Nor is it all over yet. For look, right in front of the defeated and fleeing army there suddenly springs, as if from the earth itself, a thin red line of British soldiers.
Rip—rip—rip go the crackling rifles all along this line. As pretty platoon firing as one could wish to see or hear.
And the effect is deadly. The black army bids fair to be wiped out. They attempt to fly to the right—to the left. But Flint has divided his little army and outflanks them on both sides. Then, cowed and appalled, those among them who are still intact throw away their arms, throw themselves on the ground, throw themselves even across the bleeding bodies of the slain, and shriek aloud for mercy. Mercy? It is never refused by British soldiers to beseeching foemen.
The carnage has been dreadful, but silence reigns now, except for the pitiful moaning of the wounded. No sound of rifle, no slash of cutlass, or hiss of flying spear!
A blue sky above, and bright sunshine, in which the woods around seem to swelter and steam. The blue above—the blood below!
Yes, readers, war may be glorious, but it is after the battle has ceased to rage that one sees Bellona[[1]] in all her dreadful deshabille, her blood-stained arms, her soaking hair, and cruel and fiercely flaming eyes. May heaven in its mercy keep war and famine far away from our own sweet island home!
[[1]] The goddess of war.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The arms were now taken from the prisoners, and they were left huddled together like an immense herd of seals, for all were lying down exhausted. Only fifty men were left to keep them together. The main little army then marched into the city.
Will it be believed that women and children rushed to meet our heroes, kneeling in the dust and weeping, embracing our blue-jackets' knees, till more than one tar was heard to remark: "I'm blessed, Bill" (or Jim as the case might be), "I'm blessed if I don't feel like blubbering my blooming self."