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Authors: Jean Rae Baxter
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attached the badge to the cap, and thrust the badge into his pouch. Maybe it wasnât Elijahâs. But maybe it was.
He walked across to the north side of the plateau and, looking down, studied the deep ruts from wagon wheels and the prints of horsesâ hooves and menâs boots. With wounded to tend and prisoners to guard, the army could not be making rapid progress. He should be able to catch up in half a day. Then he would shadow the army, skulking in the bushes to scan the prisonersâ faces. If Elijah was there, he would rescue him. Somehow, he would find a way.
Chapter 11
HE HEARD THE ARMY before he saw it. First the creaking and rumbling of heavy wagons reached his ears, then the voices of men: officers barking orders, soldiers talking and the wounded crying out. He walked faster, and as soon as he rounded the next bend, the wagons were in sight, bringing up the rear of the army.
Now he slipped into the cover of the trees along the track. Like a wolf shadowing a herd of deer, he moved silently through the woods.
He watched the heavy draught horses labour to pull the wagons. No wonder he had caught up so quickly! The wagon wheels were over their rims in mud.
From a distance, he had thought that the wagons were loaded with supplies. When he drew nearer, he saw that what they carried were wounded menâsoldiers in blue uniforms, lying or sitting on the floorboards. No redcoats were among them.
Ahead of the wagons, the prisoners walked three or four abreast in a disorderly column. Their red tunics, which had been bright and clean one day before, were soiled with mud and blood. Flanking the prisoners, two on each side, were the rebel soldiers guarding them. Fixed to the guardsâ muskets were bayonets, with which they jabbed the prisoners from time to time to keep them moving.
Many of the prisoners looked barely able to walk. They shuffled along, some so weak they stumbled with every step. The healthier-looking prisoners were laden like packhorses. It appeared that they were being forced to carry the baggage and supplies that had been unloaded from the wagons to make space for wounded men.
There were hundreds of prisoners, more than Broken Trail could count. In this multitude he had to find one young, brown-haired redcoat, possibly without a cap. The best way to do it, he decided, was to station himself at a vantage point ahead of the armyâs advanceâat a spot where he could see but not be seen while scrutinizing each face as the prisoners passed.
Moving at double the armyâs speed, he found a hiding place that the army would have to pass on its way. It was a leafy thicket from which he had a clear view of the track.
He had only a short time to wait before the front of the army drew level with his hiding place. At the head were the officers, riding their horses at an easy walk. Though the uniforms of some looked the worse for wear, and one horse had a patch of dried blood on its flank, the officers made a brave show. There were some fine-looking horses, too. Now that he had mastered the knack of managing a horse, Broken Trail would have liked one of those for himself. The most handsome was a grey gelding ridden by an extremely fat officer. That must be Major Fergusonâs horse, he thought, remembering the remarks of the Over Mountain men. Somebody named Cleveland had claimed Major Fergusonâs horse. âYou could make two Pat Fergusons out of a man that size,â one of the Over Mountain men had said. Yet the grey gelding stepped along as smartly as if it carried a feather on its back. With its thick, arched neck and flowing mane, that horse looked like a chief, born to lead.
Following the officers were ranks of blue-coated soldiers. After them came the prisoners and their guards. Broken Trail recognized Major Fergusonâs aide, Captain DePeyster. Even on foot, he kept his high and mighty air, marching with his shoulders square and his chin up. He still wore his
He walked across to the north side of the plateau and, looking down, studied the deep ruts from wagon wheels and the prints of horsesâ hooves and menâs boots. With wounded to tend and prisoners to guard, the army could not be making rapid progress. He should be able to catch up in half a day. Then he would shadow the army, skulking in the bushes to scan the prisonersâ faces. If Elijah was there, he would rescue him. Somehow, he would find a way.
Chapter 11
HE HEARD THE ARMY before he saw it. First the creaking and rumbling of heavy wagons reached his ears, then the voices of men: officers barking orders, soldiers talking and the wounded crying out. He walked faster, and as soon as he rounded the next bend, the wagons were in sight, bringing up the rear of the army.
Now he slipped into the cover of the trees along the track. Like a wolf shadowing a herd of deer, he moved silently through the woods.
He watched the heavy draught horses labour to pull the wagons. No wonder he had caught up so quickly! The wagon wheels were over their rims in mud.
From a distance, he had thought that the wagons were loaded with supplies. When he drew nearer, he saw that what they carried were wounded menâsoldiers in blue uniforms, lying or sitting on the floorboards. No redcoats were among them.
Ahead of the wagons, the prisoners walked three or four abreast in a disorderly column. Their red tunics, which had been bright and clean one day before, were soiled with mud and blood. Flanking the prisoners, two on each side, were the rebel soldiers guarding them. Fixed to the guardsâ muskets were bayonets, with which they jabbed the prisoners from time to time to keep them moving.
Many of the prisoners looked barely able to walk. They shuffled along, some so weak they stumbled with every step. The healthier-looking prisoners were laden like packhorses. It appeared that they were being forced to carry the baggage and supplies that had been unloaded from the wagons to make space for wounded men.
There were hundreds of prisoners, more than Broken Trail could count. In this multitude he had to find one young, brown-haired redcoat, possibly without a cap. The best way to do it, he decided, was to station himself at a vantage point ahead of the armyâs advanceâat a spot where he could see but not be seen while scrutinizing each face as the prisoners passed.
Moving at double the armyâs speed, he found a hiding place that the army would have to pass on its way. It was a leafy thicket from which he had a clear view of the track.
He had only a short time to wait before the front of the army drew level with his hiding place. At the head were the officers, riding their horses at an easy walk. Though the uniforms of some looked the worse for wear, and one horse had a patch of dried blood on its flank, the officers made a brave show. There were some fine-looking horses, too. Now that he had mastered the knack of managing a horse, Broken Trail would have liked one of those for himself. The most handsome was a grey gelding ridden by an extremely fat officer. That must be Major Fergusonâs horse, he thought, remembering the remarks of the Over Mountain men. Somebody named Cleveland had claimed Major Fergusonâs horse. âYou could make two Pat Fergusons out of a man that size,â one of the Over Mountain men had said. Yet the grey gelding stepped along as smartly as if it carried a feather on its back. With its thick, arched neck and flowing mane, that horse looked like a chief, born to lead.
Following the officers were ranks of blue-coated soldiers. After them came the prisoners and their guards. Broken Trail recognized Major Fergusonâs aide, Captain DePeyster. Even on foot, he kept his high and mighty air, marching with his shoulders square and his chin up. He still wore his
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