your men, Captain,
from the north side."

Captain Bowman departed. Whatever he may have thought of these orders,
he was too faithful a friend of the Colonel's to delay their execution.
Murmuring, swearing oaths of astonishment, man after man on the firing
line dropped his rifle at the word, and sullenly retreated. The crack,
crack of the Deckards on the south and east were stilled; not a barrel
was thrust by the weary garrison through the logs, and the place became
silent as the wilderness. It was the long hour before the dawn. And as
we lay waiting on the hard ground, stiff and cold and hungry, talking in
whispers, somewhere near six of the clock on that February morning the
great square of Fort Sackville began to take shape. There was the long
line of the stockade, the projecting blockhouses at each corner with
peaked caps, and a higher capped square tower from the centre of the
enclosure, the banner of England drooping there and clinging forlorn to
its staff, as though with a presentiment. Then, as the light grew, the
close-lipped casements were seen, scarred with our bullets. The little
log houses of the town came out, the sapling palings and the bare
trees,--all grim and gaunt at that cruel season. Cattle lowed here and
there, and horses whinnied to be fed.

It was a dirty, gray dawn, and we waited until it had done its best.
From where we lay hid behind log house and palings we strained our eyes
towards the prairie to see if Lamothe would take the bait, until our
view was ended at the fuzzy top of a hillock. Bill Cowan, doubled up
behind a woodpile and breathing heavily, nudged me.

"Davy, Davy, what d'ye see!"

Was it a head that broke the line of the crest? Even as I stared,
breathless, half a score of forms shot up and were running madly for the
stockade. Twenty more broke after them, Indians and Frenchmen, dodging,
swaying, crowding, looking fearfully to right and left. And from within
the fort came forth a hubbub,--cries and scuffling, orders, oaths, and
shouts. In plain view of our impatient Deckards soldiers manned the
platform, and we saw that they were flinging down ladders. An officer in
a faded scarlet coat stood out among the rest, shouting himself hoarse.
Involuntarily Cowan lined his sights across the woodpile on this mark of
color.

Lamothe's men, a seething mass, were fighting like wolves for the
ladders, fearful yet that a volley might kill half of them where they
stood. And so fast did the