As they went on, the cannonading grew louder and the roads presented a scene such as had hardly ever been witnessed in America before.
The people were flying with their goods: women on beds on the backs of horses; old women driving cows before them; boys with sheep; men in carts, with valuables; dogs who had lost their masters.
They met one scene that was indeed pitiful. It was a man hurrying with the coffin of a child on his back toward the burying-ground. He must bury the little one as he fled.
The farmhouses were full of people with white faces, people who crowded upon each other.
It was a terrible story that they had to tell. Arnold had surprised New London by the sea, and had burned down every house, even the houses that sheltered him in his boyhood.
But the destruction of New London was a light event compared to the horrors of Groton, across the river.
They found that Colonel Ayre had attacked Fort Griswold, and was slaughtering the men after they had surrendered. Arnold had sent a messenger to arrest this slaughter, but the latter had arrived too late. The garrison had refused to surrender. When, at last, they were compelled to yield, they were put to the sword without mercy, and the wounded were killed, and even the dead were maltreated. The men under Colonel Ayre had become human fiends. They had gone mad with the passion for killing.
One of the British officers ran from place to place to restrain the soldiers.