“No, I’m damned if I shall!” he retorted, fuming like a disappointed boy, and minding me most forcibly of my hot-headed Richard Jennifer.  And then he would repeat:  “I thought you were my friend.”

“So I am, as man to man.  But this matter concerns the welfare of a cause to which I have sworn fealty.  Take your own words back, my lad, and put yourself in my place.  Can I do less than hold you to your pledge?”

“No, I suppose not,” he would say, grumpily.  “Yet ’tis hard; most devilish hard!”

“’Tis the fortune of war.  Another day the shoe may be upon the other foot.”

The baggage wagons had been massed across the broad end of the hill to eke out the stone breastwork, and the last of these arguing colloquies took place beneath one of the wagons whither we had crept for shelter from the rain, which was now pouring again.  In the midst of our talk, Major Ferguson dived to share our shelter, dripping like a water spaniel.

“Ha! ye’re carpet soldiers, both of ye!” he snorted, and then he began to swear piteously at the rain.

“’Twill be worse for the enemy than for us,” said Tybee.  “We can at least keep our powder dry.”

“Damn the enemy!” quoth the major, cheerfully.  “So the weather does not put the creeks up and hold Tarleton and Major Gibbs back from us, ’tis a small matter whether the rebels’ powder be dry or soaked.”

“You have made all your dispositions, Major?” Tybee asked.

The major nodded.  “All in apple-pie order, no thanks to either of ye.  ’Tis a strong position, this, eh, Captain Ireton?  I’m thinking not all the rebel banditti out of hell will drive us from it.”

“’Tis good enough,” I agreed; and here the talk was broken off by the major’s diving out to berate some of his Tory militiamen who were preparing to make a night of it with a jug of their vile country liquor.

The rain continued all that Friday night and well on into the forenoon of the Saturday.  During this interval we waited with scouts out for the upcoming of the mountain men.  At noon Major Ferguson sent a final express to Lord Cornwallis, urging the hurrying on of the reinforcements, not knowing that his former despatch had been intercepted, nor that Tarleton had not as yet started to the rescue.  A little later the scouts began to come in one by one with news of the approaching riflemen.

There was but a small body of them, not above a thousand men in all, so the spies said, and my heart misgave me.  They were without cannon and they lacked bayonets; and moreover, when all was said, they were but militia, all untried save in border warfare with the Indians.  Could they successfully assault the fortified camp whose defenders—­thanks to the major’s ingenuity—­had fitted butcher-knives to the muzzles of their guns in lieu of bayonets?  Nay, rather would they have the courage to try?