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They had had enough, and those who were still alive leaped the trench and disappeared into the outer darkness. "They won't try that again," I remarked to Peyronie, who was sitting against the breastwork. "But what is it, man? Are you wounded?" I cried, seeing that he was very pale and held both hands to his breast.
There is therefore an art; and the superior man knows the finenesses of it. Thus did La Peyronie guess that a man of the court had swallowed a pointed bone which had caused an ulcer, and put him in danger of death; thus did Boerhaave guess the cause of the malady as unknown as cruel of a count of Vassenaar.
There was no room to spare, to be sure, and Peyronie grumbled that every time a man turned over he disturbed the whole line of sleepers, but we put the best face possible on the situation, and had little cause for complaint, except at the food, which soon became most villainous.
"Why, man, that pipe has been in the family for half a dozen generations. There's only one other like it in Germany." "A most fortunate thing," remarked Peyronie dryly; "else Virginia could not raise enough tobacco to supply the market. But, seriously, I believe even the general will see the need of taking some radical action.
Peyronie and myself had been stationed at the northwest corner of the fort with thirty men, and just before noon, from far away in the forest, came the sound of a single musket shot. We waited in suspense for what might follow, and in a moment a sentry came running from the wood with one arm swinging useless by his side. "They have come!" he cried, as he tumbled over the breastwork.
At five-thirteenths of a mile a day, we shall arrive there nicely in in let me see." "In three hundred and ninety days!" cried Spiltdorph. "Thank you, lieutenant," and Peyronie bowed toward Spiltdorph's nimbus. "I was never good at figures. In three hundred and ninety days, then. You see, we shall get to Fort Duquesne very comfortably by the middle of July of next year.
"Come here a moment, Lieutenant Peyronie," he called. "You understand French. What is this fellow saying?" Peyronie exchanged a few words with the prisoner, who stooped, drew a paper from the inner pocket of the dead officer's coat, and held it toward us. Peyronie took it, glanced over it with grave countenance, and turned to Colonel Washington. "This man is Ensign Marie Drouillon, sir," he said.
"I'm cursed if I do!" Peyronie laughed louder than ever, and Waggoner motioned him to the pipes and tobacco. "By God, Peyronie!" he said. "I believe you would laugh in the face of the devil." Peyronie filled his pipe, chuckling to himself the while, and when he had got it to drawing nicely, settled himself upon a stool.
And Peyronie, because, though a Frenchman, he had suffered most at their hands, was the most bloodthirsty of us all. Then the first blow fell. It was the night of the twentieth of April, and our force had halted near Colonel Cresap's house, sixteen miles from Will's Creek. I was in charge of the sentries to the west of the camp.
There was little sleep for any of us that night, and I almost envied Peyronie tossing on his blanket, oblivious to what was passing about him. Vanbraam and Robert Stobo were appointed to accompany the French back to the Ohio, to remain there as hostages, and we all shook hands with them before they went away through the darkness toward the French camp.
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