There were sentries, but the night was dark, the marsh believed to be
unpassable, the crossing carried out with stealthy skill. But now the
night was going.
In the most uncertain, the faintest light, there seemed to Cope's
watchers, looking that way, a line of bushes not noted the day before.
Officers were awakened. A movement ran through the camp like the
shiver of water under dawn wind. The light thickened. A trumpet rang
with a startled, emphatic note. Drums rolled. _To arms! To arms!_ King
George's army started up in the dawning. Infantry hastened into ranks,
cavalrymen ran to their horses. The line of bushes moved, began to
come forward with great rapidity.
The Highlanders flung themselves upon Cope's just-forming cavalry.
With their claymores they slashed at the faces of horses. The hurt
beasts wheeled, broke for the rear. Their fellows were wounded. Amid a
whirlwind of blows, screams, shouts, with a suddenness that appalled,
disorder became general. The Highlanders seemed to fight with a
demoniac strength and ferocity and after methods of their own. They
used their claymores, their dirks, their scythes fastened upon poles,
against the horses, then, springing up, put long arms about the
horsemen and, regardless of sword or pistol, dragged them down. They
shouted their Gaelic slogans; their costume, themselves, seemed out of
a fiercer, earlier world.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211