ter. Nothing was saved
beyond the actual necessities for a flying march; and when a party of
the enemy some time afterward visited the scene, they completed the work
of destruction. For this service--the only instance of alacrity that he
displayed in the campaign--Dunbar must not be forgiven. It is not
perfectly clear that Braddock intelligently ever gave the orders; but in
any case they were not fit for a British officer to give or to obey.
Dunbar's duty was to have maintained here his position, or at the least
not to have contemplated falling back beyond Will's Creek. That he had
not horses to remove his stores was, however, his after-excuse.

It was not until Sunday, July 13th, that all this was finished; and the
army with its dying general proceeded to the Great Meadows, where the
close was to transpire:

"Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history."

Ever since the retreat commenced Braddock had preserved a steadfast
silence, unbroken save when he issued the necessary commands. That his
wound was mortal he knew; but he also knew that his fame had received a
not less fatal stab; that his military reputation, dearer than his own
life to a veteran or those of a thousand others, was gone forever. These
reflections embittered his dying hours; nor were there any means at hand
of diverting the current of his thoughts or ministering to the comfort
of his body; even the chaplain of the army was among the wounded. He
pronounced the warmest eulogiums upon the conduct of his officers--who,
indeed, had merited all he could say of them--and seems to have
entertained some compunctions at not having more scrupulously followed
the advice of Washington, or perhaps at the loss of power to provide for
that young soldier's interests as thoroughly as he would have done had
he returned victorious.

At all events, we find him singling out his Virginia aide as his
nuncupative legatee, bequeathing to him his favorite charger and his
body-servant Bishop, so well known in after-years as the faithful
attendant of the patriot chief. The only allusion he made to the fate of
the battle was to softly repeat once or twice to himself, "Who would
have thought it?" Turning to Orme, "We shall better know how to deal
with them another time," were his parting words. A few moments later and
he breathed his last. Thus at about eight on the night of Sunday, July
13th, honorably died a brave old soldier, who, if wanti