"But whither?" he queried.

"To Appleby Hundred--and Mistress Margery."

XLVIII

HOW WE KEPT TRYST AT APPLEBY HUNDRED

'Twas late in the afternoon of the last day of January when we set out
together, Jennifer and I, from the camp of conference at Sherrard's
Ford.

The military situation, lately so critical for us, had reached and
passed one of its many subclimaxes. Morgan's little army, with its
prisoners still safe in hand, was on its way northward to
Charlottesville in Virginia, and only the officers remained behind to
confer with General Greene.

For the others, Huger and Williams were hurrying up from Cheraw to meet
the general at Salisbury; and General Davidson, with a regiment of North
Carolina volunteers, was set to keep the fords of the Catawba.

As for the British commander's intendings, we had conflicting reports.
Two days earlier, Lord Cornwallis had burned his heavy baggage at
Ramsour's Mill, and so we had assurance that the pursuit was only
delayed. But whether, when he should break his camp at Forney's
plantation, he would go northward after Morgan and the prisoners, or
cross the river at some nearhand ford to chase our main, none of our
scouts could tell us.

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