CHAPTER XIII.
Morning found the settlers, with the exception of Col. Zane, hisbrother Jonathan, the negro Sam, and Martin Wetzel, all within theFort. Col. Zane had determined, long before, that in the event ofanother siege, he would use his house as an outpost. Twice it hadbeen destroyed by fire at the hands of the Indians. Therefore,surrounding himself by these men, who were all expert marksmen, Col.Zane resolved to protect his property and at the same time rendervaluable aid to the Fort.
Early that morning a pirogue loaded with cannon balls, from Ft. Pittand bound for Louisville, had arrived and Captain Sullivan, with hiscrew of three men, had demanded admittance. In the absence of Capt.Boggs and Major McColloch, both of whom had been dispatched forreinforcements, Col. Zane had placed his brother Silas in command ofthe Fort. Sullivan informed Silas that he and his men had been firedon by Indians and that they sought the protection of the Fort. Theservices of himself and men, which he volunteered, were gratefullyaccepted.
All told, the little force in the block-house did not exceedforty-two, and that counting the boys and the women who could handlerifles. The few preparations had been completed and now the settlerswere awaiting the appearance of the enemy. Few words were spoken.The children were secured where they would be out of the way offlying bullets. They were huddled together silent and frightened;pale-faced but resolute women passed up and down the length of theblock-house; some carried buckets of water and baskets of food;others were tearing bandages; grim-faced men peered from theportholes; all were listening for the war-cry.
They had not long to wait. Before noon the well-known whoop camefrom the wooded shore of the river, and it was soon followed by theappearance of hundreds of Indians. The river, which was low, at oncebecame a scene of great animation. From a placid, smoothly flowingstream it was turned into a muddy, splashing, turbulent torrent. Themounted warriors urged their steeds down the bank and into thewater; the unmounted improvised rafts and placed their weapons andammunition upon them; then they swam and pushed, kicked and yelledtheir way across; other Indians swam, holding the bridles of thepack-horses. A detachment of British soldiers followed the Indians.In an hour the entire army appeared on the river bluff not threehundred yards from the Fort. They were in no hurry to begin theattack. Especially did the Indians seem to enjoy the lull before thestorm, and as they stalked to and fro in plain sight of thegarrison, or stood in groups watching the Fort, they were seen inall their hideous war-paint and formidable battle-array. They wereexultant. Their plumes and eagle feathers waved proudly in themorning breeze. Now and then the long, peculiarly broken yell of theShawnees rang out clear and strong. The soldiers were drawn off toone side and well out of range of the settlers' guns. Their redcoats and flashing bayonets were new to most of the little band ofmen in the block-house.
"Ho, the Fort!"
It was a strong, authoritative voice and came from a man mounted ona black horse.
"Well, Girty, what is it?" shouted Silas Zane.
"We demand unconditional surrender," was the answer.
"You will never get it," replied Silas.
"Take more time to think it over. You see we have a force here largeenough to take the Fort in an hour."
"That remains to be seen," shouted some one through porthole.
An hour passed. The soldiers and the Indians lounged around on thegrass and walked to and fro on the bluff. At intervals a tauntingIndian yell, horrible in its suggestiveness came floating on theair. When the hour was up three mounted men rode out in advance ofthe waiting Indians. One was clad in buckskin, another in theuniform of a British officer, and the third was an Indian chiefwhose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt andlegging.
"Will you surrender?" came in the harsh and arrogant voice of therenegade.
"Never! Go back to your squaws!" yelled Sullivan.
"I am Capt. Pratt of the Queen's Rangers. If you surrender I willgive you the best protection King George affords," shouted theofficer.
"To hell with lying George! Go back to your hair-buying Hamilton andtell him the whole British army could not make us surrender," roaredHugh Bennet.
"If you do not give up, the Fort will be attacked and burned. Yourmen will be massacred and your women given to the Indians," saidGirty.
"You will never take a man, woman or child alive," yelled Silas. "Weremember Crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to giveup to be butchered. Come on with your red-jackets and yourred-devils. We are ready."
"We have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now allhope of succor must be abandoned. Your doom is sealed."
"What kind of a man was he?" shouted Sullivan.
"A fine, active young fellow," answered the outlaw.
"That's a lie," snapped Sullivan, "he was an old, gray haired man."
As the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consulttheir companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one ofthe portholes of the block-house. It was followed by the ringingreport of a rifle. The Indian chief clutched wildly at his breast,fell forward on his horse, and after vainly trying to keep his seat,slipped to the ground. He raised himself once, then fell backwardand lay still. Full two hundred yards was not proof against Wetzel'sdeadly smallbore, and Red Fox, the foremost war chieftain of theShawnees, lay dead, a victim to the hunter's vengeance. It wascharacteristic of Wetzel that he picked the chief, for he could haveshot either the British officer or the renegade. They retreated outof range, leaving the body of the chief where it had fallen, whilethe horse, giving a frightened snort, galloped toward the woods.Wetzel's yell coming quickly after his shot, excited the Indians toa very frenzy, and they started on a run for the Fort, dischargingtheir rifles and screeching like so many demons.
In the cloud of smoke which at once enveloped the scene the Indiansspread out and surrounded the Fort. A tremendous rush by a largeparty of Indians was made for the gate of the Fort. They attacked itfiercely with their tomahawks, and a log which they used as abattering-ram. But the stout gate withstood their united efforts,and the galling fire from the portholes soon forced them to fallback and seek cover behind the trees and the rocks. From thesepoints of vantage they kept up an uninterrupted fire.
The soldiers had made a dash at the stockade-fence, yelling derisionat the small French cannon which was mounted on top of theblock-house. They thought it a "dummy" because they had learned thatin the 1777 siege the garrison had no real cannon, but had tried toutilize a wooden one. They yelled and hooted and mocked at thispiece and dared the garrison to fire it. Sullivan, who was in chargeof the cannon, bided his time. When the soldiers were massed closelytogether and making another rush for the stockade-fence Sullivanturned loose the little "bulldog," spreading consternation anddestruction in the British ranks.
"Stand back! Stand back!" Capt. Pratt was heard to yell. "By God!there's no wood about that gun."
After this the besiegers withdrew for a breathing spell. At thisearly stage of the siege the Indians were seen to board Sullivan'spirogue, and it was soon discovered they were carrying the cannonballs from the boat to the top of the bluff. In their simple mindsthey had conceived a happy thought. They procured a white-oak logprobably a foot in diameter, split it through the middle andhollowed out the inside with their tomahawks. Then with iron chainsand bars, which they took from Reihart's blacksmith shop, they boundand securely fastened the sides together. They dragged theimprovised cannon nearer to the Fort, placed it on two logs andweighted it down with stones. A heavy charge of powder and ball wasthen rammed into the wooden gun. The soldiers, though muchinterested in the manoeuvre, moved back to a safe distance, whilemany of the Indians crowded round the new weapon. The torch wasapplied; there was a red flash--boom! The hillside was shaken by thetremendous explosion, and when the smoke lifted from the scene thenaked forms of the Indians could be seen writhing in agony on theground. Not a vestige of the wooden gun remained. The iron chainshad proved terrible death-dealing missiles to the Indians near thegun. The
Indians now took to their natural methods of warfare. Theyhid in the long grass, in the deserted cabins, behind the trees andup in the branches. Not an Indian was visible, but the rain ofbullets pattered steadily against the block-house. Every bush andevery tree spouted little puffs of white smoke, and the leadenmessengers of Death whistled through the air.
After another unsuccessful effort to destroy a section of thestockade-fence the soldiers had retired. Their red jackets made thema conspicuous mark for the sharp-eyed settlers. Capt. Pratt had beenshot through the thigh. He suffered great pain, and was deeplychagrined by the surprising and formidable defense of the garrisonwhich he had been led to believe would fall an easy prey to theKing's soldiers. He had lost one-third of his men. Those who wereleft refused to run straight in the face of certain death. They hadnot been drilled to fight an unseen enemy. Capt. Pratt was compelledto order a retreat to the river bluff, where he conferred withGirty.
Inside the block-house was great activity, but no confusion. Thatlittle band of fighters might have been drilled for a king'sbodyguard. Kneeling before each porthole on the river side of theFort was a man who would fight while there was breath left in him.He did not discharge his weapon aimlessly as the Indians did, butwaited until he saw the outline of an Indian form, or a red coat, ora puff of white smoke; then he would thrust the rifle-barrelforward, take a quick aim and fire. By the side of every man stood aheroic woman whose face was blanched, but who spoke never a word asshe put the muzzle of the hot rifle into a bucket of water, cooledthe barrel, wiped it dry and passed it back to the man beside her.
Silas Zane had been wounded at the first fire. A glancing ball hadstruck him on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound. It was nowbeing dressed by Col. Zane's wife, whose skilled fingers werealready tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuriesreceived by the defenders. In all that horrible din of battle, theshrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, theboom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and thewhistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amidthe stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sightof the desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel's bravewife had never faltered. She was here and there; binding the wounds,helping Lydia and Betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and byher example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bearup under the awful strain.
Sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down theladder almost without touching it. Blood was running down his barearm and dripping from the ends of his fingers.
"Zane, Martin has been shot," he said hoarsely. "The same Indian whoshot away these fingers did it. The bullets seem to come from someelevation. Send some scout up there and find out where that damnedIndian is hiding."
"Martin shot? God, his poor wife! Is he dead?" said Silas.
"Not yet. Bennet is bringing him down. Here, I want this hand tiedup, so that my gun won't be so slippery."
Wetzel was seen stalking from one porthole to another. His fearfulyell sounded above all the others. He seemed to bear a charmed life,for not a bullet had so much as scratched him. Silas communicated tohim what Sullivan had said. The hunter mounted the ladder and wentup on the roof. Soon he reappeared, descended into the room and raninto the west end of the block-house. He kneeled before a portholethrough which he pushed the long black barrel of his rifle. Silasand Sullivan followed him and looked in the direction indicated byhis weapon. It pointed toward the bushy top of a tall poplar treewhich stood on the hill west of the Fort. Presently a little cloudof white smoke issued from the leafy branches, and it was no soonerseen than Wetzel's rifle was discharged. There was a great commotionamong the leaves, the branches swayed and thrashed, and then a darkbody plunged downward to strike on the rocky slope of the bluff androll swiftly out of sight. The hunter's unnatural yell pealed out.
"Great God! The man's crazy," cried Sullivan, staring at Wetzel'sdemon-like face.
"No, no. It's his way," answered Silas.
At that moment the huge frame of Bennet filled up the opening in theroof and started down the ladder. In one arm he carried the limpbody of a young man. When he reached the floor he laid the body downand beckoned to Mrs. Zane. Those watching saw that the young man wasWill Martin, and that he was still alive. But it was evident that hehad not long to live. His face had a leaden hue and his eyes werebright and glassy. Alice, his wife, flung herself on her kneesbeside him and tenderly raised the drooping head. No words couldexpress the agony in her face as she raised it to Mrs. Zane. In itwas a mute appeal, an unutterable prayer for hope. Mrs. Zane turnedsorrowfully to her task. There was no need of her skill here. AlfredClarke, who had been ordered to take Martin's place on top of theblock-house, paused a moment in silent sympathy. When he saw thatlittle hole in the bared chest, from which the blood welled up in anawful stream, he shuddered and passed on. Betty looked up from herwork and then turned away sick and faint. Her mute lips moved as ifin prayer.
Alice was left alone with her dying husband. She tenderly supportedhis head on her bosom, leaned her face against his and kissed thecold, numb lips. She murmured into his already deaf ear the oldtender names. He knew her, for he made a feeble effort to pass hisarm round her neck. A smile illumined his face. Then death claimedhim. With wild, distended eyes and with hands pressed tightly to hertemples Alice rose slowly to her feet.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" she cried.
Her prayer was answered. In a momentary lull in the battle was heardthe deadly hiss of a bullet as it sped through one of the portholes.It ended with a slight sickening spat as the lead struck the flesh.Then Alice, without a cry, fell on the husband's breast. Silas Zanefound her lying dead with the body of her husband clasped closely inher arms. He threw a blanket over them and went on his wearyinground of the bastions.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The besiegers had been greatly harassed and hampered by thecontinual fire from Col. Zane's house. It was exceedingly difficultfor the Indians, and impossible for the British, to approach nearenough to the Colonel's house to get an effective shot. Col. Zaneand his men had the advantage of being on higher ground. Also theyhad four rifles to a man, and they used every spare moment forreloading. Thus they were enabled to pour a deadly fire into theranks of the enemy, and to give the impression of being muchstronger in force than they really were.
About dusk the firing ceased and the Indians repaired to the riverbluff. Shortly afterward their camp-fires were extinguished and allbecame dark and quiet. Two hours passed. Fortunately the clouds,which had at first obscured the moon, cleared away somewhat andenough light was shed on the scene to enable the watchers to discernobjects near by.
Col. Zane had just called together his men for a conference. Hesuspected some cunning deviltry on part of the Indians.
"Sam, take what stuff to eat you can lay your hands on and go up tothe loft. Keep a sharp lookout and report anything to Jonathan orme," said the Colonel.
All afternoon Jonathan Zane had loaded and fired his rifles insullen and dogged determination. He had burst one rifle and disabledanother. The other men were fine marksmen, but it was undoubtedlyJonathan's unerring aim that made the house so unapproachable. Heused an extremely heavy, large bore rifle. In the hands of a manstrong enough to stand its fierce recoil it was a veritable cannon.The Indians had soon learned to respect the range of that rifle, andthey gave the cabin a wide berth.
But now that darkness had enveloped the valley the advantage laywith the savages. Col. Zane glanced apprehensively at the blackenedface of his brother.
"Do you think the Fort can hold out?" he asked in a husky voice. Hewas a bold man, but he thought now of his wife and children.
"I don't know," answered Jonathan. "I saw that big Shawnee chieftoday. His name is Fire. He is well named. He is a fiend. Girty hasa picked band."
"The Fort has held out surprisingly well against such combined andfierce attacks. The Indians are desperate. You can easily see thatin the way in which they almo
st threw their lives away. The greensquare is covered with dead Indians."
"If help does not come in twenty-four hours not one man will escapealive. Even Wetzel could not break through that line of Indians. Butif we can hold the Indians off a day longer they will get tired anddiscouraged. Girty will not be able to hold them much longer. TheBritish don't count. It's not their kind of war. They can't shoot,and so far as I can see they haven't done much damage."
"To your posts, men, and every man think of the women and childrenin the block-house."
For a long time, which seemed hours to the waiting and watchingsettlers, not a sound could be heard, nor any sign of the enemyseen. Thin clouds had again drifted over the moon, allowing only apale, wan light to shine down on the valley. Time dragged on and theclouds grew thicker and denser until the moon and the stars weretotally obscured. Still no sign or sound of the savages.
"What was that?" suddenly whispered Col. Zane.
"It was a low whistle from Sam. We'd better go up," said Jonathan.
They went up the stairs to the second floor from which they ascendedto the loft by means of a ladder. The loft was as black as pitch. Inthat Egyptian darkness it was no use to look for anything, so theycrawled on their hands and knees over the piles of hides and leatherwhich lay on the floor. When they reached the small window they madeout the form of the negro.
"What is it, Sam?" whispered Jonathan.
"Look, see thar, Massa Zane," came the answer in a hoarse whisperfrom the negro and at the same time he pointed down toward theground.
Col. Zane put his head alongside Jonathan's and all three men peeredout into the darkness.
"Jack, can you see anything?" said Col. Zane.
"No, but wait a minute until the moon throws a light."
A breeze had sprung up. The clouds were passing rapidly over themoon, and at long intervals a rift between the clouds let enoughlight through to brighten the square for an instant.
"Now, Massa Zane, thar!" exclaimed the slave.
"I can't see a thing. Can you, Jack?"
"I am not sure yet. I can see something, but whether it is a log ornot I don't know."
Just then there was a faint light like the brightening of a firefly,or like the blowing of a tiny spark from a stick of burning wood.Jonathan uttered a low curse.
"D--n 'em! At their old tricks with fire. I thought all this quietmeant something. The grass out there is full of Indians, and theyare carrying lighted arrows under them so as to cover the light. Butwe'll fool the red devils this time"
"I can see 'em, Massa Zane."
"Sh-h-h! no more talk," whispered Col. Zane.
The men waited with cocked rifles. Another spark rose seemingly outof the earth. This time it was nearer the house. No sooner had itsfeeble light disappeared than the report of the negro's rifle awokethe sleeping echoes. It was succeeded by a yell which seemed to comefrom under the window. Several dark forms rose so suddenly that theyappeared to spring out of the ground. Then came the peculiar twangof Indian bows. There were showers of sparks and little streaks offire with long tails like comets winged their parabolic flighttoward the cabin. Falling short they hissed and sputtered in thegrass. Jonathan's rifle spoke and one of the fleeing forms tumbledto the earth. A series of long yells from all around the Fortgreeted this last shot, but not an Indian fired a rifle.
Fire-tipped arrows were now shot at the block-house, but not onetook effect, although a few struck the stockade-fence. Col. Zane hadtaken the precaution to have the high grass and the clusters ofgoldenrod cut down all round the Fort. The wisdom of this course nowbecame evident, for the wily savages could not crawl near enough tosend their fiery arrows on the roof of the block-house. This attemptfailing, the Indians drew back to hatch up some other plot to burnthe Fort.
"Look!" suddenly exclaimed Jonathan.
Far down the road, perhaps five hundred yards from the Fort, a pointof light had appeared. At first it was still, and then it took anodd jerky motion, to this side and to that, up and down like ajack-o-lantern.
"What the hell?" muttered Col. Zane, sorely puzzled. "Jack, by allthat's strange it's getting bigger."
Sure enough the spark of fire, or whatever it was, grew larger andlarger. Col. Zane thought it might be a light carried by a man onhorseback. But if this were true where was the clatter of thehorse's hoofs? On that rocky blur no horse could run noiselessly. Itcould not be a horse. Fascinated and troubled by this new mysterywhich seemed to presage evil to them the watchers waited with thatpatience known only to those accustomed to danger. They knew thatwhatever it was, it was some satanic stratagem of the savages, andthat it would come all too soon.
The light was now zigzagging back and forth across the road, andapproaching the Fort with marvelous rapidity. Now its motion waslike the wide swinging of a lighted lantern on a dark night. Amoment more of breathless suspense and the lithe form of an Indianbrave could be seen behind the light. He was running with almostincredible swiftness down the road in the direction of the Fort.Passing at full speed within seventy-five yards of thestockade-fence the Indian shot his arrow. Like a fiery serpentflying through the air the missile sped onward in its gracefulflight, going clear over the block-house, and striking with aspiteful thud the roof of one of the cabins beyond. Unhurt by thevolley that was fired at him, the daring brave passed swiftly out ofsight.
Deeds like this were dear to the hearts of the savages. They weredeeds which made a warrior of a brave, and for which honor anyIndian would risk his life over and over again. The exultant yellswhich greeted this performance proclaimed its success.
The breeze had already fanned the smouldering arrow into a blaze andthe dry roof of the cabin had caught fire and was burning fiercely.
"That infernal redskin is going to do that again," ejaculatedJonathan.
It was indeed true. That same small bright light could be seencoming down the road gathering headway with every second. No doubtthe same Indian, emboldened by his success, and maddened with thatthirst for glory so often fatal to his kind, was again making theeffort to fire the block-house.
The eyes of Col. Zane and his companions were fastened on the lightas it came nearer and nearer with its changing motion. The burningcabin brightened the square before the Fort. The slender, shadowyfigure of the Indian could be plainly seen emerging from the gloom.So swiftly did he run that he seemed to have wings. Now he was inthe full glare of the light. What a magnificent nerve, what aterrible assurance there was in his action! It seemed to paralyzeall. The red arrow emitted a shower of sparks as it was discharged.This time it winged its way straight and true and imbedded itself inthe roof of the block-house.
Almost at the same instant a solitary rifle shot rang out and thedaring warrior plunged headlong, sliding face downward in the dustof the road, while from the Fort came that demoniac yell now grownso familiar.
"Wetzel's compliments," muttered Jonathan. "But the mischief isdone. Look at that damned burning arrow. If it doesn't blow out theFort will go."
The arrow was visible, but it seemed a mere spark. It alternatelypaled and glowed. One moment it almost went out, and the next itgleamed brightly. To the men, compelled to look on and powerless toprevent the burning of the now apparently doomed block-house, thatspark was like the eye of Hell.
"Ho, the Fort," yelled Col. Zane with all the power of his stronglungs. "Ho, Silas, the roof is on fire!"
Pandemonium had now broken out among the Indians. They could beplainly seen in the red glare thrown by the burning cabin. It hadbeen a very dry season, the rough shingles were like tinder, and theinflammable material burst quickly into great flames, lighting upthe valley as far as the edge of the forest. It was an awe-inspiringand a horrible spectacle. Columns of yellow and black smoke rolledheavenward; every object seemed dyed a deep crimson; the treesassumed fantastic shapes; the river veiled itself under a red glow.Above the roaring and crackling of the flames rose the inhumanyelling of the savages. Like demons of the inferno they ran to andfro, their naked paint
ed bodies shining in the glare. One group ofsavages formed a circle and danced hands-around a stump as gayly asa band of school-girls at a May party. They wrestled with and huggedone another; they hopped, skipped and jumped, and in every possibleway manifested their fiendish joy.
The British took no part in this revelry. To their credit it must besaid they kept in the background as though ashamed of this horriblefire-war on people of their own blood.
"Why don't they fire the cannon?" impatiently said Col. Zane. "Whydon't they do something?"
"Perhaps it is disabled, or maybe they are short of ammunition,"suggested Jonathan.
"The block-house will burn down before our eyes. Look! Thehell-hounds have set fire to the fence. I see men running andthrowing water."
"I see something on the roof of the block-house," cried Jonathan."There, down towards the east end of the roof and in the shadow ofthe chimney. And as I'm a living sinner it's a man crawling towardsthat blazing arrow. The Indians have not discovered him yet. He isstill in the shadow. But they'll see him. God! What a nervy thing todo in the face of all those redskins. It is almost certain death!"
"Yes, and they see him," said the Colonel.
With shrill yells the Indians bounded forward and aimed and firedtheir rifles at the crouching figure of the man. Some hid behind thelogs they had rolled toward the Fort; others boldly faced the steadyfire now pouring from the portholes. The savages saw in the movementof that man an attempt to defeat their long-cherished hope ofburning the Fort. Seeing he was discovered, the man did nothesitate, nor did he lose a second. Swiftly he jumped and ran towardthe end of the roof where the burning arrow, now surrounded byblazing shingles, was sticking in the roof. How he ever ran alongthat slanting roof and with a pail in his hand was incomprehensible.In moments like that men become superhuman. It all happened in aninstant. He reached the arrow, kicked it over the wall, and thendashed the bucket of water on the blazing shingles. In that singleinstant, wherein his tall form was outlined against the bright lightbehind him, he presented the fairest kind of a mark for the Indians.Scores of rifles were levelled and discharged at him. The bulletspattered like hail on the roof of the block-house, but apparentlynone found their mark, for the man ran back and disappeared.
"It was Clarke!" exclaimed Col. Zane. "No one but Clarke has suchlight hair. Wasn't that a plucky thing?"
"It has saved the block-house for to-night," answered Jonathan."See, the Indians are falling back. They can't stand in the face ofthat shooting. Hurrah! Look at them fall! It could not have happenedbetter. The light from the cabin will prevent any more close attacksfor an hour and daylight is near."