When Colonel Dudley disembarked his men upon the northern bank of the
Maumee, Ross Douglas was among them. It was he who led the way toward the
British batteries—his faithful four-footed friend at his side.
When the charge was ordered, he was among the officers who headed the
attacking columns, and his gun was among the first discharged. With a
cheer, he clubbed his empty rifle and helped to put the English gunners
to rout. It was an easy victory; the startled and terrorized artillerymen
did not wait to fire a gun, but precipitately retreated toward their
encampment down the river.
As soon as he saw the British in full flight and the Americans possessed
of the batteries, Ross called Duke to him and seated himself upon a
gun-carriage. He felt that the fight was over; and he was ready—as soon
as the cannon should be spiked—to return to the boats and cross over to
the fort.
At that moment, victory was with Colonel Dudley and his men. But—as
has been explained—the savages concealed in the woods commenced to
pour a withering fusillade into the ranks of the militia occupying the
open ground surrounding the batteries. Dudley should have effected
the purpose for which he had come and immediately re-embarked; but he
hesitated—and was lost. The impulsive Kentuckians grew restless under
the hot fire, and, without waiting for orders, began an impetuous
and disorderly advance upon their hidden foes. Their officers sought
to restrain them, but in vain. They had tasted victory, and were
intoxicated. With cheers of exultation and yells of defiance, they broke
the leash of discipline and madly charged the enemy.
Knowing well what the inevitable outcome of the rash attack would be,
Douglas leaped to his feet, hastened to Colonel Dudley’s side, and
shouted vehemently:
“For heaven’s sake, call a retreat, Colonel! Your men will fall into an
ambush and be cut to pieces. It’s an old trick—as old as Indian warfare.
Act—act at once!”
Ross’s face was flushed; his eyes were shining. The commanding officer
smiled pityingly, as he said:
“You’re exciting yourself over nothing, young man. It is a mere skirmish
with the savages; there will be no general engagement. As soon as my men
have driven the enemy into the depths of the forest, they will return of
their own accord.”
Douglas turned pale with suppressed fury.
“I tell you it’s an ambush, Colonel Dudley!” he exclaimed. “Recall your
men, if you would not see them annihilated!”
Dudley returned coldly:
“My youthful guide, I don’t need your advice. _I_ am in command——”
He broke off suddenly and, fixing his eyes upon the edge of the forest
where the militiamen were fast disappearing, he muttered:
“They are making a concerted charge. I fear myself they may venture too
far and be drawn into a trap. I’ll order a retreat immediately.”
He hurried away to put his tardy resolve into execution. But it was too
late; the mischief was done. Elated with the success of their first
encounter, the Kentuckians refused to obey the command to retire to the
boats. Colonel Dudley stormed and fumed; inferior officers threatened
and swore. It availed nothing. The regiment had lost all discipline—had
become an enraged mob. Like a mad steed, it took the bit and dashed
forward to destruction.
Douglas hurried from one place to another, warning the men of the
ambuscade into which they were pushing, and beseeching them to return to
the boats while there was yet time. His words fell upon deaf ears. Seeing
at last that his countrymen had lost all reason—were drunk on the wine
of success—he forced his way to the front, and fought like a demon. Duke
kept at his master’s side. Man and dog were in the thick of the fray.
The hound’s hoarse growl of rage sent terror to the heart of more than
one dusky brave, and his gleaming fangs cut short more than one exultant
war-whoop. Ross loaded and fired his gun with a speed and accuracy born
of years of practice. The smoke of battle was in his nostrils; the lust
of slaughter was in his brain. The savages slowly retreated until they
reached a place suited to their tactics. There they promptly rallied
and sought to outflank the Americans. The battle raged furiously on all
sides. British re-enforcements arrived upon the scene. Retreat became an
impossibility.
Douglas became separated from his comrades—but he fought on. His
ammunition exhausted, he clubbed his rifle and dealt blow after blow at
the heads of his red assailants. He felt his strength gradually failing,
but he set his teeth and grimly resolved to die fighting. His faithful
dog was no longer at his side; he was alone with his enemies. And death
was leering at him—face to face.
“Fleet Foot! Fleet Foot! Kill him! Kill him!”
The words reached the young man’s ears. Instantly he understood why he
had been singled out from his companions, why so many red fiends beset
him. Among his foes, were the warriors who had tried to take his life
at the Miami village upon the Mississinewa. The knowledge maddened
him—renewed his energies. He resolved they should not have the pleasure
of taking him captive—of torturing him. Dropping his gun, he drew his
knife, meaning to resist as long as breath and blood were his. But at
that moment the tide of battle surged toward him—around him; and his
assailants were swept aside.
He drew a deep breath and looked around. The American columns were
broken—scattered. The attacking army had become a fleeing rabble, in
which each man was seeking his own safety. Realizing that the battle was
lost, that there was no hope of rallying the flying militiamen, Ross
groaned aloud:
“My God! What a defeat—what a disgrace!”
Then he picked up his rifle and set out after the fugitives. Scarcely had
he taken ten steps, however, when clamorous yells assailed his ears and
he saw that his escape toward the river was cut off by his old enemies.
Quickly he whirled about and ran at full speed in the opposite direction,
not heeding nor caring whither his course would take him. For a time he
heard the heavy breathing and panted ejaculations of his pursuers. But
gradually those sounds died out. Then all was silence—he was alone in the
deep woods.
He dropped upon the ground and gasped for breath. His brain swam; his
throat was on fire. Red and green lights flashed before his eyes; and
rills of sweat trickled down his powder-stained face. He had received a
knife thrust in the right arm and a tomahawk cut in the left shoulder.
These superficial wounds had bled freely and saturated his hunting-shirt.
He was completely exhausted.
For several minutes, he lay breathing hard and listening for the
footfalls of his pursuers. But the stillness was broken only by his own
labored respiration and the querulous twitter of birds among the boughs
above him. He began to recover his wind. His limbs ceased to tremble; he
felt his strength returning. But his thirst was tormenting; he must have
water. With some difficulty he got upon his feet and looked about him.
The dense, leafless wood stretched away on all sides as far as he could
see. Near him was a pool of dark-colored water—stained with the ooze of
the forest. It was warm and mawkish; but he drank of it with avidity.
“There!” he panted, “I feel much better. Now I must find a hiding-place;
the woods is swarming with my foes. When night comes I’ll make my way to
the shore, swim the river, and attempt to gain the fort. What an awful
day’s work this has been—hundreds dead, hundreds captured!”
Then, after a pause:
“But I must get my bearings. Let me see. Where’s the sun? I’m far back of
the battle-ground, and farther down the river. Fort Miami lies between me
and Fort Meigs. I’ll bear to the right of it, and strike the stream at a
point between the scene of to-day’s battle and the British encampment.
But I must hide until nightfall—it wouldn’t be safe to make the attempt
sooner. Well, I’m more fortunate than most of my rash comrades; I’m yet
alive and free. My wounds pain me some, but they’re not of a serious
character. If I had something to eat, I should be all right. I wonder
what has become of Duke. Faithful old fellow! No doubt he has been
killed; else he would be at my side. No,——”—Reflectively,—“he may have
escaped and made his way to Fort Meigs, with the few survivors. With the
smell of blood in his nostrils, he wouldn’t be able to follow my trail.
Well, I’ll hide myself and rest until dark. Then for Fort Meigs and
safety!”
Concealing his trail as well as he could, he pushed farther into the
woods, leaving the river behind him. At last he lay down by a log and,
hugging his empty rifle to his breast, fell asleep. When he awoke, the
sun was setting and the forest was aflame with rosy light. Arising, he
stretched his stiffened limbs and carefully examined his wounds.
“Mere scratches,” he muttered. “But I’m weak from fasting and loss
of blood. Then, too, I have no arms but an empty gun and a knife. I
shouldn’t like to encounter a score of savages just now.”—And he smiled
grimly.—“But it’ll soon be dark. I’ll move toward the river.”
Shouldering his rifle, he set out, walking briskly in spite of pain and
weakness. The sun went down; the rosy light began to pale and fade. At
last he stopped suddenly.
“I’m nearing the river. Perhaps I’d better wait until it’s darker. But
then I’m afraid I should run into danger without seeing it. What’s best?
Ah!”
He uttered the exclamation with vexation and disappointment, and sprang
behind a tree. In the dusky twilight he perceived a cloaked figure
moving toward him. Loosening the knife in his belt, he softly placed
his gun against the tree trunk and peeped from his place of concealment.
The obscure figure was coming on, slowly, hesitatingly. Its cautious
footfalls fell upon his ear. He drew his knife and panted with suppressed
excitement. Nearer and nearer to his hiding-place, the figure drew, its
head bent low over a bundle it carried in its arms.
Douglas breathed hard and, gripping his knife firmly, held it ready for
instant use. Then he made the discovery that the approaching personage
was a woman—an Indian squaw, probably. For a moment he debated what he
should do. Could he kill a defenseless female, even to assure his own
safety? His soul sickened at the thought. Quickly he determined on a more
humane course of action. He would confront the squaw. Should she seek to
give an alarm, he would seize and overpower her. Then he would choke her
into silence and carry her from the spot.
Acting upon this resolve, he boldly stepped from his place of concealment
and coughed to attract the woman’s attention. Flinging up her head, she
uttered a half-suppressed scream and turned to flee. Ross sprang forward
and threw his arms around her. She struggled to escape, but did not cry
out.
The cloak fell from her shoulders. In the dim twilight he saw that she
was a white woman, and that she held a small child in her arms. Instantly
releasing her, he stammered:
“My good woman, I beg a thousand pardons. In the gloom I mistook you for
a squaw, and, fearing that you might raise an alarm——”
He broke off and recoiled a step, a sharp exclamation upon his lips. The
woman had lifted a wan face to his; and by the tremulous light of the
dying twilight, he had recognized her.
“Amy!” he gasped.
“Ross!” she whispered hoarsely, leaning against a tree for support and
closely hugging the child to her breast.
A short time they stood there without uttering another word, each staring
wildly at the other’s shadowy form and features—each hearing the other’s
labored breathing. Ross was the first to regain the power of speech.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a strange, altered voice.
“Trying to escape from a bondage worse than death!” she replied in hard,
bitter tones in which there was no hint of tears.
“You—you’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?” he inquired in kinder
accents.
“Yes; but that isn’t what I mean,” she answered in a hopeless voice.
Again both were silent. The baby in her arms commenced to fret. She
soothed and patted it to sleep—softly, sadly crooning to it. By this
time, the lingering twilight had faded out; it was quite dark in the
forest. Advancing to her side, Douglas laid his hand upon her arm and
began:
“Amy Larkin——”
“Amy Hilliard!” she interrupted shrilly.
He drew back as though a venomous insect had stung him. Her voice grated
harshly upon his nerves. To his overwrought imagination, she seemed a
lost soul mocking at its own misery. Taking her by the arm, he remarked
quietly:
“You’re tired. There’s no use in your standing. Seat yourself upon this
log.”
Silently she obeyed, trembling in every limb. Picking up her cloak,
he placed it around her shoulders. His act of kindness softened her
feelings; and her voice was tremulous as she said simply:
“Thank you!”
He stood looking down upon her, conflicting thoughts and emotions rioting
in his brain. At last he murmured huskily:
“And you are Amy Larkin no longer—you are Amy Hilliard.”
“Yes, I’m Amy Hilliard.”—Her voice again hard and bitter.—“I must bear
the hated name to my grave.”
“You are George Hilliard’s wife.”
“I am.”
Her words were scarcely audible.
“And the child?”
“Is mine.”
“And his?”
“Yes. I—am—his—wife; this—is—our—child!”
Each word fell separately, like a ringing brazen coin. Then she screamed
excitedly:
“But my innocent child shall never blush for its father—it shall never
know him! I hate him—I loathe him! The brute—the coward—the murderer! Oh!
that I had never seen him——”
“Sh!” he cautioned. “You’re talking too loud. Remember we are surrounded
by sharp-eared, lynx-eyed enemies. Where were you going—what were you
trying to do, when I met you?”
“Trying to escape,” she panted in a strident whisper.
“Softly!” he again cautioned. “From whom were you trying to escape?”
“From my captors, the Indians at Fort Miami—and from George Hilliard.”
“I can’t understand,” he replied wonderingly. “Is your—your husband among
the British, at their encampment just below here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you and the child must return to him,” Ross answered firmly,
decidedly.
“Never!” she hissed through her set teeth. “We’ll find a grave in the
river first. I hate him, I tell you—I despise and loathe him!”—Then
pleadingly: “Oh, Ross Douglas! If one spark of the old love for me yet
burns in your bosom, save me—save me!”
“But what can I do?” he asked in perplexity. “You are _his_ wife—the
child is his——”
“Save me!” she interrupted. “I’m trying to reach the fort across
the river. You belong there—I know you do. Take me and my baby with
you—_please_ do!”
“But I cannot, Amy,” he replied chokingly. “You are another man’s wife; I
must not steal you away from him. Then, the fort is closely invested; I
don’t know that I shall be able to reach it myself—alone and unhampered.
My gun is empty—I am practically unarmed. I’m weak from loss of blood,
fasting, and excessive exertion. No, I can’t take you with me; the risk
is too great. You must return to Fort Miami——”
“That I will never do!” she answered determinedly. “If you leave me here,
I’ll drown myself and my babe in the river. Better a thousand miserable
deaths than again to fall into that man’s power!”
Douglas strode up and down in front of her.
“What am I to do?” he asked himself. “How perverse is fate! I have found
her at last—but lost her forever. Poor girl! She is innocent; she was
forced into the hateful marriage, no doubt. But I cannot love another’s
wife. If I abandon her, she will destroy herself and her child. She means
what she says. If I take them with me, I shall risk their lives and my
own. And Fort Meigs is no place for her. It may fall into the hands of
the British. In that case, the savages will massacre every person within
the walls. I must do one of two things—take her with me or——”
Stopping suddenly, he faced his companion and said in earnest tones:
“I’ve decided to take you and your child with me—to attempt to conduct
you to Fort Meigs, in safety. I must leave you for a short time, however,
to try to find some way of crossing the river. Remain here quietly until
I return for you. I’ll be gone but a few minutes.”
“Ross,” she faltered, “you—you will not desert me——”
“Amy,” he cried in a sharp whisper, “did I ever desert you—ever deceive
you?”
Bursting into tears, she buried her face in the folds of the shawl that
enveloped her child, and moaned brokenly:
“No—no! You were always true—always——”
He left her softly sobbing, and made his way toward the river. Every few
yards he stopped, peered into the surrounding darkness, and listened
intently. But he saw or heard nothing of an alarming nature. Presently
he emerged from the gloomy woods and stood upon the sloping bank of the
stream. Above him, the black vault was studded with stars; beneath him,
the dark water was softly lapping upon the sandy beach. Down the stream,
he discovered the flaring fires of the British encampment; and up the
river—and on the opposite side—the twinkling lights of Fort Meigs. The
confused, indistinct murmur of voices in the distance was borne upon the
evening breeze. Then a dog’s deep, mournful bay fell upon the listener’s
ear.
“Duke!” he muttered. “He has escaped the general carnage—he’s at the
fort. Farley and Bright Wing will care for him, if I lose my life.”
Cautiously he began a search along the shore, for some means of crossing
the stream. The soft dip of a paddle came to his ear. Silently retreating
to some overhanging bushes, he waited, watched, and listened. The sound
of the paddle became more and more distinct. Out of the shadows, emerged
a small craft containing a single occupant. It rapidly approached the
place where Douglas stood. The young man drew his knife and, gently
parting the bushes, peered forth. The canoeman was a stalwart Indian.
The next moment, the light vessel grated upon the sands and the unwary
paddler sprang ashore. Hardly had his feet touched the earth, ere he sank
in his tracks, a corpse, with Douglas’s keen knife buried in his heart.
“It’s little short of murder,” muttered the young scout; “but there was
no alternative. One of us had to die.”
Quickly stooping, he rolled the body of his fallen foe into the river.
Drawing the canoe ashore and secreting it among the bushes, he rapidly
retraced his steps to Amy Hilliard and her child. He found her still
seated upon the log, her face buried in the folds of the baby’s shawl.
Touching her upon the shoulder, he said simply:
“I’ve found a boat. Come.”
Without a word, she arose. Picking up his empty gun, he led the way
toward the river. She kept close at his heels, panting with fear and
excitement. Like two silent specters, they threaded the intricate maze of
the forest. On reaching the edge of the wood, he remarked in a cautious
whisper:
“Now comes the most dangerous part of our journey. Whatever happens, you
must preserve perfect silence. Step carefully—a breaking twig may bring a
dozen warriors upon us. Keep close to me—and be ready to obey my orders.
If you see me drop to the ground, do likewise.”
She touched his arm, in token that she understood and would obey, but
said nothing. Down the bank, and through the tangled bushes along the
shore, they slowly made their way. Skillfully dragging the canoe from its
hiding-place and launching it, he breathed in her ear:
“Let me hold the child while you get in.”
“But it may cry,” she whispered in reply.
“True,” he answered. “Here—let me assist you. Seat yourself in the
bottom. That’s right.”—Then placing his rifle in the bow of the
craft.—“Now lay the baby in your lap, and take this paddle.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, alarm in her whispered tone.
“The vessel is too light to carry all of us,” he answered quietly, but
firmly. “You must paddle to the opposite shore. I’ll turn you around and
start you. Don’t lose your head—and you’ll land safely.”
“But you?” she inquired, almost inaudibly.
“I’ll swim after you. Off you go.”
Watching her until she disappeared in the darkness, he stealthily dropped
into the water and struck out in the wake of the frail boat. A few
minutes later he stood upon the other shore. His garments were dripping
and his teeth were chattering from the chill of the water. He looked
about him but saw nothing of the canoe or its occupants.
“Amy,” he called softly.
But he received no reply.
“Amy,” he repeated, a little louder than before.
Still no answer.
“What can have become of her?” he muttered in deep vexation and alarm.
“She should have landed near this point. Is it possible that the canoe
has capsized, or that other harm has befallen her? Ah! she may have lost
her paddle—she may be drifting with the current.”
He ran down the stream, peering into the gloom that overhung the water as
he went. But he saw nothing of her or of the boat. Many times he called
her name, as loudly as he dared. No answering voice came to him. At last
he turned and swiftly retraced his steps. He had just reached the point
where he had come ashore, when he discovered a dark object drifting a few
yards from the beach. It was an empty canoe. In it was his own gun, but
no sign of the woman or child.
“Lost—lost!” he groaned, wringing his hands. “Poor Amy!”—And the tears
trickled down his cheeks.—“She’s drowned—she and her baby are sleeping at
the bottom of the treacherous river.—No! There is no water in the canoe,
and my gun is where I placed it. The frail craft did _not_ capsize. Some
harm must have befallen her, just as she reached land—ere she could
secure the vessel.”
Snatching up his gun, he set off at full speed. He had gone but a short
distance, when he stopped and sharply caught his breath. A cloaked figure
was hurrying toward him. It was the woman he sought.
“Amy, it’s you—thank God!” he ejaculated fervently, as she reached his
side. “I’ve been searching for you. I discovered the drifting canoe and,
for a moment, thought you were drowned. Where have you been?”
She was greatly excited. Abject terror was in her voice, as she whispered
in reply:
“I have been hiding. I heard you calling me, but didn’t dare to answer.
Just as I stepped from the canoe, a number of Indians and a white man
came down the bank toward me. I quickly cast the boat adrift and hid
myself among some brush. There I lay quaking with fear, for—oh, God!
the white man was George Hilliard. They stood near me and talked of my
escape. They were searching for me. I could hear his hateful voice—could
hear every word he said. I almost smothered my baby; I was so afraid it
would cry and betray my presence. At last they left and went farther up
the stream. Then I heard you calling me, but was afraid to answer. Oh,
Ross—Ross! _Do_ save me from that man! If you find you cannot, kill me
and my baby—in God’s name, _do_!”
“There—there!” he said soothingly. “I’ll save you—I’ll get you to the
fort. Let me support you. You can hardly stand. Come.”
They scrambled up the bank and made a narrow detour to the left, to avoid
the party she had seen. A half hour later, Douglas had skillfully piloted
his companion through the savages encircling the fort, and was thundering
at one of the gates for admission.
[Illustration]