At Detroit, Kenton’s condition was not unpleasant.  He was obliged to report himself every morning to an English officer; and was restricted to certain boundaries through the day.  In other respects he scarcely felt that he was a prisoner.  His wounds were healed, and his emaciated limbs were again clothed with a fair proportion of flesh.  He remained in this state of easy restraint from October, 1777, until June, 1778, when he meditated an escape.

He cautiously broached his project to two young Kentuckians, then at Detroit, who had been taken with Boone at the Blue Licks, and had been purchased by the British.  He found them as impatient as himself of captivity, and resolute to accompany him.  He commenced instant preparations.  Having formed a close friendship with two Indian hunters, he deluged them with rum, and bought their guns for a mere trifle.  These he hid in the woods, and returning to Detroit, managed to procure powder and ball, with another rifle.

The three prisoners then appointed a night for their attempt, and agreed upon a place of rendezvous.  They met at the time and place appointed, without discovery, and, taking a circuitous route, avoiding pursuit by traveling only during the night, they at length arrived safely at Louisville, after a march of thirty days.

THE DYING VOLUNTEER,

An incident of Molino del Rey.

The sun had risen in all his glorious majesty, and hung over the eastern horizon like a wall of glowing fire; and its bright rays danced merrily along the lake of Teseneo—­over the glittering domes of Mexico—­past the frowning battlements of Chapultepec, and lit, in all their glorious effulgence, upon, the blood-stained field of Molino del Rey.

The contest was over—­the sound of battle had died away, save an occasional shot from the distant artillery of the castle, or the fire of some strolling riflemen.

I was standing beside the battered remains of the mill door, above which the first footing had been gained upon the well-contested wall, and gazing over the plain, now saturated with the blood of my fellow-soldiers, which that morning waved green with flowing grass, when I heard a low and feeble wail in the ditch beside me.  I turned towards the spot, and beheld, with his right leg shattered by a cannon ball, a voltiguer lying amid the mangled.  He had been passed by in the haste of gathering up the wounded under the fire from the castle, and the rays of the burning sun beat down with terrible fervor upon the wounded limb, causing heavy groans to issue from his pallid lips, and his marble countenance to writhe with pain.

“Water, for God’s sake, a drink of water!” he faintly articulated, as I bent over him.

Fortunately, I had procured a canteen of water, and placing it to his lips, he took a long, deep draught, and then sunk back exhausted upon the ground.