"Bedad, they're Fagin's hell-hounds, byes--ter hell wid 'em!"
Where had I heard the voice before? I sank down, too weak to stand, my head hanging over the edge of the stairs. Some hand drew me back, but I had no strength left. Only I could think--and the truth came to me. Camden militia! Camden militia! By all the gods, Farrell was there! It was the voice of the Irish minute man heard the night we captured Delavan's raiders. Then I closed my eyes, and forgot.
I was unconscious, yet not for long. The first touch of water served to revive me, and I became aware that an arm supported my head, although everything was indistinct before my eyes.
"More water, Mike," said a voice close at hand. "Yes, that will do. Where is Farrell? Oh, Dan, this is Major Lawrence."
"One of the Dragoons said he was in command. Hurt badly?"
"No, I think not; but utterly exhausted, and weak from loss of blood. They put up a game fight."
"Only three on their feet when we got in. Hullo, Lawrence, getting back to the world, lad?"
"Yes," I managed to answer, feeling strength enough to lift myself, and vaguely noticing his features. "Is that you, Farrell?"
"It certainly is," cheerfully. "Duval has his arm about you, and the Camden boys are herding those devils down below. You had some fracas from the way things look. How many men had you?"
I rubbed my head, endeavoring to recollect, staring down into the hall. It was filled with dead and wounded men, and at the foot of the stairs was a pile of bodies.
"Twelve, altogether," I replied finally. "They--they were too many for us."
"Three to one, or more, I should judge. We got here just in time."
I was up now, looking into their faces, slowly grasping the situation.
"Yes," I said, feeling the necessity of knowing. "How did it happen? What brought you? Washington--"
"All natural enough. Clinton got away night before last with what was left of his army. Left fires burning, and made a forced march to the ships at Sandy Hook. Left everything to save his troops. Washington, realizing the uselessness of holding them longer, sent most of his militia home. About six miles out there on the pike road a half-crazy preacher named Jenks came up with us. He was too badly frightened to tell a straight story, but we got out of him that there was a fight on here, and came over as fast as our horses would travel." His eyes swept the hall. "Five minutes later would have been too late."