Marching on Niagara: or, The Soldier Boys of the Old Frontier
"Yes – I felt I couldn't go another step, Henry. I see we are still in the woods. Are the Indians near?"
"I don't think they are – at least, we haven't seen anything of them."
"Where is Dave?"
"He has gone on ahead, to see if all is right at home, and if it is to bring help."
"I would give all I possess to be at your cabin," said the poor woman, with a sigh. She tried to rise, then sank back heavily. "I – I – don't see how I am going to walk."
"You had better rest a bit longer, Mrs. Risley. There is no great hurry. It may pay us to go slow – with so many redskins lurking about. They may be – "
Henry broke off short, and thinking his companion was about to speak, clapped his hand over her mouth. Through the stillness of the forest he had caught sounds that could mean but one thing – the approach of several men. In a moment more he caught glimpses of a flickering light approaching.
"We must hide!" he whispered in Mrs. Risley's ear. "Come, there isn't a second to lose!"
"But where shall we go?" she panted, her heart leaping into her throat. "I cannot run a step – it will kill me!"
The young hunter looked around in perplexity. There was some brushwood to their right, growing among some sharp-pointed rocks. He caught his companion's hand and almost dragged her in that direction. On the rocks Mrs. Risley's foot slipped and she gave a cry of pain.
"My ankle – I have twisted it badly!"
"Hush! they will hear!" he answered, and seeing she could go no further, he caught her in his youthful arms and carried her forward. In the midst of a clump of bushes he laid her down and threw himself flat beside her, at the same time holding some brushwood down over them.
By this time the glimmer of light had come closer. It was a torch, held in the hands of a tall Indian, who was following up the trail of the whites with great care. The Indian had with him six companions, all armed with either guns or bows and arrows, and each hideous in his war-paint.
Hardly daring to breathe, Henry awaited their close approach, his left hand holding down the bushes and his right on his gun. Soon the warriors were at the spot where Mrs. Risley had fainted. Here they came to a halt and began to talk in low tones.
It was a moment of intense anxiety, and it must be confessed that Henry's heart almost stopped beating. The warrior with the torch held the light aloft, and all in the party gazed around with eyes as piercing as those of some wild beasts.
In a moment more something happened which changed the tables of fortune. Unable to bear the pain of her twisted ankle, Mrs. Risley drew in a sharp, rasping breath which sound reached the ears of one of the Indians. Instantly he stepped in that direction and spoke to the warrior with the torch. Three of the band came forward with swift steps and arrows pointed. A yell rent the air, telling that those in hiding were discovered.
Seeing it was useless to remain prostrate Henry leaped up. An arrow whizzed past his shoulder and would have struck him fairly in the breast had he not leaped to one side.
He, too, blazed away, and saw the leading Indian go down, shot through the breast, a serious if not a mortal wound. Then he pulled Mrs. Risley to her feet.
"Run!" he cried. "Run! It is your only chance. Hide in the woods!"
She limped off, but ere she had gotten a dozen steps two of the warriors were after her, and she was made a prisoner. In the meantime Henry retreated to a clump of birch trees and there made a stand against the remaining Indians.
The struggle, which lasted but a few minutes, was an unequal one. Another arrow was fired, and it grazed his left hand, causing the blood to flow freely, and making the stains afterward discovered by Dave. Then one of the red men came up behind the trees, and reaching out struck him with the flat side of a tomahawk. Henry tried to turn and grapple with his assailant, but suddenly his senses left him and he knew no more.
"'Tis one of the Morris family," said the Indian with the torch, in his native tongue. He made an examination. "He is not dead."
"A good capture," said another. "We must take him along. Gonawak, you must help to carry him."
"And what of the woman?" asked the warrior addressed as Gonawak, well known throughout that territory for his extreme cruelty.
"Talking Deer will take care of her," was the answer. "He is to take care of all of them until this raid is over."
But little more was said, and in a few minutes the unconscious form of the young hunter was picked up and borne through the forest in the direction of the nearest stream. As has been said, water leaves no trail, and for this reason the redmen instinctively used the shallow stream for a roadway.
When Henry regained his senses he found himself strapped to the back of a horse and moving slowly westward through the forest. The wound on his hand had been allowed to bleed itself out. He felt both weak and stiff and had a dull ache in his head, where the tomahawk had landed and raised a good-sized lump.
By a blaze on the animal's neck, Henry recognized the horse he rode as one belonging to a pioneer living in that vicinity. He was in the company of nine redmen, four of whom were mounted on stolen horses. From this he inferred that the Risley cabin was not the only one which had been attacked on that fatal night.
He looked around, but could see nothing of Mrs. Risley nor of any other captives. He was alone with the savage warriors, and what they intended to do with him there was no telling. But he had good reasons for believing that a horrible fate was in store for him.
"I must get away if I can," he thought. "They can't do any more than shoot me if I try to escape, and even that will be better than to be burnt at the stake."
The Indians now noticed that he had recovered consciousness, and one of them rode closer and said sharply:
"White hunter boy must keep still. If yell will strike him!" And he flourished his tomahawk threateningly.
"Where are you taking me?" questioned Henry. But the Indian would not answer and only told him to keep quiet.
It was growing morning when the small band came to a halt, at the bank of a wide stream where there was a series of rapids among the rocks. Henry was cut loose and ordered to dismount. Then he was led to a nearby tree and tied up once more.
"Will you give me a drink?" he asked of one of the Indians, but for answer the redman slapped him sharply over the mouth and told him to hold his tongue.
Suffering much from thirst and from the wound on his left hand, which had now begun to swell, Henry watched the Indians as they prepared an early morning meal, for the light of dawn was now showing in the east. A fire of very dry wood, which would give little smoke, was lighted and over this two of the redmen prepared some deer meat they had been carrying. The smell of the cooking venison was tantalizing to Henry, but he knew better than to ask for a portion of the repast. Once or twice the Indians came up to him but only to jibe at him and poke him with their guns or their bows, while one made a move with his hunting knife as if to cut out the young hunter's heart.
While the Indians were busy eating Henry tugged at his bonds with all the strength he could muster. But he was too weak, and the warriors had bound the rawhides too firmly, for the youth to budge them. He only made his wound break out afresh, and then had to stop, well-nigh exhausted with his effort.
"Getting away is out of the question," he thought, and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. "They will keep a sharp watch on me until they get back to their village and then they will take great delight in torturing me in every way they can think of. Oh, what savages they are, every one of them!"
Thus musing, Henry watched the Indians eat their meal. When they had finished one warrior came to him with some of the scraps and with a cup full of dirty water.
"White hunter boy can eat," said the Indian, and untied one of his hands. It was far from an appetizing meal and was decidedly scant. But it was better than nothing, and not wishing to starve to death Henry ate all that was offered him and drank the water to the last drop. Then his loose hand was once again fastened behind him.
The Indians were now holding a consultation, sitting close to the dying embers of the fire and smoking their long-stemmed pipes. But little of what was said reached Henry's ears, yet he caught the words "big feast" and "burn at stake" spoken in the Indian tongue. At this he had to shudder in spite of every effort to control his feelings.
"I must get away!" he thought. "I must! I'm not going to allow them to burn me at the stake! It's horrible. I've heard all about old Sol Harper and Dick Waterbury, and how they suffered. I'd rather be shot. They'll – Oh!"
His thoughts came to a sudden end, and for the instant he felt that he must be dreaming. His eyes had strayed to the bushes on the opposite bank of the stream. A white hand was raised warningly and the bushes parted slowly, showing the face of his old friend, Sam Barringford. Henry nodded, to show that he had seen the old frontiersman. Then the bushes closed again and Sam Barringford disappeared.
CHAPTER XI
SAM BARRINGFORD'S RUSE
The appearance of his old frontier friend gave Henry's hopes a bound upward. He felt that he could rely upon Sam Barringford to do his utmost for him in securing his release. He felt equally sure that Barringford had been following the band for some time, trying to gain a chance to rush in and cut his bonds.
It was true that Barringford numbered but one against nine, and would have stood small chance against them in an open fight, but Henry knew the old frontiersman too well to imagine that Barringford would thus expose himself to a stray shot that might kill him. His friend had learned the value of playing a "waiting game," and would do nothing rash unless the occasion actually demanded it.
The best part of half an hour went by, and still the Indians remained around the camp-fire, smoking and discussing the situation. Occasionally one would glance toward Henry and perhaps raise a tomahawk threateningly, meaning thereby that an attempt to escape would be punishable by death. To these movements Henry paid no attention.
The young hunter's ears were on the alert, for he half expected that Barringford might be coming up behind him to cut his bonds. At last he heard his name mentioned in a low, guarded tone:
"Henry!"
"Sam," he returned, without apparently moving his lips.
"I'm right behind, lad. Do as I tell you and gittin' away may come easy. I'll cut yer rawhides, but don't you attempt ter move till yer hear a noise in the woods an' the Injuns run fer the spot. Then dust straight back, an' I'll jine you fast as I kin. Do you understand?"
"Yes," answered Henry, as softly as before.
"All right. Now tell me when them measly critters ain't lookin'. I can't see 'em from here."
After this there was a few minutes of silence. Henry watched the nine redmen as never before. Several faced him, but now they turned away for a moment and he communicated that fact to Sam Barringford.
Instantly a hand glided around the side of the tree and a sharp hunting knife slid along the rawhides which bound the youth's hands and feet. The bonds about the tree were already severed.
"Now I'm goin'," whispered Barringford. "Don't run till they ain't a-noticin' of you – unless, o' course, they come straight at you."
As silently as he had come Sam Barringford retreated, keeping the tree and some brushwood between himself and the enemy. Once more Henry was left alone, and again many anxious minutes passed.
Suddenly from a distance up the stream came a shot, followed by another, and then a well-known Indian war-whoop. The voice of a white man, calling out loudly, was heard, followed by another war-cry, and a crashing and splitting of a tree branch.
Throwing down their pipes all the Indians around the camp-fire leaped to their feet and seized their weapons. With one accord they bounded up the stream to learn what the encounter so close at hand could mean. The war-whoop used was their own. Some of their own tribe must be making an attack or must be in danger.
No sooner had the Indians turned to leave him than Henry dropped his bonds and leaped behind the tree. With all possible speed he rushed straight into the woods. As he progressed he jumped from one rock to another, where this could be done, in order to leave as imperfect a trail as possible.
He felt that the shots, the cries and the war-whoops, coupled with the crashing of the tree branch, were all a part of the ruse employed by Sam Barringford to make the Indians leave their captive, and in this he was not mistaken. The Indians had gone off to a man, and now, when he felt safe for the time being, Henry was sorry that he had not stopped long enough to gain possession of his gun.
"I can't go back now," he muttered. "They'll return soon – or send one or two back to watch me." He listened for a second. "Hullo! some of 'em are back already! Now they'll make it warm for me, if they can!"
He pushed on until he heard a low but clear whistle, not unlike the sound of certain night birds of that locality. He whistled in return and soon saw the form of a man in the distance waving an arm for him to come up.
"Fooled 'em nicely, didn't I?" chuckled Sam Barringford. "They lit out soon as they heard thet war-whoop, didn't they?"
"They did," answered Henry. "But some of 'em are back, so we mustn't lose any time getting away."
"Right you are, lad – 't won't do to try to fool 'em too much – it's too much like playin' with the teeth o' a wildcat, now they hev their war-paint on. O' course you know the hull country's riz, don't you?"
"Yes, and Risley's cabin has been burnt down and Mrs. Risley is a captive I'm afraid."
"I'm a-feered fer your own folks, Henry. The Injuns is headed that way, seems to me."
As they hurried on through the woods, with ears on the alert for the possible appearance of the Indians left behind or of others, Henry told his story, to which the old frontiersman listened with close attention. In return Barringford related his own doings during the past forty-eight hours.
"I was up to Timber Ridge, back o' Siler's place, lookin' fer deer, when I spotted some o' the Injuns makin' fer the old meetin' ground. I made up my mind they was up to no good, and so I followed 'em. They held a meeting with Little Horn's warriors, and one of 'em had a message from thet rascally Jean Bevoir who robbed yer uncle o' that trading-post on the Kinotah, and the message said not to forget the Morris cabin in the raid."
"Our cabin!" burst out Henry. "Then they will surely attack it."
"Yes, and jest because Jean Bevoir wants 'em to, Henry. Thet rascal ought to be hung. He's wuss nor any redman, to my way o' thinkin'."
"Anyway, we can't get home too quick – at least I can't, Sam."
"I'm with you, Henry. Your folks are my best friends. Besides, I want to learn what has become of Dave. You know what a sight I think o' him," concluded Barringford.
They advanced with caution until Henry felt compelled to rest. Then they sat down by the edge of a tiny stream and here obtained a drink, and the frontiersman washed and bound up Henry's wounded hand. At last they went on once more, taking a semi-circle which brought them in sight of the Morris cabin.
"Too late!" burst from Henry's lips, and his heart sank within him. Against the early morning sky was a heavy cloud of smoke curling lazily upward from the ruins of the cabin and the out-buildings. Around the ruins half a dozen redmen were prowling, on the hunt for anything of value which might have escaped their notice during the darkness of the night.
"Yes, lad, we're too late," responded Barringford, mournfully. "I only trust your folks escaped."
"Let – let us creep closer and see if there are any – any bodies lying around," faltered the young hunter. He was so agitated he could scarcely speak.
"Be careful what you do," was the warning. "Follow me – I think I know a safe lookout place."
Barringford led the way, and presently they found themselves in a clump of brushwood not over two hundred feet from the cabin. The brush was on a rise of ground, so that they could survey the situation with ease.
"Nothing in sight," said Henry, after a long and painful pause. "What do you say to that, Sam?"
"It's encouragin', lad. More'n likely your father got away with your mother an' the others. I don't see none o' the hosses around. Thet's a good sign, too. I believe they struck out fer Fort Lawrence or Will's Creek – most likely the first, fer the trail to Will's Creek is chuck-a-block with Injuns."
Feeling that nothing could be gained by remaining in the vicinity, they started to retreat to the friendly shelter of the forest. They had hardly covered a hundred yards, when Henry gave a cry of warning.
"An Indian! Coming straight for us!"
He was right, and a moment later a painted warrior confronted them. He, too, was surprised at the meeting, but quick as a flash raised the tomahawk he carried to strike Barringford down.
Had the blow landed as intended the frontiersman's skull would have been split in twain. But if the Indian was quick Barringford was quicker. He leaped to one side and in a twinkling had the warrior by the throat and was bearing him backward. At the same moment Henry advanced.
"Never mind – I've got the consarned critter!" cried Barringford, as he held the Indian in a grasp of steel. "See if more are a-comin'!"
Henry looked, but not another redman was in sight. The one in Barringford's grasp squirmed and struggled and drew up a knee to plant it against the frontiersman's breast. But even this did not break that deadly grip, and now the Indian's tongue fairly lolled from his wide-open mouth. He clutched Barringford's throat, but his hand was thrown aside and the wrist pressed back until it was almost broken. Then the Indian gave a strange gulp and suddenly collapsed in a heap.
"Thet settles his account," panted Barringford, as he staggered away. "An' he didn't git no chance to make any noise nuther. Serves the critter right, don't it?" And he led the way onward once more.
"Yes, it served him right," answered Henry, but even as he spoke he had to shudder, and he wondered if the Indian was really dead or only partly choked to death.
Having decided to move in the direction of Fort Lawrence, Sam Barringford led the way by the very route Joseph Morris had pursued. Both he and Henry were now exhausted by their long walk, and both would have rested had it not been that they were so anxious to know how matters were going at the fort. On they stumbled as best they could. Each was hungry, yet neither complained on that score.
It was nearly noon when they heard a number of shots in the distance. A fierce yelling followed, and the shooting was continued for the best part of half an hour.
"The Indians have attacked the fort!" cried Henry. "A big battle must be going on!"
"I reckon you are right, Henry. Come," and Barringford set off at an increased rate of speed.
They did not go far, however, for only a little while later they heard a murmur of voices ahead.
"An Injun camp," whispered Barringford. "Come, we'll go around," and he moved to the left.
But here the way was also blocked by Indians. Then they made a wide detour, only to find more warriors encamped between themselves and the fort.
"The way's blocked," said the frontiersman at last. "The critters have entirely surrounded the fort. We're out of it, and it looks as if we'd have to stay out."
CHAPTER XII
DARK YEAR OF THE WAR
At the time this story opens George Washington had been on the frontier for nearly two years, with what was little more than a handful of rangers and militia, doing his best to protect a section of country extending through Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia. His headquarters were at Winchester, where the fort was in a good state for defence, but he was frequently away from that place, directing minor operations against the Indians, who, urged by their French allies, were continually attacking isolated settlements.
At this time the future President of our country was still a young man, strong, resolute, and full of the fire of ambition. There was no thought of independence in those days. He was a subject of the King of England, and as a subject willing to do his utmost to sustain British authority in America. He was dearly beloved by all the soldiers under him, but it must be confessed that some of these soldiers were not as willing to remain in the army as was desirable.
The trouble over the soldiers is easily explained. In the first place the settlers objected to doing military duty when called upon to "play second fiddle" to the soldiers brought over from England, and in the second place the pay was poor and uncertain, and the pioneers, much as they wished to defend their frontier and whip the French and Indians, could ill afford to neglect their farms and crops.
"I'd like to enlist again," said one old pioneer to Washington, "But I have a wife and four little children at home, and if I don't care for them they'll have nothing to eat. You know, sir, that I haven't received a dollar of pay for three months." This explanation was typical of many, and while Colonel Washington was sorry to have his men desert him thus, deep down in his heart he could not blame them for wishing to provide for those they dearly loved.
Thus far the conduct of the war with France had been a series of disasters to England's cause, extending over a period of three years. Braddock's bitter defeat, in July, 1755, had been followed by Shirley's abandonment of the plan to take Fort Niagara, and after a bitter battle at Lake George, Sir William Johnson, of whom we shall hear much more later, was forced to give up his hope of pushing on to Crown Point. This closed the fighting for the year, leaving the outlook for the colonies gloomy indeed.
War between France and England was formally declared in May, 1756 – just twenty years before that memorable Revolution which separated the United States from England. The Earl of Loudon was sent out to take command of a new expedition north, but his work in that territory was no more victorious than Johnson's had been, and as a consequence the French commander, General Montcalm, captured Oswego, with all the guns and supplies left there the year previous by Shirley, and in his defeat General Webb, with a large portion of the British troops, had to fall back to Albany.
Early in the following year the English made greater preparations than ever to bring the war to a satisfactory close. Loudon sailed from New York with six thousand men, and was joined at Halifax by Admiral Holborne with a fleet of eleven warships. The object of the expedition was to attack Louisburg, but when the English arrived in the vicinity of that French stronghold they found seventeen of the enemy's warships awaiting them, backed up by heavy land fortifications, and to attack such a force would have been foolhardy; so Loudon returned to New York much dispirited.
In the meantime, Montcalm was not idle. While Loudon was proceeding against Louisburg the great French general came down with a strong force from Crown Point and attacked Fort William Henry. The fort was compelled to surrender, and did so with the understanding that the soldiers be allowed to march out with the honors of war. But the Indians with the French would not agree to this, and upon a given signal they fell with great fury on the English, slaughtering them right and left, butchering not only the soldiers but also about a hundred women and children who had fled to the enclosure for safety. The barracks were battered down and burned, and the cannon, boats, and stores carried away. For these outrageous proceedings Montcalm was held responsible, but he claimed that the Indians could not be controlled.
The effect of so many disasters to British arms in other quarters, could leave but one impression on the minds of the Indians who threatened the frontier which Washington was trying to defend. These warriors came to the conclusion that the English were too weak to defend themselves, and, consequently, they could rush in and kill, burn, and loot to suit themselves. They were well aware that the French still held Fort Duquesne, and that if the English came too far westward (in a chase after the redmen,) the French would rouse up in an effort to drive them back from whence they had come. More than this, there were among the Indians such rascally traders as Jean Bevoir, and these men, in order to further their own interests, told the Indians to go ahead and do as they pleased against the English, and that the French would never interfere, no matter how barbarous was the warfare thus carried on.
