THE ATTACK IN THE WOOD.
THE storm which threatened during the afternoon broke forth toward night
and raged until morning. Little rain fell, but the wind was terrific, as
it howled around the settlement and screamed through the forest. What
rain fell came almost horizontally, and rattled like hailstones against
the cabins.
All night long the dim, yellow light burned in the block-house, and the
shadowy form of a shivering sentinel was never absent from the platform.
It was such a night as to make one relish the comforts of a shelter.
Chilly, windy, and dismal without, it was all light and sunshine within.
A huge fire of hickory logs was roaring in the fireplace, lighting up
the bronzed faces of the hunters and rangers without the aid of the
torch that smoked further back in the room. Now and then the men were
furnished with drinks of whisky, and their spirits were light and
jovial. Dingle and Peterson were there, relating and listening to
stories as usual, and "all went merry as a marriage-bell."
Little apprehension of an attack was felt, as the late repulse had
taught the Indians a lesson which they could not but heed. The shivering
sentinel paced his walk, slowly and gloomily, while the keen wind
whistled round his ears. As he heard the merry laugh of those within, he
breathed more than one earnest prayer that the time would hurry by and
bring a relief to take his place. He could not be said to keep a very
vigilant watch, as the darkness was so intense as to prevent; and when
the windy rain was hurtled in his face, he felt more like covering it up
with his great cloak than in peering toward the hoarse, soughing
wilderness. He had first whistled a tune, then hummed it, and was now
counting his steps, to pass away the time. He had calculated the number
of turns he should be compelled to make before his watch would be up,
and was now noting by this means the minutes as they slipped away.
His watch extended from nine o'clock until midnight. About half of it
had transpired, and he was completely absorbed in enumerating his steps,
when he was brought to a sudden stand-still, and felt a thrilling chill
creep over him, as a voice, faint and suppressed, but yet distinct and
clear, called out from the direction of the clearing:
"Hello there?"
The sentinel stopped abruptly and looked in the direction from which the
voice came. Once, it seemed, the outlines of a man was discernible, but
it was only an illusion. He reflected that it might be an artifice, and
hesitated before replying. "It's like enough he wants to find out where
I stand, and then blaze away. However, I'll fix it so that I can answer
him."
Leaning himself as much as possible behind the protection of the
platform, he called out:
"What's wanting out there?"
"Admittance; I am half frozen to death. Will you let me in?"
"You must wait till morning, my dear sir."
"But I will perish. Have you a man in the fort named Jim Peterson?"
"Yes; what of it?"
"Call him; he will admit me if you will not."
"I don't know about that. Who are you?"
"Tell him Madison Drake wishes to see him."
The sentinel was too wary to leave his post. He suspected that this was
a stratagem of the man to attack the gates; and yet, he reflected, that
if he was innocent of any evil design, it was not right that he should
be denied shelter. The commander had given imperative orders that no one
should unfasten the gates after nightfall. So the sentinel adopted an
artifice. He answered that he would call Peterson, and, at the same
moment opened and closed the door. But he shut himself upon the outside,
and remained a few moments listening. Hearing nothing, he concluded it
was no risk to call the ranger. Accordingly he partly opened the door,
put his head in quickly, and said in a loud tone:
"Peterson, there is a man named Madison Drake out here who wants to see
you."
Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Peterson it could not have
startled him more. He was in the midst of a story, all life and
animation, when the gruff words of the sentinel broke in so abruptly
upon him. And yet it was not the words alone, but the _name_ pronounced
that so affected him, for Jim Peterson would have taken his solemn oath
that that man was killed months before. He was sure of it, and what
could the sentinel mean by breaking in upon them with such intelligence?
He looked around upon the faces all turned expectantly toward him,
waiting for the remainder of his story. He believed he must have been
mistaken.
"What did that feller say?" he asked, looking half ashamed at asking the
question.
"He said there was a man named Drake who wanted to see you. What makes
you look so scared, Jim; I hope you don't owe him anything."
"Wal, by the eternal, that gits my time. Ef that man's alive, then I'll
swear that men don't die now-a-days unless they want to."
"Why, what's up now?" asked Dingle.
"Don't you remember that name?" asked Peterson, turning towards our
hero.
"I was just thinking I had heard it somewhere."
"Wal, sir, he was on the flat-boat with me when all was killed 'cepting
me. Yes, sir."
Peterson shook his head meaningly and slapped his hand upon his knee as
he uttered these words:
"Like enough it's him," said Dingle, "Freeze me to death, if you can
tell what's goin' to happen now-a-days."
"It may be a decoy of McGable," added the commander. "It is unnecessary
to caution you, Peterson. Nevertheless, I will accompany you."
The two went out on the platform. The wind was so strong as to nearly
lift them off their feet, and the darkness so great that they barely
discerned the form of the sentinel beside them.
"Where is he?" asked the commander.
"He will speak in a minute."
They listened, and finally the suffering man called out:
"Hello there, sentinel; hain't Peterson come out yet?"
"Yes, here I am; what do you want?" replied and asked the ranger.
"Don't you know me, Peterson? Don't you remember Madison Drake who was
on the flat-boat with you?"
"Yes; but the one I knowed war _killed_ that night. Be you him?"
"I am he. I was not killed, although well-nigh so. But, if you will not
admit me, I will not live long, as I am nearly perished now."
"Have patience, Drake, a few minutes and I will see about it."
"Do you believe he is not trying to deceive us?" asked the commander, in
a low tone.
"That's his voice--I'd swear to it 'mong ten thousand. But I'll swear,
too, that he has been _killed_ once!"
"Fudge! Jim, you ain't such a fool as that? Go down and let him in, if
you ain't afraid. Remember what I said and be careful."
The ranger, without a word, turned and made his way downward. As he
passed out toward the gate, it was not without considerable misgivings
and a hearty wish that matters and things in general would not take it
into their head to assume such mysterious and inexplicable a form to
him. He had no fear of anything mortal, but he would have rather faced a
dozen yelling Shawnees than the ghostly apparition which he believed was
waiting for him upon the outside.
"Where'n thunder ar' you?" he demanded spitefully as he approached the
gate.
"Here, just on the outside, half chilled to death," was the reply from
the rattling teeth of the sufferer.
"Sure there ain't no reds about as ar' goin' to try to dodge in atween
your legs?"
"No, no; and in Heaven's name, how much longer are you going to keep me
here?"
"Wal, you needn't be so cross 'bout it."
With these words, Peterson cautiously unbarred the gate, and opened a
small space. Instantly, a cold, wet skeleton-apparition glided through
and stood trembling beside him.
"How are you, Jim? You don't appear glad to see me," it said, pushing a
cold, bony hand toward him.
"Just wait--wait till I fasten this gate and then I'll go up to the
block-house with you," replied the ranger, working at the massive bolts,
and at the same time, glancing furtively over his shoulder, at what he
believed to be a veritable ghost beside him.
"Now, give us your hand, Jim, for, if ever a white man was glad to see
another, I am glad to see you: Jeh-u-u-u! _ain't_ it cold?" exclaimed
the apparition desperately, as a regular spasmodic shock shook him, and
apparently ejected the words in a most unceremonious hurry from his
rattling teeth. Peterson could not refuse the proffered hand; but, as he
took it, he felt a cold chill crawl, from the finger ends of the ghost,
up through his arms, clean to the crown of his head where it seemed to
halt, gather in a big mass, and then separating into a number of arrowy
needles, shoot through every part of his system, even contracting his
very toes.
"How--_how'r_ yer--'tis cold--let's go in," he said, turning toward the
block-house, and walking hurriedly away.
We should like to know whether any of our readers have been in a
situation, where their greatest desire has been to get ahead as fast as
possible, and yet they felt ashamed to either look behind them, or to
increase their gait. If they have, they can appreciate the peculiar
sensations of the really brave-hearted Peterson. Imagine yourself, on a
dark night, when within a few rods of your own door, where you know your
friends are peering into the darkness in expectation of your momentary
arrival--we say imagine that, just at that moment, you hear a footfall
behind you! You start and your heart commences to throb, and you hastily
debate whether it is best to walk unconcernedly along, as though such a
thing as fear never entered your head, or to glance behind you, and
break into a regular run for the door. But ridicule, more potent than
fear, prevents you, and you walk, it is true, a little faster, but as
you push open the door, you cannot help shoving yourself in rather
hurriedly, as your friends judge.
It was with feelings somewhat similar to these, that Peterson walked
toward the block-house, his unwelcome visitor stalking after him.
"H'yer we is," he exclaimed, as he ushered him into the warm glowing
room of the block-house, where the hardy backwoodsmen sat conversing.
"A dismal night, gentlemen," said Drake, bowing to the men, and
approaching the fire, against which he turned his back and gazed
composedly at the men. "A reg'lar snorter this night is; thought I'd
freeze to death. Jeh-u-u-u! that fire feels good. But I can't blame you
for your tardiness and suspicion in such times as these. Though Mad
Anthony has taught the Indians manners, it seems that they forget them
once in a while."
The hunters were not men to sit silent and unsocial when a stranger
claimed their hospitality. They saw it was no ghost, but a veritable
flesh and blood human being who stood before them. He was a tall,
cadaverous-looking man, his face all hair and eyes, and yet his voice
showed him to be a good-natured gentleman. His garments were soaked with
water, which slowly dropped from his ragged shirt, and every turn of his
clothes, and steamed constantly from them on account of his proximity to
the fire. He was without weapons of any kind. Without waiting as long as
it has taken us to introduce this description, the commander replied:
"A cold and dismal night indeed. Let me give you something to warm you
within, for it is plain you need it."
"Thank you," replied Drake, taking the proffered cup of raw whiskey and
swallowing it. "No more, thank you. I feel considerably better now."
"Why, Drake, that _is_ you," suddenly exclaimed Peterson; "give us your
hand and tell us how you are getting along."
"Ha! ha! has it taken you all this time to discover my identity? I
thought you acted strangely when you admitted me into the gate."
"I own up, Mat, I took you for a _spook_, and it goes hard yet to think
as how it is _you_ standin' thar lookin' so jolly, when the last I seed
of you, you had knocked under. Come, you've got warmed up a little,
let's hear how it was."
"Well. I will."
And thereupon, the new-comer related his experience, which may be summed
up briefly, as follows:
This Madison Drake, as the reader has probably suspected, was one of the
number on the flat-boat, whose sad fate was related at the commencement
of this work. When the Shawnees made their rush upon it, he, with all
the rest, was too bewildered to offer the slightest resistance. He
remembered seeing Peterson spring overboard, and attempted to follow
him; but he was not soon enough to escape a terrible blow from an
Indian's tomahawk. As he descended into the water, his wound rendered
him perfectly crazy, and, without knowing it, he swam in to the Ohio
shore. Here he was immediately seized by several savages, who made no
attempt to offer him further injury. After the massacre was completed,
the Indians assembled upon the bank, and the others then noticed his
presence. But, instead of killing him, a strange whim possessed them to
spare his life. He was too frightened to utter a complaint about the
horrible wound in his back, as he knew it would be relieved only by
death. They traveled all night and most of the next day without halting.
After a time, they reached the Shawnee towns in the Sciota Valley, where
he had remained a prisoner until the day before. An opportunity had then
offered of escaping, which he instantly seized. He knew the location of
the settlement and made all haste toward it, where, as shown, he
effected his arrival.
All listened breathlessly to this recital. Before he had fairly
finished, Peterson asked:
"Are you the only one, Mat, 'ceptin' me that got off?"
"I am the only one."
"Are you sure? Did you ever hear anything of Marian?"
"I am sure I am the only person the Indians took from that boat."
"But, I follered them that night and part of the next day, and I didn't
see nothin' of you, and you might seen nothin' of her."
"Our party just after starting, separated and did not reunite until just
before we reached the Shawnee towns. You followed the wrong one. You
might easily have done this, as both parties were large. No; do not hope
that Marian or _any one_ besides us had escaped, I could not have helped
knowing it."
"That settles the matter, then," said the commander, "we will tell
Abbot, in the morning. Poor man! I pity him and his wife."
"Is he here?" asked Drake, "I do pity him then; it was a hard blow for
him."
"But, I have heard," continued the commander, who saw that Mansfield was
painfully affected, "that there was a female captive among them."
"Yes; there was one; but she was captured from a settler on the Virginia
frontier. Poor creature! she died long ago from her sufferings. But,
friends, you will excuse me I trust. I have had a hard run for freedom;
and, if you have no objections, I will now turn in for the night."
"Certainly; let me help you to another snifter, to make you sleep
soundly."
Drake did not refuse the offered drink. At it was now late, the sentinel
was called in, another sent to take his place, and those within
stretched themselves out upon the floor, where, wrapped in their
blankets, they were soon oblivious to external things.
All excepting Mansfield, who sat listening to the howling wind without,
and gazing into the glowing embers with feelings which we shall not
attempt to describe.
When the morning broke, the slumberers were astir. The storm cleared off
toward daybreak, and the sun came out bright and cold. Mansfield, who
had not slept one moment, arose and took himself toward Abbot's house
with a heavy, painful heart. Deeming that it would be a relief to his
wife to hear his intelligence, he introduced it before them both,
stating what Drake had said and that there could now be no room for
further hope. It would be presumption, they all felt, to entertain the
slightest hope that Marian could still be living.
"I have cherished no hope of again seeing her on earth," said the
mother. "I thank my heavenly Father that I am satisfied now that she was
killed outright. I have nothing now to do but to wait until He calls me
to rejoin her."
"Let us go patiently at work, dear wife," said Abbot. "It is a relief to
know that she was killed at once. It was a bitter cup for us to drink,
but we have swallowed the bitterest portion. I thank God for this
intelligence. And, you, Russel, is this a relief to you?"
"Yes," he faintly answered, turning his head away.
And so the hope which had been exhumed and fanned into a feeble life
died again and was now reburied.
The expedition of search by the rangers for Marian, of course was now
given up. It was still their determination to capture McGable, but the
attempt was reluctantly deferred until a few months later, when it was
rightly judged the caution of the renegade would be worn off, and an
opportunity would present itself.
It was decided by a number of settlers to spend most of the time in the
wood, felling trees. It was necessary to collect a large quantity of
fuel,--besides it was in contemplation to erect one or two cabins. This
was one of the duties, devolving upon the settlement, which was always
dangerous, and yet one that must be done sooner or later.
So, a company of men numbering over a dozen, including Abbot, Mansfield,
and Peterson, passed through the gate, across the clearing, each bearing
a rifle and an ax. It was quite early in the forenoon; therefore they
calculated upon doing a good day's work.
The spot selected for their operations, was three or four hundred yards
from the clearing. Here they stacked their rifles and scattered
themselves in such a manner, that the weapons would be safe from the
reach of any foe, and commenced their labors right merrily. The clear
ring of their axes, the fall of the trees like a rumble of thunder, and
the shout and song, could be heard at the block-house and settlement.
They wrought vigorously until noon when they ceased, and seating
themselves upon the fallen trees, partook of the lunch they had brought
with them. They sat close together, joking and laughing, their faces all
aglow with good-humor and exercise. The meal was finished, and several
of the men had risen to recommence their labors, when a crashing in the
undergrowth was heard, and the next moment the Frontier Angel burst in
upon them, her arms outstretched, her hair flying, her eyes all agleam,
and her whole appearance that of a raving lunatic.
"Quick! quick!" she exclaimed; "fly! he is coming! _he_ is coming with a
lot of Indians! No--you can't reach the fort--they are on that side of
you! Take your guns quick! they are going to kill you all!"
Hardly were her words finished, before each man had seized his rifle,
and stood waiting the orders of some one of their number.
"Get down between these two trees--I hear their tread!" commanded
Mansfield, whose ears, quickened to supernatural strength, distinctly
caught their tramp through the forest. "Hurry, boys, they're here!"
At the same instant he bounded over the fallen tree beside him, followed
by all of the men, when, in a twinkling, they were so disposed that
nothing but their heads and rifle-barrels were visible. Then, as they
looked for the foe, they saw with horror that the Frontier Angel was
still standing as if transfixed upon the same spot where she had uttered
her warning.
"Fly, for God's sake!" exclaimed Mansfield, springing to his feet, and
excitedly waving his hand toward her. "Fly, for your life, Frontier
Angel! There they come!"
As he spoke she turned to flee, and, at the same moment, the sharp crack
of a rifle was heard. She gave a scream, swung her arms wildly over her
head and staggered further into the wood, where she was concealed from
view. The woodman had no time to follow her, for immediately there was
heard a rushing, and, as the bushes parted, near a score of Indians, led
by McGable, bounded into the opening. As they caught sight of the
settlers, they poured a deadly volley in upon them, whose fearful effect
was told by more than one yell of agony.
"Now charge, boys!" exclaimed Mansfield, springing over the log and
dashing straight at the yelling savages. There was an electric power in
his words that thrilled every heart, and they charged with such
enthusiasm after their gallant leader, that it was irresistible. The
Indians were unprepared for any such movement. When nigh enough to touch
them with their gun-muzzles, every rifle of the whites was discharged,
and then swung over their heads.
"At them!" shouted Mansfield; "don't spare one!"
The rifles came down with murderous force, and, for a few moments, one
of the fiercest hand-to-hand contests raged. But the number of the
whites, after their discharge, was fully equal to the savages, and their
fury could not be withstood. The Indians, in a short time, broke and
scattered in the wood, and the panting whites suddenly gazed into each
other's faces as they saw there was no foe left to encounter.
"Have they fled?" asked Mansfield, in astonishment.
"Not one is left--all are killed or fled! Any of us slain?"
"Yes; I heard some one groan when we started."
The whites turned back to the logs where they had first sheltered
themselves; here they found two of their number dead, both having
received a bullet through the brain, while several others had been given
severe cuts.
A moment after, a dozen more men arrived from the block-house. They had
heard the firing in the wood, and had been instantly dispatched by the
commander; but their help was not needed, as not a foe was left, so
signal had been the repulse. But, for the timely warning of the Frontier
Angel, a most fearful massacre must have taken place. Several of the
settlers picked up the two dead men and carried them to the settlement,
as the commander had instructed them to return the minute they could.
Mansfield, Peterson, Dingle, and Jenkins (the latter having come with
the reinforcement) remained behind. Four Shawnees lay doubled up in
death, while a fifth was rolling, and clutching, and flinging the
leaves in his agony. Shortly, to the relief of all, death put him out of
his misery.
"Who was killed?" asked Peterson.
"Smith and Thompson," replied Mansfield.
"Both single men; it is good for them that they have no women or
children to mourn 'em. We've straightened out five of _them_, besides
hacking a few more. By gracious, isn't that McGable h'yer? Ef I didn't
hit him, then I'll never shoot agin," asked Peterson.
"He appears to have escaped. What is to be done with these dead
Indians?"
"Why, leave 'em h'yer for the varmint, after we raises thar ha'r."
"In Heaven's name, Peterson, you are not going to do that?"
"I reckon I is. Eh, Dick?"
"In course, we must have their top-knots," replied Dingle, producing his
hunting-knife.
"You are as much a savage as they are," said Mansfield, turning his back
upon the sickening scene.
The two rangers were not to be deterred from scalping the Indians,
although they had enough respect for the feelings of Mansfield, to go
through the disgusting operation without their usual remark and
braggadocio.
"They'd 've been glad to 've done that same thing for us," said
Peterson.
"Freeze me," said Dingle, "if I don't believe thar is more of 'em round
h'yer. S'posen we take a look? Jenkins, look through the bushes thar by
you."
All, including Mansfield, now commenced searching the wood to see
whether any of their number had crawled away to die in secret. Jenkins
had beat about but a few minutes, when he exclaimed:
"Come here, quick! there's somebody under this bush! Just hear him
groan!"
All hastened thither; and, as Dingle pulled aside the bush, the white,
ghastly face of the renegade McGable was seen turned toward them.
"I thought I'd give you your last sickness," said Peterson, with a
shocking want of feeling.
"Oh! let me alone, I am dying!" wailed the miserable wretch.
All feelings except pity left the heart of Mansfield, as he saw the poor
man in his last moments. He hastily ran back, and, seizing an ax, cut
away the bushes around him, so that the air could reach him. It was then
seen that he had received the bullet of Peterson in his side. He was
leaning upon his elbow, spitting blood, while his hands closed rigidly
over the wound, and the blood oozed through them and pattered upon the
leaves beneath.
"Can I do anything for you?" asked Mansfield, kneeling down beside him
and opening his hunting-shirt.
"Oh, no! I can't live long. I deserve to die, but I don't want to. I
thought--"
He paused as the blood in his throat choked him. Peterson and Dingle
were both touched by his misery, and silently withdrew, followed shortly
by Jenkins. Mansfield saw that he was alone, and determined to do his
duty to the dying man.
"McGable, you are dying, it is true. Put away now all thoughts of this
world, and turn your heart toward the hereafter. Your sins are great,
but there is a God whose mercy is sufficient for everything."
"Do not talk of God and mercy to me," said the man with a look so full
of horrible torment, that Mansfield shuddered to his very soul. "The day
of mercy has passed with me. A thousand years could not atone for the
crimes I have committed. If you can forgive me, Mansfield--"
"I forgive you all, and so does Abbot--fear nothing of that."
"I have harmed you and him more than you have dreamed. Oh! this wound!
Can you not stay the flow?"
McGable removed his hand as he spoke, and before Mansfield could stanch
it, such a quantity of blood spouted forth, that the miserable man
fainted. The forgiving man bandaged it as well as he was able, and
presently the sufferer revived.
"I have harmed you more than you suspect," he said, faintly, turning his
dark eyes, all woe and misery, to him.
"You have not. What do you mean?"
"_Marian!_"
"How?--what?--McGable, you will not refuse me now."
"Mansfield, in a few minutes, you will have seen a monster die. Let me
adjure you to remember it to your last breath. The pain of my wound is
nothing to what I suffer in spirit. The awful torment is unutterable--"
"But what of Marian?" gently reminded Mansfield.
"Marian is--" muttered the man dropping his head back on Mansfield's arm
and gasping for breath, "_Marian was not killed on the flat-boat that
night!_"
"What do you say?" fairly shrieked our hero, believing that his mind was
wandering.
"_Marian was not killed that night!--but I killed her!--I see her angel
face now!--Oh! is this death?_"
The renegade McGable was dead!