At the aspect of this little band, the serried line of bayonets came to a halt, and for a moment the two parties stood breathlessly regarding each other. The British, up to this crisis, confident of an easy victory, recoiled at the expression in the faces and attitudes of the patriots before them, as a party of hunters may be supposed to start back, when, having followed the lion’s cubs to their den, they suddenly hear the growl of the parent lioness, and discover her eyes gleaming at them from the entrance.
It was only for a moment, however, that they hesitated. An officer, who was but a few paces distant, rushed to the spot, exclaiming that the Americans were in full flight everywhere else, and that it needed only a bold push to carry the works.
“Forward, forward,” he cried, throwing himself into the very brunt of the conflict. “Come on, the day’s our own.”
But, at that instant, and before Major Gordon could measure swords with him, Mullen discharged his gun, and the chivalric officer tumbled headlong at the very feet of our hero. His example, however, had not been lost upon his men; and the sight of his fallen body stimulated them to madness. With a wild, angry cry, they dashed forwards, bearing everything before them for an instant.
“Break in on their line,” shouted Uncle Lawrence, as with a blow of his tremendous gun, he struck down the bayonet of the soldier opposed to him. “Liberty or death!” And with the words, he grasped his opponent in mortal struggle.
“Close in, close in,” cried Major Gordon, availing himself of the disorder caused by Uncle Lawrence’s blow, to grapple with a soldier likewise. “Liberty or death!”
In an instant all was confusion. Nearly everywhere the patriots succeeded in breaking the steel rampart before them, and in engaging hand to hand with the enemy, though it was often at the cost of the lives of those who attempted it. Foe soon became intermixed with friend. The cries of “Liberty or death” were mingled with those of “God save the King.” The shouts of the living rose to heaven simultaneously with the groans of the wounded and the expiring gasp of the dying. Such was the fury of the fight, that the combatants disappeared on either side like grass before the scythe. Yet Uncle Lawrence and our hero still remained unhurt, as if bearing charmed lives, and still led the terrible strife. Each had long since overcome his first antagonist, and was striking right and left in aid of others of the defenders unequally matched or overpowered by numbers. Wherever the former rushed, with his uplifted musket, it seemed as if a new Artimesius, with his flail, had come; for his opponents went down before him like oxen in the slaughterer’s stall. His voice was faint with shouting the war-cry of his little band, “Liberty or death!” but his arms appeared as nervous as ever, and his blows fell with crushing rapidity and force.
But the defenders were now reduced to a dozen men, and what could that number effect against hundreds? Already the British had cleared the works everywhere else, and now assailing Major Gordon and his party, in flank, rear and front at once, soon left no hope of retreat, if retreat had been even now the aim of our hero. But such was not his purpose. Unappalled by the overpowering odds, he continued battling stoutly, with Uncle Lawrence at his side, until a bayonet thrust pinned him to the earth, and the assailants rushed in over his body.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE SACK OF CHESTNUT NECK
“Alas! poor country,
Almost afraid to know thyself.” —Shakespeare.