As I held some official rank I was in a certain sense above the others, though I was not their commander, each man knowing well what he was about and doing what he chose, which was to shoot plump at the first human being that appeared on the dead line. A thin, active Virginian had climbed a tree in order to get a better aim, and shot with deadly effect from its boughs. I sat down behind a clump of earth and examined my rifle. “Look across there,” said Whitestone, pointing to the open space. I did so, and for the second time that day I shuddered. Prone upon the ground were three bodies in the well-known English uniform. A pail lay beside one of them. I knew without the telling of it that those men had fallen in their attempt to reach the water which flowed by--millions and millions of gallons--just out of reach. “It’s rather dull now; nobody’s tried to pass the dead line for an hour,” said Bucks, a man from the mountains of western Pennsylvania, with a face of copper like an Indian’s. “Did any one succeed in passing?” I asked. “Pass!” said Bucks, laughing. “What do you reckon we’re here for? No sirree! The river is just as full as ever.” There was an unpleasant ring in the man’s voice which gave me a further distaste for the work in hand. Our position was well adapted to our task. The hill was broken with low outcroppings of stone and small ridges. So long as we exercised moderate caution we could aim and shoot in comparative safety. Bucks spoke my thoughts when he said: “It’s just like shooting deer at a salt lick.” But the dullness continued. Those red-clad bodies, two of them with their faces upturned to the sun, were a terrible warning to the others not to make the trial. Two of our men, finding time heavy, produced a worn pack of cards and began to play old sledge, their rifles lying beside them. The waters of the broad river glittered in the sun. Now and then a fish leaped up and shot back like a flash, leaving the bubbles to tell where he had gone. The spatter of musketry around the circle of the British camp had become so much a habit that one noticed it only when it ceased for the time. The white rings of smoke from the burnt powder floated away, peaceful little clouds, and, like patches of snow against the blue sky, helped out the beauty of an early autumn day. All of us were silent except the two men playing cards. I half closed my eyes, for the sun was bright and the air was warm, and gave myself up to lazy, vague thought. I was very glad that we had nothing to do, and even should the time to act come, I resolved that I would follow Whitestone’s hint. The two men playing cards became absorbed in the game. One threw down a card and uttered a cry of triumph. “Caught your Jack!” “All right,” said the other; “it’s only two for you, your low, Jack against my high, game. I’m even with you.”