d like to, the
strong desire for vengeance which raised those shouting voices and
nerved those steady hearts to do or die in an undertaking which
certainly had a desperate look. Patriotism of the purest strain those
men had, and that alone would have borne them up; but the recollection
of smouldering cabin homes in Kentucky, of women and children murdered
and scalped, of men brave and true burned at the stake, and of all the
indescribable outrages of Indian warfare incited and rewarded by the
commander of the fort yonder, added to patriotism the terrible urge of
that dark passion which clamors for blood to quench the fire of wrath.
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. Oncle Jazon knew every man whose outlines he could see or whose
voice he heard. He called each one by name:

"Here, Roger, fall in!--Come Louis, Alphonse, Victor, Octave--venez
ici, here's the American army, come with me!" His rapid French phrases
leaped forth as if shot from a pistol, and his shrill voice, familiar
to every ear in Vincennes, drew the creole militi