CHAPTER VIII. A NIGHT UNDER FIRE.
The shouting begat curiosity in us all, and we left the tent, the elderly officer leading. I perceived at once that the noise came from our lines, which were pushed up very close to those of the British and were within plain hearing distance. Among the trees and bushes, which were very dense at points, I could see in the brilliant sunshine the flash of rifle barrel and the gleam of uniform. The shouting was great in volume, swelling like a torrent rising to the flood.
I remained by the side of the old officer. He seemed anxious.
“What is it? What can that mean? It must be something important,” he asked as much of himself as of me.
The reply was ready for him, as some English skirmishers came forward with an American prisoner whom they had taken but a few moments before. The man was but a common soldier, ragged, but intelligent. The officer put to him his question about the shouting, which had not yet subsided.
“That was a welcome,” said the prisoner.
“A welcome! What do you mean by that?”
“Simply that more re-enforcements have come from the south.”
The officer grew even graver.
“More men always coming for them and never any for us,” he said, almost under his breath.