The Hidden Children Part 99

On every side the knoll was black with them as they came leaping forward, hatchets glittering; while over their heads the leaden hail of Tory musketry pelted us from north and south and east and west.

Down crashed Yoiakim at my side, his rifle exploding in mid-air as he fell dead and rolled over and over down the slope toward the ma.s.ses of his enemies below.

As a Seneca seized the rolling body, set his foot on the dead shoulders and jerked back the head to scalp him, the Yellow Moth leaped forward, launching his hatchet. It flew, sparkling, and struck the scalper full in the face. The next instant the Yellow Moth was among them, snarling, stabbing, raging, almost covered by Senecas who were wounding one another in their eagerness to slay him.

For a moment it seemed to me that there was a chance in this melee for us to cut our way through, and I caught Boyd by the arm and pointed. A volley into our very backs staggered and almost stupefied us; through the swirling powder gloom, our men began to fall dead all around me. I saw Sergeant Hungerman drop; privates Harvey, Conrey, Jim McElroy, Jack Miller, Benny Curtin and poor Jack Putnam.

Murphy, clubbing his rifle, was bawling to his comrade, Elerson:

"To h.e.l.l wid this, Davey! Av we don't pull foot we're a pair o' dead ducks!"

"For G.o.d's sake, Boyd!" I shouted. "Break through there beside the Yellow Moth!"

Boyd, wielding his clubbed rifle, cleared a circle amid the crowding savages; Sergeant Parker ran out into the yelling crush; the two gigantic riflemen, Murphy and Elerson, swinging their terrible weapons like flails, smashed their way forward; behind them, using knife, hatchet, and stock, I led out the last men living on that knoll--Ned McDonald, Garrett Putnam, Jack Youse, and a French coureur-de-bois whose name I have never learned.

All around us raged and yelled the maddened Seneca pack, slas.h.i.+ng each other again and again in their crazed attempts to reach us. The Yellow Moth was stabbed through and through a hundred times, yet the ghastly corpse still kept its feet, so terrible was the crus.h.i.+ng pressure on every side.

Suddenly, tearing a path through the frenzied mob, I saw a mob of cursing, sweating, green-coated soldiers and rangers, struggling toward us--saw one of Butler's rangers seize Sergeant Parker by the collar of his hunting s.h.i.+rt, bawling out:

"Hurrah! Hurrah! Prisoner taken from Morgan's corps!"

Another, an officer of British regulars, I think, threw himself on Boyd, shouting:

"By heaven! It's Boyd of Derry! Are you not Tom Boyd, of Derry, Pennsylvania?"

"Yes, you b.l.o.o.d.y-backed Tory!" retorted Boyd, struggling to knife him under his gorget. "And I'm Boyd of Morgan's, too!"

I aimed a blow at the red-coated officer, but my rifle stock broke off across the skull of an Indian; and I began to beat a path toward Boyd with the steel barrel of my weapon, Murphy and Elerson raging forward beside me in such a very whirlwind of half-crazed fury that the Indians gave way and leaped aside, trying to shoot at us.

Headlong through this momentary opening rushed Garrett Putnam, his rifle-dress torn from his naked body, his heavy knife dripping in the huge fist that clutched it. After him leaped Ned McDonald, the coureur-de-bois, and Jack Youse, letting drive right and left with their hatchets. And, as the painted crowd ahead recoiled and shrank aside, Murphy, Elerson, and I went through, smas.h.i.+ng out the way with our heavy weapons.

How we got through G.o.d only knows. I heard Murphy bellowing to Elerson:

"We're out! We're out! Pull foot, Davey, or the dirty Scutts will take your hair!"

A Pennsylvania soldier, running heavily down hill ahead of me, was shot, sprang high into the air in one agonized bound, like a stricken hare, and fell forward under my very feet, so that I leaped over him as I ran. The Canadian coureur-de-bois was. .h.i.t, but the bullet stung him to a speed incredible, and he flew on, screaming with pain, his broken arm flapping.

Behind me I dared not look, but I knew the Seneca warriors were after us at full speed. Bullets whined and whizzed beside us, striking the trees on every side. A long slope of open woods now slanted away below us.

As I ran, far ahead of me, among the trees, I saw men moving, yet dared not change my course. Then, as I drew nearer, I recognized Mr. Lodge, our surveyor, and Thomas Grant with the Jacob-staff, the four chain-bearers with the chain, and Corporal Calhawn, all standing stock still and gazing up the slope toward us.

The next moment Grant dropped his Jacob-staff, turned and ran; the chain-men flung away their implements, and Mr. Lodge and the entire party, being totally unarmed, turned and fled, we on their heels, and behind us a score of yelling Senecas, now driven to frenzy by the sight of so much terrified game in flight.

I saw poor Calhawn fall; I saw Grant run into the swamp below, shouting for help. Mr. Lodge, closely chased by a young warrior, ran toward a distant sentinel, and so eager was the Seneca to slay him that he chased the fleeing surveyor past the sentinel, and was shot in the back by the amazed soldier.

And now, all along the edge of the mora.s.s where our pickets were posted, the bang! bang! bang! of musketry began. Murphy and Elerson bounded into safety; Ned McDonald, Garrett Putnam, the coureur-de-bais, and Jack Youse went staggering and reeling into the swamp. I attempted to follow them, but three Senecas cut me out, and, with bursting heart, I sheered off and ran parallel with them, striving to reach our lines, the sentinels firing at my pursuers and running forward to intercept them. Yet, so intent were these Seneca bloodhounds on my destruction that they never swerved under the running fire of musketry; and I was forced out and driven into the woods again to the northwest of our lines.

Farther and farther away sounded the musketry in my ears, until the pounding pulses deadened and finally obliterated the sound. I could no longer carry the shattered and b.l.o.o.d.y fragment of my rifle, and dropped it. Bullet-pouch, shot-pouch, powder-horn, water-bottle, hatchet I let fall, keeping only my knife, belt, and the thin, flat wallet which contained my letters from Lois and my journal. Even my cap I flung away, moving always forward on a dog-trot, and ever twisting my sweat-drenched head to look behind.

Several times I caught distant glimpses of my pursuers, and saw that they walked sometimes, as though exhausted. Yet, I dared not bear to the South, not knowing how many of them had continued on westward to cut me off from a return; so I jogged on northward, my heart nigh broken with misery and foreboding, sickened to the very soul with the memory of our slaughtered men upon the knoll. For of some thirty-odd riflemen, Indians, line soldiers, and scouts that Boyd had led out the night before, only Elerson, Murphy, McDonald, Youse, the coureur-de-bois, and I remained alive or untaken. Boyd was a prisoner, together with Sergeant Parker; all the others were dead to a man, excepting possibly my three Indians, Mayaro, Grey-Feather, and Tahoontowhee, who Boyd had sent in to report us before we had sighted the Senecas, and who might possibly have escaped the ambuscade.

As I plodded on, I dared not let my imagination dwell on Boyd and Parker, for a dreadful instinct told me that the dead men on the knoll were better off. Yet, I tried to remember that a red-coated officer had taken Boyd, and one of Sir John's soldiers had captured Michael Parker.

But I could find no comfort, no hope in this thought, because Walter Butler was there, and Hiokatoo, and McDonald, and all that b.l.o.o.d.y band.

The Senecas would surely demand the prisoners. There was not one soul to speak a word for them, unless Brant were near. That n.o.ble and humane warrior alone could save them from the Seneca stake. And I feared he was at the burnt bridge with his Mohawks, facing our army as he always faced it, dauntless, adroit, resourceful, and terrible.

A little stony stream ran down beside the trackless course I travelled and I seized the chance of confusing the tireless men who tracked me, and took to the stones, springing from one step to the next, taking care not to wet my moccasins, dislodge moss or lichen, or in any manner mark the stones I trod on or break or disturb the branches and leaves above me.

The stream ran almost north as did all the little water-courses hereabouts, and for a long while I followed it, until at last, to my great relief, it divided; and I followed the branch that ran northeast.

Again this branch forked; I took the eastern course until, on the right bank, I saw long, naked beds of rock stretching into low crags and curving eastward.

Over this rock no Seneca could hope to track a cautious and hunted man.

I walked sometimes, sometimes trotted; and so jogged on, bearing ever to the east and south, meaning to cross the Chinisee River north of the confluence, and pa.s.s clear around the head of the lake.

Here I made my mistake by a.s.suming that, as our pioneers must still be working on the burnt bridge, the enemy that had merely enveloped our party by curling around us his right flank, would again swing back to their bluffs along the lake, and, though hope of ambuscade was over, dispute the pa.s.sage of the stream and the mora.s.s with our own people.

But as I came out among the trees along the river bank, to my astonishment and alarm I saw an Indian house, and smoke curling from the chimney. So taken aback was I that I ran south to a great oak tree and stood behind it, striving to collect my thoughts and make out my proper bearings. But off again scattered every idea I had in my head, and I looked about me in a very panic, for I heard close at hand the barking of Indian dogs and a vast murmur of voices; and, peering out again from behind my tree I could see other houses close to the strip of forest where I hid, and the narrow lane between them was crowded with people.

Where I was, what this town might be, I could not surmise; nor did I perceive any way out of this wasp's nest where I was now landed, except to retrace my trail. And that I dared not do.

There was now a great shouting in the village as though some person had just made a speech and his audience remained in two nods concerning its import.

Truly, this seemed to be no place for me; the woods were very open--a sugar bush in all the gorgeous glory of scarlet, yellow, and purple foliage, heavily fringed with thickets of bushes and young hardwood growth, which for the moment had hid the town from me, and no doubt concealed me from the people close at hand. To retreat through such a strip of woodland was impossible without discovery. Besides, somewhere on my back trail were enemies, though just where I could not know. For a moment's despair, it seemed to me that only the wings of a bird could save me now; then, as I involuntarily cast my gaze aloft, the thought to climb followed; and up I went into the branches, where the blaze of foliage concealed me; and lay close to a great limb looking down over the top of the thicket to the open river bank. And what I saw astounded me; the enemy's baggage wagons were fording the river; his cattle-drove had just been herded across, and the open s.p.a.ce was already full of his gaunt cows and oxen.

Rangers and Greens p.r.i.c.ked them forward with their bayonets, forcing them out of the opening and driving them northwest through the outskirts of the village. The wagons, horses, and vehicles, in a dreadful plight, followed the herd-guard. After them marched Butler's rear-guard, rangers, Greens, renegades, Indians sullenly turning their heads to listen and to gaze as the uproar from the village increased and burst into a very frenzy of diabolical yelling.

Suddenly, out through the narrow lane or street surged hundreds of Seneca warriors, all cl.u.s.tering and crowding around something in the centre of the ma.s.s; and as the throng, now lurching this way, now driving that way, spread out over the cleared land up to the edges of the very thicket which I overlooked, my blood froze in my veins.

For in the centre of that ma.s.s of painted, capering demons, walked Boyd and Parker, their bloodless faces set and grim, their heads carried high.

Into this confusion drove the baggage wagons; the herd-guards began to shout angrily and drive back the Indians; the wagons drove slowly through the lane, the drivers looking down curiously at Boyd and his pallid companion, but not insulting them.

One by one the battered and rickety wagons jolted by; then came the b.l.o.o.d.y and dishevelled soldiery plodding with shouldered muskets through the lanes of excited warriors, scarcely letting their haggard eyes rest on the two prisoners who stood, unpinioned in the front rank.

A mounted officer, leaning from his saddle, asked the Senecas what they meant to do with these prisoners; and the ferocious response seemed to shock him, for he drew bridle and stared at Boyd as though fascinated.

So near to where I lay was Boyd standing that I could see the checked quiver of his lips as he bit them to control his nerves before he spoke. Then he said to the mounted officer, in a perfectly even and distinct voice:

"Can you not secure for us, sir, the civilized treatment of prisoners of war?"

"I dare not interfere," faltered the officer, staring around at the sea of devilish faces.

"And you, a white man, return me such a cowardly answer?"

Another motley company came marching up from the river, led by a superb Mohawk Indian in full war-paint and feathers; and, blocked by the mounted officer in front, halted.

I saw Boyd's despairing glance sweep their files; then suddenly his eyes brightened.

"Brant!" he cried.