Early in the war of the American revolution, a Sergeant, who travelled
through the woods of New Hampshire, on his way to the American army, met
with a singular adventure, which ended much to his credit.
He had twelve men with him. Their route was far from any settlement, and
they were obliged every night to encamp in the woods. The Sergeant had
seen a good deal of the Indians, and understood them well;—early in the
afternoon, one day, as they were marching on, over bogs, swamps, and
brooks, under the towering maple trees, a body of Indians, exceeding
their own number, rushed out upon a hill in front of them.
They appeared to be pleased at meeting with the Sergeant and his party.
They considered them, they said, as their best friends; for themselves,
they had taken up the hatchet for the Americans, and would scalp and
strip those rascally English for them, like so many wild cats. “How do
you do, pro?” (meaning brother) said one. “How do you do, pro?” said
another, and so they went about, shaking hands with the Sergeant and his
twelve men.
They went off, at last, and the Sergeant, having marched onward a mile or
two, halted his men, and addressed them,—“My brave fellows,” said he, “we
must use all possible caution, or before morning we shall all of us be
dead men. You are amazed, but depend upon me, these Indians have tried to
put our suspicion to sleep; you will see more of them by-and-bye.”
It was concluded, finally, to adopt the following scheme for defence:
they encamped for the night, near a stream of water, which protected them
from behind. A large oak was felled, and a brilliant fire kindled; each
man cut a log of wood, about the size of his body, rolled it nicely up
in his blanket, placed his hat on the end of it, and laid it before the
fire, that the enemy might take it for a man.
Thirteen logs were fitted out in this way, representing the Sergeant and
his twelve men. They then placed themselves, with loaded guns, behind the
fallen tree; by this time it was dark, but the fire was kept burning till
midnight. The Sergeant knew, that if the Savages ever came, they would
come now.
A tall Indian was seen, at length, through the glimmering of the fire,
which was getting low. He moved cautiously towards them, skulking, as an
Indian always does. He seemed to suspect, at first, that a guard might
be watching, but seeing none, he came forward more boldly, rested on
his toes, and was seen to move his finger, as he counted the thirteen
men, sleeping, as he supposed, by the fire. He counted them again, and
retired; another came up, and did the same. Then the whole party, sixteen
in number, came up and glared silently at the logs, till they seemed to
be satisfied they were fast asleep. Presently they took aim, fired their
whole number of guns upon the logs, yelled the horrid war-whoop, and
pushed forward to murder and scalp their supposed victims. The Sergeant
and his men were ready for them; they fired upon them, and not one of the
Indians was left to tell the story of that night. The Sergeant reached
the army in safety.