retorted. “When Oneida and Seneca put on the war paint the Ottawa stay
home.”
“Ho!” the chief exclaimed. “You speak to Pontiac. Those are the foolish
words of a boy.”
Pontiac! He was a great war chief of the Ottawa and he was angered. But
the dark man in Ottawa dress interrupted.
“They are brave boys; we can see they are warriors. There is no war
between the Mingo and the Ottawa. All are brothers under the flag of
Onontio.”
“Langlade knows that the Mingo helped the English kill the brother of
Villiers,” said Pontiac. “They have French scalps. The Mingo are dogs
that bite the hand that feeds. The red-coat fat man says these boys
come from the English. The Mingo send in their boys as spies.”
And another Ottawa who had been eying the Hunter cried:
“This boy was at Venango with the Englishman Washington. He is the
son of Tanacharison. He will take word of us to Tanacharison and
Washington. He is a spy.”
Then Ottawas and Hurons began to jeer and threaten, and their words
were not pleasant.
“Give them to us, Langlade,” they begged. “Let them go back without
eyes and tongues, and tell what they have seen.”
Langlade held up his hand. His was a famous name, too; for he was
half Ottawa, and was a French Ranger captain, and had led the Indians
who had wiped out Pickawillanie of the Miamis and had eaten old Chief
Britain.
“Wait, brothers!” he bade. “Would you harm boys who come in boldly?
What have we to fear?” And he smiled upon Robert. “Tell me why you came
and you shall be safe,” he said. “I am Captain Langlade. Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent us. We saw you from the woods and we came down,” answered
the Hunter.
“Is Tanacharison your father?”
“Feather Eagle, Delaware, my father; my mother the White Woman,”
answered the Hunter. “I live with Tanacharison, but I am American.”
“Where is Tanacharison, that he does not come in too, to his friends
from Onontio?”
“Tanacharison is sick. He goes to Aukwick.”
“You know that red-coat captain, who spoke to you?”
“Yes. I went with the red-coat captain to hunt for him and Washington
on the trail to Venango two winters ago.”
“I can see you are a brave boy and speak the truth,” said Langlade,
smoothly. “You will be a warrior.” And he asked of the Buck:
“You are Oneida. You have a father?”
“Wah!” the Buck uttered proudly. “I tell no lies. My father is a great
chief of the Oneida Mingo. He is Scarouady. The Ottawa and Huron have
heard of him.”
“Scarouady!” The word was repeated. Yes, the French Indians had heard
of Scarouady.
“It is well,” said Langlade. “We do not wish to war with Tanacharison
and Scarouady. The French father has sent for them, and we wait for
them to come. If they have listened to lies and have thought of taking
up the hatchet for the English, that shall be forgotten. Onontio is
generous, and loves the Mingo like he loves the Delaware, the Shawnee,
the Ottawa and the Huron. All are his children. Now you shall stay and
see what manner of men the men of Onontio are. Then when you go back
safe, the Seneca and the Oneida will know.”
“When we go back safe,” remarked the Buck, a little later, to the
Hunter. “Wah! That may not be for a long time.”
That sounded like sense. Following Langlade’s pleasant speech, as if
they had received orders the Ottawas and the Hurons were very friendly
indeed. They offered food, and dry moccasins, and even the haughty
Pontiac wheedled the two “young warriors from our brothers.” Now all
the talk was of the strong French and of the weak English, and of the
love of Onontio for the Senecas and Oneidas, and of the presents to be
had at Fort Duquesne, and of the French traders who were so much more
generous than the English traders, and of the foolishness of depending
upon the English anyway. The English had been driven out forever; the
white flag of the King of France was greater than that red flag of the
English King; all the Ohio Country belonged to the French and to their
brothers the Indians.
“Our two young brothers shall come with us to the French fort and see,
so that they may understand,” the Ottawas and Hurons prated.
“We thank the Ottawa and Huron, but the fort at Dekanawida is far and
we must go to Aukwick,” the Buck answered. “We have seen the strength
of Onontio and will go in the morning and tell the Mingo chiefs at
Aukwick.”
“No,” smiled Pontiac. “You shall be guests in the lodge of Pontiac
until your eyes are open and there are no English in them. Those two
red-coats are the last of the English; soon they will be gone too.”
“Wah!” uttered the Buck. “The Ottawa will dance their scalps at
Dekanawida?”
“The Ottawa will dance as many scalps as there are English, if the
English come again,” laughed Pontiac. “But these two dogs are kept by
the French until all the French that have been stolen by the Englishman
Washington are sent back. This does not concern my young brothers,”
Pontiac added, with a crafty look. “With the English they would be wet
and hungry; but with the French they are dry and well fed. They have
nothing to do with the English. The French have switched the English
home like squaws; and Tanacharison and Scarouady will refuse to listen
more to the false song of the little English bird in the woods.”
So the Ottawas and the Hurons cunningly bragged, flattered and
pretended friendship, and promised great things at Fort Duquesne; and
the Hunter noticed that his gun and the Buck’s were not given back, and
that he was not permitted to move out of reach, or to get near Vanbraam
or Captain Strobo; and it was plain that he and the Buck were in a
trap. To the French fort they must go; and there, what?
“We shall be as wise as the bear,” said the Buck, at his first chance.
“They will not harm us. They fill us with lies; and then they will
tell the Mingo to come and get us. Let us pretend, too, and learn all
we can. Already some of the Mingo are weak. Guyasuta has listened, and
Joncaire has sent words and presents to Scarouady.”
“Scarouady will go to the French?” stammered the Hunter.
“No! He is true to Washington. But let us pretend and learn all we can,
so that when we escape we shall have news to take.”
They each slept this night between two Ottawas. In the morning the
French marched on, to the Monongahela at Redstone Creek. Here they
burnt and pulled down the store-house and cabins of the Ohio Company.
Canoes had been waiting; and they and the Ottawas and Hurons got in and
down the Monongahela they all went, to Fort Duquesne.
What a tremendous welcome they got! The Ottawas and Hurons and many of
the French Rangers fired their muskets in token of victory; the guns
of the fort answered, the Indians there rushed for the bank, shooting
and yelling; the canoes responded again, the men piled out, and were
escorted by a mob into the clearing around the fort.
All the time up to now neither Robert nor the Buck had had a chance to
speak with Captain Strobo or Vanbraam; but in the midst of the jostling
and confusion the Hunter heard a voice in his ear.
“Quick! Did Washington send you?” hissed Captain Strobo.
“No. We came to help.”
“Good! Wait. See me later in fort. Be careful.”
Then they were separated. Strobo and Vanbraam were taken on into the
fort; the Buck and Robert were lodged outside, where the Indians
celebrated.
Whether they two could have slipped away, no one might say. The Buck
was for trying, this very night; but when Robert told him of Strobo, he
said:
“Wah! We will wait. I am your brother; we two are one.”
They knew that they were watched to see if they would try to escape.
And they were well treated, for the French very much wished to win the
Mingos over. A few Mingos were here, from up-river; a few Delawares
from the west; but the main horde were Ottawas, Hurons, Potawatomis,
and Ojibwas from the far north. The other Delawares and Shawnees were
waiting to see what the English would do now.
After a couple of weeks the watchfulness lessened. Scouts reported that
no English were coming. The fort gates stayed open. The Buck and the
Hunter were even permitted to wander in and look about. Vanbraam and
Captain Strobo appeared to be well treated also. They were not under
guard; they walked and sat with the French officers; it was true that
they were being held only until the Governor of Virginia sent back the
prisoners taken by Washington when Jumonville was killed.
Vanbraam drank freely――a jolly man, he, and foolish. But Strobo was
smart. He pretended to be happy, and yet his eyes were always darting
about, and his mind was busy. Then, one morning as he passed Robert he
said, without pausing:
“Meet me behind storehouse at sunset. Tell nobody.”
Something was to happen! “Tell nobody,” Captain Strobo had said; by
that, Robert was not to tell even the Buck. There were many eyes and
ears in this Fort Duquesne.
So at sunset he was behind the fort storehouse――in back of it where it
stood near the pickets of the east side along the Monongahela River.
And here, to his astonishment, the Buck was crouching; and around the
corner of the house here came Captain Strobo, walking rapidly.
The place already was dim with shadow. Captain Strobo spoke to Robert
and the Buck.
“Here are letters. One of you go to John Croghan in Pennsylvania, one
to Washington. Will you?”
The Buck caught at the words.
“Wah! I find Croghan. Quick!”
“Good. The Hunter to Washington,” smiled Strobo. “One of you will get
through. If these papers are captured, I die. If you lose them, tell
what you have seen; all about the fort and the people. The Indians are
not scouting; the French are careless. Let the English strike. They
must not wait till we are safe out. They must keep La Force. He is
dangerous. Our lives are nothing. We are not to be thought of. I would
gladly die if the fort might be taken. You understand?”
Robert nodded. The Buck did not understand all, but he understood a
part.
“We hear a chief,” he said in Iroquois.
He stuffed his letter inside his belt; Robert did the same.
“Each for himself, Hunter,” said the Buck. “I will see you at Aukwick.”
Captain Strobo had turned away, to be gone before anybody should
interfere.
“Now!” prompted the Buck. “It is time.”
He put his moccasins in his belt and clinging with his toes and fingers
to the logs set on end twelve feet high and forming the stockade he
shinned right up. Robert was after. They vaulted over, landing lightly;
but they had no more than straightened after tying on their moccasins
again ere a tall figure rose right before them.
“My young brothers are going to hunt owls?” asked Pontiac. “Or do they
wish to see their fathers?”
He reached for the Buck. The Buck might have drawn hatchet or knife
and struck to kill; but Robert doubled up and drove forward right into
Pontiac’s stomach. Pontiac doubled up, too; and his breath gushed in a
loud whoop. As the two messengers raced on they heard another whoop,
a real alarm whoop, from Pontiac’s lips. He could not run yet, but he
could yell.
The stockade was skirted by a ditch with dirt breastworks. They
scampered along the stockade and were almost at the next corner.
But people were running about inside the fort; there were shouts
and thud of moccasins from around the corner, and a sentry’s musket
flamed――Bang!――from the bastion there, calling for the guard.
They swerved sharply, and scrambled through the shallow ditch and
fairly bounded over the breastworks seven feet high and were outside,
between the breastworks and the Monongahela.
It was lucky that on the river side of the Forks the French had few
guards. Now the Hunter and the Buck made for the water.
“I go down, you go up,” the Buck panted. He dived from the bank, into
the Monongahela; Robert dived. And that was the last he saw of the Buck
for some time.
The Buck could swim swiftly down with the current. No doubt he planned
to enter the Allegheny and land and cut through the woods for the
east where George Croghan lived. But to swim up the Monongahela was a
different proposition for the Hunter. Besides, here came the Ottawas
and Hurons pell-mell, to their canoes. They, of course, would think
that the two boys were swimming across. The river was dark, the Hunter
sank low, paddling just enough to keep afloat. The current tugged
at him; he never could escape those canoes now spreading from the
landing place above him. He turned back. Aha! His groping hands felt a
snag――the roots of an old grounded tree, in an eddy of a curve of the
high bank. He dragged himself forward, sinking still lower underneath
the jagged roots and throwing his head back until only his nose was
above for air.
On swept the canoes, bearing warriors to beat the river and to search
the shore beyond. For a long time he waited, until the hue and cry had
died. Then he left the roots, and was paddling out when he sank low
again.
Here came another canoe, and it paused almost over him. It held two
Indians.
“They are Mingos, and like eels,” said one. “It would be like them to
hide along the bank until we passed.”
“You talk sense,” said the other. “Let us try along the bank up river;
they are not down river.”
They dug with their paddles――one in the bows, one in the stern. The
Hunter gently extended his hand; it closed upon the stem of the canoe,
and kicking under water and gently stroking he went with the canoe.
Pretty soon one of the Indians spoke again.
“The canoe is heavy.”
“Wah! It is the current. You are weak in your arms, brother,” answered
the other. “Dig deeply.”
At this, Robert almost laughed.
With the two paddlers interested in searching the banks and the dim
surface, the canoe towed him quite a distance up stream. Then it
stopped, above the landing place, and the Indians whooped. Whoops
replied to them. They were no-news whoops. The other canoes were coming
back.
“They have found nothing,” said one Indian. “The two young rascals are
hiding. Let us go home and wait till daylight.”
Robert drew breath and sank, swimming under water. When he broke
out again the canoe had gone; and he veered for the shore and landed
at last, and scuttling through the shallows he climbed out, well up
stream. He rounded a cornfield and was in the woods. Whether he could
yet get away he did not know; but they had not caught the Buck.
The night had settled; all the woods were black. After stumbling for a
mile or two he also had to stop, and wait for daylight.
Now he was south of the fort, upon the fort side of the Monongahela.
The Ottawas and Hurons would surely scout both sides of the river, in
the morning, to find the trail of him and the Buck. He must be up at
dawn, and making onward for Will’s Creek once more, to seek Washington.
Before he curled to nap in a bed of leaves he clapped his hand to his
belt. The letter from Strobo to Washington was gone!
Ho! He had lost it! It had slipped out, probably while he was running
and stumbling from the river. Now what to do? He could go on and tell
Washington about Strobo and about the fort――but if that letter were
found upon his trail and taken back to the French, then Captain Strobo
would die as a spy.
This should not be. He could see nothing now in the woods; his back
trail was buried in the darkness: but he must hasten, the first thing,
by morn light, and find that letter himself before the enemy pounced
upon it. Of course, he would be heading right into the scouting
parties――――
Well, he had to make the try. He might at least find the letter and
hide it before he was caught.
The Hunter slept uneasily this night. He was up early in the awakening
day, and back-trailing; hungry he was, too. The forest was still dim,
he could not travel fast as yet, for the little trail he had left was
faint; and with his eyes upon the ground he had gone not half way to
the river when he heard sudden distant whoops.
Those whoops he knew. They were rallying whoops――the enemy had
discovered his foot-prints where he had left the river! Wah! Ottawas
and Hurons would be coming fast. He was liable to run into them――he
hoped that the letter had been lost in the river――about himself he did
not care, and he was determined to go as far as he could, in order
to save Captain Strobo if possible. And meanwhile the Buck would be
getting away.
He trotted, searching for the glimmer of the letter. The woods were
beginning to echo. If he could find that letter, and hide it――huzzah!
He had it, he had it! And he picked it up and he turned with a bound,
and to a burst of view-halloo from the leading scouts he bolted full
speed. Perhaps he could get off, after all.
He went leaping, straining, scudding like a hare, with the shouts
in gleeful pursuit. So once again he was fleeing, as he had fled
the Cherokee; but it took better legs now to catch Robert the
Hunter――fifteen years old, hard and lean and bred to the woods the same
as an Indian.
Up slope and down slope and through the levels he plunged; and the
shouts seemed to string out behind him. He doubled and side-stepped,
and broke his trail, and by this gained time; and he ever had his eyes
alert for a tree or a rock ledge where he might cover up long enough to
throw the enemy off the scent.
His legs were getting heavy, and his breath was short. From another
slope he looked back upon his trail. Ugh! Two Ottawas were closing in
upon him――they were plain in sight of him, and he was plain in sight of
them. They had appeared suddenly, they shouted and he glanced aside and
he saw another Indian (a Huron) burst from cover on his right as by a
short cut, to head him off.
The Ottawas were not shooting, but the Huron dashed on with hatchet
lifted. And Robert swerved a little and in last spurt legged again. He
could not throw the letter away here, before the eyes of Ottawas and
Hurons. Now all he hoped for was to win the top of the slope, and dive
over and get rid of the letter there. Then they could capture him and
do what they pleased with him.
The Huron whooped shrilly. The slope rang to the cries of him and the
Ottawas. The cries ceased; the pursuit was saving breath――glancing
behind again Robert saw the Huron bearing in, his painted face a-scowl,
his skin sweaty, his hatchet raised. The top of the slope loomed with
thick brush into which a boy might dive. Run, Hunter! Now! He almost
could feel the Huron’s clutch, he could see only dimly――he lunged to
the top, and he made another leap, and a great blow upon the head sent
him spinning; and to cheers and crack of guns he sank into blackness.
XVII
SCOUTING FOR THE GRENADIERS
It seemed to Robert, while he lay panting and kicking and trying to
wake, that a battle had been raging over him. He knew that he was wet
with cold water, and that fingers were busy upon his head; and at last
he looked into a face black-whiskered, black-eyed, a face very dark and
stern, but ready to smile: the face, yes, of the Black Rifle!
Robert struggled to sit up in a jiffy. The Black Rifle was a fearsome
man――an Indian-killer. And around-about there were other white-men, in
buckskin and long hair, powder flasks and bullet pouches, hatchets and
knives――several of them with fresh scalps at their belts.
He groped for his letter. It was gone again! The Black Rifle laughed
silently.
“You miss something?” he asked in Delaware.
“You have it?” the Hunter stammered in English. His head hurt him. He
put up his hand; his head was bandaged and wet; his hand came away red.
Captain Jack the Black Rifle continued to laugh inside himself.
“Hah, boy! You have a hard skull. The Huron hatchet glanced like a
chip. Where were you going?”
“I carry letter to Washington. You got it?”
“No.”
What! It was lost? Had the Ottawas found it after all? The agony of
the Hunter’s head was nothing compared with the agony of his heart.
He would have tottered to his feet, but the hand of the Black Rifle
pressed him down.
“Lie still. The letter’s on its way.”
“To Washington?”
“Aye, or to the Governor of Virginia. That’s what the address said on
the inside.” They had acted quickly, these Black Rifle men! “We thought
you dead. Who sent you?”
“No tell,” replied the Hunter.
“Very good. Then you needn’t. You’ve been in the river; those French
Injuns didn’t chase you for nothing; aye, you’re a brave boy. You shall
have that Huron’s gun and fixin’s. And there’ll be scalps missing at
Fort Duquesne.” Captain Jack laughed shortly. “Now, lads! We must put
more distance behind us ere the pack howls on our trail.”
A very giant of a man picked Robert up; they all filed rapidly into the
woods.
The Black Rifle’s band had been scouting upon Fort Duquesne. Now
they were returning into Pennsylvania with the news that they had.
The Hunter had a gun again, but a boy with his scalp ripped open by
a tomahawk and with his head throbbing could not go to Will’s Creek
alone. Every mile in company with the Captain Jack men took him farther
from Will’s Creek and nearer to Aukwick, and Tanacharison and Scarouady
and (he hoped) the Buck.
Therefore to Aukwick he went, instead of to Will’s Creek.
The Buck had got through! Here he was, his own message delivered.
Strobo would be glad when he knew.
Tanacharison was sick in bed. All this fall the Mingos at Aukwick
waited for word that the English were to drive the French from the
Ohio. Scarouady made a trip to Onondago, to speak for the English
before the council of the Iroquois. The Iroquois were growing tired.
Said old Chief Hendrick, the Mohawk, to the English in Albany:
“The English pay us no attention, but the French are wise and active,
and are always inviting us. You accuse the French of many things. When
the French come, you run away. Look about your country. You have no
forts. The French can come and turn you out of doors. They are men;
they are making forts everywhere. But you are bare and open.”
More and more Iroquois were going over to the French. Captain Joncaire
had persuaded the Delawares and the Shawnees. The Mingos at Aukwick
listened to George Croghan but many outside travelled to Fort Duquesne
where the French gave presents.
Washington had gone home from Will’s Creek. Maybe he had grown tired,
too, of waiting for help. The Governor of Virginia had not given
the French back the prisoners taken by Washington; and it was said
that Strobo and Vanbraam had been sent to Canada by the French, as
prisoners. But the package carried by the Buck to George Croghan had
contained a map of Fort Duquesne; this also had gone to the Governor of
Virginia, and why Assaragoa did not act, nobody knew.
Old Tanacharison died this fall. No doubt the French had made him sick,
because he had fought them. Scarouady was appointed Half-King. That was
good. He was not afraid of the French. And the winter wore on, and it
was rumored that the King across the water had ordered his soldiers to
come and drive out the French; and one day in the spring George Croghan
asked that a council meet.
In the council he made a speech. The English and the Long Knives were
starting, under a great general, to capture Fort Duquesne. The general
had asked for warriors to help him.
Ugh! With all the Mingo warriors――fifty――and their families, Croghan
set out to meet the General at Will’s Creek. There were Scarouady and
Silver Heels and White Thunder and Big Tree and the Buck, and Robert,
and the rest, not omitting Bright Lightning.
Will’s Creek has changed. A fort stood here now, named Fort Cumberland.
And around the fort were a host of tents in lines, and red coats, and a
batch of blue coats, horses, cattle, wagons and cannon on wheels.
It was a wonderful sight, and made Scarouady grunt approval.
“Ho!” he said. “Now I see the English. We shall eat up the French.”
The soldiers sent by the King were in red, with high, black, shiny
hats, and white cross belts, and white leggins buttoned below the knee,
and hair twisted into stubby tails hanging down their backs; large and
fierce they looked. They numbered one thousand. The red of one half had
yellow trimmings; of the other half, clay.
The blue-coated soldiers were Long Knives; four hundred and fifty, in
nine companies. There were soldiers from New York and from Carolina,
too. And there were seamen, or sailors, from great ships. But these
numbered only fifty. Their clothes were very odd, and so was their
language.
The general or head chief was Sir Edward Braddock――a famous warrior for
the King. Gist was here, and so was Andrew Montour; and so were Captain
Thomas Waggener and Ensign Peyroney who had been sorely wounded at Fort
Necessity, and Doctor Craik, and several others――all Washington men,
among the Virginians.