It was an honor of no doubtful sort,
which under different circumstances would have made the
Lieutenant's heart glow. As it was, he proceeded without any sense
of pride or pleasure, moving as a mere machine in performing an
act significant beyond any other done west of the mountains, in
the great struggle for American independence and the control of
American territory.
Hamilton stood a little way from the foot of the tall flag-pole,
his arms folded on his breast, his chin slightly drawn in, his
brows contracted, gazing steadily at Beverley while he was untying
the halyard, which had been wound around the pole's base about
three feet above the ground. The American troops in the fort were
disposed so as to form three sides of a hollow square, facing
inward. Oncle Jazon, serving as the ornamental extreme of one
line, was conspicuous for his outlandish garb and unmilitary
bearing. The silence inside the stockade offered a strong contrast
to the tremendous roar of voices outside. Clark made a signal, and
at the tap of a drum, Beverley shook the ropes loose and began to
lower the British colors. Slowly the bright emblem of earth's
mightiest nation crept down in token of the fact that a handful of
back-woodsmen had won an empire by a splendid stroke of pure
heroism. Beverley detached the flag, and saluting, handed it to
Colonel Clark.
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