Fort Amity | Page 9

their boats; even with Levis they could
scarcely be four thousand strong. Bradstreet, having finished his bridge,
had started back for the landing-stage to haul a dozen of the lighter
bateaux across the portage and float them down to Lake Champlain
filled with riflemen. Bradstreet was a glutton for work--but would he be
in time? That old fox Montcalm would never let his earths be stopped
so easily, and to pile defences on the ridge was simply to build himself
into a trap. A good half of the officers maintained that there would be
no fighting.
Well, fighting or no, some business was in hand. Here was the battalion
in motion; and, to leave the enemy in no doubt of our martial ardour,
here were the drums playing away like mad. The echo of John's feet on
the wooden bridge awoke him from these vain shows and rattlings of
war to its real meaning, and his thoughts again kept him solemn
company as he breasted the slope beyond and began the tedious climb
to the right through the woods.
The scouts, coming in one by one, reported them undefended: and the
battalion, though perforce moving slowly, kept good order. Towards

the summit, indeed, the front ranks appeared to straggle and extend
themselves confusedly: but the disorder, no more than apparent, came
from the skirmishers returning and falling back upon either flank as the
column scrambled up the last five hundred yards and halted on the
fringe of the clearing. Of the enemy John could see nothing: only a
broad belt of sunlight beyond the last few tree-trunks and their green
eaves. The advance had been well timed, the separate columns arriving
and coming to the halt almost at clockwork intervals; nor did the halt
give him much leisure to look about him. To the right were drawn up
the Highlanders, their dark plaids blending with the forest glooms. In
the space between, Beaver had stepped forward and was chatting with
their colonel. By and by the dandified Gage joined them, and after a
few minutes' talk Beaver came striding back, with his scabbard tucked
under his armpit, to be clear of the undergrowth. At once the order was
given to fix bayonets, and at a signal the columns were put in motion
and marched out upon the edge of the clearing.
There, as he stepped forth, the flash of the noonday sun upon lines of
steel held John's eyes dazzled. He heard the word given again to halt,
and the command "Left, wheel into line!" He heard the calls that
followed--"Eyes front!" "Steady," "Quick march," "Halt, dress "--and
felt, rather than saw, the whole elaborate manoeuvre; the rear ranks
locking up, the covering sergeants jigging about like dancers in a
minuet--pace to the rear, side step to the right--the pivot men with stiff
arms extended, the companies wheeling up and dressing; all happening
precisely as on parade.
What, after all, was the difference? Well, to begin with, the clearing
ahead in no way resembled a parade-ground, being strewn and
criss-crossed with fallen trees and interset with stumps, some cleanly
cut, others with jagged splinters from three to ten feet high. And
beyond, with the fierce sunlight quivering above it, rose a mass of
prostrate trees piled as if for the base of a tremendous bonfire. Not a
Frenchman showed behind it. Was that what they had to carry?
"The battalion will advance!"
Yes, there lay the barrier; and their business was simply to rush it; to

advance at the charge, holding their fire until within the breastwork.
The French, too, held their fire. The distance from the edge of the
clearing to the abattis was, at the most, a long musket-shot, and for
two-thirds of it the crescent-shaped line of British ran as in a
paper-chase, John a Cleeve vaulting across tree-trunks, leaping over
stumps, and hurrahing with the rest.
Then with a flame the breastwork opened before him, and with a shock
as though the whole ridge lifted itself against the sky--a shock which
hurled him backward, whirling away his shako. He saw the line to right
and left wither under it and shrink like parchment held to a candle
flame. For a moment the ensign-staff shook in his hands, as if whipped
by a gale. He steadied it, and stood dazed, hearkening to the scream of
the bullets, gulping at a lump in his throat. Then he knew himself
unhurt, and, seeing that men on either hand were picking themselves up
and running forward, he ducked his head and ran forward too.
He had gained the abattis. He went into it with a leap, a dozen men at
his heels. A pointed bough met him in the ribs, piercing his tunic and
forcing him to cry out with pain. He