"Send them a volley over there, all together," ordered the young officer. "Ready; load! At six hundred and fifty yards, aim. Fire!"
Prescott's face beamed with satisfaction as he held his field glass to his eyes and saw where the bullets threw up the dirt.
"Splendidly done, men!" he cried. "We'll send 'em another. Ready; load. Aim—fire!"
Once more the volley crashed out splendidly. Then the men lay on their hot-barreled rifles.
No more shots came their way just then.
"We've silenced their fire for the time being," chuckled the officer. "I wonder if the enemy are retiring?"
In the silence Uncle Sam's men could hear a frantic cheer rise from the interior of the planter's house.
"Yes; I'll warrant they're glad," cried Prescott, his eyes shining mistily. "But we haven't reached them yet!"
It looked easy. All the detachment had to do was to run across a field and halt before the planter's house.
Yet how could the young commanding officer know that he would not lose half his men by ambushed fire while crossing that open space?