“Will there be a fight?” asked Hemlock.
“Yes, yes; stand on this stump and you can see for yourself.”
With cautious movement Hemlock scanned the scene. In front of the abattis there was a narrow clearing that skirted the river bank as far as the view extended. On the road and adjoining fields were masses of American troops, with the smoke rising from the fires at which they were cooking dinner. “You see, Hemlock,” said Colonel deSalaberry, “they may make an attack any minute. Those mounted officers looking at us from the road are the General and his staff.”
Hemlock gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Where will we stand?” he asked.
“Get into the woods and cover our flank,” deSalaberry replied. Without another word, Hemlock motioned to his men and led the way to where the line of defence ended in the bush. Here he spread out his men and awaited the onset. Half an hour passed when the roll of drums was heard, and Hemlock saw a brigade falling into rank on the road. When all were in place, the column moved slowly, for the road was a canal of mud intersected by pools of water. As they approached within range the order to deploy was shouted, and the men streamed on to the clearing until a line the length of the field was formed. Then they faced round, and Hemlock heard the command to advance, when the Americans came on, a solid wall of humanity, moving with slow and steady step. Instantly, the bushy abattis, behind which the British lay, silent as the grave until now, became alive with the puffs of musket-shots and the shouts of those who fired them. On the Americans came with even step until well within blank range, when they were halted and the order given to fire by platoons. The regular roll of musketry that ensued spoke well for their nerve and discipline. The shower of bullets they sent streaming into the bush in front of them had no effect in checking the opposing fire, which was irregular but lively. It soon became apparent that firing by platoons was a waste of ammunition, a mere flinging of bullets into the tree-tops, and there was a movement in the companies in the column next the woods, which were swung forward, in order that they might gain a position which would enable them to pour a cross-fire into the British position. The men moved steadily, all the while pouring in volleys, that caused the defenders of the upper end of the British line to leave and go lower down. It was a critical moment. The British line was in danger of being flanked, and Hemlock saw its peril. He with his band were concealed in the woods that edged the clearing, and so far had not fired a shot, for Hemlock, who knew the futility of irregular troops engaging in a musketry duel with a disciplined force, had determined not to show where they were until the Americans came to close quarters. Now he saw his opportunity. Signing to his men to follow, he stealthily crept until he was close behind the American companies that were edging to flank the British line. When near upon the unsuspecting Americans, he sprang to his feet, gave the war-whoop, and fired his musket, his followers doing likewise. The Americans looked round in terrified astonishment, and saw the Indians leaping towards them with ear-piercing yells and brandishing their tomahawks. They wavered, broke rank, and fled towards their supports, who were a short distance behind. Hemlock bounded among the fleeing men and two had fallen under his hand, when a volley of bullets from the supporting column came shrieking through the air. All save one passed harmlessly over the heads of the red-men—that one struck Hemlock in the breast, and he sank upon his right knee. Alarmed at his fall, his men desisted from following the fleeing enemy, and seizing hold of him hurried into the shelter of the woods. They laid him down and were about to loosen his jacket, for he was in a faint, when there rose a burst of cheering from the British line, on seeing the success of the Indians’ diversion. The sound caught the ear of the dying chief. His eyes opened as from slumber, rolled wildly for a moment, and his breast heaved convulsively. He staggered to his feet, and lifting aloft his tomahawk, dripping with the blood of its last victim, he raised the war-whoop, suddenly stopped short, rolled unsteadily, and then fell as a pine-tree falls. An Indian knelt down beside him and raised his head while he pressed his hand on his forehead. There was no responsive throb. Hemlock was dead.
* * * * *
“I would swear that was Hemlock’s whoop,” said Morton to himself. He stood amid a group of cavalrymen who were watching intently what was going on from a field within easy view. He had followed the engagement with intelligent interest; had noted how the American infantry had advanced, deployed, formed line, and opened fire on the British position. What followed provoked him. When he saw how ineffectual the British fire was upon the American ranks, though standing in the open and within easy range, he ground his teeth in vexation. “Those militiamen could not hit a barn; a hundred regulars would have decimated the American column with half the ammunition that has been spent,” he muttered to himself. When the upper end of the American line swung forward, his thoughts changed. “Ah, they are going to fix bayonets and carry our position by assault. God help our lads.” He was mistaken; the movement was to gain a point whence to rake the British position with an enfilading fire. As he saw the Americans move forward unopposed and the British fire slacken from the bush opposite, his heart sank. “The day is lost: in five minutes the Americans will have possession of the far end of that bushy entrenchment, and it will be untenable.” Suddenly the war-whoop of the Indians was heard, then came their wild assault, and the flight of the Americans. “Well done, Hemlock!” exulted Morton, “no other lungs than yours could have raised that shriek and your timely move has certainly checked the attempt to flank the British position. What next?” Having ascertained so unpleasantly that the wood to their left was held by Indians, the Americans did not try again to turn the British position, and the companies that had broken in disorder were reformed and placed in rear, while the battalions in line continued to pour volleys into the bush heaps in front of them. Hampton and his staff were on horseback, watching the progress of the contest from a bit of rising ground by the river. At this juncture Morton observed him signal with his hand to some one on the other side of the river, and from that quarter, soon after, came the rattle of musketry. It did not last long and when it died away, an orderly was detached from the General’s staff and came galloping to deliver a message to Izard, who instantly gave the order to cease firing. The column fell back a few paces and the men stood in rank, awaiting orders. To Morton’s surprise, firing from the British line also ceased, and the two combatants simply looked at one another. “Can it be,” asked Morton, “that our General does not want to provoke an engagement and would be content to see the Americans leave?” The brief October day was drawing to an end, and still the American brigade stood immovable and there was not a sign of life along the British line. When the grey clouds began to be tinged by the setting sun, and it was apparent nothing more could be done that day, Izard received the order to fall back. As if on parade, the evolutions requisite were gone through and the column began its march to the camp, three miles in rear.
“Hillo, Morton, you seem stupefied. Lost in amaze at the gallantry of your comrades-in-arms permitting a brigade to file off under their nose without an attempt to molest them. Eh?” The voice was that of Colonel Vanderberg.
“I confess you interpret my thoughts,” answered Morton. “I am glad to see you back.”