FIGHTING IN THE FOREST
From almost the start Colonel Washington was in the thickest of the
fight. As an aide to Braddock he did his best to rally the men and also
tried to get the cannoneers to bring their weapons into position, even
going so far as to train and fire one of the pieces himself.
“Take to the woods!” were his orders to the Virginia Rangers. “Surround
the grenadiers and drive the Indians back. Perhaps we can then take
care of the French.”
Soon the rangers, and all of the other colonial troops, were in the
woods, fighting the French and the Indians on their own ground. Time
and again they rallied around the fatal spot where the royal troops
remained exposed, and this should have given the soldiers from England
fresh courage, but it did not. Still panic-stricken they fired into the
Rangers, cutting down several before the mistake was discovered.
“If they’d only come out in the open,” cried one old grenadier. “I’d
fight them all day then!” His sentiment was the sentiment of all
his fellows, but the French and their Indian allies knew better, and
continued to keep under cover, while cutting down every Englishman at
whom they could get a shot.
With the fall of Braddock and a number of the other officers, the
command fell upon Washington. The young Virginian was full of the blood
of battle and had the contest depended upon his individual heroism the
English would certainly have carried the day. Fearless of personal
danger he rode around, having two horses shot from under him and
receiving four bullet holes through his coat. Again and again did the
French and Indians fire upon him, but he seemed to bear a charmed life,
as if Providence was shielding him for greater deeds.
At last the truth forced itself home to all who remained alive.
Braddock’s awful blunder in trying to fight the Indians and French
according to the rules of European warfare had brought about complete
defeat. Hundreds of the grenadiers had fallen and among the other
troops the slaughter had been just as great. The artillery was
practically deserted and the wagoneers cut their horses from the
traces and mounted them in a mad frenzy to get away from the scene of
slaughter. The shouting and whooping was terrific, and the Indians not
only killed but scalped their victims at every opportunity.
It was now that Washington shone forth in his true character, able to
calculate wisely even in such a moment of intense excitement. He had
seen Braddock borne to the rear, slowly dying but still conscious and
able to speak.
“Colonel, what is to be done?” asked the general.
“Retreat,” answered Washington, grimly. “Your men will not fight
further, the assault has paralyzed them. The Rangers will cover the
retreat.”
“As you think best,” sighed Braddock, and then continued, half to
himself: “Who would have thought it! Who would have thought it!”
Again Washington went to the front, past the flying wagoneers and
others who had been in charge of the heavy baggage. All was in hopeless
confusion, some of the soldiers were on their knees calling upon their
savage enemies to spare them. The forest was full of gun smoke, and the
dead and wounded lay everywhere, dyeing the soil with their blood.
At last Washington made himself heard and managed to make those who
remained understand that they must retreat in order or every man
would be killed. The few officers who remained unhurt rallied to the
support and the Rangers formed a body guard, beating back the French
and Indians who wished to rush in and make the victory greater than
it already was. The whooping and yelling went on and with it the
shooting, until at last the English gained the river. Then the pursuit
came to an end, the Indians stopping to gather up the baggage and other
spoils left by the English and the French not caring to continue the
fight unaided.
Dave and Barringford were with the Rangers when the first order came
to scatter into the woods and “beat up” the French and their Indian
allies. Forward went the pair side by side, for they meant to keep
together, come what might.
“There are some of the varmin!” cried Barringford, suddenly, and
dropped behind a rock. He had seen three Indians ahead, crouching
behind a clump of bushes. The red men were in the act of firing on the
grenadiers in the glade. As their rifles rang out, so did that of the
old hunter, and one of the Indians pitched backward, dead. Then Dave
fired and the second red man fell, wounded in the breast. The third
took to his heels.
But some French soldiers had now discovered our friends and while they
were reloading half a dozen bullets clipped through the bushes around
them.
“Come, this is too hot a place for us!” ejaculated Barringford, and ran
with might and main for another shelter. As they gained it, they heard
a crashing in a tree at their side, and saw a French sharpshooter
coming down with his rifle slung over his back. Again Barringford
blazed away and another enemy fell, to rise no more.
“The Indians are coming this way!” cried Dave, suddenly. “See, a whole
company is on the run!”
“Oh, fer a cannon to train on ’em!” muttered Barringford, who was
reloading his hot piece with all speed. “Give it to ’em, Dave. Take the
leader.”
Dave did “give it to ’em,” aiming at the leader, and the Indian fell so
quickly that two of his warriors stumbled over him. Then the Indians
caught sight of our friends and whooping in a rage bore down on Dave
and Barringford with all speed.
Not to be caught, the young soldier and his companion fled to another
portion of the forest. Here there was a rise of ground and from this
spot they could catch sight of the opening where stood the larger
portion of the grenadiers in hopeless terror. As they came into view
several of the royal troops opened fire on them, putting a bullet
through Dave’s coat and another through Barringford’s rather long hair.
“Willikins! they take us fer Frenchmen!” roared Barringford. “It was a
close shave, wasn’t it? Git out o’ sight, lad!” And he pulled Dave flat.
After such an experience the young soldier was willing to go into
hiding, and lying among some tree roots, the pair spent ten minutes in
getting back their breath. Several other Rangers were in the vicinity,
all occupying something of a semi-circle and each on the alert for the
first sight of a French soldier or Indian enemy.
At the end of the rest, Barringford crawled forward on hands and knees
until he reached a large rock with a split in the center. Dave followed
the old hunter. From this point they could see a detachment of the
French behind some brushwood to their right. Down in the glade was
Washington, trying to place the troops in order for retreat.
“They are going to fire on Washington!” cried Dave. Scarcely had
he spoken when Barringford’s weapon rang out and one of the French
soldiers fell.
The others looked toward the split in the rocks and just then Dave
fired, but missed his mark. The French soldiers gave a yell and turned
their aim on our friends. Several bullets hit the rocks and one cutting
across Dave’s cheek left a mark which the lad carried to his grave.
“You are hurt!” cried Barringford.
“It’s nothing,” answered Dave, putting up his hand. “But we must get
out of here!”
They fell down and crawled off, and were not a minute too soon, for
presently the French came to the spot in a body. In the meantime the
other Rangers had left the vicinity and now the grenadiers were in
full retreat.
“Our men have moved in this direction,” said the old hunter, as they
stopped to reload. “We had better go after them, or we’ll be left
behind.”
“It’s hot work!” panted Dave. “I wish there was a brook handy, where I
could wash my face and get a drink.”
But nothing was at hand, and he had to push on, with his face covered
with blood, dust and gun soot, making him look as fierce as any Indian.
The yelling kept on, and also the firing, but they noticed that both
came from a considerable distance.
“This day is a loss to us,” said Barringford, sadly. “And Braddock is
responsible. With all the soldiers in the woods we could have fought
our way to the fort beyond a doubt.”
“This ends the hope of releasing father, if he is alive,” returned
Dave, sadly.
They went on, until they came to another clump of brushwood. Here they
found two Rangers, each badly wounded and moaning because of his hurts.
“Dobley!” cried Barringford, as he recognized one of the unfortunates.
“This is rough on ye.”
“Save me, Barringford,” answered the man addressed. “Don’t let the
Indians come and scalp me.”
“Save me, too,” put in the other Ranger.
Barringford and Dave came to a halt and gazed at each other in
perplexity. They were perfectly willing to save the men, but how could
it be done?
“I can carry one of ’em,” said the old hunter to Dave. “But the
other----”
“I will see what I can do,” answered the young soldier. “Perhaps we can
get to some sort of safe place.”
Slinging their rifles over their backs, they took up the wounded
Rangers and placed them over their shoulders. Then Barringford struck
out through the forest, hoping to make a wide detour and thus gain
the river at the point to which the main body of the English army was
retreating.
A hundred yards were covered, when a wild yelling sounded out close
at hand, and in a twinkle the little party was surrounded. Several
shots rang out and the Ranger Dave was carrying was instantly killed.
Then Dave himself felt a sudden sharp pain in the back of the head and
pitched forward insensible.