hope not. He is young and strong, and God is good."

"Ef he die, an' I go home, what I gwin' say when mistis come out and say, 'Billy, wh'yar yo' Marse George?'" And at that Billy would throw himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief that was piteous to see. The doctor carefully concealed from the soldiers George's real condition. But after four or five days of agony a change set in, and within the week George was able to sit up and even to ride a little. The wagons had kept with the rear division of the army, but George knew that General Braddock, with twelve hundred picked men, had gone ahead and must be near Fore Duquesne. On the fourteenth day, in the evening when the doctor came he found his patient walking about. He was frightfully thin and pale, but youth and strength and good habits were beginning to assert themselves. He was getting well.

"Doctor," said he, "this place is about fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne. I know it well, and from this hour I emancipate myself from you. This day I shall report for duty."

The next morning, the 9th of July, 1755, dawned beautifully, and the first long lances of light revealed a splendid sight on the banks of the Monongahela. On one side flowed the great river in majestic beauty. Following the shores was a kind of natural esplanade, while a little way off the rich woods, within which dwelt forever a purple twilight, overhung this charming open space. And along this open space marched, in exquisite precision, two thousand of England's crack troops--cavalry, infantry, and artillery--and a thousand bronzed Virginian soldiery, to the music of the fife and drum. Often in after-years George Washington was heard to say that the most beautiful sight his eyes ever rested on was the sight of Braddock's army at sunrise on that day of blood. Officers and men were in the highest spirits; they expected within a few hours to be in sight of Fort Duquesne, where glory, as they thought, awaited their coming. Even George's apprehensions of the imprudence of this mode of attack were soothed. He rode by General Braddock's side, and was by far the most conspicuous figure there for grace and nobility. His illness seemed to have departed in a night, and he was the same erect, soldierly form, fairly dwarfing every one contrasted with him. As the General and his first aide rode together, General Braddock said, confidently:

"Colonel Washington, in spite of your warning, see how far we have come upon our way without disaster. The danger of an attack by Indians is now passed, and we have but to march a few miles more and glory is ours."

Scarcely were the words out of his month when there was one sharp crack of a gun, followed by a fierce volley, and fifty men dropped in their tracks. But there was no enemy visible. The shots were like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky.

"The Indians," said George, in a perfectly composed voice, reining up his horse.

"I see no Indians," cried General Braddock, excitedly. "There is disorder in the ranks; have them closed up at once, and march in double-time. We will soon find the enemy."

But the firing from the invisible foe again broke forth, this time fiercer and more murderous than before. General Braddock, riding to the head of the first regiment, which had begun to waver, shouted the order for them to reform and fire. The veteran troops, as coolly as if on parade, closed up their ranks and gave a volley, but it was as if fired in the air. They saw no enemy to fire at. Meanwhile the Virginia troops, after the first staggering effect of a terrific musketry fire poured into them by an unseen enemy, suddenly broke ranks, and, each man running for a tree, took possession of the skirts of the woods. On seeing this General Braddock galloped up to George.

"Colonel Washington," he cried, violently, "your Virginia troops are insubordinate! They have scattered through the woods, and I desire them formed again in column of fours to advance."

"Sir," answered George, in agony, "the ravines are full of Indians--many hundreds of them. They can slaughter us at their pleasure if we form in the open. The Virginians know how to fight them."

"You are an inexperienced soldier, sir, and therefore I excuse you. But look at my English veterans--see how they behave--and I desire the Virginians to do the same."

At that moment George's horse fell upon his knees, and the next he rolled over, shot through the heart. The English regiments had closed up manfully, after receiving several destructive volleys, returning the fire of their assailants without seeing them and without producing the smallest effect. But suddenly the spectacle of half their men dead or wounded on the ground, the galloping about of riderless horses, the shrieks of agony that filled the air, seemed to unman them. They broke and ran in every direction. In vain General Braddock rode up to them, actually riding over them, waving his sword and calling to them to halt.

The men who had faced the legions of Europe were panic-stricken by this dreadful unseen foe, and fled, only to be shot down in their tracks. To make it more terrible, the officers were singled out for slaughter, and out of eighty-six officers in a very little while twenty-six were killed and thirty-seven wounded. General Braddock himself had his horse shot under him, and as he rolled on the ground a cry of pain was wrung from him by two musket-balls that pierced his body. Of his three aides, two lay weltering in their blood, and George alone was at his side helping him to rise.

Rash and obstinate as General Braddock might be, he did not lack for courage, and in that awful time he was determined to fight to the last.

"Get me another horse," he said, with difficulty, to George. "Are you too wounded?"

"No, General, but I have had two horses shot under me. Here is my third one. Mount!" And by the exertion of an almost superhuman strength he raised General Braddock's bulky figure from the ground and placed him in the saddle.

"I am badly wounded," said General Braddock, as he reeled slightly; "but I can sit my horse yet. Your Virginians are doing nobly, but they should form in column."

Besotted to the end, but seeing that the Virginians alone were standing their ground, General Braddock did not give a positive order, and George did not feel obliged to obey this murderous mistake. But General Braddock, after a gasp or two, turned a livid face towards George.

"Colonel Washington, the command is yours. I am more seriously wounded than I thought." He swayed forward, and but for George would have fallen from his horse.

The panic was now at its height. Men, horses, wagons, all piled together in a terrible mélée, made for the rear; but there, again, they were met by a hail of bullets. Staggered, they rushed back, only to be again mowed down by the hidden enemy. The few officers left commanded, begged, and entreated the men to stand firm; but they, who had faced death upon a hundred fields, were now so mad with fear that they were incapable of obedience. George, who had managed to have General Braddock carried to the rear with the aid of Dr. Craik, had got another horse, and riding from one end of the bloody field to the other, did all that mortal man could do to rally the panic-stricken men, but it was in vain. His clothes were riddled with bullets, but in the midst of the carnage around him he was unharmed, and rode over the field like the embodied spirit of battle.

The Virginians alone, cool and determined, fought steadily and sold their lives dearly, although picked off one by one. At last, after hours of panic, flight, and slaughter, George succeeded in bringing off the remnant of the Virginians, and, overtaking the fleeing mob of regular troops some miles from the scene of the conflict, got them across the ford of the Monongahela. They were safe from pursuit, for the handful of Frenchmen could not persuade their Indian allies to leave the plunder of the battle-field for the pursuit of the enemy. The first thing that George did was to send immediately for wagons, which had been left behind, to transport the wounded. General Braddock, still alive but suffering agonies from his wounds, was carried on horseback, then in a cart, and at last, the jolting being intolerable, on a litter upon the shoulders of four sturdy backwoodsmen. But he was marked for death. On the third day of this terrible retreat, towards sunset, he sank into a lethargy. George, who had spent every moment possible by his side, turned to Dr. Craik, who shook his head significantly--there was no hope. As George dismounted and walked by the side of the litter, the better to hear any words the dying soldier might utter, General Braddock roused a little.

"Colonel Washington," he said, in a feeble voice, "I am satisfied with your conduct. We have had bad fortune--very bad fortune; but"--here his mind began to wander--"yonder is the smoke rising from the chimneys; we shall soon be home and at rest. Good-night, Colonel Washington--"

The men with the litter stopped. George, with an over-burdened heart, watched the last gasp of a rash but brave and honorable soldier, and presently gently closed his eyes. At daylight the body of General Braddock, wrapped in his military cloak, was buried under a great oak-tree in the woods by the side of the highway, and then the mournful march was resumed.

The news of the disaster had preceded them, and when George, attended only by Captain Vanbraam and a few of his Virginian officers, rode into Williamsburg on an August evening, it was with the heaviest heart he had ever carried in his bosom. But by one of those strange paradoxes ever existing in the careers of men of destiny, the events that had brought ruin to others only served to exalt him personally. His gallant conduct in battle, his miraculous escape, his bringing off the survivors, especially among the Virginia troops, and the knowledge which had come about that had his advice been heeded the terrible disaster would not have taken place--all conspired to make him still more of a popular hero. Not only his own men adored him, and pointed out that he had saved all that could be saved on that dreadful day, but the British troops as well saw that the glory was his, and the return march was one long ovation to the one officer who came out of the fight with a greater reputation than when he entered it. Everywhere crowds met him with acclamations and with tears. The streets of the quaint little town of Williamsburg were filled with people on this summer evening, who followed the party of officers, with George at their head, to the palace. George responded to the shouts for him by bowing gracefully from side to side.

Arrived at the palace, he dismounted, and just as the sentry at the main door presented arms to him he saw a party coming out, and they were the persons he most desired to see in the world and least expected. First came the Earl of Fairfax with Madam Washington, whom he was about to hand down the steps and into his coach, which had not yet driven up. Behind them demurely walked Betty, and behind Betty came Lance, carrying the mantles of the two ladies.

The Earl and Madam Washington, engaged in earnest conversation, did not catch sight of George until Betty had rushed forward, and crying out in rapture, "George, dear George!" they saw the brother and sister clasped in each other's arms.

Madam Washington stood quite still, dumfounded with joy, until George, kissing her hand tenderly, made her realize that it was indeed he, her best beloved, saved from almost universal destruction and standing before her. She, the calmest, the stateliest of women, trembled, and had to lean upon him for support; the Earl grasped his hand; Lance was in waiting. George was as overcome with joy as they were.

"But I must ask at once to see the Governor," said he, after the first rapture of meeting was over. "You, my lord, must go with me, for I want friends near me when I tell the story of sorrow and disaster."

Four days afterwards, the House of Burgesses being in session, Colonel Washington was summoned by the Speaker to read his report of the campaign before it, and to be formally designated as commander-in-chief of the forces. The facts were already known, but it was thought well, in order to arouse the people to the sense of their danger, and to provide means for carrying on the war in defence of their frontiers, that Colonel Washington should make a public report, and should publicly receive the appointment of commander-in-chief of the next expedition. The House of Burgesses, then as ever proudly insistent of its rights, had given the Governor to understand that they would give him neither money nor supplies unless their favorite soldier should have the command in the next campaign--and, indeed, the attitude of the officers and soldiery made this absolutely necessary. Even the Governor had realized this, and, disheartened by the failure of his much-heralded regulars, was in a submissive mood, and these haughty colonial legislators, of whose republican principles Governor Dinwiddie already complained much, took this opportunity to prove that without their co-operation but little could be done.

The large hall of the House of Burgesses, but dimly lighted by small diamond-paned windows, was filled with the leading men of the colony, including Lord Fairfax. Ladies had been admitted to the floor, and among them sat in majestic beauty Madam Washington, and next to her sat Betty, palpitating, trembling, blushing, who with proud, bright eyes awaited the entrance of her "darling George," as she called him, although often reproved for her extravagance by her mother.

At last George entered this august assembly. His handsome head was uncovered, showing his fair hair. He wore a glittering uniform, and his sword, given him by Lord Fairfax, hung at his side. He carried himself with that splendid and noble air that was always his characteristic, and, quietly seating himself, awaited the interrogatory of the president. When this was made he rose respectfully and began to read from manuscript the sad story of Braddock's campaign. It was brief, but every sentence thrilled all who heard it. When he said, in describing the terrible story of the 9th of July, "The officers in general behaved with incomparable bravery, for which they suffered, upwards of sixty being killed or wounded," a kind of groan ran through the great assemblage; and when he added, in a voice shaken with emotion, "The Virginia companies behaved like men and died like soldiers; for, I believe, out of three companies on the ground that day scarce thirty men were left alive," sobs were heard, and many persons, both men and women, burst into tears.

His report being ended, the president of the House of Burgesses arose and addressed him:

"Colonel Washington, we have listened to your account of the late campaign with feelings of the deepest and most poignant sorrow, but without abandoning in any way our intention to maintain our lawful frontiers against our enemies. It has been determined to raise sixteen companies in this colony for offensive and defensive warfare, and by the appointment of his Excellency the Governor, in deference to the will of the people and the desire of the soldiers, you are hereby appointed, by this commission from his Excellency the Governor, which I hold in my hand, commander-in-chief of all the forces now raised or to be raised by this colony, reposing special confidence in your patriotism, valor, conduct, and fidelity. And you are hereby invested with power and authority to act as you shall think for the good of the service.

"And we hereby strictly charge all officers and soldiers under your command to be obedient to your orders, and diligent in the exercise of their several duties.

"And we also enjoin and require you to be careful in executing the great trust reposed in you, by causing strict discipline and order to be observed in the army, and that the soldiers be duly exercised and provided with all necessaries.

"And you are to regulate your conduct in every respect by the rules and discipline of war, and punctually to observe and follow such orders and directions as you shall receive from his Excellency the Governor, and this or other House of Burgesses, or committee of the House of Burgesses."

A storm of applause broke forth, and George stood silent, trembling and abashed, with a noble diffidence. He raised one hand in deprecation, and it was taken to mean that he would speak, and a solemn hush fell upon the assembly. But in the perfect silence he felt himself unable to utter a word, or even to lift his eyes from the floor. The president sat in a listening attitude for a whole minute, then he said:

"Sit down, Colonel Washington. Your modesty is equal to your valor, and both are above comparison. Your life would not have been spared, as if by a miracle, had not the all-wise Ruler of the heavens and the earth designed that you should fulfil your great destiny; and one day, believe me, you shall be called the prop, the stay, and the glory of your country."

THE END.

THE SMALL BOY IN WAR.

BY C. E. SEARS.

Much has been recently said and written about the resources of the nation in the event of war, the fighting capacity of our army and navy, and the character of recruits who would constitute the new army that must be speedily organized should a conflict result from present complications. The valor of the veterans who participated in our civil war has been often dwelt on, but nowhere have I seen any calculation based on the intrepidity and wild courage of the small boy--an element that constitutes a more important factor in every successful campaign than most people imagine. Literature is full of accounts of the small boy at school and at play. Humorists have depicted his weaknesses, his mischievous proclivities, and volunteer poets have made him the victim of rhyming obituaries. Dickens has painted him in pathetic colors, Thackeray has alternately satirized and sympathized with him, and Hughes has described him in his character of friend and fighter. None of his peculiarities has escaped detection. His disappointments have been ridiculed, his triumphs belittled; nor have even his sorrows been held sacred from the rude analysis and heartless ridicule of maturer and more conceited minds. While asleep the pockets of his little pants have been invaded, and their curious collections exposed to excite merriment. If he wears his cap-brim backward, smuts his face with sooty fingers or marks the progress of the season with fruit stains on his clothes, whistles from the gallery of the theatre, guys the actors, projects spiral play-bills on the spectators below, tortures the house cat, fights chickens in out-of-the-way places, or burglarizes his sister's safety bank of its pennies, he is condemned and often lashed. And these are penalties he pays for existence outside of the school-room. His life there is one of continued anxiety and peril. But this part of his history has been over and over narrated. My purpose is to give some account of the small boy on the battle-field--not in the petty conflicts that occur on the play-ground, but in the fiercer and bloodier clash of arms, where the very souls of grown men were tried, and where they were oftener found wanting than the small boy.

After Julius Cæsar had conquered Gaul, Britain, and Egypt, and had even overcome the great Pompey at Pharsalia, he found a victory over Pompey's two sons, mere lads, in Spain, a very different enterprise. Encountering them at the great battle of Munda, his army was about to yield before their intrepid leadership, when he rushed among his men, exclaiming, "Will you deliver me into the hands of boys?" He afterwards said he had often fought for victory, but it was the first time he had fought for his life.

Mr. Bryan, in a speech in Congress, made good use of an incident recorded by Muelbach, who narrated that at Marengo, when Napoleon gave up the battle as lost, and ordered a drummer-boy to beat a retreat, the lad's face saddened as he said: "Sire, I do not know how. Dessaix has never taught me retreat, but I can beat a charge. Oh, I can beat a charge that would make the dead fall into line! I beat it at Mount Tabor; I beat it at the Pyramids. Oh, may I beat it here?" The charge was ordered, and victory plucked from the jaws of defeat by the little hands of that heroic lad.