“It’s but a ruse my men,” shouted the captain. “First rank fire a volley, then charge into the woods.”
“Fire away. We will return volley for volley, and the man who stirs from his tracks dies,” responded Nat. Then turning to his men, who had ranged themselves in solid rank behind him, he gave the command:—“Make ready, advance, take aim, and be ready.”
A murmur ran along the ranks. The clicking of thirty rifles sounded out on the still air. The British troops had quickly formed, and, at the word of command, they sent a volley from the carbines with which the dragoons were armed, into the patriot ranks.
“Fire!” shouted Nat. The combined crack of the thirty rifles rang out with a fearfully startling sound. The hail of lead was deadly in the extreme, though its effect was not as severe as it might have been had it gone hurtling forth in the daytime. Many a bullet proved a messenger of death to the mercenaries of the foreigner.
Sixteen of the troopers dropped from their saddles, dead. The captain received a ball through his shoulder. Eight others were severely wounded. With that marvelous celerity gained by practice, the Americans had reloaded their rifles. “First division, fire!” commanded Ernshaw. Another volley sped on its mission of blood, and half the remaining troopers tumbled from their saddles, while their maddened and frightened horses flew wildly away into the woods.
“Fly,” screamed a Briton. “We cannot remain longer here and live!”
“Hold!” cried the leader of the Americans. “Throw down your arms and surrender and your lives are safe; attempt to flee and we give you another volley.”
Hardly had the summons to surrender been given, when the few of the soldiers who still grasped their arms threw them down, and the captain, faint from the loss of blood, answered:—“We agree. Come forward and receive our surrender.”
The Americans stepped from the shade of the woods and stood in a line, waiting for the commands of their captain. As Ernshaw appeared, the crack of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whistled by close to his head.
“Missed! by the infernal!” shouted a voice, easily recognized as that of the tory Turner. He plunged into the gloom of the woods, unappalled by the dozen bullets that followed.