"That'll be our new home, sweetheart"

Still, the American infantry fought with gallant determination. With unfailing energy they made charge after charge to capture the British guns. General Riall, now second in command, was wounded and captured, and at nine o'clock it seemed as though the Americans would win. Then reinforcements poured in on either side. Though tired from long marches on that hot summer day, they at once rallied to the support of their respective commanders, and lighted only by the faint moonlight and the flash from the rifles, the struggle continued with redoubled fury.

The English gunners stood manfully at their posts and swept with deadly fire the lines of Brown's battalions. The carnage was terrific. White men of the same blood, the same language, the same religion, nay, in the highest ethics of the same race, shot each other down by hundreds, as if life were of no moment, bayonetting each other to death in the light of the silvery moon.

At last, spurred on by the determination to carry the battery at any cost, Colonel Miller, of the Twenty-first, made an impetuous rush, and for a time captured the British guns.

Now began the wildest scene of all—a hand-to-hand and bayonet-to-bayonet struggle for mastery. General Drummond's men rallied on every side, determined to fight to the bitter end, and hour after hour the slaughter continued. Everywhere the fight went on. The shouts of command, the thunder of artillery, the continual flashing of powder, the clashing of steel, mingled with the roar of Niagara and the groans of the dying, made it seem as though the demons of hell had been let loose to ravage the earth.

But six hours of mortal conflict were enough. Seventeen hundred men, Britons and Americans, lay side by side, dead or wounded, on that field of battle. The position of the British was too strong to be taken and held, and the invaders, realizing the futility of further effort, withdrew from the field, returning to Fort Erie, which they had already captured, and where they more adequately intrenched their position.

Left to themselves, the British were not long in making a change. Lights were lit, and at once men were dispatched to examine the field and search for missing comrades.

Colonel Battersby, although he had led his men in the thickest of the fight, had come off unscathed, but he knew that some of his officers had been slain or wounded. To his horror, Captain Morris, the man of his own selection, was missing. Eager to know the truth, accompanied by orderlies, he went carefully over the field. Headless trunks, disembowelled bodies, the dead, the dying, the wounded, were everywhere. Agonizing groans came from the fallen, both English and Americans, while side by side with them, stoic Indians with impassive faces did not utter a sound.

As they passed on, limbs were straightened, a comfortable position given or a wound staunched, while now and then a few drops from a pocket flask were poured between the lips of a life fast ebbing away.

"Colonel, here's a captain's epaulets," ejaculated one of his men at last. A light was thrown upon a body whose face was hidden in the moss beneath an oak shrub. The man, though unconscious, still breathed, as he lay in a pool of blood. Wiping his face, they gently turned it upwards.

"My God! It is Captain Morris," exclaimed the Colonel.

Tenderly they placed him in an easier position. Blood from the scalp and side and leg were freely flowing.

"Tell one of the surgeons to come at once," was the Colonel's order, while he knelt to loosen his clothing.

In a few minutes the doctor came and made an examination.

"Suffering from concussion, as well as loss of blood," were his words. "Let us lay him on a stretcher and carry him to quarters."

In a few minutes they reached a vacant house on the lower side of the hill, which they purposed using as a temporary hospital.

"Who is it?" enquired General Drummond, as they approached.

"Captain Morris, sir."

"Ah, another brave man! One of our best officers! How many we have lost in this terrible fight! Will he live, doctor?"

"I hope so. He is not conscious, but he opened his eyes just now."

"Thank God! You must do your best for him."

"I will, sir."

They placed him on a settee on one side of the room, and the doctor dressed his wounds.

"I saw him fall," came in a low tone from a man in the opposite corner, whose foot had been shot off. He had fainted from loss of blood and the leg had been bound up until it could be properly dressed. "I belong to his company. Twice we were driven back—half our men had fallen—but he drew his sword and rushed on again, calling us to follow him—then a Yankee officer struck at him, so he knocked his sword back and ran him through—but a couple of sogers came at the Captain with their bayonets—that's the last I saw, for I got dizzy and fell—I didn't think I was hurt."

"You've said enough," said the doctor sharply. "We don't want you to faint again."

"All right, sir."

There was a deep flesh wound in Captain Morris' thigh and a bayonet thrust in his body, while the top of his scalp had been torn to the skull by a bullet.

"Pretty badly knocked out," said the doctor, "but not hopeless. His pupils are still sensitive."

The General expressed satisfaction as with Battersby he left the house. Several other shanties near by were being utilized for the wounded.

"I suppose the owners all fled on the approach of battle," said the General to Colonel Scott, who had charge of the relief department.

"Yes," was the answer. "This battle has been impending for days, and orders were issued to the people to escape to the back districts without delay."

"They may as well stay away now," said Drummond. "There are hundreds of wounded, and our first care must be for them. We may have beaten the enemy, but it has been at terrible cost."

"Your arrival, General, was a God-send. If your men had not come I don't know where we would have been."

"Your own vanguard helped to save us though. But the horror of it all—a thousand men have bit the dust."

"If we have fights like this, thousands more may do it yet before we are through."

"True, but it is a fight to the finish. We must hold our own. Never relinquish an inch."

For more than an hour Captain Morris remained unconscious. His continued insensibility caused much concern, and Sergeant Dennis, his faithful subaltern, was placed beside him to watch.

After a while, he opened his eyes and looked vacantly around him through the dim light. Gradually he took in the situation.

"Ah!" he exclaimed at last, fixing his eyes on Dennis and looking at his bandages. "I got hurt—did I?"

"Yes, Captain, a trifle," was the answer.

"And the battle—is it over?"

"Yes, Captain; keep still."

"Thank heaven!"

For a time there was a pause, and the Sergeant put some whiskey and water to his lips.

"I must be badly knocked out," he ventured again, after a while.

"Not so bad as some," was the answer.

"Bad enough."

"I will call the doctor or Colonel Battersby," said the sergeant. "I had orders to report."

"Wait a minute, Sergeant, it can't be three yet."

"It is, nearly."

"There is something you can do for me."

"I will do anything in the world for you, Captain."

"Thanks—you will be with me all night, won't you?"

"Yes, till daylight."

"Well, I'll tell you later—after the doctor comes."

"He's here now."

So the communication was delayed.