Paul revived in a few minutes. They were still lying in the bushes,
and when he was able to stand up again, they moved at an angle several
hundred yards before they stopped. One pistol was thrust into Paul's
hand and another into that of Shif'less Sol.
“Keep those until we can get rifles for you,” said Henry. “You may need
'em to-night.”
They crouched down in the thicket and looked back toward the Indian
camp. The warriors whom they had repulsed were not returning with help,
and, for the moment, they seemed to have no enemy to fear, yet they
could still see through the woods the faint lights of the Indian camps,
and to Paul, at least, came the echoes of distant cries that told of
things not to be written.
“We saw you captured, and we heard Sol's warning cry,” said Henry.
“There was nothing to do but run. Then we hid and waited a chance for
rescue.”
“It would never have come if it had not been for Timmendiquas,” said
Paul.
“Timmendiquas!” exclaimed Henry.
“Yes, Timmendiquas,” said Paul, and then he told the story of “The
Bloody Rock,” and how, in the turmoil and excitement attending the
flight of the last four, Timmendiquas had cut the bonds of Shif'less Sol
and himself.
“I think the mind o' White Lightnin', Injun ez he is,” said Shif'less
Sol, “jest naterally turned aginst so much slaughter an' torture o'
prisoners.”
“I'm sure you're right,” said Henry.
“'Pears strange to me,” said Long Jim Hart, “that Timmendiquas was made
an Injun. He's jest the kind uv man who ought to be white, an' he'd be
pow'ful useful, too. I don't jest eggzactly understan' it.”
“He has certainly saved the lives of at least three of us,” said Henry.
“I hope we will get a chance to pay him back in full.”
“But he's the only one,” said Shif'less Sol, thinking of all that he had
seen that night. “The Iroquois an' the white men that's allied with 'em
won't ever get any mercy from me, ef any uv 'em happen to come under
my thumb. I don't think the like o' this day an' night wuz ever done on
this continent afore. I'm for revenge, I am, like that place where the
Bible says, 'an eye for an eye, an' a tooth for a tooth,' an' I'm goin'
to stay in this part o' the country till we git it!”
It was seldom that Shif'less Sol spoke with so much passion and energy.
“We're all going to stay with you, Sol,” said Henry. “We're needed here.
I think we ought to circle about the fort, slip in if we can, and fight
with the defense.”
“Yes, we'll do that,” said Shif'less Sol, “but the Wyoming fort can't
ever hold out. Thar ain't a hundred men left in it fit to fight, an'
thar are more than than a thousand howlin' devils outside ready to
attack it. Thar may be worse to come than anything we've yet seen.”
“Still, we'll go in an' help,” said Henry. “Sol, when you an' Paul have
rested a little longer we'll make a big loop around in the woods, and
come up to the fort on the other side.”
They were in full accord, and after an hour in the bushes, where they
lay completely hidden, recovering their vitality and energy, they
undertook to reach the fort and cabins inclosed by the palisades.
Paul was still weak from shock, but Shif'less Sol had fully recovered.
Neither bad weapons, but they were sure that the want could be supplied
soon. They curved around toward the west, intending to approach the fort
from the other side, but they did not wholly lose sight of the fires,
and they heard now and then the triumphant war whoop. The victors were
still engaged in the pleasant task of burning the prisoners to death.
Little did the five, seeing and feeling only their part of it there in
the dark woods, dream that the deeds of this day and night would soon
shock the whole civilized world, and remain, for generations, a crowning
act of infamy. But they certainly felt it deeply enough, and in each
heart burned a fierce desire for revenge upon the Iroquois.
It was almost midnight when they secured entrance into the fort, which
was filled with grief and wailing. That afternoon more than one hundred
and fifty women within those walls had been made widows, and six hundred
children had been made orphans. But few men fit to bear arms were left
for its defense, and it was certain that the allied British and Indian
army would easily take it on the morrow. A demand for its surrender
in the name of King George III of England had already been made, and,
sitting at a little rough table in the cabin of Thomas Bennett, the
room lighted only by a single tallow wick, Colonel Butler and Colonel
Dennison were writing an agreement that the fort be surrendered the next
day, with what it should contain. But Colonel Butler put his wife on a
horse and escaped with her over the mountains.
Stragglers, evading the tomahawk in the darkness, were coming in, only
to be surrendered the next day; others were pouring forth in a stream,
seeking the shelter of the mountains and the forest, preferring any
dangers that might be found there to the mercies of the victors.
When Shif'less Sol learned that the fort was to be given up, he said:
“It looks ez ef we had escaped from the Iroquois jest in time to beg 'em
to take us back.”
“I reckon I ain't goin' to stay 'roun' here while things are bein'
surrendered,” said Long Jim Hart.
“I'll do my surrenderin' to Iroquois when they've got my hands an' feet
tied, an' six or seven uv 'em are settin' on my back,” said Tom Ross.
“We'll leave as soon as we can get arms for Sol and Paul,” said Henry.
“Of course it would be foolish of us to stay here and be captured again.
Besides, we'll be needed badly enough by the women and children that are
going.”
Good weapons were easily obtained in the fort. It was far better to let
Sol and Paul have them than to leave them for the Indians. They were
able to select two fine rifles of the Kentucky pattern, long and
slender barreled, a tomahawk and knife for each, and also excellent
double-barreled pistols. The other three now had double-barreled
pistols, too. In addition they resupplied themselves with as much
ammunition as scouts and hunters could conveniently carry, and toward
morning left the fort.
Sunrise found them some distance from the palisades, and upon the flank
of a frightened crowd of fugitives. It was composed of one hundred women
and children and a single man, James Carpenter, who was doing his best
to guide and protect them. They were intending to flee through the
wilderness to the Delaware and Lehigh settlements, chiefly Fort Penn,
built by Jacob Stroud, where Stroudsburg now is.
When the five, darkened by weather and looking almost like Indians
themselves, approached, Carpenter stepped forward and raised his rifle.
A cry of dismay rose from the melancholy line, a cry so intensely bitter
that it cut Henry to the very heart. He threw up his hand, and exclaimed
in a loud voice:
“We are friends, not Indians or Tories! We fought with you yesterday,
and we are ready to fight for you now!”
Carpenter dropped the muzzle of the rifle. He had fought in the battle,
too, and he recognized the great youth and his comrades who had been
there with him.
“What do you want of us?” asked he.
“Nothing,” replied Henry, “except to help you.”
Carpenter looked at them with a kind of sad pathos.
“You don't belong here in Wyoming,” he said, “and there's nothing to
make you stick to us. What are you meaning to do?”
“We will go with you wherever you intend to go,” replied Henry; “do
fighting for you if you need it, and hunt game for you, which you are
certain to need.”
The weather-beaten face of the farmer worked.
“I thought God had clean deserted us,” he said, “but I'm ready to take
it back. I reckon that he has sent you five to help me with all these
women and little ones.”
It occurred to Henry that perhaps God, indeed, had sent them for this
very purpose, but he replied simply:
“You lead on, and we'll stay in the rear and on the sides to watch for
the Indians. Draw into the woods, where we'll be hidden.”
Carpenter, obscure hero, shouldered his rifle again, and led on toward
the woods. The long line of women and children followed. Some of the
women carried in their arms children too small to walk. Yet they were
more hopeful now when they saw that the five were friends. These lithe,
active frontiersmen, so quick, so skillful, and so helpful, raised their
courage. Yet it was a most doleful flight. Most of these women had
been made widows the day before, some of them had been made widows and
childless at the same time, and wondered why they should seek to live
longer. But the very mental stupor of many of them was an aid. They
ceased to cry out, and some even ceased to be afraid.
Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom dropped to the rear. Paul and Long
Jim were on either flank, while Carpenter led slowly on toward the
mountains.
“'Pears to me,” said Tom, “that the thing fur us to do is to hurry 'em
up ez much ez possible.”
“So the Indians won't see 'em crossing the plain,” said Henry. “We
couldn't defend them against a large force, and it would merely be a
massacre. We must persuade them to walk faster.”
Shif'less Sol was invaluable in this crisis. He could talk forever in
his-placid way, and, with his gentle encouragement, mild sarcasm, and
anecdotes of great feminine walkers that he had known, he soon had them
moving faster.
Henry and Tom dropped farther to the rear. They could see ahead of them
the long dark line, coiling farther into the woods, but they could
also see to right and left towers of smoke rising in the clear morning
sunlight. These, they knew, came from burning houses, and they knew,
also, that the valley would be ravaged from end to end and from side
to side. After the surrender of the fort the Indians would divide into
small bands, going everywhere, and nothing could escape them.
The sun rose higher, gilding the earth with glowing light, as if the
black tragedy had never happened, but the frontiersmen recognized their
greatest danger in this brilliant morning. Objects could be seen at a
great distance, and they could be seen vividly.
Keen of sight and trained to know what it was they saw, Henry, Sol, and
Tom searched the country with their eyes, on all sides. They caught a
distant glimpse of the Susquehanna, a silver spot among some trees, and
they saw the sunlight glancing off the opposite mountains, but for the
present they saw nothing that seemed hostile.
They allowed the distance between them and the retreating file to grow
until it was five or six hundred yards, and they might have let it grow
farther, but Henry made a signal, and the three lay down in the grass.
“You see 'em, don't you!” the youth whispered to his comrade.
“Yes, down thar at the foot o' that hillock,” replied Shif'less Sol;
“two o' em, an' Senecas, I take it.”
“They've seen that crowd of women and children,” said Henry.
It was obvious that the flying column was discovered. The two Indians
stepped upon the hillock and gazed under their hands. It was too far
away for the three to see their faces, but they knew the joy that would
be shown there. The two could return with a few warriors and massacre
them all.
“They must never get back to the other Indians with their news,”
whispered Henry. “I hate to shoot men from ambush, but it's got to be
done. Wait, they're coming a little closer.”
The two Senecas advanced about thirty yards, and stopped again.
“S'pose you fire at the one on the right, Henry,” said Tom, “an' me an'
Sol will take the one to the left.”
“All right,” said Henry. “Fire!”
They wasted no time, but pulled trigger. The one at whom Henry had aimed
fell, but the other, uttering a cry, made off, wounded, but evidently
with plenty of strength left.
“We mustn't let him escape! We mustn't let him carry a warning!” cried
Henry.
But Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross were already in pursuit, covering the
ground with long strides, and reloading as they ran. Under ordinary
circumstances no one of the three would have fired at a man running for
his life, but here the necessity was vital. If he lived, carrying the
tale that he had to tell, a hundred innocent ones might perish. Henry
followed his comrades, reloading his own rifle, also, but he stayed
behind. The Indian had a good lead, and he was gaining, as the others
were compelled to check speed somewhat as they put the powder and
bullets in their rifles. But Henry was near enough to Shif'less Sol and
Silent Tom to hear them exchange a few words.
“How far away is that savage?” asked Shif'less Sol.
“Hundred and eighty yards,” said Tom Ross.
“Well, you take him in the head, and I'll take him in the body.”
Henry saw the two rifle barrels go up and two flashes of flame leap from
the muzzles. The Indian fell forward and lay still. They went up to him,
and found that he was shot through the head and also through the body.
“We may miss once, but we don't twice,” said Tom Ross.
The human mind can be influenced so powerfully by events that the three
felt no compunction at all at the shooting of this fleeing Indian. It
was but a trifle compared with what they had seen the day and night
before.
“We'd better take the weapons an' ammunition o' both uv 'em,” said Sol.
“They may be needed, an' some o' the women in that crowd kin shoot.”
They gathered up the arms, powder, and ball, and waited a little to see
whether the shots had been heard by any other Indians, but there was
no indication of the presence of more warriors, and the rejoined the
fugitives. Long Jim had dropped back to the end of the line, and when he
saw that his comrades carried two extra rifles, he understood.
“They didn't give no alarm, did they?” he asked in a tone so low that
none of the fugitives could hear.
“They didn't have any chance,” replied Henry. “We've brought away all
their weapons and ammunition, but just say to the women that we found
them in an abandoned house.”
The rifles and the other arms were given to the boldest and most
stalwart of the women, and they promised to use them if the need came.
Meanwhile the flight went on, and the farther it went the sadder it
became. Children became exhausted, and had to be carried by people so
tired that they could scarcely walk themselves. There was nobody in the
line who had not lost some beloved one on that fatal river bank, killed
in battle, or tortured to death. As they slowly ascended the green slope
of the mountain that inclosed a side of the valley, they looked back
upon ruin and desolation. The whole black tragedy was being consummated.
They could see the houses in flames, and they knew that the Indian war
parties were killing and scalping everywhere. They knew, too, that other
bodies of fugitives, as stricken as their own, were fleeing into the
mountains, they scarcely knew whither.
As they paused a few moments and looked back, a great cry burst from
the weakest of the women and children. Then it became a sad and terrible
wail, and it was a long time before it ceased. It was an awful sound, so
compounded of despair and woe and of longing for what they had lost that
Henry choked, and the tears stood in Paul's eyes. But neither the five
nor Carpenter made any attempt to check the wailing. They thought it
best for them to weep it out, but they hurried the column as much as
they could, often carrying some of the smaller children themselves. Paul
and Long Jim were the best as comforters. The two knew how, each in his
own way, to soothe and encourage. Carpenter, who knew the way to Fort
Penn, led doggedly on, scarcely saying a word. Henry, Shif'less Sol, and
Tom were the rear guard, which was, in this case, the one of greatest
danger and responsibility.
Henry was thankful that it was only early summer the Fourth of July,
the second anniversary of the Declaration of Independence-and that the
foliage was heavy and green on the slopes of the mountain. In this
mass of greenery the desolate column was now completely hidden from any
observer in the valley, and he believed that other crowds of fugitives
would be hidden in the same manner. He felt sure that no living human
being would be left in the valley, that it would be ravaged from end to
end and then left to desolation, until new people, protected by American
bayonets, should come in and settle it again.
At last they passed the crest of the ridge, and the fires in the valley,
those emblems of destruction, were hidden. Between them and Fort Penn,
sixty miles away, stretched a wilderness of mountain, forest, and swamp.
But the five welcomed the forest. A foe might lie there in ambush, but
they could not see the fugitives at a distance. What the latter needed
now was obscurity, the green blanket of the forest to hide them.
Carpenter led on over a narrow trail; the others followed almost in
single file now, while the five scouted in the woods on either flank and
at the rear. Henry and Shif'less Sol generally kept together, and they
fully realized the overwhelming danger should an Indian band, even as
small as ten or a dozen warriors, appear. Should the latter scatter,
it would be impossible to protect all the women and children from their
tomahawks.
The day was warm, but the forest gave them coolness as well as shelter.
Henry and Sol were seldom so far back that they could not see the end
of the melancholy line, now moving slowly, overborne by weariness. The
shiftless one shook his head sadly.
“No matter what happens, some uv 'em will never get out o' these woods.”
His words came true all too soon. Before the afternoon closed, two
women, ill before the flight, died of terror and exhaustion, and were
buried in shallow graves under the trees. Before dark a halt was made at
the suggestion of Henry, and all except Carpenter and the scouts sat in
a close, drooping group. Many of the children cried, though the women
had all ceased to weep. They had some food with them, taken in the
hurried flight, and now the men asked them to eat. Few could do it, and
others insisted on saving what little they had for the children. Long
Jim found a spring near by, and all drank at it.
The six men decided that, although night had not yet come, it would be
best to remain there until the morning. Evidently the fugitives were in
no condition, either mental or physical, to go farther that day, and the
rest was worth more than the risk.
When this decision was announced to them, most of the women took it
apathetically. Soon they lay down upon a blanket, if one was to be had;
otherwise, on leaves and branches. Again Henry thanked God that it was
summer, and that these were people of the frontier, who could sleep in
the open. No fire was needed, and, outside of human enemies, only rain
was to be dreaded.
And yet this band, desperate though its case, was more fortunate than
some of the others that fled from the Wyoming Valley. It had now to
protect it six men Henry and Paul, though boys in years, were men in
strength and ability--five of whom were the equals of any frontiersmen
on the whole border. Another crowd of women was escorted by a single man
throughout its entire flight.
Henry and his comrades distributed themselves in a circle about the
group. At times they helped gather whortleberries as food for the
others, but they looked for Indians or game, intending to shoot in
either case. When Paul and Henry were together they once heard a light
sound in a thicket, which at first they were afraid was made by an
Indian scout, but it was a deer, and it bounded away too soon for either
to get a shot. They could not find other game of any kind, and they came
back toward the camp-if a mere stop in the woods, without shelter of any
kind, could be called a camp.
The sun was now setting, blood red. It tinged the forest with a fiery
mist, reminding the unhappy group of all that they had seen. But the
mist was gone in a few moments, and then the blackness of night came
with a weird moaning wind that told of desolation. Most of the children,
having passed through every phase of exhaustion and terror, had fallen
asleep. Some of the women slept, also, and others wept. But the terrible
wailing note, which the nerves of no man could stand, was heard no
longer.
The five gathered again at a point near by, and Carpenter came to them.
“Men,” he said simply, “don't know much about you, though I know you
fought well in the battle that we lost, but for what you're doin' now
nobody can ever repay you. I knew that I never could get across the
mountains with all these weak ones.”
The five merely said that any man who was a man would help at such a
time. Then they resumed their march in a perpetual circle about the
camp.
Some women did not sleep at all that night. It is not easy to conceive
what the frontier women of America endured so many thousands of times.
They had seen their husbands, brothers, and sons killed in the battle,
and they knew that the worst of torture had been practiced in the Indian
camp. Many of them really did not want to live any longer. They merely
struggled automatically for life. The darkness settled down thicker and
thicker; the blackness in the forest was intense, and they could see the
faces of one another only at a little distance. The desolate moan of the
wind came through the leaves, and, although it was July, the night grew
cold. The women crept closer together, trying to cover up and protect
the children. The wind, with its inexpressibly mournful note, was
exactly fitted to their feelings. Many of them wondered why a Supreme
Being had permitted such things. But they ceased to talk. No sound at
all came from the group, and any one fifty yards away, not forewarned,
could not have told that they were there.
Henry and Paul met again about midnight, and sat a long time on a
little hillock. Theirs had been the most dangerous of lives on the most
dangerous of frontiers, but they had never been stirred as they were
tonight. Even Paul, the mildest of the five, felt something burning
within him, a fire that only one thing could quench.
“Henry,” said he, “we're trying to get these people to Fort Penn, and
we may get some of them there, but I don't think our work will be ended
them. I don't think I could ever be happy again if we went straight from
Fort Penn to Kentucky.”
Henry understood him perfectly.
“No, Paul,” he said, “I don't want to go, either, and I know the others
don't. Maybe you are not willing to tell why we want to stay, but it is
vengeance. I know it's Christian to forgive your enemies, but I can't
see what I have seen, and hear what I have heard, and do it.”
“When the news of these things spreads,” said Paul, “they'll send an
army from the east. Sooner or later they'll just have to do it to punish
the Iroquois and their white allies, and we've got to be here to join
that army.”
“I feel that way, too, Paul,” said Henry.
They were joined later by the other three, who stayed a little while,
and they were in accord with Henry and Paul.
Then they began their circles about the camp again, always looking and
always listening. About two o'clock in the morning they heard a scream,
but it was only the cry of a panther. Before day there were clouds, a
low rumble of distant thunder, and faint far flashes of lightning. Henry
was in dread of rain, but the lightning and thunder ceased, and the
clouds went away. Then dawn came, rosy and bright, and all but three
rose from the earth. The three-one woman and two children-had died in
silence in the night, and they were buried, like the others, in shallow
graves in the woods. But there was little weeping or external mourning
over them. All were now heavy and apathetic, capable of but little more
emotion.
Carpenter resumed his position at the head of the column, which now
moved slowly over the mountain through a thick forest matted with
vines and bushes and without a path. The march was now so painful
and difficult that they did not make more than two miles an hour. The
stronger of them helped the men to gather more whortleberries, as it was
easy to see that the food they had with them would never last until they
reached Fort Penn, should they ever reach it.
The condition of the country into which they had entered steadily grew
worse. They were well into the mountains, a region exceedingly wild and
rough, but little known to the settlers, who had gone around it to build
homes in the fertile and beautiful valley of Wyoming. The heavy forest
was made all the more difficult by the presence everywhere of almost
impassable undergrowth. Now and then a woman lay down under the bushes,
and in two cases they died there because the power to live was no longer
in them. They grew weaker and weaker. The food that they had brought
from the Wyoming fort was almost exhausted, and the wild whortleberries
were far from sustaining. Fortunately there was plenty of water
flowing tinder the dark woods and along the mountainside. But they were
compelled to stop at intervals of an hour or two to rest, and the more
timid continually expected Indian ambush.
The five met shortly after noon and took another reckoning of the
situation. They still realized to the full the dangers of Indian
pursuit, which in this case might be a mere matter of accident. Anybody
could follow the broad trail left by the fugitives, but the Iroquois,
busy with destruction in the valley, might not follow, even if they
saw it. No one could tell. The danger of starvation or of death from
exhaustion was more imminent, more pressing, and the five resolved to
let scouting alone for the rest of the day and seek game.
“There's bound to be a lot of it in these woods,” said Shif'less Sol,
“though it's frightened out of the path by our big crowd, but we ought
to find it.”
Henry and Shif'less Sol went in one direction, and Paul, Tom, and Long
Jim in another. But with all their hunting they succeeded in finding
only one little deer, which fell to the rifle of Silent Tom. It made
small enough portions for the supper and breakfast of nearly a hundred
people, but it helped wonderfully, and so did the fires which Henry and
his comrades would now have built, even had they not been needed for the
cooking. They saw that light and warmth, the light and warmth of glowing
coals, would alone rouse life in this desolate band.
They slept the second night on the ground among the trees, and the next
morning they entered that gloomy region of terrible memory, the Great
Dismal Swamp of the North, known sometimes, to this day, as “The Shades
of Death.”