"That's what the feller said as lost both legs. If I can keep clear o'

the scalpin' knife I'll fight agin, sure's yer born!"

"If I'm alive to do it I'll see that you are taken off the field to-night."

"I know ye will if the redcoats don't take the field away from ye. If they do, the red devils will get more scalps than they can carry."

"They haven't got it yet. Here we go again," and, saying this, he joined the ma.s.s of running men returning to the charge.

There was the same din, the same clouds of acrid powder smoke, which now is lifted by a breeze, showing the solid ranks awaiting them. As Rodney fires he is conscious that he has shot an Indian, an Indian with blue eyes! What was an Indian doing in those serried ranks, why wasn't he skulking on the outskirts as Indians should? The enemy yield, and are driven back on to a rise of land in their rear, where they make a stand and again hurl back the riflemen.

As the Rangers retreat, Rodney sees the Indian lying on the ground lift his rifle to shoot. A Ranger knocks it aside, while another aims a blow that would have brained the savage had not Rodney knocked it aside, for he had recognized Conrad!

"Help me to take him," he cried.

"Kill him an' leave him," cried another.

Rodney grasped Conrad by the shoulders and another rifleman, with a growl at such folly, seized him by the heels. So it happened that he was laid by the side of Zeb.

By this time the battle raged along the entire front. American reinforcements were coming up and greater reinforcements were being sent to support the British, and Gates was back in his tent thinking it all a small affair.

With nightfall the two armies lay back like panting wolves, exhausted, and, now that there was time, Rodney made sure that both Zeb and Conrad had their wounds dressed.

"The Rangers won glory to-day and bore the brunt of the fighting. It was hot, though."

"I reckon you're correct, Rodney. I felt of it an' found it so," was Zeb's reply.

"It is reported about camp that Gates and Arnold have quarrelled, and Arnold was so mad he resigned and Gates accepted it."

"That so!" Zeb whistled, and then made a wry face on account of the pain in his leg. "That leaves Arnold in a pickle. 'Taint the height o'

military etiquette to resign under fire. I wish Arnold was in command, though."

"You aren't the only one who wishes it. Well, I must find that Indian or he won't forgive me for shooting him."

"Too bad ye can't shoot straighter."

"That's unkind. When you know him you'll change your mind."

"Humph!"

Of what happened in the two weeks following this battle, history tells but little, for there was little that was decisive. Burgoyne waited for Clinton to come to his a.s.sistance. He did not come. Some of his messages did not get through the lines to Burgoyne. The Americans gradually got control of vantage points between the British and their avenue of retreat to Canada. But these were not dull days for the Rangers. There was scouting and skirmishing in which they bore an active part.

On the afternoon of October seventh Rodney brought in word that the British troops were moving, and Gates quickly ordered Morgan forward to engage them. The latter, as was his custom, had obtained a knowledge of the country and he saw a better plan, which was to lead his men around to a wooded hill on the enemy's flank and attack from there. This suggestion was approved.

"This will begin the end," remarked a fellow on Rodney's right.

"Unless Gates blunders," remarked another.

There before them lay a panorama which might well stir the blood, the finest looking soldiers in the world forming on the plain below.

General Poor's men were advancing to engage the enemy in front. Now is the moment for Morgan's men!

How they swept down on those British regulars, loading and shooting as they charged, and every ball finding its mark!

The enemy's volleys were not those of marksmen and did comparatively little execution. Now Dearborn's men are charging with the bayonet, and sharpshooters are picking off the British officers. Human beings could not stand under such an onslaught. The enemy's lines wavered, and then were swept off the field by the soldiers they had ridiculed.

What will the King of France think when he hears of this?

Ah! there rides Frazer, gallant soldier, rallying the disheartened British troops. Frazer is a host in himself. If he succeeds, he may turn the tide of battle. What! he reels in his saddle and aides ride to his side and he leaves the field to die a few hours later. Those Rangers back on the hill seldom miss the mark.

The enemy shield themselves behind their entrenchments, and the Americans, flushed with victory, are charging them, and there goes Arnold riding the field like a madman, though Gates has ordered him to remain in camp. It shall not be said he resigned through fear, if he dies for it. But this desperate charge could not succeed, and Morgan's men turn back and Arnold is wounded in the same leg that was shot during the attack on Quebec. The British admire bravery and Arnold's portrait is to decorate shop windows in London for the curious to gape at. Alas for Arnold that the bullet was not better aimed!

At last it is night. The Americans have not been able to deliver the finishing stroke, but the British have learned that their fate is not to be a pleasant one, whatever happens.

These are but glimpses of that eventful struggle. The history of it is another story and a thrilling one.

We may think of Rodney and Zeb exulting as the days pa.s.sed and they saw the American lines tighten about the hesitating enemy, hesitating only to be lost. Conrad, true to the manners of his adopted people, sat in stolid silence, seeing much and saying nothing, while his wound quickly healed. And there is Gates, so anxious for glory--he thinks now that he may get Washington's place,--that he is willing to agree that Burgoyne's soldiers may return to England if only they'll fight no more against America, and we may imagine the smile on the face of the English general. Nor is it difficult to imagine the dark red of anger in Colonel Morgan's face when Gates seeks his support for the place of commander-in-chief, and the "old wagoner" curtly tells him that he will have no part in such a scheme, that he will fight under Washington or not fight at all.

Zeb was sufficiently recovered from his wound to be able to see the British troops march past on the day of the surrender, looking down the ranks of Americans, some trim and soldierly, as were the Continentals, and others clad in homespun or the skins of the forest.

And in the ranks filing past in dejection Rodney saw the sneering face of Mogridge. The flower of the British aristocracy, sons of n.o.bility and members of Parliament, had been subalterns under Burgoyne.

Mogridge, as ever, had followed in the wake of those having money so that he might live as the leech lives.

"I have got a furlough, and as soon as this wound will let me I'm going to Boston to see the folks." And at the moment Zeb said this he was carrying, in an inside pocket of his dirty hunting shirt, a letter from Melicite, the fair young French girl whose kindness to him and young Lovell in Quebec had won from him more than mere friendship.[3]

"And I'm going down into Connecticut to find the girl who sewed her name inside my coat," remarked a militia man standing by; for there were girls who won husbands by this simple little device, st.i.tching their fate into the homespun coats they made for the soldiers.

Rodney turned away, feeling a bit lonely. He would find Conrad.

"Conrad, if I can get you freed will you promise me to live a friend to Americans and, on getting back to your people, will find Louis and bring him to my home in Charlottesville?"

For several minutes Conrad made no reply, and then he said: "Yah, I vill." And so it came about that, when his wound was healed, he turned his face toward his chosen home in the forest.

[3] See "Marching with Morgan."

CHAPTER XXVI

TRICKED, AND BY HIS FRIEND

Burgoyne, on meeting Colonel Morgan after the surrender, had said to him: "Sir, you command the finest regiment in the world."

"A feller with ornary jedgment mought reach that ar conclusion with half the experience," remarked a lank old rifleman, whose peculiar gait had given him the name of "Lopin' Luther." Nevertheless, the compliment greatly pleased the Rangers. It could not, however, remedy the injustice done Morgan and his corps by Gates in not making favourable mention of them because the "old wagoner" so st.u.r.dily refused to partic.i.p.ate in Gates' scheme to supplant Washington.

"Nawthin' ter do but keep at it; sun'll be shinin' bimeby," was the terse comment of one of the Rangers, and his was the philosophy which prevailed.