Led by Henry Ware, Ross and Sol they practiced every device of forest
warfare known to the Shawnees, and their line, which extended across the
valley from hill to hill, spurted death from tree, bush, and rock.
To Paul Cotter it was all a nightmare, a foul dream, unreal. He obeyed
his comrade's injunctions, he lay close to the earth, and he did not
fire until he could draw a bead on a bare breast, but the work became
mechanical with him. He was a high-strung lad of delicate sensibilities.
There was in his temperament something of the poet and the artist, and
nothing of the soldier who fights for the sake of mere fighting. The
wilderness appealed to him, because of its glory, but the savage
appealed to him not at all. In Henry's bosom there was respect for his
red foes from whom he had learned so many useful lessons, and his heart
beat faster with the thrill of strenuous conflict, but Paul was anxious
for the end of it all. The sight of dead faces near him, not the lack of
courage, more than once made him faint and dizzy.
Twice and thrice the Shawnees tried to scale the steep hillsides, and
with their superior numbers swing around behind the enemy, but the lines
of the borderers were always extended to meet them, and the bullets from
the long-barreled rifles cut down everyone who tried to pass.
Pages:
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317