Роберт Чамберс - The Hidden Children

"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 bloody–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, smashing out the way with our heavy weapons.

How we got through God 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 hit, 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 morass 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 bloody 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 bloody band. The Senecas would surely demand the prisoners. There was not one soul to speak a word for them, unless Brant were near. That noble 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 pass clear around the head of the lake.

Here I made my mistake by assuming 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 passage of the stream and the morass 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.