“Cudgels to the front!” cried out a laughing voice at this juncture.
The men turned. Boston Bainbridge was just coming out of the cabin, carrying an armful of stout oak cudgels, which he had been smoothing so as to fit the hand. These he distributed to the men, who received them with lusty cheers.
“Throw open the gate,” cried Boston. “We shall show these knaves that we do not fear them. What do they mean by coming against us with empty hands. They will bring guns next time.”
The gates were flung open with a will, and the eighteen men of the garrison found themselves opposed by about twenty-five Dutchmen, the rest having been placed hors de combat in various ways. But, they were not the men to yield tamely, and catching up clubs and stones, they met the sortié bravely. Foremost among the party from the stockade, Boston Bainbridge came—not the Boston who sold his wares in Good Hope, but an active forester, eager for a fray. Carl Anselm, with his bruised and distorted face, looking fiendlike under the glare of the fires, rushed at him with a knife in his hand. But he went down at once like an ox under the ax of the butcher. The Dutch tried in vain to stand up before the men of Windsor. They were driven from the field, and made their way back to camp, dragging their wounded with them.
Next day they went back to Good Hope. They wanted to be as far as possible from the long-armed men of Windsor. With curses both loud and deep, Van Curter led his men home, closed his gates, and sat down to think.
“Who is Boston Bainbridge?” he asked of Captain Van Zandt.
“The devil himself,” replied that worthy.
“At least, he is something more than a peddler. Did you see him fight? Our men went down like grass before the mower. He has powerful arms.”
“Poor Carl is disfigured for life. First, that blow he took from Barlow spread his nose all over his face, and now his head is broken. He will go mad if he does not get revenge.”
“Where is he?”