IN WHICH THERE IS A FURTHER ACCOUNT OF THE SHAWNEES, THE SPEAKERS, AND
JENKINS.
AFTER receiving the summary reply of the commander of the block-house,
McGable arose, and without a word walked toward the wood. Here he seemed
to spend a short time in consultation with the Indians; for they
immediately after separated and disappeared among the trees.
"What does that mean?" asked Mansfield.
"They've drawn off, and will wait till night 'fore they try any of their
games," replied Peterson. "We ain't done with 'em yet."
Such seemed to be the impression of all the others who had had any
experience in Indian warfare. The Indians were too eager and
well-prepared to be satisfied with anything short of an attempt to carry
the block-house.
The night set in cold and stormy. The rain poured down in torrents, and
the wind hurled it rattling against the block-house. The air, too, was
of inky darkness, and the dismal sighing of the forest, the dull,
murmuring roar of the Ohio, made the scene gloomy enough to the
settlers. Had it not been for the incessant lightning, the time could
not have been more favorable for the assault of the Indians. But the
sharp, trembling streams of fire played constantly overhead, lighting up
the forest and clearing as if at noonday, and the "near crashing of the
thunderbolt" seemed to inspire the timid with a sort of valor--a
peculiar bravery that they were strangers to at other times.
Dingle, Peterson, and the most experienced Indian-fighters never removed
from their stations at the loop-holes during the night. The terrible
storm that prevailed was of incalculable benefit to the whites in
another particular. It prevented their assailants from using that most
dreaded of all agencies--fire, in the assault.
The sentinels mentioned kept a continual watch from all sides of the
block-house upon the wood and clearing. They knew too well that the
continued silence of their enemies was more dangerous than open
demonstration. Some deep-laid plan was hatching which was expected
momently to develop itself.
Now and then a few syllables were exchanged between those within, but
these fragments of conversation only seemed to make the gloom more
impressive. No lights were burning, and none could see his neighbor. The
men had all been assigned stations by the commander, which they did not
offer to leave or exchange, while some of the women and younger portion,
overcome by watching and the confined air, gave way to their drowsiness
and slept feverishly and fitfully.
The hours between midnight and morning are the invariable ones selected
by the North American Indian for making his attack upon his enemy. This
strange being, so similar to the wild animal in more than one respect,
seems to have learned many a lesson from him. Darkness, the stealthy
approach and blow; the inevitable yell and leap in death; the howl of
rage and disappointment; the chilling war-whoop; the persisting trailing
of an enemy; the patient, silent watch; the black passions of revenge;
the reveling in blood; all these are passions common to and a part of
both.
It was at that hour, just beyond midnight, the most weird and gloomy of
all, when a sort of stupor or indifference had fallen upon all except
the most experienced, that Dingle gave the intelligence of the Indians
having been seen upon the clearing, in the rear of the block-house.
Almost at the same instant, Peterson added that they were also upon the
front. Their course of action was now suspected at once; it was to
attack the rear until the attention was concentrated in this direction,
when a rush would be made upon the front, and an attempt to scale the
palisades.
Every man was now upon the alert. The lightning, as if ordered of
Providence, inflamed more incessantly, and nearly every step of the
approaching savages could be seen. Some twenty were halting just beneath
the edge of the wood, and evidently waiting for a moment of darkness in
which to make a rush.
"H'yer they come!" said Peterson.
The same instant all saw them half way across the clearing, and almost
immediately a dozen spouts of flame flashed from as many port-holes, and
nearly half the Indians leaped wildly in the air and rolled quivering to
the ground. The others wavered for a moment, and then scattered and took
to the wood again.
"H'yer they am now, sartain!" called out Dingle.
The real attack was now attempted. Nearly the whole pack, yelling like
so many tigers, rushed forward, and came up against the palisades like a
hurricane. Here, as their heads appeared, by the aid of the friendly
lightning, they were shot down by the cool and deliberate fire of the
whites. The firing was as incessant as the lightning, and told with
frightful effect upon the assailants. But the Shawnees are brave, when
excited, and they maintained the assault most determinedly. McGable was
soon seen several times, and three of the soldiers, as they afterward
said, aimed nearly all of their shots at him. But fate seemed to protect
him.
As the darkness blazed forth with the living fire, the block-house
loomed forth, clear and defined, standing as it did, like a large, dark,
motionless animal brought at bay by his dogged pursuers, and from whose
hundred eyes the red bolts of destruction were hurled incessantly and
wrathfully.
The Shawnees continued their desperate attempts to scale the palisades,
growing more furious and revengeful at their repeated failures. But the
steady, continual fire of the whites made dreadful slaughter, and they
finally broke and fled in the wildest confusion to the wood. The shots
from the block-house continued as long as a single Indian was visible.
"What do they now propose to do?" asked Mansfield.
"To git home 'bout as quick as their legs will let them."
"Good! Our success has been better than we could have hoped."
"Don't git excited now, 'cause it ain't noways sartin they've left yet."
"It makes no difference whether they have or not; it is all the same to
us. We haven't lost a single man, while they have had twenty killed.
They can't make a more vigorous attack than this last one, and they
cannot possibly meet with a more complete repulse."
"I tell _you_ that ef it hadn't been for the rain and the lightning,
we'd have found things considerably summat different. In the first
place, we wouldn't had the light to shoot by, and in the next they
would've had some chance to give us a taste of what they had larned to
do with fire."
"They've gone for home," said Dingle, decisively; "they won't bother us
again very soon."
So it proved. An hour or two later, it began to become gray and misty in
the east, the rain ceased falling, and gradually the light of morning
stole over the wood and settlement. As the day broke, the scene was
dismal and cheerless. The appearance of the forest, after a cold storm
of rain has passed over it, always seems to wear its most disagreeable
look. The dripping twigs, the branches loaded overhead with water, every
rustle of which brings it down in torrents. The cold, sticky leaves, the
wet, shining bark of the trees, and the chilling wind that soughs
through the wood, all induce a feeling of desolation and dislike.
Such appeared the forest the morning after the attack. In the clearing,
the bare, charred stumps seemed blacker than usual, and the beautiful
river was now turbulent and muddy. Not a sign of the savages was seen.
They had disappeared, carrying with them their dead and wounded; and the
only vestiges of the conflict were numerous red spots in the clayey
earth which the storm had not completely washed away.
Before it was light, Dingle and Peterson entered the wood to ascertain
whether the Shawnees had really fled or not. They now made their
appearance with the intelligence that they were not in the neighborhood,
and there was no further cause for fear. The settlers, thankful and
joyous, poured out of the block-house, carrying back their furniture and
valuables, and by noon the settlement wore its usual appearance again.
One of the sentinels reported to the commander about this time, that
there was still an Indian in the wood, apparently bent upon mischief.
"Draw bead and shoot him the first chance you get," was the reply.
With this determination, the sentinel betook himself to watching again.
He was the only person acting in that capacity at this time, the
commander deeming the assurance of Dingle and Peterson of enough weight
to allow his men a good half day's rest.
Occasional glimpses of the supposed savage could be obtained; but it was
a long time before the sentinel could bring his rifle to bear upon him.
He dodged and flitted so rapidly that it seemed impossible; but becoming
impatient and provoked, the sentinel at last raised his gun, took a
quick aim at what he supposed to be his head, and blazed away.
"Consarn your old picter, who you shooting at?" called out the indignant
Jenkins, as he stepped into the clearing.
The sentinel dropped his gun in amazement, and stared all agape at the
speaker as he recognized him. Jenkins supposing his silence the result
of fear, suddenly became valiant and again demanded,
"Say, who you shooting at? S'pose you'd have hit me. Smart, ain't you.
You needn't look so innocent and drop that gun, and pretend you didn't
do it. I seen you take aim and shoot, and I'll pay you for it, danged if
I don't!"
By this time Peterson and several others appeared on the platform, and
understanding how matters stood, their laughter was loud and continued.
Jenkins indeed presented a comical and curious appearance. Naturally
thin and bony, he now seemed doubly elongated, from the fact that his
clothes were completely saturated, and clung tightly to his limbs. As he
straddled indignantly forward, they flapped together, and it would have
been no great stretch of imagination to suppose him a post gliding over
the ground.
"Can't you answer? WHO YOU SHOOTING AT?"
"Why at you, of course," replied the commander, striving vainly to
restrain his gravity. Jenkins was heard to give a loud "umph!" and seen
to shake his hand in a warning manner, when he was admitted into the
gate and strode hurriedly toward the fort. The sentinel, who had gained
his senses by this time, enjoyed the fun as much as the others, and
determined to carry the joke through. He made no reply for the very
purpose of giving Jenkins the idea he was sorely frightened at his
mistake.
The indignant Jenkins soon made his appearance upon the platform, and
observing the cowering sentinel shrinking behind the others, called out,
"You're the man, yes, sir! Come out here, and get half killed!"
"That's right, Jenkins, give it to him. He'll larn better than to fire
at you agin," said Dingle, with an appearance of just indignation.
"Go in, long-legs, and hammer him," repeated the others.
"Yes! come out here and take it, you old coward, you!" shouted Jenkins,
stepping around and rubbing his fore-arms as though he were rolling up
his sleeves. "Come out here, I tell you!"
The men now pushed the trembling man from behind them, and retreated so
as to leave the two in an open space and facing each other. The sentinel
now put off all semblance of fear, and demanded in a gruff tone,
"What do you want?"
"Why, I want you to stand still while I hammer you half to death!"
"Hammer away, but if your head isn't cracked before five minutes, I'll
stand treat, boys."
The astonishment shown by Jenkins at this unexpected change was
ludicrous in the extreme. His hands suddenly unclinched, and he
stammered out,
"What--what did you say?"
"Why, come on and fight," replied the sentinel, blustering as vigorously
as did Jenkins at first.
"You shot at me, didn't you?"
"Yes; and will do it again, too."
"I don't think it was the right thing. I wouldn't do it to you."
"Because you are _afraid_."
"No,--I don't think I would."
"Well, what of it?"
"I s'pose you didn't do it on purpose, and I won't say anything about it
this time. But you mustn't do it again."
"Yes I will, if I want to. I shot at you, and am sorry I didn't hit you.
Come, I thought you was going to whip me."
"Yes, Jenkins, give it to him. You said you were going to," cried the
others.
"I don't s'pose he done it on purpose," he replied, turning toward the
others.
"Yes I did, I told you so, and would as lief do it again as not."
"Jerusalem! here I'm standing in my wet clothes and catching cold every
minute. This'll never do!"
And in spite of the jeers and laughs of the others, Jenkins with an
anxious look, hurried away to "change his clothes."