HOW THE FRENCH TOOK PEMAQUID.
A stiff breeze soon carried us beyond reach of any shots from the fort.
But we were in sorry plight. The men were weary, some were badly hurt,
and all were in low spirits from the failure of our expedition. A new
danger threatened us now. The sloop I was in had received a cannon ball
near the water line, and, the sea being somewhat rough the water came
in, so that it was necessary to man the pumps.
I sent some of my men to help the skipper at this task. The master of
the craft told me that if the sea got much higher we would founder, and
it was with anxious eyes that I watched the weather all that afternoon.
But when the sun went down beneath the waves, in a glory of gold and
crimson, our hearts were lighter, for we heard the sailors singing, as
they trimmed the canvas:
“_Red in the mornin’,
Sailors take warnin’.
Red sun at night,
Is sailor’s delight._”
Then, too, the skipper managed to get a spare sail over the rail, and,
when it was bound with ropes, it somewhat stopped the gaping hole in the
sloop’s side, and the water came in less freely.
Homeward bound. Of the days which followed we had little heart to take
note, for our defeat was bitter upon us. On the tenth day after the
battle at St. Johns, we came opposite Pemaquid.
At this place Governor Phips had begun to build a fort, and he had sent
a small garrison there. The commander signaled to us as we sailed by,
and I ordered the sloops to come to anchor until a boat could put off
from the fort.
I was somewhat surprised to receive from one of the garrison a letter,
addressed to me from Sir William. He told me that, expecting I would
stop at Pemaquid, in the event of success or failure, he had sent the
message there to intercept me. And the import of it was that I was to
take command of the fort, holding it with the men there, and with such
of my own men as would volunteer for the service. We might expect to be
attacked at any time, Sir William said.
Now, though I was heart-weary to be back in Salem it was no part of a
soldier’s duty to complain, so I briefly told my men of the Governor’s
letter. Then I proceeded to find what command I would have.
Of those of my original company only fifty were able to be of service.
But I might not count on all of them, for, of the Salem recruits, only
those who volunteered were to stay. So I mustered them in line, and gave
the word for those who wished to fight no more to step aside. I was not
a little pleased when only eight withdrew from the ranks. With the
garrison already at the fort this gave me a command of one hundred and
fifty men.
A few days sufficed to repair the sloops, and they left for Salem,
bearing a letter from me to Sir William. When the sails were low on the
horizon we turned to getting the fort in shape to withstand an attack.
The work was less laborious than that we had recently been accustomed
to, and we were all glad of the respite. In time we had the place in as
good state as it could be put.
One day, toward evening, as I sat in the gateway of the fort, I saw, out
in the woods, a man approaching. His steps were not rapid, and, at
times, he appeared to stop to gather strength. His actions were so
strange that I sent one of my men out to see who the stranger was. The
two met, and my man, linking his arm in that of the other, began to help
him toward the fort. When they came within hailing distance, Roger
Toothtaker, whom I had sent, called:
“Ho, Captain, ’tis none other than our old comrade, George Burroughs,
who was left for dead at St. Johns.”
“Aye, Captain,” said Burroughs, faintly, “that’s who I am.”
Surprised as I was to see Burroughs, I had him taken to my own
apartments. He recovered a little when I gave him some rum, and I left
him with some of his townsmen, while I went to see that the sentinels
were properly posted. Ere I had finished my rounds I was recalled by an
urgent message from him. He was sitting up when I came to him, and it
seemed to me as if he had not long to live.
“Look to your fort, Captain,” his first words were, “within a week these
woods will be filled with the painted and bedecked imps of Satan, led on
by the French, as cruel as themselves. And the sea beyond will float
three sloops of war bearing the French ensign.”
“How came you to know all this?” I asked, thinking that the man was
perchance delirious.
Then he told. First, how, when he had seemingly been left for dead
before the French fort, he had only been stunned by a spent ball. How he
had escaped the death meted out to the other wounded he did not know,
but it probably was due to the shot fired by Hopkins. Burroughs went on:
“When you had gone in the sloops the Indians discovered me and I was
taken prisoner. Kept within the fort I overheard the plan of the French
to march against Pemaquid and surprise the garrison. Then I resolved to
make my escape, and carry you a warning. Many days I waited for the
chance before it came, but at last, one night I managed to elude the
guard, and found myself without the palisade.”
Here Burroughs became faint, and we had to give some spirits to revive
him.
“I struck for the woods,” he continued after a pause, “keeping as near
to the coast as I dared. Oh, but it was a wearisome journey. After many
days of hardship and starvation I fell in with a band of friendly
Indians. They guided me as near as they went to this place. A day’s
journey back I fell over a cliff in the darkness, and cut my leg so
badly on the sharp rocks that I feared I could not go on. I well nigh
gave up in despair, but I managed to rig up a crutch made from the limb
of a tree, and pressed forward, hoping to be in time. The distance which
should have taken a day was three times that to me, for I could only
hobble along. When I caught sight of the fort through the woods I was
not able to go farther, for I had eaten nothing for three days save
berries. But thank God, I have come in time.”
The man ceased speaking, and fell back on the rude bed so deathly pale
that I thought it was all over with him, brave fellow that he was. After
some time we brought him back to his senses, though he was so weak that
I knew he could not last long. Then I left him, bidding the men to see
to his needs. Away from the room, with its smoky candles, and its
suggestion of death in poor Burroughs’ face, out under the stars, I
paused to think over what I had heard.
If we were to be stormed from land and sea at once, there was little
time to prepare for it. We must act promptly, and, with that end in
view, I called the garrison together by beat of drum and told the men
what I had heard from Burroughs. I said that it must be a considerable
force that could successfully attack the fort, and, although our
position was not of the best from a soldier’s standpoint, it would not
do for us to give up without a fierce fight. And a fierce battle it was
likely to be, for Burroughs had said that at least two hundred Indians,
led by Baron de St. Castine from Penobscot, would be accompanied by the
French force under Iberville. The latter would attack us from the sea,
while the Indians would assault the land side.
It showed the spirit of my men, when, after I had told them all this
they gave three hearty English cheers and dispersed. It made my heart
feel much lighter. For a little while longer I walked up and down in the
open. The scent of the woods came to me, and with it the varied noises
of the beasts and birds therein. I looked up to the stars and whispered
the name of Lucille. When would I see her again. Perchance never if the
French and Indians overwhelmed us. Then I was likely with my comrades to
find a grave in these same woods, and be forgotten by all. But I did not
let these gloomy thoughts hang over me long. I had my sword by my side,
the battle was yet to be fought, and I was too old a soldier to give up
the fight before a blow had been struck. So with this change in my ideas
I sought my bed.
In the morning I was told that poor Burroughs had died during the night.
He had not been in his senses, and ever murmured of the terrible journey
he had taken to warn us. He died, the men said, shouting:
“Here they come, boys, the Frenchers and the Indians. Now strike for
Salem and the King!”
Burroughs’ death had been looked for, yet it dampened my spirits a bit.
However, I felt better after breakfast. I reflected that bridges need
not to be crossed until they lie before one, also that to borrow trouble
is to have a bad creditor. So I hurried about, here and there in the
fort, to see wherein our weakness lay.
I made several changes. I had all the inflammable material stored in a
safe place, and strengthened the magazine by binding logs on the more
exposed part. Then having seen to it that the cannon were all in good
order, with a supply of powder and balls at hand, I began drilling the
men. They practiced at gunnery, for we had plenty of powder, and it was
as well to let any sulking Indian scout know that we were prepared. One
of the last thing I did was to write a letter, embodying all my
adventures, and address it to Lucille. I arranged that if I was killed
it should be forwarded to her. Then there was little to do but wait for
the foe. It was not a long delay.
Scouts who had been sent out came back on the eve of the sixth day after
Burroughs’ death. They reported that they had seen the fires of the
Indians, who evidently were using but little of their usual
cautiousness. It was some relief to know that action was at hand, for
nothing so saps a man’s courage as to sit in idleness and wait for the
unknown.
We had taken every possible precaution. I doubled the sentinels, and the
cannon were ready loaded. And the next night, when the watch was
changing, the Indians came. There were a few shots fired aimlessly, and
then followed the war cry. It rose and fell on the night air, echoing
from the hill, and resounding throughout the silent woods. We might
expect the battle in the morning. I ordered two cannon, loaded with
small shot, to sweep the bushes before the fort. Though we probably did
little damage, yet it told them we were awake.
There was little sleep for any of us that night.
Every one was on the alert, for we knew that early dawn would set the
Indians at us. So we sat in the darkness and watched the fires which the
Indians kindled beyond rifle shot.
I watched the stars grow dim, and a gray darkness steal over the
blackness of the night. A cold wind sprang up, and whistled mournfully
through the trees. The owls hooted, and the wolves howled. Then the
gray-black became lighter. All the stars were blotted out now, and there
in the east was a pale streak, which gradually grew larger and larger.
The dawn was come. With it came the frightful yells of the savages, and
the crack of their muskets and rifles. They began the attack on all but
the side of the fort toward the sea, but most of their bullets found
marks only in the solid logs of the palisades. My men replied, yet,
likewise, did little execution. I saw de Castine moving about here and
there among his Indians urging them on, and I called to two of my best
marksmen to try to pick him off. Once a ball chipped a piece from his
sword scabbard, but he only looked toward the fort and bowed in mockery.
The woods seemed alive with the red men, and several, with better rifles
than their fellows, approached near enough to fire through the loops. I
had three men wounded this way, one so badly that he died in a short
time. Another was made blind by log splinters knocked into his eyes by a
bullet. Yet we had not been idle. The cannon were of little use, so
scattered was the foe, but once a knot of them gathered at the left of
the fort, about one of their number who had been hit. It was a chance
that one of our gunners did not miss, and a charge of small shot from
the cannon was sent hissing into their midst. When the smoke lifted five
dark forms stretched out on the ground showed what execution had been
done. After this the savages remained quiet for a time. It was now noon,
so I ordered a hasty meal served to the company. We were interrupted in
the eating by a loud cry from one of the sentinels in the fort.
“A sail!” he shouted. “Hasten, Captain; there are ships approaching!”
I ran to the lookout, and there, approaching under a stiff breeze, were
to be seen two sloops; and the decks were crowded with armed men. I
could see, also, that on board were several cannon and mortars. Now,
indeed, was our fight like to be most desperate.
I ordered the cannon facing the sea to be run out of the ports. Then,
bidding Cory to look to defending the land side, I waited for the sloops
to come within range. Within a half hour they had stood in nearer to
shore, and we let fly at them. A few splinters knocked from the bow was
all the damage we did to one. But the other fared less well, for one of
our shots slivered the main mast near the deck. A cheer went up from our
company. In reply the sloops fired two broadsides, and badly smashed one
corner of the fort, besides injuring four men, and killing one. The
vessels now drew around a point, and out of range. We could see them
preparing to land the men and the cannon. I made no doubt that Iberville
was there in charge of the force.
It was not long before two of the mortars were in position to fire at
us, some of the balls falling very near our magazine, and I was fearful
lest that be set on fire and explode. The battle now began in earnest.
The Indians seeing that the French had arrived, renewed their attack, so
that we were between two fires. It was rattle and bang on all sides of
us, and above all rose the fierce yells of the Indians. But our men
stuck well to their work.
I had to divide my forces, and this left both sides of the fort rather
poorly defended. Several times we were most desperately put to prevent
the Indians from swarming over the palisades. They sent several blazing
arrows on top of the fort, but the logs were green and would not burn
readily. All the afternoon we fought, only managing to hold our own, and
when night came, our situation was most precarious.
The French continued to blaze away at us with the cannon, and we could
see that they were landing more guns, so that the morrow promised to be
full of peril for my little garrison. I dared not make a sally, for my
force was too small, and yet we were little in shape to withstand a
siege. As the darkness grew deeper, the rattle of the muskets and the
boom of the cannon, and the thud of the balls on the wooden walls of the
fort ceased. Desperate and weary, the men sought food and rest.
As for me, I was gloomy enough. I saw no hope but to fight on to the
last. Many had been hurt; several killed. Help might come from Boston,
but it would scarce reach us in time now. I turned over various
expedients in my mind, and had dismissed them all, when a sentinel
called out:
“A white flag, Captain!”
I looked out through a loop, and saw an Indian on the clearing in front
of the fort. He had a stick, to which a white rag was tied. Approaching
without the least sign of fear, he knocked at the gate and entered
boldly when I bade a man let him in.
In his hand, besides the flag of truce, the Indian carried a letter. It
was from Castine, addressed to me.
I was told that unless the fort surrendered at break of day, it would be
stormed. We could not hope to hold out, Castine wrote; and, after a
resistance, he feared the Indians could not be restrained from
practicing their cruel tortures. A speedy capitulation was advised.
I tore the letter into fragments, and scattered them to the wind.
“Go,” I said to the Indian messenger. “Tell your leader that I refuse.
We will fight to the last.”
“Hu,” muttered the red man, and he went out into the night that was
approaching.
He could no more than have delivered my answer when a sentinel, from the
seaward side of the fort, hastened to me with the news that there was
considerable activity among our foes, and that several guns were being
landed from the ships, and being brought to bear on the fort.
“Let them do their worst,” I cried, as cheerfully as I could to the men
who were near me. “We will beat them yet. Will we not?”
Now, indeed, I expected that a hearty cheer would be my answer. Instead,
there was only silence. I looked at the men.
“Are you Englishmen?” I asked, scornfully. “Are you going to give up
before the battle is over?”
“Aye, we be Englishmen,” muttered a sailor. “We be true Englishmen, but
of what is the use to fight all of France, and the Indians, too? We are
but ninety men now, and perchance, if we yield we may get safe conduct
to Boston or Salem town.”
I would have pierced the fellow with my sword had he not leaped back.
Then I looked at him. I knew him simply as Simon, one of the sailors.
Yet, as I gazed at him more keenly, I recognized him as a man who had
followed my adversary, Sir George, into the Governor’s room, in Boston,
the day I had received my commission. I recalled, also, that Simon had
ever seemed to be near me; when we voyaged in the sloops, and when we
stormed the fort at St. Johns. He was like a man appointed to watch over
me, for no good purpose. And he had gained some hold over my men, for,
when I looked from him to them, to see if his words found echo in their
hearts, there was no one who said nay.
“You are all cowards,” I cried, but there was no answer.
Then, when I could command my voice, I asked whether it was the wish of
the garrison to surrender, and, with almost one accord, they said it
was. It was a bitter cup to drink of.
I slept not at all that night, and, several times, I was half minded to
rush out, all alone, and fight, single handed, until I was slain. But
life was sweet, and, shameful as it was, I resolved to give up the fort.
I had none to defend it, and we might be treated as prisoners of war, to
be exchanged, in due season. There was nothing else to do, so, with
sorrow in my heart, I ordered the white flag run up, as the sun rose.
Then came Castine and Iberville, the leaders, who had been waiting for
the signal.
To Iberville I handed my sword. I could not but gaze with longing eyes
on the bit of steel that had served me so well. Now I was like never to
see it nor feel it in my hand again.
But Iberville, noting my wistful glance, after he had held the weapon in
his hand a moment, poising it as one who well knew its worth, said:
“’Tis a pretty blade.”
“Aye,” I answered, bitterly. “It has found sheath in many an English
foe, both French and Indian.”
His face, that had held a smile, went dark in a second. I expected
nothing less than he would lunge at me. But he seemed to recover
himself, though with an effort, and said, graciously:
“Perchance it may again.”
And he handed me back the sword.
I was too surprised to give him thanks. Soon we were deep in the details
of the surrender. It was arranged that I was to march out at the head of
my men, and we went on board the French vessels, as prisoners. We were
to sail for Boston, to be exchanged for some French hostages held
captive there.
It was not long before we left Pemaquid in the distance, a French
garrison being in charge. The voyage was without incident, and, one day
in July, I walked ashore at Boston town, with my command. Sending word
to Governor Phips that I would call on him the next day, I made a hasty
meal, secured a horse, and was soon on the road to Salem and to Lucille.
I could but contrast that ride with a similar one I had taken some
months back, when the snow was drifted deep over the path. Much had
happened since then. I had fought and loved, and fought, and still was
loving. And the love was of more strength than all the battles.
I spurred the horse on, while over and over in my heart I sang but one
song, and the name of it was Lucille.