Sergeant Grout eagerly listened to what Morgan said; although the message was not intended for him, he determined to act upon it without delay. The young fellow’s information concerning the lay of the land decided him to take this course: a bunch of plucky boys, at night and led unerringly, could get through to the surrounded men, taking them ammunition, food and water and then the lot of them could come back against big odds.
But Grout still hesitated. He was in command and yet a non-commissioned officer. Would even a lieutenant or a captain dare assume such responsibility without orders from higher up?
At this precise moment who should wander in upon them but Major Anderson, of their own battalion, and Grout instantly put the matter up to him. Anderson was the sort of man that goes in for action; he was also utterly devoid of useless self-importance; entirely without that arrogance too often found, without reason, in the highly trained men of the Army.
“You’re in command here, Sergeant,” he said, “and your past deeds are sufficient guarantee for your wisdom and scrapping qualities. I’ll leave the matter to you. If you go in, good luck to you, and you’ll do some good, I know.”
It seems strange, perhaps, to one not accustomed to the conditions that naturally influence the fighting man in the midst of battle scenes that a lot of fellows who had been almost continually in action and had lost half their number in dead and wounded should actually want more action, seek further adventure and deadly risks. But such was the case with the majority of the Americans and such was the case now with these seventeen Yanks.
Grout put it up to them, which may have been not according to military customs, but they were buddies, one and all; therefore, they should act only upon their combined decision. This proved to be a unanimous verdict; there was not a dissenting voice among the lot and forthwith they prepared for the foray, starting after extra water and food had been obtained, though in what manner is not recorded.
Morgan led the way back, just as he had come out: over the hill to the ravine, then up the gully. The advance was single file, the men five or six feet apart, following each other exactly and as silently as a lot of Indians.
Rapid progress was made and the platoon had, without incident, reached the spot where Morgan had shot the sentry, the man’s body still lying where it had fallen.
Just at this spot the leaders, Morgan and Grout, sensed danger ahead. There were unmistakable evidences of the presence of a camp: the slight and almost indefinable sounds that must come from a large number of men, even though many are sleeping, for a combined loud breathing pulsates on the night air not unlike the ticking of a clock.