We were guessing at this, Richard and I, as we jogged on together down
the river road, and were agreed that could my Lord cross the flooded
river without loss of time, his better chance would be to fall upon our
main at Salisbury or thereabouts. But as to the possibility of his
crossing, we fell apart.
"Lacking another drop of rain, we are safe for forty-eight hours yet,"
Dick would say, pointing to the brimming river rolling its brown flood
at our right as we fared on. "And with two days' start we shall have him
burning more than his camp wagons to overtake us."
"Have it so, if you will," said I, to end the argument. "But this I
know: were Dan Morgan or General Greene, or you or I, in Lord
Cornwallis's shoes, the two days would not be lost."
Jennifer laughed. "Leave the rest of us out, Sir Hannibal Ireton, and
tell what you would do," he said, mocking me.
We were at that bend in the road where Jan Howart and his Tories had
sought to waylay us in the cool gray dawn of a certain June morning when
we were galloping this same road to keep my appointment with Sir Francis
Falconnet. A huge rock makes a promontory in the stream just here, and I
pointed to a water-worn cavity in it where the flood lapped in and out
in gurgling eddies.
"You've been sharp to take me up on my forgetting of the landmarks, but
there is one I've not forgot," said I. "One day, about the time you were
getting yourself born, I was passing this way with my father and a
company of the county gentlemen.
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