THE BATTLE.
From the point burst out a sudden cloud of flame and smoke. Six of the
canoes in the lead and six in the rear of the long procession came to a
sudden halt. Of their occupants, some crumpled up where they had stood
like bits of flame-swept paper. Others pitched forward in the bottom
of their crafts, while still others stood for a minute swaying from
left to right like drunken men, to finally crash over the sides like
fallen trees, taking their cranky crafts over with them in their plunge
of death.
Only for a second was there confusion amongst the remaining canoes.
Before the volley could be repeated, they had drawn closer together.
Each Indian had dropped his pole, and seizing his rifle crouched low in
the bottom of his craft, his keen eyes searching the point.
"They're heroes, that's what they are," cried Charley, his eyes
flashing and cheeks aflame, "they are as good as dead if they stay, and
yet they will not flee."
"Suicide, I call it," said the captain harshly, to conceal his emotion
of horror and admiration. "But there's one there who is going to save
his skin. See that young lad who was in the first canoe. He is poling
away now that his companion has fallen."
"But not willingly," said Charley, who had been watching the little
by-play, "did you see him pick up his gun? He wanted to fight, but the
rest shouted and made signs to him till he put it down. I've got it,"
he exclaimed, "it was the chief in that canoe. They are trying to
cover his retreat, poor fellows. They are what I call men."
There had been no cessation in the fighting while the captain and
Charley were talking; flame and smoke continued to burst out from the
point in almost a continuous stream, while those in the canoes were not
inactive. Where an arm or leg showed to their hawk-like eyes, their
rifles cracked sharply, to be generally rewarded with a howl of pain
from some cutthroat who had been winged. But there could be but one
end to such a battle. The convicts were well protected behind big
trees, while the flimsy sides of their canoes afforded the brave little
band of Seminoles almost no protection. Still they fought stubbornly
on, answering shot with shot until the point and canoes were shrouded
in a fog of smoke.
"They see the young Indian, they see him," cried Charley in an agony of
suspense. "Look, look, they are all shooting at him."
The young Indian had passed out of the smoke pall, but his flight had
not been undetected; some of the convicts, with an eye out for just
such escapes, had drawn back to higher ground where they could see
above the smoke which hung close to the water. These at once gave the
alarm, and a shower of bullets began to rain around the dugout.
The Indian lad stood stoically at his poling, not even glancing back,
and paying no more attention to the hail of bullets than if they were
so many flies. The little Seminole seemed to bear a charmed life,
bullets struck the pole he was handling, and again and again they sent
out splinters flying from the sides of the dugout itself, but still he
shoved steadily ahead.
"By the ghost of the Flying Dutchman," shouted the captain, "he is
going to get away from them. Two hundred feet more and their bullets
won't hurt if they hit."
"He's hit," cried Charley, a second later; "watch him."
The Indian lad had given a sudden, involuntary start and one hand went
to his head, he sank to his knees, struggled to rise, then slowly and
gently slipped down; a huddled heap in the bottom of his canoe, while
an exultant yell rose from the convicts' camp.
Charley's face was white and haggard, but his voice was steady and cool
as he turned to the captain. "Please go to my saddle-bags. You'll
find two rockets there. Set them both off; that will bring Walter, and
we will have need of him soon. I am going after that Indian and bring
him in dead or alive. You and Chris had better mount guard again at
the wall; those cut-throats will be here soon."
One look at Charley's face convinced the captain that remonstrances
were useless, so, with a hearty squeeze of the lad's hand, he turned
away to his duties.
Charley unmoored one of the canvas canoes and, taking his place in the
stern, with a mighty shove of the paddle drove it far out into the
stream.
"Massa Charley, my own Massa Charley, going to be killed," wailed
Chris, giving way to his fears and grief with the emotionalism of his
race.
The captain shook him vigorously. "Shut up," he said, roughly, partly
to hide his own feelings, "Charley's comin' back without a scratch.
The good Lord, I reckon, don't make lads as true and white as he to be
killed off by a pack of jail vermin. Come to the wall as he told us
to. Maybe we'll get a shot at those murderers before the day is done.
Come along an' stop that blubberin'," and he grabbed the soft-hearted
little darky by the arm and dragged him to the post.
The convicts were quick to see and interpret Charley's action, and
their guns were quickly turned upon his frail craft. As he drew nearer
the drifting dugout and came within range, a perfect hail of bullets
splashed the water into foam around him. He did not falter or
hesitate, but with long clean strokes of the paddle, sent his light
little craft flying towards his goal. Perhaps it was this very speed
that saved his life. Bullet after bullet pierced the thin canvas sides
and one struck a corner of his paddle, tingling his arm and side like
an electric shock. A few minutes of this furious paddling brought him
to the bow of the dugout. Seizing its rawhide painter, he fastened the
end to a seat in his own boat. Then taking the paddle again, he headed
back to the point. The leaden hail fell as thickly as ever, but by
crouching low he was shielded somewhat by the high sides of his tow.
His return progress was now slow, but gradually he worked the two
crafts out of the range of the convicts.
Walter had lost no time in getting back to camp at the call of the
rockets, and was waiting at the water's edge to receive his chum.
"Haul both boats in and make them fast," Charley ordered as he wearily
paddled in.
Walter waded out knee deep, and seizing the bow of each boat as it came
in reach, drew it up on the shore, and taking the painter, quickly made
them fast to a nearby pine.
"We have got some heavy, quick work ahead of us," Charley said quickly
enough to forestall the volley of eager questions on the tip of his
excited chum's tongue. "Every minute counts now. I dare not call
either Chris or the captain away from their posts. Help me into the
lean-to with these poor fellows, then get your gun and join the
captain. Those murderers may be over here any minute now. They are
bound for their own safety to let no witness of their horrible crime
escape."
As he rose from his cramped crouching position, Charley got his first
glance of the interior of the dugout and his face grew dark with anger
towards those who had brought this thing to pass.
Prone on his face in the bottom lay a magnificent specimen of savage
manhood. His height, when standing, could not have been less than six
feet three. His shoulders were broad and clothed with great, powerful
muscles. His body sloped away gracefully to a slim waist and straight,
muscular limbs--the ideal body, striven for by all athletes. His dress
was that usual to Seminoles on a hunt--a long calico shirt belted in at
the waist, limbs bare, moccasins of soft tanned deer-skin, and a
head-dress made of many tightly-wound crimson handkerchiefs bound
together by a broad, thin band of polished silver. In the turban, now
dyed a richer hue from the blood flowing from the warrior's shoulder,
was stuck a large eagle feather, the insignia of a chief. At his feet,
where he had crumpled down under the enemy's bullets, lay the Indian
lad in a huddled heap. It did not need the tiny eagle feather in the
diminutive turban to convince Charley's observant eye that it was a
case of father and son, a chief and son of a chief.
All that we have taken so long to describe, Charley had taken in at one
swift glance.
"Both are still living," he declared. "Run to the lean-to, Walt, and
get a blanket. We will have to drag that big one up to the camp. It
will be pretty rough, but it's our only way. We cannot carry him."
In a minute Walter was back with a thick, strong horse-blanket, which
he spread out on the turf close to the water.
It took every ounce of strength the two lads possessed to lift the
heavy body from the dugout to the blanket, then each taking a forward
end of the blanket, they drew it gently after them sled-wise up to the
lean-to, avoiding rough places as much as possible. There, they had to
exert themselves to the limit of their strength to lift their burden
from the blanket to one of the couches.
Their second trip was easier. The Indian lad, though showing promise
of great future strength, was still only a stripling, and they bore his
limp body in their arms without difficulty.