CHAPTER XIV—THE BATTLE IN THE DARK
AS the hunting-shirt men come within sight of the blinking lights, which polka-dot the sugar stubble in front and mark the bivouac of the English, Colonel Coffee sends the whispered word along the line to halt. At this, the hunting-shirt men crouch in the lee of the cypress swamp, and wait. Colonel Coffee is lying by for the signal which shall tell him to begin.
Before the movement commences, the General calls Colonel Coffee to one of their celebrated conferences.
“It is my purpose, Coffee,” explains the General, “merely to shake them up a bit. An attack will cure them of overconfidence, and break the teeth of their conceit. This should hold them in check, and give us time for certain earthworks I meditate. The signal will be a gun from the Carolina. When you hear the gun, Coffee, attack everything wearing a red coat. But be careful!” Here the General lifts a long, admonitory finger. “Do not follow too far! Reinforcements are crawling out of the swamp to the rear of the English every hour, and the only certainty is that, even as we talk, they outnumber us two for one.”
The faithful Coffee departs. As he reaches the door, the General calls after him:
“Don't forget, Coffee! The gun from the Carolina!”
The hunting-shirt men lie waiting by the cypress swamp. On their near left is Papa Plauche and his “Fathers of Families.” Beyond these is a half company of regulars, which the General has brought up from the near-by post. On the Bayou Road, between the regulars and the river, is the General himself, with a brace of small field pieces.
It is a moonless night, and what light the stars might furnish is withheld by a blanket-screen of thick clouds. No night could be darker; for, lest an occasional star find a cloud-rift and peer through, a fog drifts up from the river. This is good for the English, since it hides their watch fires, which one by one are lost in the mists. The darkness deepens until even the hawk-eyed hunting-shirt men, trained by much night fighting to a nocturnal keenness of vision, are unable to make out their nearest comrades.
The pitch blackness, and the fog chill creeping over him, tell on Papa Plauche. He whispers sorrowfully to his friend St. Geme.
“Neighbor St. Geme,” he says, “these differences should be adjusted by argument, and not by deadly guns. I see that he who would either shoot or be shot by his fellow-man; is in an erroneous position.”
Before the kindly St. Geme may frame response, a liquid tongue of flame illuminates the broad dark bosom of the river. It is followed sharply by a crashing “Boom!” This is the word from the Carolina.
The signal carries dismay into the hearts of the English, since Commodore Patterson, whose genius is thoroughgoing, is at pains to load the gun with two pecks of slugs, and eighty-four killed and wounded are the red English harvest of that one discharge. The frightened drums beat the alarm, and the ranks of English form. As they grasp their arms the nine broadside guns of the Carolina begin to rake them. With this the English fall slowly back from the river.
The rearward movement, while managed slowly because of the darkness, brings discouraging results. The English retreat into the hunting-shirt men, who are skirmishing up from the cypress swamp. The English are first told of this new danger by the spitting flashes which remind them of needles of fire, and the crack of the long squirrel rifles like the snapping of a whip. Here and there, too, a groan is heard, as the sightless lead finds some English breast. This augments the blind horror of the hour.
The trapped English reply in a desultory fashion, and make a bad matter worse. The hunting-shirt men locate them by the flash of their guns, at which they shoot with incredible quickness and accuracy. With men falling like November's leaves, the English give ground to the south, which saves them somewhat from both the Carolina and the hunting-shirt men.
Guessing the English direction, the hunting-shirt men follow, loading and firing as they advance. Now and then a hunting-shirt man overtakes an individual foe, and settles the national differences which divide them with tomahawk and knife. It is cruel work—this unseeing bloodshed in the dark, and disturbingly new to the English, who express their dislike for it.
While the hunting-shirt men drive the English along the fringe of the cypress swamp, the General, a half mile nearer the river, is working his two field pieces. Affairs proceed to his warlike satisfaction—and this is saying a deal for one so insatiate in matters of blood—until a flying ounce of lucky English lead wounds a horse on the number two gun. This brings present relief to those English in the General's front; for the hurt animal upsets the gun into the ditch. It takes fifteen minutes to put it on its proper wheels again. The accident disgruntles the General; but he bears it with what philosophy he may, and in good truth is pleased to find that the gun carriage has not been smashed in the upset.
“Save the gun!” is his word to the artillery men; and when it is saved he praises them.
At the booming signal from the Carolina, the intrepid Papa Plauche cries out:
“Forwards, brave Fathers of Families! Forwards, heroes!”
The “Fathers” respond, and go on with the hunting-shirt men. But their pace is sedate; and this last results in an impoliteness which disturbs the excellent Papa Plauche to the core.
The hunting-shirt men are, for the major portion, riotous young blades from the backwoods. Moreover, they are used to this prowling warfare of the night. Is it wonder then that they advance more rapidly than does Papa Plauche with his “Fathers,” whose step is measured and dignified as becomes the heads of households?
Thus it befalls that, do their dignified best, Papa Plauche and his “Fathers” are left behind by the hunting-shirt men, who, deploying more and still more to the left, extend themselves in front of Papa Plauche. This does not suit the latter's hardy tastes, and he frets ferociously. He grows condemnatory, as the spitting rifle flashes show him that the vainglorious hunting-shirt men are between him and those English whom he hungers to destroy. Indeed, he fumes like tiger cheated of its prey.
“But we shall extricate ourselves, neighbor St. Geme!” cries Papa Plauche. “We shall yet extricate ourselves! Behold!”
The “Behold!” is the foreword of certain masterly maneuvers by Papa Plauche among the sugar stubble. The maneuvers free the farseeing Papa Plauche and his “Fathers” from those obstructive, unmannerly hunting-shirt men, who have cut off their advance even in its indomitable bud. The “Fathers” being better used to shop floors than plowed fields, however, make difficult work of it. At last courage has its reward, and the “Fathers” uncover their dauntless front.
“Oh, my brave St. Geme!” cries Papa Plauche, when his strategy has put the hunting-shirt men on his right, where they belong, “nothing can save the caitiff English now! Those ruffians in hunting tunics who protected them no longer impede our front. Forwards!”
The final word has hardly issued from between the clenched teeth of Papa Plauche when a rustling in the stubble apprises him of the foe.
“Fire, Fathers of Families, fire!” shouts Papa Plauche, and such is the fury which consumes him that the shout is no shout, but a screech.
It is enough! One by one each “Father” discharges his flintlock. The procession of reports is rather ragged, and now and again a considerable wait occurs between shots, like a great gap in a picket fence. Still, the last “Father” finally finds the trigger, and the command of Papa Plauche is obeyed.
The “Fathers” hurt no one by this savage volley, for their aim like their hearts is high. It is quite as well they do not. The stubble-disturbing force in front chances to be none other than that half company of regulars, to whose rear it seems the inadvertent Papa Plauche, in freeing them from the hunting-shirt men, has led his “Fathers.” The regulars are in a towering rage with Papa Plauche; but since no one has been injured, and Papa Plauche is profuse in his apologies, their anger presently subsides. The regulars again take up their bloody work upon the retreating English, while the discouraged Papa Plauche and the “Fathers,” full of confusion and chagrin at twice being balked, remain where they are.
“After all, neighbor St. Geme,” observes Papa Plauche, “the mistake was theirs. Did they not usurp the place which belonged to the English, in thus getting in front of us? It should teach them to beware how they put themselves in the path of my 'Fathers,' whose wrath is terrible.”
For two black, sightless hours the huntingshirt men crowd the English to the south. Then the General draws them off. They come, bringing as captives one colonel, two majors, three captains, and sixty-four privates. Also they have killed and wounded two hundred and thirteen of the English, which comforts them marvelously. They themselves have suffered but slightly, and the backloads of English guns they carry will gladden many an unarmed Kentucky heart.
Now when he has them together, the beloved Coffee at their head, the General leads the way to the thither side of the Roderiquez Canal, where he plans a line of breastworks. Arriving, the weary hunting-shirt men build fires, and make themselves easy for the balance of the night.
After a brief rest, the thoughtful General detaches a party with one of the field guns, to interest the English until daylight.
“For I think, Coffee,” says he, “that if we keep them awake, they will be apt to sleep tomorrow; and so leave us free to work on our defenses.”