Wishing to spare bloodshed I shouted to them to surrender, but one of the men on horseback shook his head, said something to the others, and they dashed toward us at all speed. I recognized this man who appeared to be their leader. He was Chudleigh, the Englishman, the betrothed of Kate Van Auken, and, so far as I knew, an honest, presentable fellow.
Whitestone poised his rifle on the top rail of the fence and I surmised that it was aimed at Chudleigh. Were the matter not so desperate I could have wished for a miss. But before Whitestone pulled the trigger one of the men from the shelter of the house fired, and Chudleigh’s horse, struck by the ball intended for his master, went down, tossing Chudleigh some distance upon the ground, where he lay quite still. Whitestone transferred his aim and knocked the other mounted man off his horse.
The remainder, not daunted by the warmth of our greeting and the loss of their cavalry, raised a cheer and rushed at us, firing their pistols and muskets.
I do not scorn a skirmish. It may, and often does, contain more heat to the square yard than a great battle with twenty thousand men engaged. These men bore down upon us full of resolution. Their bullets pattered upon the rails of the fence, chipping off splinters. Some went between the rails and whizzed by us in fashion most uncomfortable. One man cried out a bit as the lead took him in the fleshy part of the leg, but he did not shrink from the onset.
Meanwhile we were not letting the time pass without profit, but fired at them with as much rapidity and aim as we could. The two men at the corner of the house helped us much with fine sharpshooting.
Our fortification, though but slender, gave us a great advantage, and nearly a third of their number had fallen before they were within a dozen feet of the fence. But it was our business not only to defeat them but to keep any from passing us. I was hopeful of doing this, for the sound of the firing had reached other portions of the line, and I saw re-enforcements for us coming on the run.
Our fire had been so hot that the British when within a dozen feet of us shrank back. Of a sudden one of them, a very active fellow, swerved to one side, darted at the fence, and leaping it with a single bound ran lightly along the hillside. I called to Whitestone and we followed him at all speed. I was confident that the others would be taken by our re-enforcements, who were coming up fast, and this man who had passed our line must be caught at all hazards.
One of my men at the house fired at the fugitive, but missed. My pistols were empty, and so was Whitestone’s rifle. It was a matter which fleetness would decide and we made every effort.
The fugitive curved toward a wood back of the house, and we followed. I heard a rifle shot from a new direction, and Whitestone staggered; but in a moment he recovered himself, saying it was only a flesh wound. I was amazed, not at the shot but at the point from which it came. I looked up, and it was no mistake of hearing, for there was the white puff of smoke rising from an upper window in the house. It was but the glance of a moment, as the fugitive then claimed my attention. His speed was slackening and he seemed to be growing very tired.
A little blood appeared on Whitestone’s arm near the shoulder, but he gave no other sign that the wound affected him. Our man increased his speed a bit, but the effort exhausted him; he stopped of a sudden, dropped to the earth, and lay there panting, strength and breath quite gone.