XXTHE BATTLE IN THE WOODS
Guyasuta led right on to an inside angle of the log walls, and there he stopped, behind a building where few could see.
“Now!” he said, when Robert joined him; and he opened a little package that he took from his pouch. “I will make a French Mohawk of you. You can march with them who do not know you in the Mohawk paint. Then maybe you can get ahead of the ambush and find Washington and Scarouady.”
“What do you do?” asked the Hunter.
“I war with the English. If the red-coats caught me now they would kill me. But you can tell Washington and Scarouady to look out.”
With his sharp knife Guyasuta slashed off Robert’s brown hair close to the head and left only a Mohawk scalp-lock. He rubbed reddish grease into the fuzzy crown and daubed the scalp-lock black and red so that it lay stiffly; and he rapidly painted Robert’s face with red and black; and when Robert had slipped off his buckskin shirt he painted his brown chest and arms.
“Here are hatchet and knife, and powder flask and bullet pouch,” said Guyasuta. “You will find plenty gun outside. Go quickly. I do this because my heart is good toward Washington and Scarouady, and you and I are brothers too.”
“Wah!” uttered the Hunter. “I go.”
Then looking like a young Mohawk warrior, forhe was straight and well formed, Robert the Hunter boldly ran to the gate and went out among the other Indians bustling to and fro.
All were still painting and arming—jostling to seize the guns piled ready for the taking, and to fill up with powder and lead.
Robert glanced at the top of the wall near the gate. He saw Jim there, clinging fast; and Jim looked down upon him and did not recognize him! Nobody paid any attention to him amid the excitement.
Within the fort drums had been rolling, commands were being shouted. Soldiers stood in line. Here came Beaujeu, in Indian buckskin shirt and leggins and moccasins, upon his head a soft, black hat with brim fastened up at one side by an eagle feather, upon his chest a dangling silver brooch as sign that he was an officer. He was to lead.
The Hunter kept away from the Delawares and the Pontiac Ottawas. His heart beat high, for he yet might be known through his paint. Where were the Mohawks? There they were, getting together, with the French Iroquois their brothers; and he hastened over and sat down, to wait the signal of the chiefs.
Ho! There went Beaujeu, turning with a shout—“Here, my children!”—and with gallant wave of hat. After him trotted the Anastase Hurons. The Mohawk and Caugh-na-wa-ga chiefs cried: “Quick! Or the Hurons shame us!” and with a great yell the jealous Mohawks and other Iroquois leaped to join the van before the Ottawas and Shawnees beat them.
The Delawares and Mingos had stood aside. They were not yet decided; and they stayed at the fort.
Seemingly as eager as any, Robert trotted with the Mohawks. Nobody had eyes for him; he was a warrior in full paint, like the rest of them. The Hurons travelled rapidly, taking a long, single file when they entered the woods; the Mohawks and Caugh-na-wa-gas also travelled rapidly, taking to single file. By the yells behind, the other bands were following. Then the forest swallowed the noise.
Pat-pat, scuff-scuff, sounded the moccasins. The attack from ambush along the trail of the English and Long Knives had started into motion. Robert the Hunter, in Mohawk paint, wondered how he was to get out of the scrape in time to find the red-coat column—but it would be better first to find Scarouady, or Gist, or the Virginians, and send word to Washington.
By the talk, now and then, the English were to be attacked at the second ford of the Monongahela. That was ten miles by rough trail. Wah! He did not know whether he could keep up this pace, for his strained ankle was hurting cruelly. If he could drop out, some way, and cut across, he could shorten the distance; and he’d have to wash off that paint or he’d be shot on sight by an English bullet.
Ho! And ever pat-pat, scuff-scuff, on the way to surprise Washington! Ho! He could make good use of that ankle. He began to limp more than necessary; and soon the Mohawk next behind him said:
“My young brother is lame. Let me go ahead.”
“Pebble in my moccasin,” Robert replied gladly. So he fell out and sat down, to rid himself of that pebble. While he was pretending to take his moccasin off the file passed.
“Wah! My brother will be late for scalps,” said the last Caugh-na-wa-ga.
“I will catch up,” answered Robert, still fussing. And the trotting file disappeared around a bend. Now Robert sprang to his feet, cast one glance to see that the coast was clear, and dived into the brush.
He could not nurse his ankle any more. But he had left the trail to Fraser’s and the river, and the going was worse.
Viny ravines blocked him, and tangled or rocky slopes slowed him; and what with his hurry and his many detours he almost lost his way. Besides, his ankle did hurt, whether he minded or not. Then he came to a spring, and he stopped just long enough to scrub the paint from his face and chest with wet clay. Then he ran on, feeling better. He was no French Mohawk now; he was a Washington man.
Wah! He had washed off his paint too soon! What was that? He heard voices—he had approached the trail again; no, this was a little side trail, and all around him lay a park which he dared not cross while those voices were so near. He acted as quick as thought—he thrust his gun under a log and shinned full speed into a tree. He scarcely had climbed well up, and held rigid, when more Indians arrived.
They were Ottawas, trotting like wolves, with Pontiac leading; after them came the Potawatomis under Langlade, and the Ojibwas, and the Shawnees of Black Hoof; and after these came the woodsmen Rangers in their hunting clothes, and a company of French regular soldiers in blue and white. Who next? The Hunter figured that he had seen over six hundred Indians and almost three hundred French upon the march to war.
While he hung in his tree he looked abroad to figure just where he was. It was a fine big tree upon a hill. He could see the Monongahela, down toward Fraser’s; not very far, either, by air line—and the bend of the river flashed back at him with moving figures.
The English army was crossing! Ho, what a sight through the sunshine! In solid red line it was crossing, and the flags flew, and by the glitter of the instruments the bands were making music—he could see even the white cross-belts of the grenadiers, beneath the tall, peaked, black-leather hats; the officers rode alongside their companies, and their swords glanced brightly when they waved orders.
The cannon were tugged through; and the wagons and the cattle and the pack horses splashed high; and the Long Knife Americans marched, in their buckskins and their blue, guarding the rear. There were scouts out, too, up stream and down stream—grenadiers. And at last—huzzah!—the whole army was across. The French and Indians were too late to stop it there!
As nobody came, Robert dropped out of his tree, and grabbed up his gun and ran again. He might yet be in time, while Beaujeu was planning another ambush.
He went scudding on, down hill and up, on short cut once more, to reach Washington and tell him; he had gone maybe half way from the tree to Fraser’s near the river when “Crack! Crack! Crackity-crack crack! Bang! Bangity bang! Bang-bang-bang! Bang-g-g-g!” the woods shook! The battle! He himself was too late.
Just how Robert arrived at the scene he did notknow. He must have run very fast, for the first thing he did know he was right into the yelling and the shooting and the smoke—and the French Indians!
These were the Hurons, hiding behind trees and logs and bushes, or darting around from cover to cover, while they shot. He just saw Beaujeu, leaping like a deer and cheering in French while he waved to the Canadian Rangers to come on. And on before, through the trees, there showed a mass of red—the coats of the English, who stood in the trail. Then from the red there belched a great cloud, and another thunderous volley, crashing through the woods. The bullets whined among the branches, as if the English were aiming too high; but down fell Beaujeu, and down sprawled several Hurons, dead.
A cry rose from the French Rangers. They were running away, crying: “Save yourself! Save yourself!” But another French officer sprang out, calling them back. The English in red coats were pressing on, through the narrow trail of freshly felled trees, and what they cried was: “Huzzah! Huzzah! God save the King!”
Then the English column parted, two cannon spoke with tremendous noise, and a storm of bullets rushed through the trees, splintering the bark and cutting off branches. At that terrible thunder and lightning the Indians ran also, to one side and another; and Robert likewise scuttled, for the cannons were to speak again, this time into the face of a great volley from more French soldiers who had come on.
More red-coats were coming, too, at the double-quick, from down the slope. But the Indians had not run far. They were spread on both sides ofthe narrow road: they were hiding in hollows and ravines, where the pea-vines grew thickly and the trees clustered, and were shooting and yelling.
Next, Robert found himself among the Potawatomis. And still he edged along, seeking to get around and find a way in to Washington.
The woods all about him were full of darting, crawling, shrieking painted figures, scarcely to be seen amid the brush and the smoke. The noise was dreadful, while the English volleys answered the French volleys, and the great guns boomed, and the muskets and rifles of the Indians whanged without a pause.
Now and then he could see the English soldiers; they were surging this way, and that way, shooting without aim into the trees, while their officers beat their muskets down with swords or tried to wave a charge. Pretty soon he seemed to have reached the end of the Indians on this side of the road. And suddenly a Shawnee right before him leaped high, with a death yell; and while several other Indians in covert here broke and legged for safety, rifles cracked to stop them and a tall chief—followed by his men, among them a white man—raced in for the scalp.
Robert lunged forward, regardless. His shout was drowned in the scalp halloo of Scarouady; he tripped and fell, and next the hatchet of Scarouady was poised over his shaved head. Only just in time he wriggled aside, and flung up his arm and showed his face.
“No, no! See me, Scarouady!” he gasped.
“Wah!” panted Scarouady. “The Hunter! I saw a Mohawk scalp!”
Nothing more could be said now. Bullets sang past; Scarouady leaped for the Shawnee scalp, and he and Aroas, Gist, Iagrea, Newcastle and White Thunder “treed” again, to hold their ground.
The Hunter crept to Gist.
“Where’ve you been? You’ve turned Mohawk?” said Gist, between shots. “Why is that?”
“Shingis took me to fort,” the Hunter panted. “Guyasuta there. He turned me Mohawk to get me out. Where is Washington, Gist?”
“In the thick of it, I’ll wager,” rapped Gist. “Will you go to him?”
“Yes.”
“Good! But you can’t go in that Injun garb. Buckskin wouldn’t save you, either. The red-coats shoot at every moving thing. Wait here.” And Gist rapidly crawled away, darted from tree to tree and disappeared in the smoke.
He came back with a round hat and a round jacket; they were bloody, they had been worn by a wood chopper and Gist was bleeding, too, from a ball that had scraped his ear.
“On with these. You’ll have to make a run for it. The woods are full of death—those Injuns are everywhere. Find the colonel. Tell him I say to fetch on the Virginians; make those red-coats take to the trees; Braddock has got to fight Injun fashion or he’ll not have a soldier left. Run.”
Robert ran. He was seen—the bullets pinged after—they crossed his course—they fanned his cheeks, they seared his eyes, they ripped through his coat and hat; whether he was struck he did not know, although he thought he felt a sharp blow and a pain in one arm; but he left Gist and Scarouady and thelittle squad trying to keep the enemy at bay on this flank, and plunging on through the drifted smoke he emerged into the road.
This was turmoil, with soldiers stumbling down, some hatless, some wounded, all bewildered; and with soldiers marching up, pressing on cheering, their officers leading, until the crowd from up the slope met them and rammed in through them, for cover; and then there was another hurly-burly.
Even here on the outskirts Robert was shoved to and fro. A galloping horse knocked him over. He got up. The soldiers from below had formed again; they marched in a solid line, with their bayonets pointed, and a fine officer in scarlet and gold in front of them, to charge the hill. But the bullets crumpled them, and their tall hats flew, and they stopped as if a strong wind were blowing against them; and in a moment their officer was marching alone. So he had to come back.
Here, on the run, came part of the Virginia Long Knives, at last; they ran at double-quick, through the trees—the blue facing on their buckskin shirts twinkled amid the green leaves and the pale smoke. Washington had not waited, then! But where was Washington? There—galloping in amid the red-coat soldiers, swinging his hat and huzzahing. Robert made for him—arrived just as he was off his horse.
Washington had been riding upon a pillow; the pillow stayed on the saddle—he tossed the reins one side—“Hold this horse, somebody!” he rasped, and Robert grabbed the reins.Washingtonappeared to pay no attention, for he ran to one of the cannon, helped to point it into a ravine and fire it and load it.
Now hewas here, there, everywhere, with Roberttrying to follow him and lead the rearing horse. No easy job this, while the bullets whined and men were falling. A horse made a good target, too.
WASHINGTON WAS HERE, THERE, EVERYWHERE
WASHINGTON WAS HERE, THERE, EVERYWHERE
WASHINGTON WAS HERE, THERE, EVERYWHERE
The grenadier soldiers were being forced back. They stood in groups—officers snatched flags and bore them forward and waved the men on, but the men could not follow. They seemed to see nothing at which to aim—their red faces were sweaty, their eyes were wild, and they fired their muskets into the air. But they were brave; they stood, to be shot down.
More soldiers arrived, to crowd the road; and more Virginians, to take to the trees. Suddenly Washington seized the lines from the Hunter’s hands and leaped into the saddle (the pillow had tumbled off) and tore through the red masses. General Braddock was here; and he, too, was galloping right and left, shouting and swinging his sword and urging the men to the colors. Some of the soldiers had taken to the trees, like the Long Knives. But General Braddock was driving them out, with his sword, into the road again. “Cowards,” he roared—he was a furious bear. “Cowards! Out, or I kill ye!”
The Hunter heard some of this, for he had followed Washington. He intended to stick by Washington. And Washington was correcting the General and pointing to the Virginians among the trees. But General Braddock would have none of that.
Down fell the General’s horse. He seized another. Down fell Washington’s horse. He seized another; there were holes through his clothing, made by bullets. Thomas Waggener, who had been at the Jumonville fight and at Fort Necessity, came at double-quick with almost a hundred Virginia “Blues” in buckskin,their guns at a trail; and they dropped behind a huge log, at one side of the road; then their guns belched smoke and ball into the Indians; then a company of the grenadiers saw the smoke and all fired into it; and the Long Knives had to run out or be shot in the back.
It was curious how many things one sees when one is excited! And that was the way with Robert, lost in the noise and the jostling, and turning now this way, now that, to keep track of Washington.
Washington was upon a third horse! Braddock was being helped upon another, also. Washington appeared to be the only officer left near him. The Indians were screeching ever more gladly; and as fast as the soldiers were blown backward by the blasts of bullets, the screeches and shots clung to them on either side.
Now everybody was upon a piece of bottom-land, down toward the river. The English were still firing without aim from the narrow road; the Virginians were keeping to the trees; Washington was following the General, as if begging him to let the red-coats join the Long Knives and fight as they fought. A gray-haired old English officer (whose name was Halket) hurried to argue also with the General; but they all were being carried backward still by the soldiers.
Then down fell the gray-haired officer; then a young officer, his son, jumped to lift him, and down fell the son. Then the soldiers moved faster and faster, and they began to run, throwing away their guns, with Washington and the General and several other officers spreading their arms and beating with their swords to stop them.
But it was no use. Robert ran too, for the roadwas like a stream. He had to run, or be swept down and trampled upon. There was shooting from either side, and shooting behind, and the Virginians were still darting from tree to tree, answering with their guns. But the red-coat soldiers seemed to have shot all their ammunition—and not to much purpose, either.
After a short time he came out of the boiling current into a little eddy formed by an oak tree overhanging the road. Washington was here, with two other officers, bending over General Braddock.
General Braddock was not so angry of face, now; he was paling, and blood was welling from his right arm and his chest. He had been shot through, and could scarcely speak. It looked to be a bad wound. A brave man, this. Robert afterward heard that he had five horses killed under him before he himself was struck.
The soldiers were pouring past, and paid no attention. Not one stopped, for the Indians were yelling the scalp yells. The two officers with Washington ran out and ordered and pleaded; then they stopped a little cart; they carried the General to it, and put him upon it, and trundled him on.
Washington turned about. He saw the Hunter, and he looked astonished.
“What are you doing here? Go to safety!”
“I stay with Washington,” Robert answered.
“Then you shall work. Find me my horse. We must help my Virginians hold the enemy from the ford.”
Washington ran forward. Every loose horse had been seized by the soldiers, who galloped right over Robert. So he followed Washington again,who was trying to halt the soldiers, and make them join the Virginians. Doctor Craik came on, helping a wounded officer.
The Virginians were holding the rear and the woods at the foot of the hill. The Indians were pressing them closely. Had it not been for the Long Knife Americans in blue buckskin many of these soldiers never would have reached the ford. And likely the Indians would have crossed and killed all between the fords.
But the Long Knives kept falling back, from tree to tree. Colonel Washington was with them now, ordering and urging: “Stand firm, lads! Waste no shot. Brave boys! Keep to cover.”
“To cover yourself, major!” barked George Croghan. “You’ve been singled out—you’ve four bullets through your clothes. There’ll be a fifth.”
Most of the soldiers had crossed the ford, and the Long Knife Americans at last crossed also—facing and firing at the Indians who burst into the road, hot for plunder.
That ended the battle. Doctor Craik was waiting on the other side of the river.
“You’re not hurt, colonel?” he asked of Washington.
“No, sir. But I think I’m the only officer on the General’s staff unwounded. Two horses were shot from under me.”
“I looked to see you killed, a dozen times,” exclaimed Doctor Craik. “I hear that the General is wounded. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir; and badly.”
“I must go to him at once.” Doctor Craik looked at his large, gold watch. “Bless me! Five o’clock!What a bloody day for His Majesty’s arms! Who would have thought it! The best troops of Europe defeated by savages and a handful of French!”
“Aye, doctor; and saved from utter destruction by a handful of those whom the General was pleased to term ‘backwoodsmen’ and ‘farmers’” said Washington, a little bitterly. “Would we all had been backwoodsmen, and fought fire with fire. If the Virginians had only been given the advance, as I implored they might—but no matter. If the General survives, next time there will be a different story, for now he knows the value of the American Volunteer.”
“Yes,” said Doctor Craik; “if there is a next time for him. I fear from the reports that his wound is fatal. He is a brave man. Is it true that he ordered himself to be left—that he wished to stay and die upon the field?”
“I did not hear him say, but Croghan so maintains,” said Washington. “I was a little late at the spot where he lay.”
So they trudged on, in the rout. Washington walked slightly staggering, for as plain to be seen and as had been proved by the pillow, he was still not recovered from his sickness.
The Indians did not pursue. They were too busy gathering plunder. That was fortunate. The army had been cut to pieces. Of the fourteen hundred men and officers nearly two-thirds had been killed or wounded, sixty-three out of the eighty-nine officers were dead or disabled and of the three companies of Virginia Rangers only thirty members were unhurt.
This night of July 9, 1755, camp was made upon the other side of the river; but Washington, whowas the only aide left to General Braddock, had to ride forty miles upon a wagon horse with rope bridle and without a saddle, through the rain and darkness to find Colonel Dunbar.
The terrible retreat continued. General Braddock died at the Great Meadows, and was buried only about a mile from old Fort Necessity.
Colonel Dunbar was now in command. He took the fragment of the fine army back to Fort Cumberland and refused to lead another attack upon Fort Duquesne. Instead, he decided to go into winter quarters at Philadelphia; so nothing more was to be done this year.
From Fort Cumberland Washington went home to Mount Vernon, to rest. The Hunter was laid up for some time with the arm that had been wounded and should have been attended to earlier. But there were many worse wounds, and the doctors had been busy.