Night—Sagacity of the hounds—Reflection—The sneaking savages—Joe’s
disaster—The approach of the foe under the snow—The silent watch.
The night was beautiful. The moon sailed through a cloudless sky, and
the north wind, which had whistled loudly among the branches of the
trees in the valley at the close of day, was hushed, and a perfect calm
pervaded the scene.
“What’re you leaving your post for?” asked Sneak, as Joe suddenly
abandoned his watch on the west side of the inclosure, and tripped
across to Roughgrove.
“Mr. Roughgrove—Mr. Roughgrove,” said Joe, in a low tone.
“Well, what do you want with me?” responded the old ferryman.
“I wanted to tell you that your two oarsmen are forgotten, and to ask
you if we hadn’t better call to them to come up here, where they’ll be
out of danger?”
“They are _not_ forgotten,” said Roughgrove; “I sent them over the
river to procure assistance, if possible.”
“Thank you. I’m glad they’re out of danger. I couldn’t rest till I
found out something about them,” said Joe, retiring; but instead of
resuming his watch, he slipped into the house.
“He’s at his old tricks agin,” said Sneak, when he observed him
stealthily enter the door. “Come out, I say!” he continued, in a loud
voice.
“What is the matter?” interrogated Glenn, from his station on the
north.
“Why, that feller’s crept into the house agin,” replied Sneak.
“Well, but he’s come out again,” said Joe, reappearing, and walking
reluctantly to his loophole.
“What did you go in for?” demanded Glenn.
“I just wanted to tell Miss Mary that the two oarsmen that helped us to
bury Posin were gone over the river, and were safe.”
“Did she ask for this information?” inquired Glenn.
“No, not exactly,” responded Joe; “but I thought if I was uneasy about
the young men myself, that she, being more delicate than a man, must be
considerably distressed.”
“A mere subterfuge! See that you do not leave your post in future,
under any circumstances, without permission to do so.”
“I won’t,” replied Joe, peering through his loophole.
Matters remained quiet for a great length of time, and Glenn began to
hope that even Boone had been mistaken. But Boone himself had no doubts
upon the subject. Yet he seemed far more affable and cheerful than he
did before the plan of resistance was formed in his mind. Occasionally
he would walk round from post to post, and after scanning the aspect
without, direct the sentinels to observe closely certain points, trees
or bushes, where he thought the enemy might first be seen. He never
hinted once that there was a possibility of escaping an attack, and the
little party felt that the only alternative was to watch with diligence
and act with vigor and resolution when assailed.
“Do you think they are now in this immediate neighbourhood?” inquired
Glenn.
“They are not far off, I imagine,” replied Boone; and calling the
hounds from the stable, he continued, “I can show you in which quarter
they are.” The hounds well understood their old master. At his bidding
they snuffed the air, and whining in a peculiar manner, with their
heads turned towards the west, the vicinity of the savages was not only
made manifest, but their location positively pointed out.
“I was not aware, before, of the inestimable value of your gift,” said
Glenn, gazing at the hounds, and completely convinced that their
conduct was an unerring indication of the presence of the foe.
“Eh! Ringwood!” exclaimed Boone, observing that his favorite hound now
pointed his nose in a northern direction and uttered a low growl.
“Indeed!” he continued, “they have got in motion since we have been
observing the hounds. I was not mistaken. Even while we were speaking
they divided their strength. One party is even now moving round to the
east, and at a given signal the other will attack us on the west,
precisely as I predicted. See! Ringwood turns gradually.”
“And you think the greatest danger is to be apprehended from those on
the east?” said Glenn.
“Yes,” said Boone, “for the others cannot approach near enough to do
much injury without exposing themselves to great peril.”
“But how can you ascertain that they will cut a passage under the snow,
and the precise direction in which they will come?”
“Because,” said Boone, “we are situated near the cliff on the east, to
the summit of which they can climb, without being exposed to our fire,
and thence it is likewise the shortest distance they can find to cut a
passage to us under the snow. Mark Ringwood!” he continued, as the
hound having made a semicircle from the point first noticed, became at
length stationary, and crouching down on the earth, (where the snow had
been cleared away at Boone’s post,) growled more angrily than before,
but so low he could not have been heard twenty paces distant.
“This is strange—very strange,” said Glenn.
A sound resembling the cry of an owl was heard in the direction of the
cliff. It was answered on the west apparently by the shrill howl of a
wolf.
“The signal!” said Boone. “Now let us be on the alert,” he continued,
“and I think we will surprise _them_, both on and under the snow. Let
no one fire without first consulting me, even should they venture
within the range of your guns.”
The party resumed their respective stations, and once more not a sound
of any description was heard for a considerable length of time.
Roughgrove was at the side of Boone, and the other three men were
posted as before described. The hounds had been sent back to their lair
in the stable. Not a motion, animate or inanimate, save the occasional
shooting of the stars in the begemmed firmament, could be observed.
While Glenn rested upon his gun, attracted ever and anon by the
twinkling host above, a throng of unwonted memories crowded upon him.
He thought of his guileless youth; the uncontaminated days of enjoyment
ere he had mingled with the designing and heartless associates who
strove to entice him from the path of virtue; of the hopes of budding
manhood; of ambitious schemes to win a name by great and honourable
deeds; of parents, kindred, home; of _her_, who had been the angel of
all his dreams of paradise below: and then he contemplated his present
condition, and notwithstanding his resolution was unabated, yet in
spite of all his struggles, a tear bedewed his cheek. He felt that his
fate was hard, but he _knew_ that his course was proper, and he
resolved to fulfil his vow. But with his sadness, gloomy forebodings,
and deep and unusual thoughts obtruded. In the scene of death and
carnage that was about to ensue, it occurred to him more than once that
it might be his lot to fall. This was a painful thought. He was brave
in conflict, and would not have hesitated to rush reckless into the
midst of danger; but he was calm now, and the thought of death was
appalling. He would have preferred to die on a nobler field, if he were
to fall in battle. He did not wish to die in his _youth_, to be cut
off, without accomplishing the many ends he had so often meditated, and
without reaping a few of the sweets of life as the reward of his
voluntary sacrifice. He also desired to appear once more in the busy
and detracting world, to vindicate the character that might have been
unjustly aspersed, to reward the true friendship of those whose
confidence had never been shaken, and to rebuke, perhaps forgive, the
enemies who had recklessly pursued him. But another, and yet a more
stirring and important thought obtruded upon his reflections. It was
one he had never seriously considered before, and it now operated upon
him with irresistible power. It was a thought of things _beyond_ the
grave. The stillness of midnight, the million stars above him, the blue
eternal expanse through which they were distributed—the repose of the
invisible winds, that late had howled around him—the never-ceasing flow
of the ice-bound stream before him, and the continual change of hill
and valley—now desolate, and clothed in frosty vestments, and anon with
verdure and variegated beauty—constrained him to acknowledge in the
secret portals of his breast that there was a great, ever-existing
Creator. He then called to mind the many impressive lessons of a pious
mother, which he had subsequently disregarded. He remembered the things
she had read to him in the book of books—the words of prayer she taught
him to utter every eve, ere he closed his eyes in slumber—and he _now_
repeated that humble petition with all the fervency of a chastened
spirit. He felt truly convinced of the fallacy of setting the heart and
the affections altogether on the things of this world, where mortals
are only permitted to abide but a brief space; and a hearty repentance
of past errors, and a firm resolve to obey the requisitions of the
Omnipotent in future, were in that hour conceived and engraven
indelibly upon his heart.
“Mr. Boone—Mr. Boone—Mr. Boone!” cried Joe, softly.
“Dod! don’t make sich a fuss,” said Sneak.
“Be silent,” whispered Boone, gliding to Joe, and gazing out on the
snow, where he beheld about twenty savages standing erect and
motionless, not eighty paces distant.
“I came within an ace of shooting,” said Joe, “before I thought of what
you had said. I pulled the trigger with all my might before I
remembered that you said I musn’t shoot till you told me, but as good
luck would have it, my musket wasn’t cocked.” Boone went to each of the
other loopholes, and after scrutinizing every side very closely, he
directed Sneak and Glenn to abandon their posts and join him at Joe’s
stand, for the purpose of discharging a deadly volley at the
unsuspecting foe.
“Does it not seem cruel to spill blood in this manner?” whispered
Glenn, when he viewed the statue-like forms of the unconscious Indians.
“Had you witnessed the barbarous deeds that _I_ have seen _them_
perform—had you beheld the innocent babe ruthlessly butchered—your
children—your friends maimed, tomahawked, scalped, _burned_ before your
eyes—could you know the hellish horrors they are _now_ meditating—you
would not entertain much pity for them,” said Boone, in a low tone,
evidently moved by terrible memories, the precise nature of which the
one addressed could not understand. But Glenn’s scruples vanished, and
as a matter of necessity he determined to submit without reserve to the
guidance of his experienced friend.
“I should like to know how them yaller rascals got up here so close
without being eyed sooner,” said Sneak to Joe.
“That’s what’s been puzzling me, ever since I first saw them,” said
Joe, in scarce audible tones.
“Split me if you havn’t been asleep,” said Sneak.
“No indeed I havn’t,” said Joe. “I’ll declare,” he continued, looking
out, “I never should have thought of _that_. I see now, well enough,
how they got there without my seeing them. They’ve got a great big ball
of snow, half as high as a man’s head, and they’ve been rolling it all
the time, and creeping along behind it. They’re all standing before it
now, and just as I looked one moved his leg, and then I saw what it
was. This beats the old boy himself. It’s a mercy they didn’t come all
the way and shoot me in the eye!”
“Hush!” said Boone. “They must have heard something, or supposed they
did, or else your neglect would have been fatal to you ere this. They
are now waiting to ascertain whether they were mistaken or not. Move
not, and speak no more, until I order you.”
“I won’t,” said Joe, still gazing at the erect dark forms.
“See how many there is—can’t you count ’em?” said Sneak, in a whisper,
leaning against Joe, and slyly taking a cartridge from his belt,
slipped it in the muzzle of the musket which was standing against the
palisade.
“What’re you doing with my gun?” asked Joe, in a very low tone, as he
happened to turn his head and see Sneak take his hand away from the
muzzle of the musket.
“Nothing—I was only feeling the size of the bore. It’s big enough to
kick down a cow.”
“What are you tittering about? you think it’s a going to kick me again,
but you’re mistaken—it ain’t got two loads in this time.”
“Didn’t Mr. Boone jest tell you to keep quiet?” said Sneak.
“Don’t you speak—then I won’t,” responded Joe.
The moon had not yet reached the meridian, and the dark shadow of the
house reaching to the palisade on the west, prevented the Indians from
observing the movements of the whites through the many slight apertures
in the inclosure, but through which the besieged party could easily
observe them.
After a long pause, during which neither party had uttered a word or
betrayed animation by the least movement, Glenn felt the weight of a
hand laid gently on his shoulder, and turning beheld Mary at his side.
Without a motion of the lips, she placed in his hand some bullets she
had moulded, and then passing on to the other men, gave each a like
quantity.
“Retire, now, my lass,” said Boone; and when she returned to the house,
he continued, addressing Glenn—“If they do not move one way or the
other very soon, we will give them a broadside where they are.”
“And we could do execution at this distance,” observed Glenn.
“I’d be dead sure to kill one, I know I would,” said Sneak.
“Let me see if I could take aim,” said Joe, deliberately pointing his
musket through the loophole. The musket had inadvertently been cocked,
and left in that condition, and no sooner did Joe’s finger gently press
upon the trigger, than it went off, making an astounding report, and
veiling the whole party in an immense cloud of smoke.
“Who did that?” cried Boone, stamping with vexation.
“Was that you, Joe?” demanded Glenn.
Joe made no answer.
“Oh, dod! my mouth’s smashed all to pieces!” said Sneak, crawling up
from a prostrate position, caused by the rebound of the musket, for he
was looking over Joe’s shoulder when the gun went off.
“Where’s Joe?” inquired Glenn, pushing Sneak aside.
“He’s dead, I guess—I believe the gun’s busted,” said Sneak.
“Now, sir! why did you fire?” cried Glenn, somewhat passionately,
stumbling against Joe, and seizing him by the collar. No answer was
made, for poor Joe’s neck was limber enough, and he quite insensible.
“He’s dead in yearnest, jest as I told you,” said Sneak; “for that gun
kicked him on the shoulder hard enough to kill a cow—and the hind side
of his head struck my tooth hard enough to’ve kilt a horse. He’s broke
one of my upper fore-teeth smack in two.”
“Every man to his post!” exclaimed Boone, as a shower of arrows rattled
about the premises.
Sneak now occupied Joe’s station, and the first glance in the direction
of the savages sufficed to determine him how to act. Perhaps no one
ever discharged a rifle more rapidly than he did. And a brisk and
well-directed fire was kept up for some length of time, likewise, by
the rest of the besieged.
It was, perhaps, a fortunate thing that Joe _did_ fire without orders,
and without any intention of doing so himself. It seemed that the
savages had been meditating a desperate rush upon the fort,
notwithstanding Boone’s prediction; for no sooner did Joe fire, than
they hastily retreated a short distance, scattering in every direction,
and, without a moment’s consultation, again appeared, advancing rapidly
from every quarter. It was evident that this plan had been preconcerted
among them; and had all fired, instead of Joe only, they might easily
have scaled the palisade before the guns could have been reloaded.
Neither had the besiegers been aware of the strength of the garrison.
But they were soon made to understand that they had more than Glenn and
his man to contend against. The discharges followed in such quick
succession that they paused, when but a moment more would have placed
them within the inclosure. But several of them being wounded, and Boone
and Glenn still doing execution with their pistols, the discomfited
enemy made a precipitate retreat. An occasional flight of arrows
continued to assail the besieged, but they came from a great distance,
for the Indians were not long in scampering beyond the range of the
loopholes.
When Glenn could no longer see any of the dark forms of the enemy, he
turned round to contemplate the sad condition of Joe. Joe was sitting
up, with his hands locked round his knees.
“Well, split me in two!” cried Sneak, staring at his companion.
“What’s the matter, Sneak?” asked Joe, with much simplicity.
“That’s a purty question for _you_ to ask, after there for dead this
half-hour almost”
“Have the Indians been here?” asked Joe, staring round wildly.
“Hain’t you heard us shooting?”
“My goodness,” cried Joe, springing up. “Oh! am I wounded? say!” he
continued, evincing the most lively alarm.
“Well, if this don’t beat every thing that ever I saw in all my life, I
wish I may be shot!” said Sneak.
“What is it?” asked Joe, his senses yet wandering.
“Jest feel the back of your head,” said Sneak. Joe put his hand to the
place indicated, and winced under the pain of the touch. He then looked
at his hand, and beholding a quantity of clotted blood upon it, fell
down suddenly on the snow.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Glenn, who had seen his man sitting up,
and came swiftly to him when he fell.
“I’m a dead man!” said Joe, mournfully.
“That’s a lie!” said Sneak.
“What ails you, Joe?” asked Glenn, his tone much softened.
“I’m dying—oh! I’m shot through the head!”
“Don’t believe him, Mr. Glenn—I’ll be smashed if its any thing but my
tooth,” said Sneak.
“Oh—I’m dying!” continued Joe, pressing his hand against his head,
while the pain and loss of blood actually produced a faintness, and his
voice became very weak.
“Are you really much hurt?” continued Glenn, stooping down, and feeling
his pulse.
“It’s all over!” muttered Joe. “I’m going fast. Sancte Petre!—Pater
noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificeter nomen tuum; adveniat regnum
tu—”
Here Joe’s voice failed, and, falling into a syncope, Glenn and Sneak
lifted him up and carried him into the house.
“Is he shot?” exclaimed Mary, instantly producing some lint and
bandages which she had prepared in anticipation of such an event.
“I fear he has received a serious hurt,” said Glenn, aiding Mary, who
had proceeded at once to bind up the wound.
“I’ll be split if he’s shot!” said Sneak, going out and returning to
his post. Glenn did likewise when he saw the first indications of
returning consciousness in his man; and Mary was left alone to restore
and nurse poor Joe. But he could not have been in better hands.
“I should like to know something about them curious words the feller
was speaking when he keeled over,” said Sneak, as he looked out at the
now quiet scene from the loophole, and mused over the events of the
night. “I begin to believe that the feller’s a going to die. I don’t
believe any man could talk so, if he wasn’t dying.”
“Have you seen any of them lately?” inquired Boone, coming to Sneak’s
post and running his eye along the horizon through the loophole.
“Not a one,” replied Sneak, “except that feller laying out yander by
the snowball.”
“He’s dead,” said Boone, “and he is the only one that we are sure of
having killed to-night. But many are wounded.”
“And smash me if Joe didn’t kill that one when his musket went off
before he was ready,” said Sneak.
“Yes, I saw him fall when Joe fired; and that accident was, after all,
a fortunate thing for us,” continued Boone.
“But I’m sorry for poor Joe,” said Sneak.
“Pshaw!” said Boone; “he’ll be well again, in an hour.”
“No, he’s a gone chicken.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Didn’t he say so himself? and didn’t he gabble out a whole parcel of
purgatory talk? He’s as sure gone as a stuck pig, I tell you,”
continued Sneak.
“He will eat as hearty a breakfast to-morrow morning as ever he did in
his life,” said Boone. “But let us attend to the business in hand. I
hardly think we will be annoyed any more from this quarter, unless
yonder dead Indian was a chief, and then it is more than probable they
will try to steal him away. However, you may remain here. I, alone, can
manage the others.”
“Which others?” inquired Sneak.
“Those under the snow,” replied Boone; “they are now within twenty
paces of the palisade.”
“You don’t say so?” said Sneak, cocking his gun.
“I have been listening to them cutting through the snow a long while,
and it will be a half hour yet before I spring the mine,” said Boone.
“I hope it will kill ’em all!” said Sneak.
“Watch close, and perhaps _you_ will kill one yet from this loophole,”
said Boone, returning to his post, where the slow-match was exposed
through the palisade near the ground; and Roughgrove stood by, holding
a pistol, charged with powder only, in readiness to fire the train when
Boone should give the word of command.
Boone applied his ear to a crevice between the timbers near the earth,
where the snow had been cleared away. After remaining in this position
a few moments, he beckoned Glenn to him.
“Place your ear against this crevice,” said Boone.
“It is not the Indians I hear, certainly!” remarked Glenn. The sounds
resembled the ticking of a large clock, differing only in their greater
rapidity than the strokes of seconds.
“Most certainly it is nothing else,” replied Boone.
“But how do they produce such singular sounds? Is it the trampling of
feet?” continued Glenn.
“It is the sound of many tomahawks cutting a passage,” replied Boone.
“But what disposition do they make of the snow, when it is cut loose.”
“A portion of them dig, while the rest convey the loose snow out and
cast it down the cliff.”
While the above conversation was going on, a colloquy of a different
nature transpired within the house. Joe, after recovering from his
second temporary insensibility, had sunk into a gentle doze, which
lasted many minutes. Mary had bathed his face repeatedly with sundry
restoratives, and likewise administered a cordial that she had brought
from her father’s house, which seemed to have a most astonishing
somniferous effect. When the contents of the bottle were exhausted, she
sat silently by, watching Joe’s apparent slumber, and felt rejoiced
that her patient promised a speedy recovery. Once, after she had been
gazing at the fawn, (that had been suffered to occupy a place near the
wall, where it was now coiled up and sleeping,) on turning her eyes
towards the face of Joe, she imagined for a moment that she saw him
close his eyelids quickly. But calling him softly and receiving no
answer, she concluded it was a mere fancy, and again resigned herself
to her lonely watch. When she had been sitting thus some minutes,
watching him patiently, she observed his eyes open slowly, and quickly
smack to again, when he found that she was looking at him. But a moment
after, conscious that his wakefulness was discovered, he opened them
boldly, and found himself possessed of a full recollection of all the
incidents of the night up to his disaster.
“Have they whipt all the Indians away that were standing out on the
snow, Miss Mary?”
“Yes, long ago—and none have been seen, but the one you killed, for
some time,” she replied, encouragingly.
“Did I kill one sure enough?” asked Joe, while his eyes sparkled
exceedingly.
“Yes, indeed,” replied she; “and I heard Mr. Boone say he was glad it
happened, and that the accident was, after all, a fortunate thing for
us.”
“_Accident_!” iterated Joe; “who says it was an accident?”
“Wasn’t it an accident?” asked the simple girl.
“No, indeed!” replied Joe. “But,” he continued, “have they blown up the
other Indians yet?”
“Not yet—but I heard them say they would do it very soon. They can be
heard digging under the snow now, very plainly,” said Mary.
“Indeed!” said Joe, with no little terror depicted in his face. “I wish
you’d go and ask Mr. Boone if he thinks you’ll be entirely safe, if you
please, Miss Mary,” said Joe beseechingly.
“I will,” responded Mary, rising to depart.
“And if they ask how I am,” continued Joe, “please say I am a great
deal better, but too weak yet to go out.”
Mary did his bidding; and when she returned, what was her astonishment
to find her patient running briskly across the room from the cupboard,
with a whole roasted prairie-hen in one hand, or at least the body of
it, while he tore away the breast with his teeth, and some half dozen
crackers in the other! In vain did he attempt to conceal them under the
covering of his bed, into which he jumped as quickly as possible. Guilt
was manifest in his averted look, his trembling hand, and his greasy
mouth! Mary gazed in silent wonder. Joe cowered under her glance a few
moments, until the irresistible flavour of the fowl overcame him, and
then his jaws were again set in motion.
“I fear that eating will injure you,” remarked Mary, at length.
“Never fear,” replied Joe. “When a sick person has a good appetite,
it’s a sure sign he’s getting better.”
“If you think so you can eat as much as you please,” said Mary; “and
you needn’t hide any thing from me.”
Joe felt a degree of shame in being so palpably detected, but his
appetite soon got the better of his scruples, and he gratified the
demands of his stomach without reserve.
“But what did Mr. Boone say?” asked he, peeping out.
“He says he thinks there is no danger. But the Indians are now within a
few feet of the palisade, and the explosion is about to take place.”