It was so decided upon, and while they picked their way to the west, Perrigo busied himself in extending his little force along the edge of the woods, so as to make their numbers appear formidable. The most dangerous part of Morton’s movement was crossing two roads, but Hemlock, who knew the ground thoroughly, selected parts where there were bends, so that they could not be seen by travellers approaching either way. When Hemlock dropped on all fours and crept he was followed by Morton, who found he was at the edge of the field on which the drill was in progress. The troops had gone through the routine movements and were drawn up in line, awaiting the inspection of the general officer, who, with his escort, was riding from the lower part of the field. A stout, elderly man rode in advance on a splendid black horse. Hemlock whispered it was General Hampton. As they drew nearer Morton started in amaze, for among his staff, despite his handsome uniform, he recognized the countenance of the spy he had twice shot at. His astonishment was checked by a gurgling sound of anger from his companion, and turning he saw that Hemlock had partly risen, grasping his musket as if about to fire, his face so swollen with rage that the cords of the neck stood out. “Stop,” said Morton, as he clutched his buckskin jacket, “if we fire now while they are in rank we are lost; wait until they are dismissed and in disorder.”
“I care not; thrice have I missed him of late; now he falls and Hemlock is revenged.” He pulled the trigger, but the flint snapped harmlessly, for the priming had been lost. The disappointment restored his self-possession and he drew back with a scowl that made Morton’s flesh creep. On the cavalcade of officers came, chatting unconcernedly, and wheeled within twenty yards of where Morton stood. He had a good view of the spy’s face, and he thought he had never seen one where cunning and selfishness were so strongly marked. “A man who would kill his mother if she stood in his way,” muttered Morton. “And for his passing pleasure tear out the heart of a father,” added Hemlock in a bitter tone. They noticed how haughtily Gen. Hampton bore himself and how superciliously he glanced at the men as he passed up and down their ranks. When he had finished, he put spurs to his horse and galloped towards the house in the village where his quarters were established, followed by his escort. The troops were then dismissed and as each company filed away in the early twilight towards its respective camp, Morton said “Now is our time.” Hemlock rose, drew himself to his full height, seemed for a few seconds to be gathering strength, and then let out a screech, so piercing and terrific that Morton, who had not before heard the war-whoop, would not have believed a human being could make such a sound. It was the signal to Perrigo’s men, and they answered from different parts of the bush in similar fashion. The American soldiers, on their way to their tents, halted in amaze, while from new and unexpected quarters, rose the blood-curdling yell, giving the impression that they were being surrounded from the north and west by a horde of Indians, a foe of whom they were in mortal dread. Taken by surprise, they broke and ran towards the camp, and Morton could see the inmates of the tents swarming out and running to meet them, as if to find out the cause of alarm. Hemlock and Morton were now loading and firing as quickly as they could, the former never intermitting his ear-piercing shrieks, while the edge of the bush to their left was dotted with puffs of smoke from the guns of Perrigo’s band. “O for five hundred more!” cried Morton in his excitement, “and we would rout this army of cowards.” The confusion and clamor in the camp increased and the contradictory orders of officers were paid no heed to by men who only wanted to know where they could fly to escape the detested Indians. Amid the excitement rang out a bugle, and turning whence the sound came, Morton saw it was from the General’s headquarters and that, to its summons, horsemen were urging their way. “Huh!” exclaimed Hemlock, “these are scouts; some of them Indians. We must go, for they will hold the roads.” With a final yell he plunged into the bush and Morton followed. They had not gone far when Hemlock turned and grasped his shoulder. As they stood, the hoofs of advancing horses were heard. The sound came nearer and Morton guessed they were riding along the east and west road in front of where he stood and which they had been about to cross. The troop swept past and then the order “Halt!” was shouted. “Louis, take five men and scour the bush from the river up until you hear from the party who are searching the bush from above. The screeching devils who hid here cannot escape between you. We will patrol the road and shoot them if they do.” The motion of the men ordered to dismount was heard.
“Quick,” whispered Hemlock, “or they will be upon us,” and facing westward he led to the brink of what seemed to be a precipice, from the foot of which rose the sound of rushing water. Hemlock slipped his gun into his belt in front of him and did the same with Morton’s, then, before he knew what was meant, Morton was grasped in his iron clutch, unable to move, his head tucked into his breast, and with a wild fling over the edge of the bank they went rolling and crashing downwards, through the bushes and shrubs that faced it. On they rolled until a final bounce threw them into a pool of the river. Without a moment’s delay, Hemlock caught Morton’s right arm and dragged him a considerable distance down the narrow and shallow stream behind a clump of bushes. Breathless and excited by the rapid motion, Morton sank prone on the turf, while Hemlock, laying aside the guns, which the water had rendered useless, drew his tomahawk, which he held ready for use, while he bent forward listening intently. In a few minutes Morton became conscious of men stealthily approaching, and devoutly thanked God when he perceived they were all on the other side of the river from where they were concealed. On they came, searching every place of possible concealment, with a rapidity that only children of the woods can attain. Soon they were directly opposite and passed on. Hemlock relaxed his strained attitude, drew a long breath, and sat down beside Morton. “They did not think we had time to cross the river, but when they do not find us they will come back on this side.”
“What shall we do next?” asked Morton.
“Wait till it is dark enough to creep across the road at the bridge.”
“And if they come back before then?”
“Fight them,” abruptly answered Hemlock.
In the narrow gorge where they lay the gloom quickly gathered, and it soon grew so dark that Morton’s fears as to the searching-party returning were relieved. When the last streak of day had disappeared, Hemlock led the way, and they crept as quickly as the nature of the ground would permit down the river, whose noisy brawl blotted out the sound they made.