It has been a hot and bloody morning. Of those six thousand whom Sir Edward takes into action—for the reserves with General Lambert are never within range—over twenty-one hundred are fallen. Seven hundred and thirty are killed as they stand in their ranks; and of the fourteen hundred marked “wounded,” more than six hundred are to die within the week. Among the twenty-one hundred killed and wounded, sixteen hundred go to swell the red record of the dire hunting-shirt men.
The two attacks, being at the ends of the General's lines, involve no more than two-thirds of his thirty-two hundred. Papa Plauche's “Fathers” in the center, as well as General Adair's Kentuckians who act as reserves, are merest spectators.
That his “Fathers” are not called upon to fire a shot, in no wise depresses Papa Plauche. He harangues his brave followers, and eloquently explains:
“It is because of your sanguinary fame, my heroes!” vociferates Papa Plauche. “The English knew your position, and avoided you. They went as far to the right and to the left as they could, to escape that destruction you else would have infallibly meted out to them. Ah! my 'Fathers,' see what it is to have a terrible name! You must sit idle in battle, because no foe dare engage you! Be comforted, my glorious heroes! Achilles could have done no more!”
Colonel Coffee, still busy with the powder smears, calls the General's attention to an English group of three, made up of a colonel, a bugler, and a soldier bearing a white flag. The trio halt six hundred respectful yards away. The bugler sounds a fanfare; the soldier waves his white flag.
The General dispatches Colonel Butler with two captains to receive their message. It is a note signed “Lambert,” asking an armistice of twenty-four hours to bury the dead.
“Who is Lambert?” asks the General, and sends to the English colonel, with his bugler and white flag, to find out.
The three presently return; this time the note is signed “John Lambert, Commander-in-Chief.” The alteration proves to the General's liking, and the armistice is arranged.
The seven hundred and thirty dead English are buried where they fell. Thereafter the superstitious blacks will defy lash and torture rather than plow the land where they lie. It will raise no more sugar cane; but in time a cypress grove will sorrowfully cover it, as though in mournful memory of those who sleep beneath. The General carries his own dead to the city. They are not many, four dead and four wounded being the limit of his loss.
General Lambert and the beaten English go wallowing, hip-deep, through the swamps to their boats. They will not fight again. The booming of the batteries, or mayhap the unusual warmth of the sun, has roused from their winter beds a scaly host of alligators. These saurians uplift their hideous heads and gaze sleepily, yet inquisitively, at the wallowing retreating English. Now and then one widely yawns, and the spectacle sends an icy thrill along what English spines bear witness to it.