They had crossed the Neck by this time, and the road veered away to the right, circling the foot of Bunker Hill and heading for Charlestown village. “Don’t hear them firing after us any more,” said Gerry, peering back the way they had come. Some of the sunset red was still left in the sky, and enough daylight for him to see that the road behind them was choked with carts and stragglers, but the whole pace of the retreat seemed to have slowed. “No, and you won’t hear them again tonight. They won’t dare follow us into Charlestown. Could you hold me up, lad? I do not breathe as easily as I am wont to do.” Gerry knelt down, got his hands under the limp elbows of the fallen officer, and hoisted him into a sitting position against the side of the cart. The man drew a few painful breaths and then spoke again. “Thank you for your trouble. I am Captain Blakeslee of the King’s Own.” “’Twas no trouble, sir,” muttered Gerry uneasily. “I be Private Malory of the Twenty-third.” The captain’s face relaxed in a smile. “A fine regiment--the Welsh Fusileers. I was a guest when they made merry on last St. David’s day. Ah--it comes to me now. I knew I had seen your face before. Were you not the lad who led forth the goat with the gilded horns? He ran wild, I remember, leaped on the table, and up-ended our wine glasses just as we were going to drink to the Prince of Wales! A ludicrous scene!” Gerry’s cheeks grew hot in the darkness, and he clenched his fists to keep his shame and resentment down. Yes, he had led the damn goat that according to army tradition preceded the Welsh Fusileers whenever they passed in review. Led, and cleaned it, and curried it, and bedded it down every night in a stable near Long Wharf, and twisted garlands about its horns on parade days. He still remembered the hideous embarrassment of the moment when the beast had escaped him. Signed up for a soldier, he had, reluctantly, but expecting his share of excitement and glory. Until today he had done nothing save tend that black-tempered goat. No wonder he had fallen into the habit of “borrowing” a captain’s uniform or an American’s homespun breeches and tow shirt, and gone swaggering out amongst the girls in the Yankee villages now and then! A man had to have his pride and sweetness and a bit of sport in life. He had learned to imitate the officers’ pompous speech and attitudes, or to talk with a New England twang. Maybe he’d go for a strolling player when he got home again. Maybe he’d be good at it, he thought. But of course, it was in his blood, and no wonder if he should turn out that way.