THE BATTLE ON THE SHORE
What followed was long a famous story on the border, and I have even
read it written out most carefully in books purporting to tell the
history of those troublous times. None of them have it as I recall the
details of the incident, although it all occurred so rapidly that I
myself can hardly tell just how 't was done.
I know that I scrambled again to my knees, resting half in the water,
my purpose being to fling myself into the river in an effort to regain
the boat. But it was already out of sight in the dense gloom, while
not the slightest sound reached me for guidance. Beyond this, I had no
time for much save action. Above me, upon the high bank not three
yards away, I saw several Indian forms peering over; and then others,
three or four, I am uncertain which, sprang lightly down within a yard
of where I crouched in waiting.
My father gave me a frontier maxim once, which ran, "If you must fight,
strike first, and strike hard." The words flashed in my memory, and I
put them to the test straightway. These prowling savages were
apparently unaware of my predicament; their sole thought was with the
boat floating away lakeward down the stream. At all cost, they must be
blocked in any purpose of pursuit. These were the thoughts that darted
through my brain like fire through stubble. How many opposed me, how
desperate would be the struggle, were matters of which I did not stop
to think. I could at least busy them until the fugitives were safe;
after that, it was God's affair, and theirs. My rifle was wet and
useless from my recent tumble; but before the group at the water's edge
even saw me I was fairly upon them, striking fiercely with my gunstock,
and two savages went down, shrieking from pain and surprise, before so
much as a return blow reached me.
It was not a noisy battle; from the outset it was too fierce and rapid
for any waste of breath. Never did I need my strength of body more,
nor did the long training of my father come in better play. I made
that long rifle-barrel both club and sword, knife and axe in one,
striking, thrusting, clubbing, in the mad fury with which desperation
bids a man battle for his life. I had no thought to live, but was
determined that if I went down to earth many a painted savage should
lie there with me. The enshrouding darkness proved a friendly help;
for as I backed in closer against the bank, I gained a fair view of my
opponents, while keeping myself more hidden. Again and again they
charged upon me, joined now by the others from above; but the circling
iron I swung with tireless arms formed a dead-line no leaping Indian
burst through alive.
Once a hurtling tomahawk half buried itself in my shoulder; a long
knife, thrown by a practised hand, pierced the muscles of my thigh, and
stuck there quivering, till I struck it loose; and twice they fired at
me, the second shot tearing the flesh of my side, searing it like fire.
Yet I scarcely realized I was touched, so fiercely was the battle-blood
now coursing through my veins, so intense the joy with which I crushed
them back. I grew delirious, feeling the rage to slay sweep over me as
never before, giving me the crazed strength of a dozen men, until I
lost all sense of defensive action, and sprang forth into their midst
as might an avenging thunderbolt from the black sky. Never had I swung
flail in peaceful border contest as I did that murderous iron bar in
the dark of the river-shore, driving them back foot by foot against the
high bank which held them helpless victims of my wrath. I struck again
and again, my teeth set together in bulldog tenacity, my breath coming
in gasps, the streaming blood from a deep cut over my eyes half
blinding me, yet guided by fierce instinct to find and smite my foes.
I trod on limp bodies, on writhing forms, and felt my weapon clash
against iron rifle barrels and clang upon uplifted steel; but nothing
stopped me,--no cry of terror, no plea for mercy, no clutching hand, no
deadly numbing blow.
God knows the story of that fight,--how long it lasted, by what miracle
't was won. To me it is--and was--little more than a dim haze of
strange leaping figures, of fierce dark faces, of maddened cries of
hate, of uplifted hands, of dull-clashing weapons. I seemed to see it
all through a red fog whence the blood dripped, and I lost
consciousness of everything save my unswerving duty to strike hard
until I fell. At last out from the maelstrom of that wild mêlée but a
single warrior seemed to face me; and some instinct of the fight caused
me to draw back a pace and wipe the obscuring blood away, that I might
see him better. It came to me that this was to be the end,--the final
duel which was to decide that midnight battle. He and I were there
alone; and the stars bursting through the clouds gave me faint view of
him, and of those dark, silent forms that lined the shore where they
had fallen.
A chief, a Pottawattomie,--this much I knew even in that hasty shrouded
glance. Writers of history affirm my opponent was Peesotum, the same
fierce warrior whose cruel hand slew the brave Captain Wells and
wrenched his still beating heart from out the mutilated body. All I
realized then were his broad sinewy shoulders, his naked brawny body,
his eyes ablaze with malignant hate. He was the first to close, his
wild cry for vengeance piercing the still night; and before I knew it,
the maddened savage was within the guard of my rifle-barrel, and we
were locked in the stern grapple of death.
It was knife to knife, our blades gleaming dull in the dim light of the
stars, each man gripping the up-lifted wrist of the other, putting
forth each last reserve of strength, each cunning trick of fence, to
break free and strike the ending blow. Back and forth we strove,
straining like two wild animals, our moccasined feet slipping on the
wet earth, our muscles strained, and sinews cracking with intensity of
effort, our breath coming in labored gasps, our bodies tense as
bow-strings. Such merciless strain could not endure forever, and,
strong as I was in those young days, the savage was far stronger and
less exhausted by the struggle, so that inch by inch he pressed me
backward, battling like a demon, until I could see the cruel gleam of
his eyes as I gave slowly down. It was God who saved me, for as I fell
I struck the sharp shelving of the bank, and the quick stoppage swung
the savage to one side and below me, so that, even as he gave vent to
an exulting yell of triumph, wrenching his hand loose from my weakening
clasp to strike the death-blow, I whirled and forced him downward, his
face buried in the stream.
Those who write history say the rescuing warriors discovered him alive.
I know not; but this I swear,--I held him there until every struggle
ceased, until answering yells from the westward told me others were
already close at hand, and then, breathless and trembling from the
struggle, blinded by blood and faint from wounds, I sprang forward into
the night-shadows, dimly conscious that my sole hope for escape lay
lakeward. I ran but feebly at first, skirting the partially destroyed
stockade of the old Fort, with its litter of debris, and stumbling
constantly in the darkness over the obstructions that lined the river
bank. As my breath returned, and I somewhat cleared my eyes of blood,
I saw better; and at last ran from the darker soil on to the white sand
of the beach.
There were now many stars in the sky, with the moon struggling feebly
to break through the haze; but to my anxious glance nothing was visible
upon, the water. Surely the boat must have floated to the river-mouth
by this time,--surely the force of the current would have accomplished
that; nor was it likely that Ol' Burns would draw far away from shore
until assured of my fate. The wild shouting told me that savages from
the camp had already found their dead. A moment more would place them
on my trail, hot for revenge; and there was no course left me but to
take the water, before their keen eyes found me out. I waded out,
seeking thus to get far enough from shore to baffle their search, when
suddenly a quick spark of light winked from the blackness in front of
me. Surely it could be nothing less than a signal, the swift stroke of
flint on steel,--no doubt in the faint hope it would prove a beacon to
me in my need.
Desperate as the chance was, it was still a chance, and to my mind the
only one. I glanced behind; a dim figure or two dotted the white sand,
and my heart lifted a silent prayer to God for guidance. A second
later I was beyond my depth, breasting the unknown waters, swimming
steadily toward the place where that mysterious spark had glimmered.
Once again it flashed, the barest glimpse of light through the intense
gloom; and I pressed on with new vigor, certain now it was a real
beacon. But I was so weakened by wounds and spent from exertion, and
such desperate work is swimming fully clad, that my progress proved
slow; and twice I was compelled to pause, paddling slowly on my back,
in the buffeting of the waves, in order to gain strength to renew the
struggle. I almost lost heart in the black loneliness, as the swirling
water swept me back and confused me with its ever-tossing motion. Once
I went down from sheer weakness, choking in a cloud of spray that swept
my face; and doubtless I should have let the struggle end in despair
even then, had not the spark leaped up once more through the deep haze;
and this time so close was it that my ears caught the clashing of the
flint and steel.
With the new hope of life thus given me, I pushed grimly forward, using
the silent Indian stroke that never tires, my eyes at the surface level
where the light of the moon glimmered feebly. At last I saw it,--the
black lumpy shadow of the boat. I must have splashed a little in my
weakness and excitement, for I plainly perceived the figure of a man
hastily leap to his feet, with an oar-blade uplifted threateningly
above his head.
"Don't strike, Burns!" I managed to cry aloud. "It's Wayland."
The next moment, with scarce so much as a breath remaining in my
battered body, I laid hand upon the boat's side, and clung there
panting and well-nigh spent. I felt his hands pressed under my arms,
and then, with the exercise of his great strength, he drew me steadily
up, inch by inch, until I topped the rail, and fell forward into the
bottom of the boat. An instant I rested thus, with tightly closed
eyes, my head reeling, my breath coming in sobs of pain, every muscle
of my strained body throbbing in misery. Scarcely conscious of what
was being done about me, I could still realize that arms touched my
neck, that my head was gently lifted to a softer resting-place, and
that a hand, strangely tender, brushed back from my forehead the wet
tangled hair. The touch was thrilling; and I unclosed my wearied eyes,
looking up into the sympathetic face of Mademoiselle. The faint
moonlight rested upon it gently, touching her crown of hair with
silver; and within the dark depths of her eyes I read clearly the
message I had waited for so long.
"Toinette!" I murmured, half conscious.
She bowed her head above me, and I felt a sudden plash of tears that
could not be restrained.
"Do not try to speak now, John!" she whispered softly, her finger at my
lips. "I can only thank the good God who has brought you back to me."
I made no effort to say more; I could only lie in silence and gaze up
at her, pressing the hands resting so frankly within my own. Indeed,
we needed no words in that hour; our hearts had spoken, and
thenceforward we were one.
Suddenly the heavy boat lurched beneath us, to some quick impetus that
sent a shudder through every inch of it; and I heard a heavy splash
alongside, which instantly brought me upright, anxiously grasping the
rail.
"May Heaven help him!" cried Burns excitedly, and pointing out at the
black waters. "The Frenchman has gone overboard!"
"Overboard?" I echoed, striving to regain my feet. "Did he fall?"
"Fall? No; it was a dive off the back seat here. Save me! but he went
into it like a gull."
We sought for him long and vainly, peering over those dark swirling
waters, calling his name aloud, and striking flint on steel in hope to
guide him by the spark. Nothing appeared along the rolling surface, no
answering cry came from the black void; De Croix had disappeared into
the depths, as desperate men go down to death. Suddenly, as I leaned
over, sick at heart, peering into the dimness, Toinette drew near and
touched me softly.
"Let us not mourn," she said, in strange quietness. "No doubt 't is
better so."
"How?" I questioned, shocked at her seemingly heartless words. "Surely
you cannot rejoice at such a loss?"
"'T is not a loss," she answered firmly, and the soft moon-rays were
white upon her face. "He has only gone back to her we left behind; it
was the beckoning hand of love that called him through the waters. Now
it is only ours to pray that he may find her."