’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 eddies.

“You’ve been sharp to take me up on my forgetting of the landmarks, but there is one I’ve not forgot,” said I.  “One day, about the time you were getting yourself born, I was passing this way with my father and a company of the county gentlemen.  ‘Twas in the Seven Years’ War, and the Cherokees were threatening us from the other side.  The river was in flood as it is now; and I mind my father saying that when you could see that hole in the rock, Macgowan’s Ford would be no more than armpit deep.”

“So?” said Richard; “then it behooves us to—­” He stopped in mid sentence, drew rein and shifted his sword hilt to the front.