ABSTRACT
The Hessian lay in the narrow Indian track, except for their captain, who was dead with his horse in the meadow, half his head blown away. He have seen places of death, but this was in a way more terrible than any he had ever looked at before, and when he walked among the bodies, the blood rose up over the toes, splashed from under the boots and made a ghastly sucking noise with each step. The narrow ditch of the trail was still acrid with the smell of gunsmoke, but there was no sound. Even Abraham Hunt held his peace, and the militiamen stood in horrified silence the wild thing of fear and hate gone out of them staring at what they had wrought. Suddenly, one of the Hessians lurched to his feet, blood running from his mouth and nose, stood swaying a moment, and then fell back dead when he reached him.
