A far-off report broke the silence. A mound of white erected itself at the end of the river road and a howitzer ball hummed along it. Along the edge of the beech wood ran the crackle of small arms. From the swamp on the left came the enfilading fire of the Indians. A private in Desha’s regiment fell forward and lay upon his face, motionless. A sergeant a hundred feet away doubled up with a grunt.
Steadily the volunteers swung forward to where the westering sun shone red across the red and yellow carpet that autumn’s winds had strewn. As they marched they sang, at first low, then with a swing that rose terribly to the skies:
Scalps are bought at stated prices,
Proctor pays the price in gold.
Freemen, no more bear such slaughters,
Rouse and smite the faithless foe.
Most of the victims of the River Raisin had been Kentuckians; it was meet and proper that Kentuckians should avenge them at the Thames.
Jack was far in advance of the troops. Familiar with the ground from his adventure of the night before, he knew where to look for the enemy’s lines and could venture nearer to them than any other scout. He had left his horse behind, well out of danger, and had crept forward on foot, closer and closer, determined to learn in what order the British designed to meet the attack. Nearer and nearer he crept, flat on the ground, worming his way. At last, beneath the shadow of the trees he saw the crossed white on red that marked the British soldiers. Detail after detail he noted; then, when a bugle at the rear told him that the Americans were advancing, he began to worm backward.
At his horse at last, he leaped to the saddle and drove the spurs deep, heading for the spot where the ringing bugle was sounding the advance.
General Harrison, surrounded by his staff, stood watching. “Now’s the time,” he muttered. “Trumpeter! Sound the——” He broke off, as a scout came dashing toward him.