“Oh, Lord.”
“There goes some more of ’em, who weren’t in the battle at all.”
Behind them, from the direction of the church which they had left, there came a sudden volley of three rifles. After a minute there came another volley, presently a third, then many more.
“These darned Reds,” the American said, “it’s their night to howl. Those were the poor devils we were with a few minutes since; give them a prayer, sons.”
They gave them their prayers, as they marched on in the moonlight along the deserted water-front. All the houses there were dead, with blank eyes. The rhythm of their steps echoed from the walls, the sea washed on the shingle beside them. The shootings still went on near that church of liberty from superstition.
“Blast them,” one of the eight said. “Don’t they pardon anyone?”
“It’s their night to howl,” the American said:
They’re all the way from Bitter Creek,
And it’s their night to howl.
“Do you think I could send a message ashore, when we get to the ship?” Hi asked.