And as for my prayer, it went all unanswered.  Once when I had a dying Tory’s head pillowed on my knee I saw a rifleman thrust his weapon between the wheel-spokes of the outer wagon and draw a bead on me.  I heard the crack of the Deckard, the zip of the bullet singing at my ear, and the man’s angry oath at his missing of me.  Once again a rifle-ball passed through my hair at the braiding of the queue and I felt the hot touch of it on my scalp like a breath of flame.  Another time a mountaineer leaped the rock barrier to beat me down with the butt of his rifle—­and in the very act Tybee rose up and throttled him.  I saw the grapple, sprang to my feet and whipped out my sword.

“Stop!” I commanded; “you have broken your parole, Lieutenant!”

The freed borderer glared from one to the other of us.  “Loonies!” he yelled; “I’ll slaughter the both of ye!” And so he would have done, I make no doubt, had we not laid hold of him together and heaved him back over the breastwork.

These are but incidents, points of contact where the fray touched us two at the wagon barricade.  I pass them by with the mention, as I have passed by the sterner horrors of that furious killing-time.  These last are too large for my poor pen.  As we could gather in the din and tumult, the mountain men rushed again and again to the attack, and as often the brave major, or De Peyster, led the bayonet charges that pushed them back.  Yet in the end the unerring bullet outpressed the bayonet; there came a time when flesh and blood could no longer endure the death-dealing cross-fire from front and rear.

I saw the end was near when the major ordered the final charge, and Captain de Peyster formed his line and led it forward at a double-quick.  The mountaineers held more than half the hilltop now, and this forlorn hope was to try to drive them down the farther slopes.  On it went, and I could see the men pitch and tumble out of the line until at bayonet-reach of the riflemen there were less than a dozen afoot and fit to make the push.

De Peyster fought his way back to the wagons, gasping and bloody.  Some of the Tories crowding around us raised a white flag.  The major, sorely wounded now and all but disabled, swore a great oath and rode rough-shod into the ruck of cowering militiamen to pull down the flag.  Again the white token of surrender was raised, and again the major rode in to beat it down with his sword.  At this Captain de Peyster put in his word.

“’Tis no use, Major; there is no more fight left in us!  Five minutes more of this and we’ll be shot down to a man!”

Ferguson’s reply was a raging oath broad enough to cover all the enemy and his own beaten remnant as well; and then, before a hand could be lifted to stay him, he had wheeled his horse and was galloping straight for the patriot line at the farther extremity of the hilltop.

What he meant to do will never be known till that great day when all secrets shall be revealed.  For that furious oath was this brave gentleman’s last word to us or to any.  A dozen bounds, it may be, the good charger carried him; then the storm of rifle-bullets beat him from the saddle.  And so died one of the gallantest officers that ever did an unworthy king’s work on the field of battle.