A shrill cock-crow rang out in the forest.

“’Tis the chanticleer scalp-yell of that damned loon, Francy McCraw!” he cried, fiercely.  “Give it to ’em, b’ys!  Shoot hell into the dommed Tories!”

The Caughnawaga rifles rang out from every tree; a white man came running through the wood, and I instinctively held my fire.

“Shoot the dhirrty son of a shlut!” yelled Murphy; and Elerson shot him and knocked him down, but the man staggered to his feet again, clutching at his wounded throat, and reeled towards us.  He fell again, got on his knees, crawled across the dead leaves until he was scarce fifteen yards away, then fell over and lay there, coughing.

“A dead wan,"’ said Murphy, calmly; “lave him.”

McCraw’s onset passed along our extreme left; the volleys grew furious; the ghastly cock-crow rang out shrill and piercing, and we fired at long range where the horses were passing through the rifle-smoke.

Then, in the roar of the fusillade, a bright flash lighted up the forest; a thundering crash followed, and the storm burst, deluging the woods with rain.  Trees rocked and groaned, dashing their tops together; the wind rose to a hurricane; the rain poured down, beating the leaves from the trees, driving friend and foe to shelter.  The reports of the rifles ceased; the war-yelp died away.  Peal on peal of thunder shook the earth; the roar of the tempest rose to a steady shriek through which the terrific smashing of falling trees echoed above the clash of branches.

Soaked, stunned, blinded by the awful glare of the lightning, I crouched under the great oak, which rocked and groaned, convulsed to its bedded roots, so that the ground heaved under me as I lay.

I could not see ten feet ahead of me, so thick was the gloom with rain and flying leaves and twigs.  The thunder culminated in a series of fearful crashes; bolt after bolt fell, illuminating the flying chaos of the tempest; then came a stunning silence, slowly filled with the steady roar of the rain.

A gray pallor grew in the woods.  I looked down into the ravine and saw a muddy lake there full of dead men and horses.

The wounded Tory near us was still choking and coughing, dying hard out there in the rain.  Mount and Elerson crept over to where we lay, and, after a moment’s conference, Murphy led us in a long circle, swinging gradually northward until we stumbled into the drenched Palatine regiment, which was still holding its ground.  There was no firing on either side; the guns were too wet.

On a wooded knoll to the left a group of dripping men had gathered.  Somebody said that the old General lay there, smoking and directing the defence, his left leg shattered by a ball.  I saw the blue smoke of his pipe curling up under the tree, but I did not see him.

The wind had died out; the thunder rolled off to the northward, muttering among the hills; rain fell less heavily; and I saw wounded men tearing strips from their soaking shirts to bind their hurts.  Details from the Canajoharie regiment passed us searching the underbrush for their dead.