THE BATTLE AT STRONG’S.
Strong’s block-house so frequently alluded to in the foregoing pages,
had been erected as a place of refuge for the inhabitants of the
“fire-lands.” It was a large structure, capable of affording shelter for
fifty families, and built with a view to strength and endurance. The
heavy logs were secured in the old dovetail fashion, and the roof was
doubly clapboarded. The second story projected five feet over the first,
thus enabling the defenders to fire upon any foe that might attempt to
force the lower doors. The Huron river lay fifty yards from the front
palisade of the block-house, which stood at the foot of a hill, cleared
by the settlers’ axes.
The bottom of the hill was selected for the building site, owing to the
proximity of water, and a well also yielded the life-giving fluid within
the fort. The strong palisade that surrounded the “house of refuge,” was
a double security, and the settlers felt proud of their work when
completed. A stalwart settler named Zebulon Strong had superintended the
erection of the stronghold, hence its rather imposing cognomen.
There were other block-houses in the “fire-lands”; but none were near
enough to afford assistance to Strong’s in a case of imminent danger.
“I guess the families are all in now,” said Zebulon Strong, to a young
man who was standing by a loop-hole, in the second story of the
backwoods fort.
“All in, captain? bless you, no. The Logans are out yet.”
“And old Levi Armstrong, too,” said another settler, who, standing near,
had caught the brief conversation.
“Yes, there is Levi; I had overlooked him,” the youth remarked quickly.
“He and the Logans do not rightly belong here,” said Strong. “Levi lent
Throop a hand at his fort down on Massanga creek, and there he belongs.
He will take the Logans with him.”
“But should he ask admittance here, you will not refuse, captain?”
“Our quota of families is full now. We can’t accommodate another,”
answered Strong, with the air of a man elevated by a small command.
“And, besides, I am confident that we are surrounded now. The girls
maintain that they caught a glimpse of Indians at the river, and I,
myself, have seen feathers on the top of the hill. They wait for the
opening of the gates; but nothing under heaven can induce me to please
them in that particular. We’ve a good supply of water, and I tell you,
sir, that the gates don’t open again until the danger is passed.”
The foregoing conversation occurred on the night of Levi Armstrong’s
abandonment of his cabin, and Zebulon Strong’s mien told that he was
determined to adhere to his determination at all hazards.
Johnny Appleseed had performed a noble duty. Those whom he had warned
allowed no grass to grow under their feet. While he yet lingered in
sight of the uncouth cabin, it was deserted, and its inmates were flying
toward Strong’s fort. All those who claimed shelter beneath its roof had
caused their names to be registered in the commandant’s book, so, when
the last registered family had passed the palisades, the gates were
closed and barred.
The appearance of the Indians quickly followed the strange man’s
warning. They had executed forced marches from Detroit, hoping to reach
the “fire-lands” in advance of tidings of the surrender; but found
themselves outwitted. This disappointment only strengthened their desire
for blood, and on the evening that followed the gathering at the fort,
they made their presence known.
After declaring that the gates should open no more until the danger had
passed, Captain Zebulon Strong left the two men, the younger of whom
turned to the loop-hole looking upon the level plain, that stretched
from the block-house to the river. The moon was shining brightly, and
from his elevated position he caught the shimmer of the Huron’s waves.
“I have seen no Indian feathers,” he murmured, sweeping the bank with
his eye. “The captain is getting too arbitrary of late. It’s all well
enough to be cautious; but this thing of barring the gates against our
fellow-men won’t do.”
The last word was spoken in an underbreath, for the crack of rifles
smote his ears, and instantly the block-house was a scene of confusion.
The reports sounded terribly distinct on the night air, and seemed to
emanate from a spot about three hundred yards down the river.
“Keep your senses, women!” was heard the stern, hoarse voice of Zebulon
Strong, and the look which he threw upon the timid ones forced them into
quietude. “We are not attacked yet. When the devils have forced the
palisades and swarm up-stairs, then there will be time for shrieks. What
do you see, Harmon?”
The interrogative was addressed to the youth with whom he had conversed
a short time before, and the motion of the young man’s hand caused the
commandant to step forward.
“Look through this loop, captain,” said Mark Harmon, stepping aside.
“Look down the river. The Indians have fired on some fugitives, and they
run for their lives.”
Zebulon Strong put his eyes to the loop-hole, and saw four dark figures
running toward the fort. The foremost was a man, who carried a dark,
human-shaped object over his left shoulder; the others, seemingly, were
women.
“Open the gates and let ’em in!” cried a voice, and presently the same
words were heard on all sides.
“_I_ command this block-house!” and with a livid face and flashing
eyeballs, Zebulon Strong sprung from the loop and wheeled upon his
people. “The gates don’t open till _I_ give the order. The Indians are
ready for a rush so soon as the gates grind ajar. Every stump on the
plain shelters a red-skin. No, the gates don’t open!”
“But the fugitives are the Logans and the Armstrongs!” remonstrated Mark
Harmon, biting his lip with indignation.
“They belong at Throop’s!” hoarsely hissed the captain. “We’ll be
massacred if we open the gates to them.”
“Better die for an act of mercy than outraging the dictates of
humanity.”
A contemptuous sneer came to the captain’s lips, and as he turned to the
port-hole again he drew a pistol.
“I’ll kill the next man who talks of opening the gates this night,” he
said, fiercely. “The fugitives might have been safe at Throop’s; let
them pay for their decision at our palisades, if it comes to this.”
The women shrunk to the space allotted to them with epithets of
“monster,” “fiend,” and the like, falling from their lips, and the men
exchanged looks of indignation.
“They will reach the gates before their pursuers!” cried a watcher at a
port-hole, joyously; but the words fell on blank ears, for the gates,
alas! through the inhumanity of one man, would not be open to them.
“Levi is carrying his daughter,” said a second settler. “John Logan is
not with them; he must have been shot down the river.”
The sight of the brave fugitives almost at his gates, and hard pressed
by a savage foe, did not soften Captain Strong’s heart, in which
cowardice and personal fear burrowed like a ground-hog.
The pale faces of the fugitives were visible in the moonlight, and all
at once a cry came from the very shadow of the palisades:
“Open the gates!”
Zebulon Strong turned from the port-hole and halloed to the guards
below:
“Watch the gates closely. Kill the first man who attempts to open them.”
“All right, captain!” responded a voice from the darkness below, and the
commandant was rising erect when Mark Harmon leaped upon him.
The young frontiersman was almost as strong as the captain, and he bore
him to the puncheons before he could resist.
“I’m sorry it comes to this, captain,” he said, beckoning several men to
his assistance. “We’re not going to let women die at our doors when we
can save them. Now lie still until we release you, or by heavens we’ll
turn you without the fort!”
Other hands than the young borderman’s now seized the captain, who soon
relinquished his struggles, and Harmon sprung to his feet.
“Quick, Mark!” cried a man at a port-hole. “Quick! they’re thundering at
the gates.”
The next instant the youth had disappeared, and six stalwart bordermen
vanished with him like a flash.
“Helpless friends are at the gate!” he cried, as, pistol in hand, he
sprung toward the sentries. “We command this fort now. Stand back!”
The sentries, instead of retreating, flew to the work of unbarring the
clumsy gate, and in a moment the work was accomplished.
“Have you no mercy, Captain Strong?” cried Levi Armstrong’s voice, while
the eight men worked at the fastenings.
“Yes, yes—in a minute we’ll save you,” shouted young Harmon, and when
the gate flew open he was the first to leap forward.
As he did so, full twenty dark forms rose from behind as many stumps,
and the next second, a volley poured in at the gate.
Two of the rescuers staggered back, and Mark Harmon, uninjured, but with
a wounded girl in his arms, turned to the gate again.
“Quick! they are charging you!” shouted a dozen agonized voices from the
upper portion of the block-house; but such words were unnecessary, for
the men at the gate comprehended their danger.
The clearing seemed literally covered with savages, and between the
foremost and the bordermen a terrible fight was progressing at the
palisades. A volley was poured into the red ranks from the port-holes,
and a number fell; but the greater portion of the settlers had rushed
below, and were trying to beat the red-skins from the gate that it might
be closed.
At last, after half an hour of the most desperate fighting on record,
the ponderous gate was swung to again and barred; and with blows
indicative of future vengeance, on the heavy oaken boards, the Indians
retreated to cover.
Twelve of their number had fallen in the attack, while no less than ten
of the bordermen, or one fourth of the fort’s defenders, lay dead
between the palisades and the strong logs.
But the mission of humanity had resulted in success!
Levi Armstrong, his daughter Huldah, and the Logan girls were safe, for
a while at least, behind strong timbers; but the yells of their foes
told the settlers that the Wyandot looked upon his defeat in the light
of success.
He had reduced the number of the fort’s defenders, when not a single man
could be spared, while the loss of his twelve braves would not be felt
by the hundreds that still remained.
“Captain Strong,” said Mark Harmon after the fight, “we are willing to
restore you to your command, for we honor your experience in Indian
warfare. Humanity compelled us to treat you as we have. _Now_ we are
willing that the gates shall remain closed.”
“I should say you were,” said Zebulon Strong, with an ill-concealed
sneer, as he glanced at the dead bordermen who had been borne into the
fort, prior to burial. “I will take command again. I’m to be obeyed in
every thing after this. We are besieged now, and like men we will die,
if die we must, together.”
His speech was greeted with applause, and many despairing ones took new
hope; but Levi Armstrong whispered to Mark Harmon:
“The captain must be watched. He hasn’t begun to forgive you fellers for
savin’ our lives.”
After Zebulon Strong resumed command of the fort, its defensive
resources were thoroughly inspected, and the dead buried.
The settlers knew that the siege would be pushed with the utmost vigor,
and that every Indian artifice would be used to place them at the mercy
of the tomahawk.
They could not look to final success, for their supply of water was
meager, and the whole Indian force of the “fire-lands” could be brought
to bear against them.
“There’s one man whom we should have with us,” remarked a young settler,
in the presence of Captain Strong, shortly after the burial.
“Who is he?” asked a dozen voices.
“Wolf-Cap. I tell you he’s worth a dozen rifles.”
“Ay, a hundred,” said Mark Harmon. “If he and Silver Hand were in the
fort!”
“We can get along without ’em,” grated Strong, shooting a fierce look at
the young frontiersman. “We’ll fight our own battle without the aid of
illegal squatters and Indians!”
His last sentence was uttered in a subdued tone, as he turned from the
group, and other men than the old settler and Mark Harmon thought that
the captain would bear watching.