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!”