" When it is understood that Plum Island is little
more than a naked sand-ridge, the benevolence of this wish can be readily
appreciated.
All the boats on the river were constantly employed for several hours in
conveying across the terrified fugitives. Through "the dead waste and
middle of the night" they fled over the border into New Hampshire. Some
feared to take the frequented roads, and wandered over wooded hills and
through swamps where the snows of the late winter had scarcely melted.
They heard the tramp and outcry of those behind them, and fancied that
the sounds were made by pursuing enemies. Fast as they fled, the terror,
by some unaccountable means, outstripped them. They found houses
deserted and streets strewn with household stuffs, abandoned in the hurry
of escape. Towards morning, however, the tide partially turned. Grown
men began to feel ashamed of their fears. The old Anglo-Saxon hardihood
paused and looked the terror in its face. Single or in small parties,
armed with such weapons as they found at hand,--among which long poles,
sharpened and charred at the end, were conspicuous,--they began to
retrace their steps.
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