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Updated: May 23, 2025
There is no door at which the hand of woman has knocked for admission into a new field of toil but there have been found on the other side the hands of strong and generous men eager to turn it for her, almost before she knocks.
We fought some two hours before they gave way. At last they broke up into little parties and ran off. We remained and buried our dead. We lost about fifty men. The French and Indians left over one hundred dead on the field; and their loss was much heavier, for they carried off most of their dead.
They had been away but a few minutes when mother who by the way was a remarkably timid woman, and I have often wondered how she got up enough courage to play the trick put a white sheet under her arm and followed along the road to a turn, where was a pair of bars, through which the girls had passed to the field.
Nothing could be seen, as the position was on the "reverse slope" of the incline, but the field of fire was absolutely clear for at least two hundred yards in front. It is the most trying time of all, this waiting for the approach of an enemy you cannot see, and it tells on the most phlegmatic disposition.
This policy was so strictly followed, that the Duke of Lancaster was allowed to march from Brittany to Gascony without meeting an enemy in the field; and when King Edward III. made his sixth and last invasion, nearly to the walls of Paris, he was only turned back by famine, and by a tremendous thunderstorm, which made him believe that Heaven was against him.
"And it is well for him that he is not," said my father; "but you do not talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down?
When I married she left and went to Missouri and found her sister and half-sister and her mother and brother or cousin. She found her sister's oldest daughter. She was a baby laying in the cradle when mama ran through the field to get away from a young man that wanted to talk to her. "My grandmother was a full-blooded Indian. Her husband was a French Negro. Nancy Cheatham was her name.
At the moment Grace had spied the newspaper girl hard at work a wave of admiration had swept over her for this strange young woman who had treated her so badly. In spite of Kathleen's lack of principle, she had the will to work, and she had already achieved much in her chosen field. If only she had been like Ruth. Then the memory of Grace's own grievance drove away the kinder thought.
The doctor vanished from the house, which was empty now, save for Berrington and Field. The latter put out the lights and prepared to leave by way of the front door. "What are you going to do next?" Berrington asked. "Go back to headquarters and report progress," Field explained. "The rest is a matter of chance. I fancy I can see my way pretty clearly as to what has happened.
"What are you doing?" said I. He answered, "I have seen a very strange thing: an army of Englishmen, leading of horses, coming down that hill; and a number of them are coming down to the plain, and eating the barley which is growing in the field near to the hill." Alexander Monro asked him how he knew they were Englishmen.
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