The hard-working Coffee comes up, face a-smudge of powder stains; for he has been taking his turn with a rifle, like any other hunting-shirt man. He finds the General as drunk on battle as some folk are on brandy. “They can't beat us, Coffee!” cries the General, wringing his friend's big hand. “By the living Eternal they can't beat us!” The General unslings his ramshackle telescope, and leaps upon the mud walls for a survey of the field. The less curious Coffee devotes himself to wiping the sweat and powder smudges from his face. His impromptu toilet results only in unhappy smears, which make him resemble an overgrown sweep. He looks at his watch. “Sharp, short work!” he mutters, as he notes that they have been fighting but twenty-five minutes. [Illustration: 0235] Those plantation buildings are still blazing, no more than half-burned down, and the smoke hides the scene toward the river. The General turns his ramshackle spyglass upon his immediate front. The ground is fairly carpeted with dead English. As he gazes he calls to Colonel Coffee, who is now broadening the powder smears ingeniously with the sleeve of his hunting shirt. “Jump up here, Coffee!” cries the General. “It's like resurrection day!” Thus urged, Colonel Coffee abandons his attempts to improve his looks, and joins the General on the mud walls. He is in time to behold four hundred odd Highlanders scramble to their brogues among those five hundred and forty who will never march again, and come forward to surrender. It has been a hot and bloody morning. Of those six thousand whom Sir Edward takes into action--for the reserves with General Lambert are never within range--over twenty-one hundred are fallen. Seven hundred and thirty are killed as they stand in their ranks; and of the fourteen hundred marked “wounded,” more than six hundred are to die within the week. Among the twenty-one hundred killed and wounded, sixteen hundred go to swell the red record of the dire hunting-shirt men. The two attacks, being at the ends of the General's lines, involve no more than two-thirds of his thirty-two hundred. Papa Plauche's “Fathers” in the center, as well as General Adair's Kentuckians who act as reserves, are merest spectators. That his “Fathers” are not called upon to fire a shot, in no wise depresses Papa Plauche. He harangues his brave followers, and eloquently explains: “It is because of your sanguinary fame, my heroes!” vociferates Papa Plauche. “The English knew your position, and avoided you. They went as far to the right and to the left as they could, to escape that destruction you else would have infallibly meted out to them. Ah! my 'Fathers,' see what it is to have a terrible name! You must sit idle in battle, because no foe dare engage you! Be comforted, my glorious heroes! Achilles could have done no more!”