It was long past midnight when I hailed the picket at the grist-mill and drove our canoe shoreward into the light of a lifted lantern.
"Is Nick Stoner in?" I called out.
"All safe!" replied somebody on shore.
A dark figure came down to the water and took hold of our bow to steady us.
"Summer House and Fish House are burned," said I, climbing out stiffly.
"Aye," said the soldier, "and what of Fonda's Bush, Mr. Drogue?"
"What!" I exclaimed, startled.
"Look yonder," said he.
I scarce know how I managed to stumble up the bushy bank. And then, when I came out on level land near the block house, I saw fire to the southeast, and the sky crimson above the forest.
"My God!" I stammered, "Fonda's Bush is all afire!"