I CHANCE UPON A TRAGEDY
As the first weeks of May passed, we slowly got into shape for the
advance, and I began to realize the magnitude of the task before us. Our
march to Great Meadows the year before, arduous as it had been, was mere
child's play to this, and I did not wonder that on every hand the general
found himself confronting obstacles well-nigh insurmountable. And each
day, as though to cover other defects, the discipline grew more exacting.
Arms were constantly inspected and overhauled; roll was called morning,
noon, and night; each regiment attended divine service around the colors
every Sabbath, though neither officers nor men got much good from it that
I could see; guard mount occurred each morning at eight o'clock; every
man was supplied with twenty-four rounds and extra flints, and also a new
shirt, a new pair of stockings and of shoes, and Osnabrig waistcoats and
breeches, the heat making the others insupportable, and with bladders for
their hats.
On the sixteenth, Colonel Gage, with two companies of the Forty-Fourth
and the last division of the train, toiled into camp, very weary and
travel-stained, and on this day, too, was the first death among the
officers, Captain Bromley, of Sir Peter Halket's, succumbing to
dysentery. Two days later, we all attended his funeral, and a most
impressive sight it was. A captain's guard marched before the coffin,
their firelocks reversed, and the drums beating the dead march. At the
grave the guard formed on either side, and the coffin, with sword and
sash upon it, was carried in between and lowered into place. The service
was read by Chaplain Hughes, of the Forty-Fourth, the guard fired three
volleys over the grave, and we returned to quarters.
There was a great demonstration next day to impress some Indians that had
come into camp. All the guns were fired, and drums and fifes were set to
beating and playing the point-of-war, and then four or five companies of
regulars were put through their manoeuvres. The Indians were vastly
astonished at seeing them move together as one man, and even to us
provincials it was a thrilling and impressive sight. And on the twentieth
happened one of the pleasantest incidents of the whole campaign.
The great difficulty which confronted our commander from the first was
the lack of means of transport. Of the three thousand horses and three
hundred wagons promised from the colonies, only two hundred horses and
twenty wagons were forthcoming, so that for a time it seemed that the
expedition must be abandoned. Small wonder the general raved and swore
at provincial perfidy and turpitude, the more so when it was
discovered that a great part of the provision furnished for the army
was utterly worthless, and the two hundred horses scarce able to stand
upon their feet.
Let me say here that I believe this purblind policy of delaying the
expedition instead of freely aiding it had much to do with the result.
Virginia did her part with some degree of willingness, but Pennsylvania,
whence the general expected to draw a great part of his transport and
provision, would do nothing. The Assembly spent its time bickering with
the governor, and when asked to contribute toward its own defense, made
the astounding statement that "they had rather the French should conquer
them than give up their privileges." Some of them even asserted that
there were no French, but that the whole affair was a scheme of the
politicians, and acted, to use Dinwiddie's words, as though they had
given their senses a long holiday.
Yet, strangely enough, it was from a Pennsylvanian that aid came at last,
for just when matters were at their worst and the general in despair,
there came to his quarters at Frederick a very famous gentleman,--more
famous still in the troublous times which are upon us now,--Mr. Benjamin
Franklin, of Philadelphia, director of posts in the colonies and sometime
printer of "Poor Richard." The general received him as his merit
warranted, and explained to him our difficulties. Mr. Franklin, as
Colonel Washington told me afterward, listened to it all with close
attention, putting in a keen question now and then, and at the end said
he believed he could secure us horses and wagons from his friends among
the Pennsylvania Dutch, who were ever ready to turn an honest penny. So
he wrote them a diplomatic letter, and the result was that, beside near a
hundred furnished earlier, there came to us at Cumberland on the
twentieth above eighty wagons, each with four horses, and the general
declared Mr. Franklin the only honest man he had met in America. We, too,
had cause to remember him, for all the officers were summoned to the
general's tent, and there was distributed to each of us a package
containing a generous supply of sugar, tea, coffee, chocolate, cheese,
butter, wine, spirits, hams, tongues, rice, and raisins, the gift of Mr.
Franklin and the Philadelphia Assembly.
There was high carnival in our tent that night, as you may well believe.
We were all there, all who had been present at Fort Necessity, and not
since the campaign opened had we sat down to such a feast. And when the
plates were cleared away and only the pipes and wine remained, Peyronie
sang us a song in French, and Spiltdorph one in German, and Polson one in
Gaelic, and old Christopher Gist, who stuck in his head to see what was
toward, was pressed to pay for his entertainment by giving us a Cherokee
war-song, which he did with much fire and spirit. We sat long into the
night talking of the past and of the future, and of the great things we
were going to accomplish. Nor did we forget to draft a letter of most
hearty thanks to Mr. Franklin, which was sent him, together with many
others, among them one from Sir Peter Halket himself.
The arrival of the wagons had done much to solve the problem of
transport, and on the next day preparations for the advance began in
earnest. The whole force of carpenters was put to work building a bridge
across the creek, the smiths sharpened the axes, and the bakers baked a
prodigious number of little biscuits for us to carry on the march. Two
hundred pioneers were sent out to cut the road, and from one end of the
camp to the other was the stir of preparation.
So two days passed, and on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, Spiltdorph
and myself crossed the creek on the bridge, which was well-nigh
completed, and walked on into the forest to see what progress the
pioneers were making. We each took a firelock with us in hope of knocking
over some game for supper, to help out our dwindling larder. We found
that the pioneers had cut a road twelve feet wide some two miles into the
forest. It was a mere tunnel between the trees, whose branches overtopped
it with a roof of green, but it had been leveled with great care,--more
care than I thought necessary,--and would give smooth going to the wagons
and artillery. We reached the end of the road, where the axemen were
laboring faithfully, and after watching them for a time, were turning
back to camp, when Spiltdorph called my attention to the peculiar
appearance of the ground about us. We were in the midst of a grove of
chestnuts, and the leaves beneath them for rods around had been turned
over and the earth freshly raked up.
"What under heaven could have caused that?" asked Spiltdorph.
"Wild turkeys," I answered quickly, for I had often seen the like under
beeches and oaks as well as chestnuts. "Come on," I added, "perhaps they
are not far away."
"All right," said Spiltdorph, "a wild turkey would go exceeding well on
our table;" and he followed me into the forest. The turkeys had evidently
been frightened away by the approach of the pioneers, and had stopped
here and there to hunt for food, so that their track was easily followed.
I judged they could not be far away, and was looking every moment to see
their blue heads bobbing about among the underbrush, when I heard a sharp
fusilade of shots ahead.
"Somebody 's found 'em!" I cried. "Come on. Perhaps we can get some yet."
We tore through a bit of marshy ground, up a slight hill, and came
suddenly to the edge of a little clearing. One glance into it sent me
headlong behind a bush, and I tripped up Spiltdorph beside me.
"Good God, man!" he cried, but I had my hand over his mouth before he
could say more.
"Be still," I whispered "an you value your life. Look over there."
He peered around the bush and saw what I had seen, a dozen Indians in
full war paint busily engaged in setting fire to a log cabin which stood
in the middle of the clearing. They were going about the task in unwonted
silence, doubtless because of the nearness of our troops, and a half
dozen bodies, two of women and four of children, scattered on the ground
before the door, showed how completely they had done their work. Even as
we looked, two of them picked up the body of one of the women and threw
it into the burning house.
"The devils!" groaned Spiltdorph. "Oh, the devils!" and I felt my own
blood boiling in my veins.
"Come, we must do something!" I said. "We can kill two of them and reload
and kill two more before they can reach us. They will not dare pursue us
far toward the camp, and may even run at the first fire."
"Good!" said Spiltdorph, between his teeth. "Pick your man;" but before I
could reply he had jerked his musket to his shoulder with a cry of rage
and fired. An Indian had picked up one of the children, which must have
been only wounded, since it was crying lustily, and was just about to
pitch it on the fire, when Spiltdorph's bullet caught him full in the
breast. He threw up his hands and fell like a log, the child under him.
Quick as a flash, I fired and brought down another. For an instant the
Indians stood dazed at the suddenness of the attack, and then with a yell
they broke for the other side of the clearing. Spiltdorph would have
started down toward the house, but I held him back.
"Not yet," I said. "They will stop so soon as they get to cover.
Wait a bit."
We waited for half an hour, watching the smoke curling over the house,
and then, judging that the Indians had made off for fear of being
ambushed, we crossed the clearing. It took but a glance to read the
story. The women had been washing by the little brook before the cabin,
with the children playing about them, when the Indians had come up and
with a single volley killed them all except the child we had heard
crying. They had swooped down upon their victims, torn the scalps from
their heads, looted the house, and set fire to it. We dragged out the
body of the woman which had been thrown within, in the hope that a spark
of life might yet remain, but she was quite dead. Beneath the warrior
Spiltdorph had shot we found the child. It was a boy of some six or seven
years, and so covered with blood that it seemed it must be dead. But we
stripped it and washed it in the brook, and found no wounds upon it
except in the head, where it had been struck with a hatchet before its
scalp had been stripped off. The cold water brought it back to life and
it began to cry again, whereat Spiltdorph took off his coat and wrapped
it tenderly about it.
We washed the blood from the faces of the women and stood for a long time
looking down at them. They were both comely, the younger just at the dawn
of womanhood. They must have been talking merrily together, for their
faces were smiling as they had been in life.
As I stood looking so, I was startled by a kind of dry sobbing at my
elbow, and turned with a jerk to find a man standing there. He was
leaning on his rifle, gazing down at the dead, with no sound but the
choking in his throat. A brace of turkeys over his shoulder showed that
he had been hunting. In an instant I understood. It was the husband and
father come home. He did not move as I looked at him nor raise his eyes,
but stood transfixed under his agony. I glanced across at Spiltdorph, and
saw that his eyes were wet and his lips quivering. I did not venture to
speak, but my friend, who was ever more tactful than I, moved to the
man's side and placed his hand gently on his shoulder.
"They died an easy death," he said softly. "See, they are still smiling.
They had no fear, no agony. They were dead before they knew that danger
threatened. Let us thank God that they suffered no worse."
The man breathed a long sigh and his strength seemed to go suddenly from
him, for he dropped his rifle and fell upon his knees.
"This was my wife," he whispered. "This was my sister. These were my
children. What is there left on earth for me?"
I no longer sought to control the working of my face, and the tears were
streaming down Spiltdorph's cheeks. Great, gentle, manly heart, how I
loved you!
"Yes, there is something!" cried the man, and he sprang to his feet
and seized his gun. "There is vengeance! Friends, will you help me
bury my dead?"
"Yes, we will help," I said. He brought a spade and hoe from a little hut
near the stream, and we dug a broad and shallow trench and laid the
bodies in it.
"There is one missing," said the man, looking about him. "Where is he?"
"He is here," said Spiltdorph, opening his coat. "He is not dead. He may
yet live."
The father looked at the boy a moment, then fell on his knees and
kissed him.
"Thank God!" he cried, and the tears burst forth. We waited in silence
until the storm of grief was past. At last he wrapped the coat about the
child again, and came to us where we stood beside the grave.
"Friends," he said, "does either of you know the burial service? These
were virtuous and Christian women, and would wish a Christian burial."
Spiltdorph sadly shook his head, and the man turned to me. Could I do it?
I trembled at the thought. Yet how could I refuse?
"I know the service," I said, and took my place at the head of the grave.
The mists of evening were stealing up from the forest about us, and there
was no sound save the plashing of the brook over the stones at our feet.
Then it all faded from before me and I was standing again in a willow
grove with an open grave afar off.
"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,'" It was not my
voice, but another ringing up to heaven from beside me. And the voice
kept on and on until the last amen.
We filled in the shallow grave and covered it with logs and rocks. Night
was at hand before we finished.
"You must come with us," said Spiltdorph to the stranger. "The doctor at
the fort will do what he can for the child. If you still think of
vengeance, you can march with us against the Indians and the French who
set them on."
He made a gesture of assent, and we set off through the forest.
"Stewart," asked Spiltdorph, in a low voice, after we had walked some
time in silence, "how does it happen you knew the burial service?"
"I have read it many times in the prayer-book," I answered simply.
"Moreover, I heard it one morning beside my mother's grave, and again
beside my grandfather's. I am not like to forget it."
He walked on for a moment, and then came close to me and caught my
hand in his.
"Forgive me," he said softly. "You have done a good and generous
thing. I can judge how much it cost you," and we said no more until we
reached the fort.
The news that the Indians had pushed hostilities so near the camp created
no little uproar, and a party was sent out at daybreak to scour the woods
and endeavor to teach the marauders a lesson, but they returned toward
evening without discovering a trace of them, and it was believed they had
made off to Fort Duquesne. The Indians whom we had killed were recognized
as two of a party of Delawares who had been in camp a few days before,
and who, it was now certain, had been sent as spies by the French and to
do us what harm they could. Wherefore it was ordered that no more
Delawares should be suffered to enter the camp.
We turned the child over to Doctor Craik, and took the man, whose
name, it seemed, was Nicholas Stith, to our tent with us, where we
gave him meat and drink, and did what we could to take his mind from
his misfortune. He remained with us some days, until his child died,
as it did at last, and then, finding our advance too slow to keep pace
with his passion for revenge, secured a store of ball and powder from
the magazine, slung his rifle across his back, and disappeared into
the forest.
In the mean time our preparations had been hurried on apace. It was no
light task to cut a road through near a hundred and fifty miles of virgin
forest, over two great mountain ranges and across innumerable streams,
nor was it lightly undertaken. Captain Waggoner brought with him to table
one night a copy of the orders for the march and for encampment, which
were adhered to with few changes during the whole advance, and we
discussed them thoroughly when the meal was finished, nor could we
discover in them much to criticise.
It was ordered that, to protect the baggage from Indian surprise and
insult, scouting parties were to be thrown well out upon the flanks and
in front and rear, and every commanding officer of a company was directed
to detach always upon his flanks a third of his men under command of a
sergeant, the sergeant in turn to detach upon his flanks a third of his
men under command of a corporal, these outparties to be relieved every
night at retreat beating, and to form the advanced pickets. The wagons,
artillery, and pack-horses were formed into three divisions, and the
provisions so distributed that each division was to be victualed from the
part of the line it covered, and a commissary was appointed for each. The
companies were to march two deep, that they might cover the line more
effectively. Sir Peter Halket was to lead the column and Colonel Dunbar
bring up the rear. An advance party of three hundred men was to precede
the column and clear the road.
The form of encampment differed little from that of march. The wagons
were to be drawn up in close order, the companies to face out, the
flanking parties to clear away the underbrush and saplings, half the
company remaining under arms the while, and finally a chain of sentries
was to be posted round the camp. Sir Peter Halket, with the Forty-Fourth,
was to march with the first division; Lieutenant-Colonel Burton with the
independent companies, provincials, and artillery, was to form the
second; and Colonel Dunbar, with the Forty-Eighth, the third.
I confess that when I had become acquainted with these orders, they
seemed to me most soldier-like. A copy of them lies before me now, and
even at this day, when I scan again the plan of march, I do not see how
it could be improved. I admit that there are others who know much more
of the art of war than I, and to them defects in the system may be at
once discernible. But at the time, these orders gave us all a most
exalted opinion of our general's ability, and I remembered with a smile
the gloomy prophecies of Colonel Washington. Surely, against such a
force, so ably handled, no army the French might muster could avail, and
I awaited the event with a confidence and eager anticipation which were
shared by all the others.