It was a glorious summer morning; the bands played, the men laughed
and shouted joyously. The long line swept onward, a glittering
pageant of scarlet and blue, of shining steel and fluttering banners.
Then suddenly out of the forest darted a man dressed like an Indian.
When he saw the advancing column he stopped. Then turning, he waved
to some one behind him. It was Beaujeu, and at his signal the air
was rent with the terrible Indian war cry, and a hail of bullets
swept the British ranks.
Shouting "God save the King" the British returned to fire. But it
availed little, for they could not see the enemy. From the shelter
of the forest, hidden behind trees, the French and Indians fired
upon the British. They were an easy mark, for they stood solidly,
shoulder to shoulder, their scarlet coats showing clearly against
the green background. Still the British stood their ground firing
volley after volley. It was quite useless, for they could see no
enemy. The puffs of smoke were their only guides. To aim at the
points where the smoke came from was all they could do. But for
the most part their bullets crashed through the branches, or were
buried in tree trunks, while the pitiless rain of lead mowed down
the redcoats.
The American soldiers fared better. For as soon as they were attacked
they scattered, and from behind the shelter of trees fought the
Indians in their own fashion.
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