The Rebels learned through their spies that something unusual was going on inside, and as their only interpretation of anything unusual there was a design upon the Stockade, they strengthened the guards, took additional precautions in every way, and spent the hours in anxious anticipation.
We, fearing that the Raiders might attempt to frustrate the scheme by an attack in overpowering force on Key's squad, which would be accompanied by the assassination of him and Limber Jim, held ourselves in readiness to offer any assistance that might be needed.
The Raiders, though confident of success, were no less exercised.

They threw out pickets to all the approaches to their headquarters, and provided otherwise against surprise.

They had smuggled in some canteens of a cheap, vile whisky made from sorghum--and they grew quite hilarious in their Big Tent over their potations.

Two songs had long ago been accepted by us as peculiarly the Raiders' own--as some one in their crowd sang them nearly every evening, and we never heard them anywhere else.
The first began: In Athol lived a man named Jerry Lanagan; He battered away till he hadn't a pound.
His father he died, and he made him a man agin; Left him a farm of ten acres of ground.
The other related the exploits of an Irish highwayman named Brennan, whose chief virtue was that What he rob-bed from the rich he gave unto the poor.
And this was the villainous chorus in which they all joined, and sang in such a way as suggested highway robbery, murder, mayhem and arson: Brennan on the moor! Brennan on the moor! Proud and undaunted stood John Brennan on the moor.
They howled these two yearly the live-long night.

They became eventually quite monotonous to us, who were waiting and watching.