ark.

"Now, aim low and fire!" from McGlassin, and the rattle of the Yankee
guns was followed by reeling ranks of red in the oaks.

"Charge!" shouted the British officer and the red-coats charged to the
bridge, but the fire from the embankment was incessant; the trail of the
charging men was cluttered with those who fell.

"Forward!" and the gallant British captain leaped on the central
stringer of the bridge and, waving his sword, led on. Instantly three
lines of men were formed, one on each stringer.

They were only fifty yards from the barricade, with five hundred rifles,
all concentrated on these stringers. The first to fall was the captain,
shot through the heart, and the river bore him away. But on and on came
the three ranks into the whistling, withering fire of lead. It was like
slaughtering sheep. Yet on and on they marched steadily for half an
hour. Not a man held back or turned, though all knew they were marching
to their certain death. Not one of them ever reached the centre of the
span, and those who dropped, not dead, were swallowed by the swollen
stream. How many hundred brave men were sacrificed that day, no one ever
knew. He who gave the word to charge was dead with his second and third
in command and before another could come to change the order, the river
ran red--the bloody Saranac they call it ever since.

The regiment was wrecked, and the assault for the time was over.

Rolf had plied his rifle with the rest, but it sickened him to see the
horrible waste of human valour. It was such ghastly work that he was
glad indeed when a messenger came to say he was needed at headquarters.
And in an hour he was crossing the lake with news and instructions for
the officer in command at Burlington.

Chapter 81. The Battle of Plattsburg

In broad daylight he skimmed away in his one man canoe.

For five hours he paddled, and at star-peep he reached the dock at
Burlington. The howl of a lost dog caught his ear; and when he traced
the sound, there, on the outmost plank, with his nose to the skies, was
the familiar form of Skookum, wailing and sadly alone.

What a change he showed when Rolf landed; he barked, leaped, growled,
tail-wagged, head-wagged, feet-wagged, body-wagged, wig-wagged and
zigzagged for joy; he raced in circles, looking for a sacrificial hen,
and finally uttered a long and conversational whine that doubtless was
full of information for those who could get it out.

Rolf delivered his