Inside the Russell House

We took shelter in Russell's house when the regulars came thick along the road. There were eleven of us inside, firing from the windows. Jason Russell—the owner, an old lame man—stood in his doorway. When the soldiers stormed in, he went down first. They came through the door and up the stairs and we retreated to the cellar. In that dark space, with bayonets and musket butts, they killed us. I don't know how I survived. When it was over, I crawled out past the bodies of men I had marched with that morning.