The Young Trailers
J >> Joseph A. Altsheler >> The Young TrailersWithout another word they turned again, darted among the trees, and in a
few moments reached the little white force. Mr. Ware, the nominal
leader, taking alarm from the shot and cries, was already disposing his
men in a long, scattering line behind hillocks, tree trunks, brushwood
and every protection that the ground offered.
"Good!" exclaimed Ross, when he saw, "but we must make our line longer
and thinner, we must never let them get around us, an' it's lucky now
we've got steep hills on either side."
To be flanked in Indian battle by superior numbers was the most terrible
thing that could happen to the pioneers, and Mr. Ware stretched out his
line longer and longer, and thinner and thinner. Paul Cotter was full of
excitement; he had been in deadly conflict once before, but his was a
most sensitive temperament, terribly stirred by a foe whom he could yet
neither see nor hear. Almost unconsciously, he placed himself by the
side of Henry Ware, his old partner, to whom he now looked up as a son
of battle and the very personification of forest skill.
"Are they really there, Henry?" he asked. "I see nothing and hear
nothing."
"Yes," replied Henry, "they are in front of us scarcely a rifle shot
away, five to our one."
Paul strained his eyes, but still he could see nothing, only the green
waving forest, the patches of undergrowth, the rocks on the steep hills
to right and left, and the placid blue sky overhead. It did not seem
possible to him that they were about to enter into a struggle for life
and for those dearer than life.
"Don't shoot wild, Paul," said Henry. "Don't pull the trigger, until you
can look down the sights at a vital spot."
A few feet away from them, peering over a log and with his rifle ever
thrust forward was Mr. Pennypacker, a schoolmaster, a graduate of a
college, an educated and refined man, but bearing his part in the dark
and terrible wilderness conflict that often left no wounded.
The stillness was now so deep that even the scouts could hear no sound
in front. The savage army seemed to have melted away, into the air
itself, and for full five minutes they lay, waiting, waiting, always
waiting for something that they knew would come. Then rose the fierce
quavering war cry poured from hundreds of throats, and the savage horde,
springing out of the forests and thickets, rushed upon them.
Dark faces showed in the sunlight, brown figures, naked save for the
breechcloth, horribly painted, muscles tense, flashed through the
undergrowth. The wild yell that rose and fell without ceasing ran off in
distant echoes among the hills. The riflemen of Kentucky, lying behind
trees and hillocks, began to fire, not in volleys, not by order, but
each man according to his judgment and his aim, and many a bullet flew
true.
A sharp crackling sound, ominous and deadly, ran back and forth in the
forest. Little spurts of fire burned for a moment against the green, and
then went out, to give place to others. Jets of white smoke rose
languidly and floated up among the trees, gathering by and by into a
cloud, shot through with blue and yellow tints from sky and sun.
Henry Ware fired with deadly aim and reloaded with astonishing speed.
Paul Cotter, by his side, was as steady as a rock, now that the suspense
was over, and the battle upon them. The schoolmaster resting on one
elbow was firing across his log.
But it is not Indian tactics to charge home, unless the enemy is
frightened into flight by the war whoop and the first rush. The men of
Wareville and Marlowe did not run, but stood fast, sending the bullets
straight to the mark; and suddenly the Shawnees dropped down among the
trees and undergrowth, their bodies hidden, and began to creep forward,
firing like sharpshooters. It was now a test of skill, of eyesight, of
hearing and of aim.
The forest on either side was filled with creeping forms, white or red,
men with burning eyes seeking to slay each other, meeting in strife more
terrible than that of foes who encounter each other in open conflict.
There was something snakelike in their deadly creeping, only the moving
grass to tell where they passed and sometimes where both white and red
died, locked fast in the grip of one another. Everywhere it was a
combat, confused, dreadful, man to man, and with no shouting now, only
the crack of the rifle shot, the whiz of the tomahawk, the thud of the
knife, and choked cries.
Like breeds like, and the white men came down to the level of the red.
Knowing that they would receive no quarter they gave none. The white
face expressed all the cunning, and all the deadly animosity of the red.
Led by Henry Ware, Ross and Sol they practiced every device of forest
warfare known to the Shawnees, and their line, which extended across the
valley from hill to hill, spurted death from tree, bush, and rock.
To Paul Cotter it was all a nightmare, a foul dream, unreal. He obeyed
his comrade's injunctions, he lay close to the earth, and he did not
fire until he could draw a bead on a bare breast, but the work became
mechanical with him. He was a high-strung lad of delicate sensibilities.
There was in his temperament something of the poet and the artist, and
nothing of the soldier who fights for the sake of mere fighting. The
wilderness appealed to him, because of its glory, but the savage
appealed to him not at all. In Henry's bosom there was respect for his
red foes from whom he had learned so many useful lessons, and his heart
beat faster with the thrill of strenuous conflict, but Paul was anxious
for the end of it all. The sight of dead faces near him, not the lack of
courage, more than once made him faint and dizzy.
Twice and thrice the Shawnees tried to scale the steep hillsides, and
with their superior numbers swing around behind the enemy, but the lines
of the borderers were always extended to meet them, and the bullets from
the long-barreled rifles cut down everyone who tried to pass. It was
always Henry Ware who was first to see a new movement, his eyes read
every new motion in the grass, and foliage swaying in a new direction
would always tell him what it meant. More than one of his comrades
muttered to himself that he was worth a dozen men that day.
So fierce were the combatants, so eager were they for each other's blood
that they did not notice that the sky, gray in the morning, then blue at
the opening of battle, had now grown leaden and somber again. The leaves
above them were motionless and then began to rustle dully in a raw wet
wind out of the north. The sun was quite gone behind the clouds and
drops of cold rain began to fall, falling on the upturned faces of the
dead, red and white alike with just impartiality, the wind rose,
whistled, and drove the cold drops before it like hail. But the combat
still swayed back and forth in the leaden forest, and neither side took
notice.
Mr. Ware remained near the center of the white line, and retained
command, although he gave but few orders, every man fighting for himself
and giving his own orders. But from time to time Ross and Sol or Henry
brought him news of the conflict, perhaps how they had been driven back
a little at one point, and perhaps how they gained a little at another
point. He, too, a man of fifty and the head of a community, shared the
emotions of those around him, and was filled with a furious zeal for the
conflict.
The clouds thickened and darkened, and the cold drops were driven upon
them by the wind, the rifle smoke, held down by the rain, made sodden
banks of vapor among the trees; but through all the clouds of vapor
burst flashes of fire, and the occasional triumphant shout or death cry
of the white man or the savage.
Henry Ware looked up and he became conscious that not only clouds above
were bringing the darkness, but that the day was waning. In the west a
faint tint of red and yellow, barely discernible through the grayness,
marked the sinking sun, and in the east the blackness of night was still
advancing. Yet the conflict, as important to those engaged in it, as a
great battle between civilized foes, a hundred thousand on a side, and
far more fierce, yet hung on an even chance. The white men still stood
where they had stood when the forest battle began, and the red men who
had not been able to advance would not retreat.
Henry's heart sank a little at the signs that night was coming; it would
be harder in the darkness to keep their forces in touch, and the
superior numbers of the Shawnees would swarm all about them. It seemed
to him that it would be best to withdraw a little to more open ground;
but he waited a while, because he did not wish any of their movements to
have the color of retreat. Moreover, the activity of the Shawnees rose
just then to a higher pitch.
Figures were now invisible in the chill, wet dusk, fifty or sixty yards
away, and the two lines came closer. The keenest eye could see nothing
save flitting forms like phantoms, but the riflemen, trained to
quickness, fired at them and more than once sent a fatal bullet. There
were two lines of fire facing each other in the dark wood. The flashes
showed red or yellow in the twilight or the falling rain, and the Indian
yell of triumph whenever it arose, echoed, weird and terrible, through
the dripping forest.
Henry stole to the side of his father.
"We must fall back," he said, "or in the darkness or the night, they
will be sure to surround us and crush us."
Ross was an able second to this advice, and reluctantly Mr. Ware passed
along the word to retreat. "Be sure to bring off all the wounded," was
the order. "The dead, alas! must be abandoned to nameless indignities!"
The little white army left thirty dead in the dripping forest, and, as
many more carried wounds, the most of which were curable, but it was as
full of fight as ever. It merely drew back to protect itself against
being flanked in the forest, and the faces of the borderers, sullen and
determined, were still turned to the enemy.
Yet the line of fire was visibly retreating, and, when the Shawnee
forces saw it, a triumphant yell was poured from hundreds of throats.
They rushed forward, only to be driven back again by the hail of
bullets, and Ross said to Mr. Ware: "I guess we burned their faces
then."
"Look to the wounded! look to the wounded!" repeated Mr. Ware. "See that
no man too weak is left to help himself."
They had gone half a mile when Henry glanced around for Paul. His eyes,
trained to the darkness, ran over the dim forms about him. Many were
limping and others already had arms in slings made from their hunting
shirts, but Henry nowhere saw the figure of his old comrade. A fever of
fear assailed him. One of two things had happened. Paul was either
killed or too badly wounded to walk, and somehow in the darkness they
had missed him. The schoolmaster's face blanched at the news. Paul had
been his favorite pupil.
"My God!" he groaned, "to think of the poor lad in the hands of those
devils!"
Henry Ware stood beside the master, when he uttered these words,
wrenched by despair from the very bottom of his chest. Pain shot through
his own heart, as if it had been touched by a knife. Paul, the
well-beloved comrade of his youth, captured and subjected to the
torture! His blood turned to ice in his veins. How could they ever have
missed the boy? Paul now seemed to Henry at least ten years younger than
himself. It was not merely the fault of a single man, it was the fault
of them all. He stared back into the thickening darkness, where the
flashes of flame burst now and then, and, in an instant, he had taken
his resolve.
"I do not know where Paul is," he said, "but I shall find him."
"Henry! Henry! what are you going to do?" cried his father in alarm.
"I'm going back after him," replied his son.
"But you can do nothing! It is sure death! Have we just found you to
lose you again?"
Henry touched his father's hand. It was an act of tenderness, coming
from his stoical nature, and the next instant he was gone, amid the
smoke and the vapors and the darkness, toward the Indian army.
Mr. Ware put his face in his hands and groaned, but the hand of Ross
fell upon his shoulder.
"The boy will come back, Mr. Ware," said the guide, "an' will bring the
other with him, too. God has given him a woods cunnin' that none of us
can match."
Mr. Ware let his hands fall, and became the man again. The retreating
force still fell back slowly, firing steadily by the flashes at the
pursuing foe.
Henry Ware had not gone more than fifty yards before he was completely
hidden from his friends. Then he turned to a savage, at least in
appearance. He threw off the raccoon-skin cap and hunting shirt, drew up
his hair in the scalp lock, tying it there with a piece of fringe from
his discarded hunting shirt, and then turned off at an angle into the
woods. Presently he beheld the dark figures of the Shawnees, springing
from tree to tree or bent low in the undergrowth, but all following
eagerly. When he saw them he too bent over and fired toward his own
comrades, then he whirled again to the right, and sprang about as if he
were seeking another target. To all appearances, he was, in the darkness
and driving rain, a true Shawnee, and the manner and gesture of an
Indian were second nature to him.
But he had little fear of being discovered at such a time. His sole
thought was to find his comrade. All the old days of boyish
companionship rushed upon him, with their memories. The tenderness in
his nature was the stronger, because of its long repression. He would
find him and if he were alive, he would save him; moreover he had what
he thought was a clew. He had remembered seeing Paul crouched behind a
log, firing at the enemy, and no one had seen him afterwards. He
believed that the boy was lying there yet, slain, or, if fate were
kinder, too badly wounded to move. The line of retreat had slanted
somewhat from the spot, and the savages might well have passed, in the
dark, without noticing the boy's fallen body.
His own sense of direction was perfect, and he edged swiftly away toward
the fallen log, behind which Paul had lain. Many dark forms passed him,
but none sought to stop him; the counterfeit was too good; all thought
him one of themselves.
Presently Henry passed no more of the flitting warriors. The battle was
moving on toward the south and was now behind him. He looked back and
saw the flashes growing fainter and heard the scattering rifle shots,
deadened somewhat by the distance. Around him was the beat of the rain
on the leaves and the sodden earth, and he looked up at a sky, wholly
hidden by black clouds. He would need all his forest lore, and all the
primitive instincts, handed down from far-off ancestors. But never were
they more keenly alive than on this night.
The boy did not veer from the way, but merely by the sense of direction
took a straight path toward the fallen log that he remembered. The din
of battle still rolled slowly off toward the south, and, for the moment,
he forgot it. He came to the log, bent down and touched a cold face. It
was Paul. Instinctively his hand moved toward the boy's head and when it
touched the thick brown hair and nothing else, he uttered a little
shuddering sigh of relief. Dead or alive, the hideous Indian trophy had
not been taken. Then he found the boy's wrist and his pulse, which was
still beating faintly. The deft hands moved on, and touched the wound,
made by a bullet that had passed entirely through his shoulder. Paul had
fainted from loss of blood, and without the coming of help would surely
have been dead in another hour.
The boy lay on his side, and, in some convulsion as he lost
consciousness, he had drawn his arm about his head. Henry turned him
over until the cold reviving rain fell full upon his face, and then,
raising himself again, he listened intently. The battle was still moving
on to the southward, but very slowly, and stray warriors might yet pass
and see them. The tie of friendship is strong, and as he had come to
save Paul and as he had found him too, he did not mean to be stopped
now.
He stooped down and chafed the wounded youth's wrists and temples, while
the rain with its vivifying touch still drove upon his face. Paul
stirred and his pulse grew stronger. He opened his eyes catching one
vague glimpse of the anxious face above him, but he was so feeble that
the lids closed down again. But Henry was cheered. Paul was not only
alive, he was growing stronger, and, bending down, he lifted him in his
powerful arms. Then he strode away in the darkness, intending to pass in
a curve around the hostile army. Despite Paul's weight he was able also
to keep his rifle ready, because none knew better than he that all the
chances favored his meeting with one warrior or more before the curve
was made. But he was instinct with strength both mental and physical, he
was the true type of the borderer, the men who faced with sturdy heart
the vast dangers of the wilderness, the known and the unknown. At that
moment he was at his highest pitch of courage and skill, alone in the
darkness and storm, surrounded by the danger of death and worse, yet
ready to risk everything for the sake of the boy with whom he had
played.
He heard nothing but the patter of the distant firing, and all around
him was the gloom, of a night, dark to intensity. The rain poured
steadily out of a sky that did not contain a single star. Paul stirred
occasionally on his shoulder, as he advanced, swiftly, picking his way
through the forest and the undergrowth. A half mile forward and his ears
caught a light footstep. In an instant he sank down with his burden, and
as he did so he caught sight of an Indian warrior, not twenty feet away.
The Shawnee saw him at the same time, and he, too, dropped down in the
undergrowth.
Henry did not then feel the lust of blood. He would have been willing to
pass on, and leave the Shawnee to himself; but he knew that the Shawnee
would not leave him. He laid Paul upon his back, in order that the rain
might beat upon his face, and then crouched beside him, absolutely
motionless, but missing nothing that the keenest eye or ear might
detect. It was a contest of patience, and the white youth brought to
bear upon it both the red man's training and his own.
A half hour passed, and within that small area there was no sound but
the beat of the rain on the leaves and the sticky earth. Perhaps the
warrior thought he had been deceived; it was merely an illusion of the
night that he thought he saw; or if he had seen anyone the man was now
gone, creeping away through the undergrowth. He stirred among his own
bushes, raised up a little to see, and gave his enemy a passing glimpse
of his face. But it was enough; a rifle bullet struck him between the
eyes and the wilderness fighter lay dead in the forest.
Henry bestowed not a thought on the slain warrior, but, lifting up Paul
once more, continued on his wide curve, as if nothing had happened. No
one interrupted him again, and after a while he was parallel with the
line of fire. Then he passed around it and came to rocky ground, where
he laid Paul down and chafed his hands and face. The wounded boy opened
his eyes again, and, with returning strength, was now able to keep them
open.
"Henry!" he said in a vague whisper.
"Yes, Paul, it is I," Henry replied quietly.
Paul lay still and struggled with memory. The rain was now ceasing, and
a few shafts of moonlight, piercing through the clouds, threw silver
rays on the dripping forest.
"The battle!" said Paul at last. "I was firing and something struck me.
That was the last I remember."
He paused and his face suddenly brightened. He cast a look of gratitude
at his comrade.
"You came for me?" he said.
"Yes," replied Henry, "I came for you, and I brought you here."
Paul closed his eyes, lay still, and then at a ghastly thought, opened
his eyes again.
"Are only we two left?" he asked. "Are all the others killed? Is that
why we are hiding here in the forest?"
"No," replied Henry, "we are holding them off, but we decided that it
was wiser to retreat. We shall join our own people in the morning."
Paul said no more, and Henry sheltered him as best he could under the
trees. The wet clothing he could not replace, and that would have to be
endured. But he rubbed his body to keep him warm and to induce
circulation. The night was now far advanced, and the distant firing
became spasmodic and faint. After a while it ceased, and the weary
combatants lay on their arms in the thickets.
The clouds began to float off to the eastward. By and by all went down
under the horizon, and the sky sprang out, a solid dome of calm,
untroubled blue, in which the stars in myriads twinkled and shone. A
moon of unusual splendor bathed the wet forest in a silver dew.
Henry sat in the moonlight, watching beside Paul, who dozed or fell into
a stupor. The moonlight passed, the darkest hours came and then up shot
the dawn, bathing a green world in the mingled glory of red and gold.
Henry raised Paul again, and started with him toward the thickets, where
he knew the little white army lay.
* * * * *
John Ware had borne himself that night like a man, else he would not
have been in the place that he held. But his heart had followed his son,
when he turned back toward the savage army, and, despite the reassuring
words of Ross, he already mourned him as one dead. Yet he was faithful
to his greater duty, remembering the little force that he led and the
women and children back there, of whom they were the chief and almost
the sole defenders. But if he reached Wareville again how could he tell
the tale of his loss? There was one to whom no excuse would seem good.
Often Mr. Pennypacker was by his side, and when the darkness began to
thin away before the moonlight these two men exchanged sad glances. Each
understood what was in the heart of the other, but neither spoke.
The hours of night and combat dragged heavily. When the waning fire of
the savages ceased they let their own cease also, and then sought ground
upon which they might resist any new attack, made in the daylight. They
found it at last in a rocky region that doubled the powers of the
defense. Ross was openly exultant.
"We scorched 'em good yesterday an' to-night," he said, "an' if they
come again in the day we'll just burn their faces away."
Most of the men, worn to the bone, sank down to sleep on the wet ground
in their wet clothes, while the others watched, and the few hours, left
before the morning, passed peacefully away.
At the first sunlight the men were awakened, and all ate cold food which
they carried in their knapsacks. Mr. Ware and the schoolmaster sat
apart. Mr. Ware looked steadily at the ground and the schoolmaster,
whose heart was wrenched both with his own grief and his friend's, knew
not what to say. Neither did Ross nor Sol disturb them for the moment,
but busied themselves with preparations for the new defense.
Mr. Pennypacker was gazing toward the southwest and suddenly on the
crest of a low ridge a black and formless object appeared between him
and the sun. At first he thought it was a mote in his eye, and he rubbed
the pupils but the mote grew larger, and then he looked with a new and
stronger interest. It was a man; no, two men, one carrying the other,
and the motion of the man who bore the other seemed familiar. The
master's heart sprang up in his throat, and the blood swelled in a new
tide in his veins. His hand fell heavily, but with joy, on the shoulder
of Mr. Ware.
"Look up! Look up!" he cried, "and see who is coming!"
Mr. Ware looked up and saw his son, with the wounded Paul Cotter on his
shoulder, walking into camp. Then--the borderers were a pious people--he
fell upon his knees and gave thanks. Two hours later the Shawnees in
full force made a last and desperate attack upon the little white army.
They ventured into the open, as venture they must to reach the
defenders, and they were met by the terrible fire that never missed. At
no time could they pass the deadly hail of bullets, and at last, leaving
the ground strewed with their dead, they fell back into the forest, and
then, breaking into a panic, did not cease fleeing until they had
crossed the Ohio. Throughout the morning Henry Ware was one of the
deadliest sharpshooters of them all, while Paul Cotter lay safely in the
rear, and fretted because his wound would not let him do his part.
The great victory won, it was agreed that Henry Ware had done the best
of them all, but they spent little time in congratulations. They
preferred the sacred duty of burying the dead, even seeking those who
had fallen in the forest the night before; and then they began their
march southward, the more severely wounded carried on rude litters at
first, but as they gained strength after a while walking, though lamely.
Paul recovered fast, and when he heard the story, he looked upon Henry
as a knight, the equal of any who ever rode down the pages of chivalry.