Not a few of those wet,
half-frozen, emaciated soldiers of freedom had experienced the
soul rending shock of returning from a day's hunting in the forest
to find home in ashes and loved ones brutally murdered and
scalped, or dragged away to unspeakable outrage under
circumstances too harrowing for description, the bare thought of
which turns our blood cold, even at this distance. Now the
opportunity had arrived for a stroke of retaliation. The thought
was tremendously stimulating.
Beverley, with the aid of Oncle Jazon, was able to lead his little
company as far as the church before the enemy saw him. Here a
volley from the nearest angle of the stockade had to be answered,
and pretty soon a cannon began to play upon the position.
"We kin do better some'rs else," was Oncle Jazon's laconic remark
flung back over his shoulder, as he moved briskly away from the
spot just swept by a six-pounder. "Come this yer way, Lieutenant.
I hyer some o' the fellers a talkin' loud jes' beyant Legrace's
place. They ain't no sort o' sense a tryin' to hit anything a
shootin' in the dark nohow."
When they reached the thick of the town there was a strange stir
in the dusky streets. Men were slipping from house to house,
arming themselves and joining their neighbors. Clark had sent an
order earlier in the evening forbidding any street demonstration
by the inhabitants; but he might as well have ordered the wind not
to blow or the river to stand still.
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