THE MURDERED MAN.
It was near midnight when Captain Sherwood and his men arrived in the
vicinity of the Whig’s house. They had miscalculated the distance
from the fort, and were later than was designed.
The Whig’s residence was one of the old-fashion farmhouses common
in those days, and on all sides of it was a thick growth of foliage
which, at a short distance, completely hid it from view.
The soldiers marched in single file cautiously up the road that led
to the front of the house and halted. All was quiet and dark around
the place. Captain Sherwood advanced a few steps and listened--the
low, melancholy howl of a dog broke the stillness. Then he approached
the front door to knock, but finding it open, entered.
The lower rooms of the house were dark and deserted; the furniture
was scattered about in great disorder. Again the captain heard
the howl of a dog which seemed to come from over his head, and
hastening up the stairs he entered one of the upper rooms, where a
horrid spectacle met his sight. There, on the floor, lay an old man
weltering in his blood--dead. His body was horribly mangled and the
scalp torn from his head. A faithful Newfoundland dog was standing
with his forepaws upon the dead man’s breast, mourning over him.
Captain Sherwood turned away sick at heart, and darted down the
stairs back to his men.
“The villains have been here,” said he, “and sacked the house.
The old man lies dead upon the floor; the rest of the family were
probably taken prisoners. Let War-Cloud hunt out their trail, for we
must shoot every man of this gang.”
The soldiers were furious at this new outrage, and manifested their
willingness to follow the Tory League to the end of the earth, for
vengeance. In a few moments War-Cloud--the scout--gave the signal
that he had found the trail, and the company started off in pursuit.
Every foot of the ground was familiar to the scout, and he had no
difficulty in leading the way.
All night long they hurried on in pursuit, over hills and valleys,
through woods, and across plains. The trees, clad in their autumnal
garb, looked like iron warriors in the moonlight, and every now and
then, as a slight wind whirled the leaves to the ground, the troops
would stop and listen for their enemy.
The night wore on until the moon having completed her course, left
the land in darkness--but darkness not long to last, for soon the
orient heralded the approach of dawning day.
As the eastern horizon began to show these signs, the soldiers, being
fatigued, halted upon the summit of a high hill. Their tramp had been
a long one, but still there were no signs of the Tory League save
their trail, which they seemed to have taken no pains to conceal.
The League had undoubtedly got a good start and were improving their
advantage.
Captain Sherwood and War-Cloud withdrew a short distance from the
troops, to a cliff that jutted out from the general line of the
mountain. Here they could command a view of an entire valley to the
distance of many miles. It was quite level and presented a beautiful
scene. The surface was covered with a carpet of bright green,
enameled by flowers that gleamed like many-colored gems, and here and
there the willow mingled its foliage in soft shady groves, forming
inviting retreats. A stream, like a silver serpent, bisected the
valley--not running in a straight course, but in luxuriant windings,
as though it loved to tarry in the midst of the bright scene.
War-Cloud, after scanning the whole plain before him for some time,
turned to the captain with delight.
“Look, chief!” said he, pointing to that part of the valley almost
below them. “See! white and red devils right there.”
Yes, there was the Tory League sure enough, quietly seated upon the
ground, enjoying their morning meal in full sight of the captain.
It was a motley crowd, indeed. There were white men dressed
in British uniforms and others merely in loose hunting-shirts
and breeches, together with the dusky savages who were in full
war-costume--that is, naked to the waist, and painted over the breast
and face so as to render them as frightful as possible. Their heads
were closely shaven over the temples and behind the ears--a patch
upon the top was cropped short, but in the center of the crown, one
long lock of hair remained uncut, which was intermingled with plumes
and plaited so as to hang down the back.
“Surely,” said the captain, “this is but a small part of the Tory
League, for there are hardly more than seventy-five men here, and the
band is said to number two or three hundred.”
“We’ll make the snakes these many less!” said the scout.
“Yes, we’ll give the villains their deserts in a short space of
time; but where are the prisoners?” exclaimed the captain, glancing
searchingly over the band.
“There!” said War-Cloud, his practiced eye observing them at once,
seated beneath the shade of a willow tree. “Three women.”
“To their rescue at once!” cried the captain, dashing away to his
company. “Up, up, every man of you, and follow me!”
The path that led from the cliff to the valley was nearly half a mile
in length before it reached the level below, winding through a growth
of young trees which completely hid the soldiers from view.
Down, down the mountain’s side they hurried faster and faster, until
at length they burst forth upon the open plain within a few hundred
yards of the enemy.
“Now, my brave fellows!” shouted Captain Sherwood, wielding his
sword above his head, “teach these British villains and red rascals
decency!” and away the whole troop rushed wildly upon the foe.
This was a surprise to the Tories and Indians, and a general panic
seized upon them. Unmindful of every thing but their own safety, they
took to flight, leaving their prisoners. But, after fleeing a short
distance, and finding themselves hard pressed by their foe, they
turned about like hunted game at bay to give battle.
But a moment elapsed, and full two hundred men were engaged in deadly
conflict.
Crack--crack--crack, went the rifles, and a sulphury smoke spread a
cloud upon the air. As the vapory mass cleared away, some were seen
dashing at each other with their empty guns, some twanging their bows
from a distance, and others grappling in hand-to-hand combat.
Neither bugle nor drum sent forth its inspiring notes; no cannon
rolled its thunder; no rocket blazed; but every now and then the wild
war-whoop rung out upon the air, making the blood of the listener run
cold. And then came the fierce charging cheer of the troops, and the
cries of triumph and vengeance.
While the fight was raging, War-Cloud, observing two Indians making
for their prisoners, lashed under the willow tree, uttered the
war-cry and started after them at full speed. The savages looked
behind them, and seeing but one adversary, gave fight. War-Cloud
whirled his tomahawk at the foremost one’s head, but the savage
with a quick movement evaded the weapon and sprung forward with his
knife. Then there was a desperate struggle of life and death. The
bodies of the combatants seemed twined around each other; then one of
them fell heavily to the ground. War-Cloud’s antagonist had fallen.
But before the scout could whirl about, the other Indian--an active
warrior--rushed upon him and bore him down. His knee was pressed on
War-Cloud’s breast, and his arm raised on high to drive the deadly
blade into his heart! but at this instant Captain Sherwood’s trusty
rifle sounded on the air--the savage dropped dead, and the scout was
saved.
At length, after an hour of hard fighting, the Tories were completely
routed; and but few ever lived to tell the tale of their disaster.
After the excitement was over, and while the soldiers were looking
after their dead and wounded, the white captives, who had been silent
observers of the fray, were released from their fetters. Their joy
was great at being restored to liberty again, but their grief was
greater for their murdered father. The story of the captives was to
this effect:
At an early hour in the evening, and while the old man and his
three daughters were gathered round their fireside chatting, their
Newfoundland dog sprung to his feet and rushed toward the door,
growling fiercely.
His growl shortly increased to a bark--so earnest, that it was
evident some one was outside. The door was shut and barred; but the
old man, thinking perhaps it might be the soldiers whom he expected,
pulled out the bar, and opened the door without inquiring.
He had scarcely shown himself, when the wild whoops of Indians rung
on their ears, and a blow from a heavy club prostrated him upon the
threshold. In spite of the terrible onset of the brave dog, the
savages, white and red, rushed into the house yelling fearfully, and
brandishing their weapons. In less than five minutes the house was
plundered of every valuable article. The old man, partly recovering,
had seized his gun and mounted the stairs, where he was met and
butchered outright. When the marauders had finished plundering, they
seized their prisoners and made off in haste.
Such was the tale of the three females.
The soldiers were soon collected into ranks, and were ready for
marching orders. They had been triumphant, and were in good spirits.
Nearly every man of their foe lay dead or dying upon the field, while
they had lost but three men and only five wounded. However, in the
midst of their exultations, a murmur ran through the crowd, and every
man looked at his companion inquiringly. “What had become of their
brave leader, Captain Sherwood?” each asked, in a whisper. He had
disappeared from their midst.
An hour was spent in search for him; the valley and surrounding woods
were scoured in vain, for he was not found. The troops were obliged
to turn their steps homeward without him. It was nearly evening when
they arrived at the fort, where they were hailed with loud shouts
from their comrades when the news of victory was proclaimed. But,
afterward, when it was found that the captain was missing, a shade of
sadness seemed to fall on all. Immediately scouts were sent in all
directions to search for him.