d
Major Ackland, desperately wounded, was a prisoner.

'The day of the 8th was passed by Lady Harriot and her companions in
common anxiety; not a tent, not a shed being standing except what
belonged to the hospital, their refuge was among the wounded and dying.

'I soon received a message from Lady Harriot, submitting to my decision
a proposal (and expressing an earnest solicitude to execute it if not
interfering with my designs) of passing to the camp of the enemy and
requesting General Gates's permission to attend her husband.... I was
astonished at this proposal. After so long an agitation of the spirits,
exhausted not only for want of rest, but absolutely want of food,
drenched in rains for twelve hours together, that a woman should be
capable of such an undertaking as delivering herself to the enemy,
probably in the night, and uncertain of what hands she might fall into,
appeared an effort above human nature. The assistance I was enabled to
give her was small indeed; I had not even a cup of wine to offer her;
but I was told she had found from some kind and fortunate hand a little
rum and dirty water. All I could furnish to her was an open boat and a
few lines written upon dirty and wet paper, to General Gates,
recommending her to his protection.

'Mr Brudenell, the chaplain to the Artillery, ...readily undertook to
accompany her, and with one female servant, and the Major's
valet-de-chambre (who had a ball, which he had received in the late
action, then in his shoulder), she rowed down the river to meet the
enemy. But her distresses were not yet to end. The night advanced before
the boat reached the enemy's outposts, and the sentinel would not let it
pass, nor even come on shore. In vain Mr Brudenell offered the flag of
truce.... The guard threatened to fire into the boat if they stirred
before daylight.' And for seven or eight dark and cold hours they were
obliged to wait. Happily, when at length she did reach the shore, Lady
Harriot was received with all courtesy by General Gates, and had the
joy of nursing her husband back to health.

A little to the south-west of Killerton Park lie the well-ordered park
and beautiful grounds of Lord Poltimore. John Bampfylde, his ancestor,
was lord of this manor in the reign of Edward I, but the line of
succession has been threatened by an episode, told by Prince (in his
'Worthies of Devon'), that reads like a folk-story. At one time the head
of the family was a child, who,