"We've got to skip out of this and cut for cover in those bushes
yonder. We'll do more good there, and this breastwork, or what's
left of it, is no longer worth holding."
Pierre looked about him astonished, and found they were almost alone.
He shouldered his musket and strode sullenly into cover, the old
sergeant laughingly slapping him on the back.
Firing irregularly from the woods, the French succeeded in making it
very unpleasant for the English in their work of laying a new bridge.
But, notwithstanding, the bridge grew before their eyes. Pierre was
disgusted.
"We're beaten, it seems, already," he cried to the sergeant.
"Not at all!" responded the latter, cheerfully. "All this small force
could be expected to do has been already done. We have suffered but
slightly, while we have caused the enemy considerable loss. That's all
we set out to do. We're not strong enough to stand up to them; we're
only trying to weaken them all we can. See, now they're crossing--and
it's about time we were out of this!"
It was indeed so. The bridge was laid, the column was hastening across.
A bugle rang out the signal for retreat, and the fire from the bushes
ceased. In a moment the Acadian force had dissolved, scattering like
a cloud of mist before the sun. Pierre found himself, with a handful
of his comrades, speeding back to the fort. Others sought their proper
rendezvous. There was nothing for the English to chase, so they kept
their column unbroken. As Pierre entered the fort he saw the enemy
establishing themselves in the uplands, about a mile and a half
from Beausejour.
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