Toward eight o’clock the conch-horn blew; our riflemen halted and deployed in perfect silence, facing the unseen works on the wooded ridge ahead.  Another division of troops swung to the left, continuing the movement to the river in splendid order, where they also halted and formed a line of battle, facing north.  And still the unseen enemy gave no sign; birds sang; the mist drifted up through the trees.

From where we lay we could see our artillery horses straining, plunging, stumbling up a high knoll in the centre of our line, while Maxwell’s division halted and extended behind our riflemen to support the artillery, and Clinton’s four splendid New York regiments hurried forward on a double, regiment after regiment dropping their packs behind our lines and running north through the open woods, their officers all finely mounted and cantering ahead, swords drawn.

A few moments later, General Sullivan passed along our front on horseback, and drew bridle for a moment where Boyd and I were standing at salute.

“Now is your opportunity, young gentlemen,” he said in a low voice.  “If you would gain Catharines-town and destroy Amochol before we drive this motley Tory army headlong through it, you should start immediately.  And have a care; Butler’s entire army and Brant’s Mohawks are now intrenched in front of us; and it is a pitched battle we’re facing—­ God be thanked!”

He spurred forward with a friendly gesture toward us, as we saluted; and his staff officers followed him at a canter while our riflemen turned their heads curiously to watch the brilliant cavalcade.

“Where the devil are their log works?” demanded Major Parr, using his field glasses.  “I can see naught but green on that ridge ahead.”

Boyd painted at the crest; but our Major could see nothing; and I called to Timothy Murphy and Dave Elerson to climb trees and spy out if the works were still occupied.

Murphy came down presently from the dizzy top of a huge black-walnut tree, reporting that he had been able to see into the river angle of their works; had for a while distinguished nothing, but presently discovered Indians, crouched motionless, the brilliancy of their paint, which at first he had mistaken for patches of autumn leaves, betraying them when they moved.

“Now, God be praised!” said Major Parr grimly.  “For we shall this day furnish these Western-Gate Keepers with material for a Condolence Feast such as no Seneca ever dreamed of.  And if you gentlemen can surprise and destroy Amochol, it will be a most blessed day for our unhappy country.”

General Hand, in his patched and faded uniform of blue and buff, drew his long, heavy sword and walked his horse over to Major Parr.

“Well, sir,” he said, “we must amuse them, I suppose, until the New Yorkers gain their left.  Push your men forward and draw their fire, Major.”

There came a low order; the soft shuffle of many mocassined feet; silence.  Presently, ahead of us, a single rifle-shot shattered the stillness.