Instantly a mighty roar of Tory musketry filled the forest; and their Indians, realizing that the ambuscade had been discovered, came leaping down the wooded ridge, yelling and firing all along our front; and our rifles began to speak quicker and quicker from every rock and tuft and fallen log.

“Are we to miss this?” said Boyd, restlessly.  “Listen to that firing!  The devil take this fellow Amochol and his Eries!  I wish we were yonder with our own people.  I wish at least that I could see what our New Yorkers are about!”

Behind us, Boyd’s twenty riflemen stood craning their sunburnt necks; and my Indians, terribly excited, fairly quivered where they crouched beside us.  But all we could see was the rifle smoke sifting through the trees, and early sunshine slanting on the misty river.

The fierce yelling of the unseen Mohawks and Senecas on the wooded ridge above us had become one continuous and hideous scream, shrill and piercing above the racket of musketry and rifle fire; sometimes the dreadful volume of sound surged nearer as though they were charging, or showing themselves in order to draw us into a frontal attack on their pits and log breastworks; but always after a little while the yelping tumult receded, and our rifle fire slackened while the musketry from the breastworks grew more furious, crashing out volley on volley, while the entire ridge steamed like a volcano in action.  Further to the north we heard more musketry break out, as our New York regiments passed rapidly toward Butler’s left flank.  And by the running fire we could follow their hurried progress.

“Hell!” said Boyd, furiously, flinging his rifle to his shoulder.  “Come on, Loskiel, or we’ll miss this accursed Amochol also.”  And he gave the signal to march.

As we skirted the high knoll where our artillery was planted, the first howitzer shot shook the forest, and my Indians cringed as they ran beside me.  High towering rose the shell, screaming like a living thing, and plunged with a shriek into the woods on the ridge, exploding there with a most infernal bang.

Up through the trees gushed a very fountain of smoke, through which we could dimly see dark objects falling; but whether these were the limbs of trees or of men we could not tell.

Crash!  A howitzer hurled its five and a half inch shell high into the sunshine.  Boom!  Another shot from a three-pounder.  Bang!  The little cohorn added its miniature bellow to the bigger guns, which now began to thunder regularly, one after another, shaking the ground we trod.  The ridge was ruddy with the red lightning of exploding shells.  Very far away in the forest we could hear entire regiments, as they climbed the slopes, cheering above the continuous racket of musketry; the yelling of the Senecas and Mohawks grew wavering, becoming ragged and thinner.

It was hard for us all, I think, to turn our backs on the first real battle we had seen in months—­ hard for Boyd, for me, and for our twenty riflemen; harder, perhaps, for our Indians, who could hear the yells of their most deadly enemies, and who knew that they were within striking distance at last.