ALLEN AND I SHAKE HANDS
Of the horrors of the night which followed, my pen can paint no adequate
picture. Fugitives panted past us in the darkness, pursued by phantoms of
their own imagining, thinking only of one thing--to leave that scene of
awful slaughter far behind. The wounded toiled on, groaning and cursing,
for to drop to the rear or to wander from the way was to die, if not by
knife or tomahawk, none the less surely by hunger. Here and there some
poor wretch who could win no farther sat groaning by the roadside or
rolled in delirium upon the ground. The vast, impenetrable darkness of
the forest overshadowed us, full of threatening suggestion and peopled
with nameless terrors.
Colonel Gage remained with us with such of his men as he could hold
together, and among them I saw Lieutenant Allen. He had been wounded in
the shoulder, and at the suggestion of Captain Orme mounted the tumbrel
and drove the horses, while I walked beside it. What agonies the stricken
man within endured, tossed from side to side as the cart bumped along the
rough road, through ruts and over rocks and stumps of trees, must have
been beyond description, but not once during all that long night did I
hear a groan or complaint from him. Once he asked for water, and as Orme
and I stooped over him I heard him murmur as though to himself, "Who
would have thought it?" and again, "Who would have thought it?" Then he
drank the water mechanically and lay back, and said no more.
The disaster had been too sudden, too unexpected, too complete, for any
of us to fully realize. It seemed impossible that this handful of
terror-stricken fugitives should be all that remained of the proud army
to which we had belonged, and that this army had been defeated by a few
hundred Indians. Few of us had seen above a dozen of the enemy,--we of
Waggoner's company were the only ones who had looked down upon that
yelling mob in the ravine,--and scarce knew by whom we had been
slaughtered. It was incredible that two regiments of the best troops in
England should have been utterly routed by so contemptible a foe. The
reason refused to acknowledge such a thing.
I was plodding along, wearily enough, thinking of all this, when I heard
my name called, and glancing up, saw Allen looking round the corner of
the wagon cover.
"Won't you come up here, Lieutenant Stewart?" he asked. "There is ample
room for two, and 't is no use to tire yourself needlessly."
I accepted gratefully, though somewhat astonished at his courtesy, and in
a moment was on the seat beside him. He fell silent for a time, nor was I
in any mood for talk, for Spiltdorph's fate and young Harry Marsh's
sudden end weighed upon me heavily.
"Lieutenant Stewart," he said at last, "I feel that I did you and the
Virginia troops a grave injustice when I chose to question their courage.
What I saw to-day has opened my eyes to many things. In all the army, the
Virginia troops were the only ones who kept their wits about them and
proved themselves men. I wish to withdraw the expressions I used that
night, and to apologize for them most sincerely."
My hand was in his in an instant.
"With all my heart," I said. "I have thought more than once since then
that we were both too hasty."
He laughed,--a short laugh, in which there was no mirth.
"I think there are many of us who have been too hasty in this campaign,"
he said. "It is easy enough to see now that regulars are worth little in
this frontier warfare, where their manoeuvres count for nothing, and that
the provincials should have been left to fight in their own fashion. It
is not a pleasant thought that all my work in drilling them was worse
than wasted, and that every new manoeuvre I taught them impaired their
efficiency by just so much."
"'Twas not quite so bad as that," I protested. "The Virginia troops have
much to thank you for, and we shall know better how to deal with the
enemy next time."
"Next time?" he repeated despondently. "But when will next time be,
think you?"
"Why, at once, to be sure!" I cried. "We have still, with Colonel
Dunbar's companies, over a thousand men. So soon as we join with him, and
get our accoutrement in order, we can march back against the enemy, and
we shall not be caught twice in the same trap."
He did not answer, and there was a moment's silence. I glanced at his
face and saw that it was very grave.
"You do not mean," I asked, with a great fear at my heart, "that you
think it possible we shall retreat without striking another blow?"
"I fear it is only too possible," he answered gloomily. "If the general
lives, he may order another advance; indeed, I am sure he will, in the
hope of saving some fragment of his reputation. But if he dies, as seems
most likely, Colonel Dunbar, who succeeds to the command, is not the man
to imperil his prestige by taking such a risk."
"Risk?" I cried. "How is this any greater than the risk we took at
the outset?"
"You forget, lieutenant," said Allen, "that all of our equipment was left
on the field. The men flung away their arms, many of them even the
clothes upon their backs. Everything was abandoned,--the general's
private papers, and even the military chest, with £10,000 in it. These
losses will not be easily repaired."
I could not but admit the truth of this, and said as much.
"And then," continued Allen, still more gloomily, "we have suffered
another loss which can never be made good. The morale of the men is
gone. They have no longer the confidence in themselves which a winning
army must have. I doubt if many of them could be got to cross the
Monongahela a second time."
Yes, that was also true, and we fell silent, each busy with his own
thoughts. It seemed too horrible, too utterly fantastic. At last came the
dawn, and the light of the morning disclosed us to each other. As I
looked about me, I wondered if these scarecrows, these phantoms of men,
could be the same who had gone into battle in all the pride of manhood
and pageantry of arms the day before. Orme was ghastly, with his bandaged
head and torn, mud-stained uniform, and as I looked at him, I recalled
sadly the gallant figure I had met at Fort Necessity. Nor were the others
better. Haggard faces, bloodshot eyes, lips drawn with suffering, hair
matted with blood,--all the grim and revolting realities of defeat were
there before us, and no longer to be denied. And I realized that I was
ghastly as any. A bullet had cut open my forehead, leaving a livid gash,
from which the blood had dried about my face. I had lost my hat, and my
uniform was in tatters and stained with blood.
We soon met the men who had gone forward with Waggoner to secure us some
supplies, and halted by a little brook to wash our injuries. Captain Orme
and some others attended as well as they were able to the general, and
gave him a little food, which was all too scarce, barely sufficient for a
single meal. Fortunately, Doctor Craik, who had learned that the general
was wounded, came up soon after, and made a careful examination of the
injury. He came away, when he had finished, with grave face, and told us
there was little hope, as the wound was already much inflamed and
fevered, and the general was able to breathe only with great agony. He
said there could be no question that the ball had entered the lung. The
general fancied that he would be easier on horseback, so when the march
was begun again, he was mounted on the horse Orme had been riding, but
after half an hour his pain grew so intense that he had to be taken down.
It was evident that he could not endure the jolting of the cart, and we
finally rigged up a sort of litter out of a portion of the tumbrel top,
and the men took turns in bearing him on this between them.
Daylight banished much of the terror of the night, and as we toiled
onward, we began to talk a little, each to tell what part he had seen
of the battle. It was here that I heard the story of Harry Gordon, the
engineer who had been marking out the road in advance of the column,
and who had first seen the enemy. They had appeared suddenly, coming
through the wood at a run, as though hurrying from the fort, and led by
a man whose silver gorget and gayly fringed hunting-shirt at once
bespoke the chief. So soon as he saw Gordon, he halted and waved his
hat above his head, and the rabble of savages at his heels had
dispersed to right and left and disappeared as if by magic. An instant
later came a tremendous rifle fire from either flank, which cut Gage's
troops to pieces. They had rallied and returned the fire with spirit,
so that for a time the issue hung in the balance; but the terrible fire
to which they were subjected was too much for any discipline to
withstand, and they had finally given way in confusion, just as Burton
was forming to support them.
It was not until long afterward that I heard the French story of the
fight, but I deem it best to set it down here. As our army had approached
through the wilderness, the Indians who lurked upon our flanks had
carried greatly exaggerated stories of our strength to Fort Duquesne, and
M. de Contrecoeur prepared to surrender on terms of honorable
capitulation, deeming it mere madness to oppose a force so overwhelming
in strength and so well disciplined. To the French the reputation of
General Braddock and of the Forty-Fourth and Forty-Eighth regiments of
the line was well known and commanded the greatest respect. On the eighth
of July, it was reported that the English were only a few miles from the
fort, which they would probably invest the next day, and M. de Beaujeu, a
captain of the regulars, asked the commandant for permission to prepare
an ambuscade and contest the second passage of the Monongahela.
Contrecoeur granted the request with great reluctance, and only on
condition that Beaujeu obtain the assistance of the Indians, of whom
there were near a thousand camped about the fort. Accordingly. Beaujeu at
once called the warriors to a council, and urged that they accompany him
against the English on the morrow. They received his proposition with
marked coldness, and according to the Indian custom, asked until morning
to consider their reply. In the morning, the council was called together
again, and the Indians refused to take part in the expedition. At that
moment a runner burst in upon them and announced that the enemy was at
hand. Beaujeu, who knew well the inflammable nature of his hearers, was
on his feet in an instant.
"I," he cried, "am determined to go out against the enemy. I am certain
of victory. What! Will you suffer your father to depart alone?"
It was the one spark needed to set the Indians on fire. They were frantic
with excitement. Barrels of bullets and casks of powder were rolled from
the fort, and their heads knocked out, so that each Indian could take
what he needed. War paint was donned, and in an hour the band, nine
hundred strong, of whom near seven hundred were Indians and the remainder
Canadians and regulars, set off silently through the forest. Beaujeu
calculated, at the most, on giving us a severe check as we crossed the
second ford, but long ere he reached the river, the beating of the drums
and the tramp of the approaching army told him that he was too late, and
that we had already crossed. Quickening their pace to a run, in a moment
they came upon our vanguard, and as Beaujeu gave the signal, the Indians
threw themselves into two ravines on our flanks, while the Canadians and
French held the centre. The first volley of Gage's troops killed
Beaujeu, and was so tremendous that it frightened the Indians, who
turned to flee. But they were rallied by a few subalterns, and finding
that the volleys of the regulars did little damage except to the trees,
returned to the attack, and during the whole engagement were perfectly
sheltered in the ravines, rifle and artillery fire alike sweeping above
them. They lost altogether but twenty-five or thirty men, and most of
these fell before the volley which we of Waggoner's company had fired
into the ravine.
After our retreat, no pursuit was attempted, the Indians busying
themselves killing and scalping the wounded and gathering up the rich
booty which the army had left behind. They decked themselves in British
uniforms, stuck the tall caps of the grenadiers above their painted
faces, wound neck, wrist, and ankle with gold lace, made the wood to echo
with the dreadful scalp-halloo. Such an orgy of blood they never had
before; not another such will they ever have.
One other horror must I record, which chokes me even yet to think of. A
score of regulars, surrounded by savages and cut off in their retreat
from the remainder of the army, yielded themselves captive to the
victors, thinking to be treated as prisoners of war have ever been in
Christian nations. But the Indians knew only their own bloodthirsty
customs. Half of the captives were tomahawked on the spot. The others
were stripped of clothing, their faces blackened, their hands bound
behind them, and were driven forward to the Allegheny, where, just
across from Fort Duquesne, a stake had been set in the river's bank.
Arrived there, the prisoners began to understand the fate prepared for
them, yet they could not believe. A hundred yards away across the river
stood the walls of the fort, crowded with soldiers, the fair lilies of
France waving lazily above their heads. Calmly they watched the terrible
preparations,--Contrecoeur, Dumas, and all the others,--and not one
raised a hand to rescue those unhappy men, or uttered a word to mitigate
their torture. From dark to dawn the flames shimmered across the
water,--for the English went to their fate singly,--and things were done
to turn one sick with horror; yet did the French look tranquilly from
their bastions and joke one to another. Our flag, thank God, has never
been sullied by a deed like that!
Early the next morning, the Indians started westward to their homes,
laden with booty, sated with slaughter, leaving the French to take care
of themselves as best they might. The latter remained for a week in great
fear of another attack, which they would have been quite unable to
withstand, little thinking that our army was fleeing back to the
settlements with feet winged by an unreasoning terror.
We reached Gist's plantation at ten o'clock on the night of the tenth,
and here we were compelled to stop because of our own exhaustion and the
great suffering of the general. And here, early the next morning, came
Colonel Washington, sitting his cushioned saddle like some gaunt
spectre, and bringing with him wagons loaded with provision. The general
still persisted in the exercise of his duties, despite his suffering, and
he at once detailed a party to proceed toward the Monongahela with a
supply of food, for the succor of the stragglers and the wounded who had
been left behind,--a duty which was ill fulfilled because of the
cowardice of those to whom it was intrusted. Meanwhile we pushed on, and
reached Dunbar's camp that night.
We found it in the utmost confusion. At five o'clock on the morning after
the battle, a teamster, who had cut loose his horse and fled at the first
onset, had ridden madly into the camp crying that the whole army was
destroyed and he alone survived. At his heels came other teamsters, for
with an appalling cowardice, which makes me blush for my countrymen, they
had one and all cut loose their teams at the first fire, and selecting
the best horse, had fled precipitately from the field. Toward noon,
Colonel Washington had arrived, bringing the first accurate news of the
disaster, and at once setting on foot the relief expedition. After him
came troops of haggard, toil-worn, famished men, without arms, bewildered
with terror, fearing a second ambuscade at every step, and with the yells
of the Indians still ringing in their ears. The news of the disaster and
the incoherent stories of these half-crazed fugitives spread
consternation through the camp. Men deserted by scores and started
hot-foot for the settlements, and all pretense of discipline vanished.
Nor did the arrival of the general greatly better matters. He was fast
sinking, and long periods of delirium sapped his strength. It was evident
that the end was near.
On the morning of the twelfth, I was engaged in collecting such of
the Virginia troops as I could find about the camp, when I saw
Colonel Washington approaching with a face so gloomy that I foresaw
some new disaster.
"What is it?" I asked, almost before he had reached me.
"Have you not heard?" and he looked meaningly back toward a spring near
which a number of men were unheading some casks. "We are to destroy all
our powder and stores, burn our wagons, and flee back to the settlements,
like so many children."
"Why, 'tis folly!" I cried. "'Tis monstrous! Who gave such an order?"
"I know not," and Washington smiled bitterly. "It is certain that the
general did not, since he has been raving with fever all the night.
Besides, his one thought has been to march back against the French the
instant he could get his troops together. Come, walk over with me and let
us watch this unhappy work."
I followed him, and witnessed a sight which filled me with speechless
anger and indignation. Powder casks were being knocked open and their
contents cast into the spring, cohorns broken, shells burst, provisions
destroyed, and upwards of a hundred and fifty wagons burned. I remembered
bitterly what work we had had to obtain those wagons. Such a scene of
senseless and wanton destruction I had never seen before, and hope never
to see again. A frenzy of terror seemed to possess officers and men
alike, and I turned away, raging at heart, to think that to such men as
these had been intrusted the defense of our country. At last the work of
destruction was complete. With barely enough provision to carry us to
Fort Cumberland, and with no ammunition save that in our cartouch boxes,
the retreat commenced, if the flight of a disordered and frenzied rabble
can be dignified by such a name.