“Stand to your post,” shouted Major Gordon, observing that some of his men began to waver under this unexpected assault. “Load and fire as quick as you can. Beat them back with the butts of your muskets. Liberty or death!”
The stirring cry; the gallantry with which our hero exposed himself; and the firmness which a few exhibited, headed by Uncle Lawrence and Mullen, stayed the rout for awhile. The men hurriedly loaded and fired, each one for himself. But in the excitement of their novel position in presence of an enemy for the first time, they generally wasted their powder; and in fact it was no uncommon thing for many a gun to be discharged before the ball had been placed in it, while a few actually fired off their ramrods.
Major Gordon saw all this with feelings it is impossible to describe. As long, however, as there was the remotest prospect of success, he omitted no effort to repulse the foe. He rushed to and fro along the line, encouraging, ordering, and appealing; now snatching a musket from a hesitating defender and discharging it himself; and now heading a hand to hand struggle, at an opening in the defences, where the British were endeavoring to enter.
It was here that the crisis of the conflict took place. In less time than we have taken to describe it, the enemy had reached the foot of the ramparts, when the cry became general that all was over, and most of the militiamen sought safety in flight. Up to this point they had fought courageously, even if with comparative inefficiency, but when they saw the glittering bayonets, levelled in a serried line directly under them, they recoiled in dismay. Not once in a hundred times, indeed, can raw troops stand a bayonet charge. It is scarcely an imputation on those undisciplined defenders of the Neck, that, finding themselves without this weapon, they abandoned the breastwork, leaving the position to its fate.
Not such, however, was the conduct of Major Gordon and the few heroic followers, who, either attached to him personally or gifted with more than ordinary courage, rallied to the defence of the spot we have described. Here, for the space of nearly thirty feet, the ramparts were unfinished: and assailants and defenders consequently met on equal terms. At the near approach of the enemy, the Major had flown to this spot, aware of its weakness: and hither also had followed Uncle Lawrence, Mullen, Charley Newell, and about a score of others, equally indomitable in courage.
“Never give up the gate,” cried Major Gordon, manfully opposing himself to the glittering line of bayonets. “Stand fast about me. Liberty or death!”
“Liberty or death!” shouted Uncle Lawrence, swinging in the air his heavy musket, which he had taken by the muzzle, and placing himself at the side of our hero.
“Liberty or death!” echoed the brave Mullen, holding his loaded piece ready, with his finger on the trigger, and only waiting for a suitable foe to fire.
“Liberty or death!” repeated Charley Newell, as he pressed forward to the side of the latter; and “Liberty or death!” cried every man of that devoted band, rushing to this new Thermopylae.
It was a sight that might well make the bravest pause, that little company of heroes, thus declaring their readiness to make a rampart with their bodies. Foremost of all stood Major Gordon, conspicuous in his blue and buff uniform. His brow was knit; his eyes flashed; his mouth was rigid with indomitable resolution. The next most striking figure was that of Uncle Lawrence, who, having lost his hat in the melee, now stood with his bare locks streaming in the wind; while his eye blazed with all the fire of youth, and the usual wintry russet of his cheek was flushed to vivid crimson.