“Fetch that wan to wan av the b’ys,” said he.

I seized as much as my arms could hold and scurried away to the firing line once more, and, heedless of whistling bullets, darted from man to man until the bread was exhausted.  Not a one but gave me a “God bless you, Davy,” ere he seized it with a great hand and began to eat in wolfish bites, his Deckard always on the watch the while.

There was no sleep in the village.  All night long, while the rifles sputtered, the villagers in their capotes—­men, women, and children—­huddled around the fires.  The young men of the militia begged Clark to allow them to fight, and to keep them well affected he sent some here and there amongst our lines.  For our Colonel’s strength was not counted by rifles or men alone:  he fought with his brain.  As Hamilton, the Hair Buyer, made his rounds, he believed the town to be in possession of a horde of Kentuckians.  Shouts, war-whoops, and bursts of laughter went up from behind the town.  Surely a great force was there, a small part of which had been sent to play with him and his men.  On the fighting line, when there was a lull, our backwoodsmen stood up behind their trees and cursed the enemy roundly, and often by these taunts persuaded the furious gunners to open their ports and fire their cannon.  Woe be to him that showed an arm or a shoulder!  Though a casement be lifted ever so warily, a dozen balls would fly into it.  And at length, when some of the besieged had died in their anger, the ports were opened no more.  It was then our sharpshooters crept up boldly to within thirty yards of them—­nay, it seemed as if they lay under the very walls of the fort.  And through the night the figure of the Colonel himself was often seen amongst them, praising their markmanship, pleading with every man not to expose himself without cause.  He spied me where I had wormed myself behind the foot-board of a picket fence beneath the cannon-port of a blockhouse.  It was during one of the breathing spaces.

“What’s this?” said he to Cowan, sharply, feeling me with his foot.

“I reckon it’s Davy, sir,” said my friend, somewhat sheepishly.  “We can’t do nothin’ with him.  He’s been up and down the line twenty times this night.”

“What doing?” says the Colonel.

“Bread and powder and bullets,” answered Bill.

“But that’s all over,” says Clark.

“He’s the very devil to pry,” answered Bill.  “The first we know he’ll be into the fort under the logs.”

“Or between them,” says Clark, with a glance at the open palings.  “Come here, Davy.”

I followed him, dodging between the houses, and when we had got off the line he took me by the two shoulders from behind.

“You little rascal,” said he, shaking me, “how am I to look out for an army and you besides?  Have you had anything to eat?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

We came to the fires, and Captain Bowman hurried up to meet him.