``It makes sense. If we cluster together, the redcoats can make an advantage out of it, but there's not a blessed thing they can do with two or three of us except chase us, and we can outrun them.''

That settled it, and we broke into parties of two and three. Cousin Joshua Dover decided to remain with the Reverend and poor Isaac Pitt until life passed away -- and he was hurt so badly he did not seem for long in this world. I went off with Cousin Simmons, who maintained that if he didn't see to me, he didn't know who would.

``Good heavens, Adam,'' he said, ``I thought one thing you'd have no trouble learning is when to get out of a place.''

``I learned that now,'' I said.

We ran east for about half a mile before we turned back to the road, panting from the effort and soaked with sweat. There was a clump of trees that appeared to provide cover right up to the road, and the shouting and gunfire never slackened.

Under the trees, there was a dead redcoat, a young boy with a pasty white skin and a face full of pimples, who had taken a rifle ball directly between the eyes. Three men were around him. They had stripped him of his musket and equipment, and now they were pulling his boots and jacket off. Cousin Simmons grabbed one of them by the shoulder and flung him away.

``God's name, what are you to rob the dead with the fight going on!'' Cousin Simmons roared.

They tried to outface him, but Joseph Simmons was as wide as two average men, and it would have taken braver men than these were to outface him.