CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SACK OF CHESTNUT NECK. "Alas! poor country, Almost afraid to know thyself.”—Shakspeare. But things like that, you know, must be THE British, being thus masters of the field, proceeded to their work of destruction. Their wounded had first to be removed indeed, and their dead buried; but as there were few of the former and still fewer of the latter the chief defence having been by Major Gordon's band-little time was occupied in this duty. The sun was still an hour high, therefore, when the first torch was applied to the store-houses and dwellings. Very soon the whole number were in flames, with all their valuable contents. The combustible character of the edifices, for they were built altogether of wood, and the inflammable materials collected within the warehouses, rendered the heat rapidly so intense that the troops were compelled to withdraw to some distance, where they stood for a while watch-, ing the scene of ruin, giving an occasional hurrah whenever a roof fell in. No other persons were in sight, except a few women who watched, afar off, from the edge of the wood, the destruction of their humble houses, and the total loss of their scanty, but hard-earned household goods. There had been comparatively little breeze when the first torch was applied; but before long the wind was roaring around the burning edifices, in almost a gale. Swiftly the various store-houses succumbed to the conflagration. One, 20* (237) which had been overlooked when the others were fired, and to which no torch had been applied, resisted for some time the contagion, standing up black and weather-beaten in the centre of the burning circle, like some dark rock at sea amid the angry surges. The shingled roof could be seen smoking for a long while, though without any sign of fire within; but at last it flashed all at once into flames, as when a train is touched; and, quick as thought, the whole was in a blaze. Directly after, forked tongues of fire shot out from under the eaves, and though they were gone in a moment, they reappeared almost instantaneously. Next, the fire showed itself at the windows, and then between the clap-boards; until finally it burst out from the door-way, and curling upwards, covered the whole edifice to the very top. The conflagration had now swept over nearly the entire settlement, sparing only a few dwellings, which either stood too far off to be reached by the fire, or were too inconsiderable to call down the vengeance of the invaders. Thick masses of pitchy-black smoke rose in puffs, and collecting overhead, afforded a canopy, impervious to the sunshine, against which the lurid reflection from below shone with a dull red glare. The leaves of the chestnuts, close by, were blackened and shrivelled up by the heat; and at one time it seemed as if the old trees would actually burst into a blaze. The spectacle had an almost human interest added to it, by a few tamed pigeons, who, having been harbored in the loft of the last store-house, were now seen flying wildly to and fro, refusing to leave the vicinity of their old home, circling around and around, crossing and re-crossing, until they dropped one by one into the conflagration. It was pitiful, amid the cheers of the British and the deep roar of the flames, to hear occasionally the flapping of their wings as they ventured near to a spectator, only however to fly immediately from their human enemy back to their burning homes. To increase the terror of the scene, the dismantled ships, which had been fired soon after the warehouses, speedily began to irradiate the river. The flames mastered the vessels even more rapidly than they had the buildings. The fire, once fairly started, shot up the masts, till it soared above the round-top, licking up whatever bits of rigging had been left, and rising, like the pointed spire of a Gothic cathedral, needle-like into the sky. A thousand tongues of fire, hissing and flashing, came and went; and then, darting into light, again hissed and flashed once more for a moment or two, in as many different points; after which an unbroken sheet of flame wrapped the entire vessels above the bulwarks from sight. Continually bits of fire, whirling off from one ship, alighted on another; while millions of sparks rose in showers and floated to leeward, in startling relief against the deep sable canopy, which now covered the sky above both sea and land. Up the river, at a cable's length from the burning fleet, the smoke had settled down upon the stream like a fog, obscuring the sun, and rendering the outlines of sky and water undistinguishable. Occasionally fragments of wood, swept away by the tide, were seen drifting into the gloom, like meteors of unknown and terrible aspect floating through the darkness of space. By nightfall most of the warehouses were reduced to heaps of smouldering ruins, glowing all over with fiery chinks as lava when it is half cooled. Every few moments, however, one of these heaps would belch upward a huge column of bituminous-looking smoke, after which flames would leap out at the spot and the conflagration renew itself there for a while. The air was heavy, almost choking, and impregnated with a pungent, stifling odour indescribable. The hulls of the vessels, however, continued to burn brightly, though the masts and rigging, where such had been left standing, had long since disappeared in charred fragments that strewed the decks or dropped sullenly into the stream. The wind, no longer nourished by the powerful conflagration, which compels currents of air to its centre as into the mouth of a furnace, had now almost entirely died away. What little was left, drew up the stream; and in that direction, as we have seen, the smoke lay packed close on the water, and reaching across the river, excluded from sight both shores towards the west. But the northern bank, opposite the Neck, was still dimly visible through the twilight; while, down the river, the prospect was comparatively clear. It had a strange and weird effect to see the stars, that shone so clear and lustrous on the eastern horizon, grow dim and ghostly through the smoke overhead, and then gradually vanish in the west, devoured by the pitchy darkness that lay in wait there like a second chaos. The British, though they had accomplished their purpose, showed no disposition however to retire. The few Americans, who hovered in the neighboring woods, and stole occasionally to the edge of the fields to make observations, noticed that picquets were posted as if it was the intention to remain for the night. The two or three houses, which had been spared in the otherwise general conflagration, were hastily prepared for the accommodation of the principal royal officers; the cattle which had been brought in for the use of the Americans, and had became part of the spoils of victory, were slaughtered for the conquerors; and a succession of camp fires, lighted to cook the food of the soldiers, soon twinkled, like a continuous chain of beacons, along the whole extent of the British line. As the evening wore on, sounds of merriment rose from the encampment, and floated dimly to the woods where the ejected women and children cowered in darkness and terror. Snatches of lewd songs; ballads coarsely ridiculing the Americans; oaths of blasphemous exultation over their fallen foes; shouts of drunken laughter; boasts of how many rebels had been killed that day; all these, and other noises as horrible, were wafted to the ears of the weeping mothers, who clasped their houseless babes as they crouched on the cold earth. Or the ribald songs and rejoicings were heard, with half smothered oaths, by the fathers who were forced to look on all this, yet were impotent to redress it. Towards midnight, however, the reveling in the British bivouac ceased. The camp-fires died down; the songs were hushed; the merriment gave way to sleep; and the low hum, which by day always attends any large body of men, was distinguishable no longer. The royal force lay in profound repose. The conflagration had exhausted itself long before, even among the shipping, only a few skeleton-like hulls burning redly, here and there, through the now ashen-gray smoke. A deep silence brooded over the scene, broken only by the breeze soughing gently through the trees, the tide lapping against the shore as it came lazily in, or the wail of a solitary whip-poor-will, which, slowly sailing in the obscure distance, seemed to be the spirit of some slaughtered patriot come back to bewail his ravaged life, the dishonor to his country's flag, and the fresh perils which the morrow would probably bring forth. But, notwithstanding this stillness, it was evident that the British slept on their arms, and that, at the slightest intimation of an attack, they would be up in a moment and ready for the foe. The dark forms of the sentries could be seen constantly going the rounds, and the warning cry of "all's well" periodically passed around the bivouac. |