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One of our men had been shot in the shoulder, another gored in the hip with a bayonet, and we left a young Briton dead on the shore. We took our prisoners to Paleyville, and locked them overnight in the blockhouse. The channel was lighted by a big bonfire on the south bank, as we came over. Its flames went high, and made a great, sloping volcano of light in the darkness.
I thanked him, with a smile, and asked if he knew Eagle Island. "Be'n all over it half a dozen times," said he. "'T ain' no more 'n twenty rod from the Yankee shore, thet air island ain't. We c'u'd paddle there in a day from our cove." And that was the way we planned to go, by canoe from our landing, and wait for the hour at Paleyville, a Yankee village opposite the island.
"Judas Priest!" said he, as I came alongside, "thet air's rougher 'n the bog trail." We came to Paleyville with time only for a bite of luncheon before dark. We could see no sign of life on the island or the "Canuck shore" as we turned our bows to the south channel. That evening the innkeeper sat with us under a creeking sign, our chairs tilted to the tavernside.
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