RESCUE AT DAWN.
The short July night wears rapidly away in the high latitudes of the
Northwest. It is barely dark at nine, and in six hours
"Morn, in the white wake of the morning star,
Comes furrowing all the Orient into gold."
Yet the night wears wearily, watchfully away in the bivouac down among
the cottonwoods south of the Black Hills. Exhausted with the excitement
and fatigue of the day, some few men sleep fitfully at times, and other
few doze once in a while among the watchers. All the livelong night
there is jubilee among the Indians above and below. They keep up their
howlings and war-dances in prospective triumph, for, so far as they can
learn, they have done no more damage to the soldiers than the killing of
a few horses and the wounding of some half a dozen men. Their own loss
has been greater than that, and there is mourning for some of the braves
slain in the combat of the day. They know that escape is impossible to
the soldiers. They feel that with another day they can wear out the
besieged; tempt them into firing off their ammunition, and, if they can
only keep off their friends,--the regiment,--they have them sure.
All the same it is pleasing to Indian ideas of humor to keep up a
delusion among the besieged of having captured their messenger. _We_
know Ray is safely off, but Wayne and his men have no such comfort, for,
for hours the Indians shout their taunts of "Catch white soger; eat 'um
heart," and in their deep anxieties many of the men seem ready to
believe it. To tell the truth, Wayne has hard work keeping up the pluck
and spirits of some of the men, and towards morning the sufferings of
the wounded are more than he can bear. Every little while the roystering
Indians send a rattling fusillade in among the timbers, but do no great
damage beyond making people uncomfortable. Some of them crawl close to
the lines of sentries, but find nothing to encourage further inspection
or advance. But Dana begs to be lifted in his blanket and carried some
distance up-stream, where he can lie on the sand and get away from the
sound of others' suffering, and Wayne and Hunter, with two or three men,
bear him thither, and there, under the starlight and the waning moon,
they lie at full length and softly talk over the situation. There is no
disguising the truth. Their condition is most precarious: hemmed in on
every side; ammunition almost gone, thanks to the reckless extravagance
of the men in twelve hours' fighting, their only hope lies in Ray's
reaching the --th that night and "routing out" the whole command for a
dash to the rescue. They never dreamed, poor fellows, that Ray would
never find the --th where they left it. All hope would have died had
they known their comrades had gone.
Yet that very circumstance stands at this moment in their favor. The
Cheyennes had learned with huge delight that the strange soldiers had
marched off westward, apparently abandoning that watch near the
reservations, and leaving it safe for them to scurry forth with bag and
baggage, with women and children, on their rush for freedom--and Sitting
Bull.
Sighting this little detachment of soldiers venturing on down the valley
instead of hurrying back, they had signalled all over the country
calling in war-parties to their aid, and formulated their scheme to
ambuscade and "corral" it at the narrows of the valley; but Ray's
vigilance and plainscraft had defeated that scheme; though they had good
chances yet, if they only knew where the regiment had gone. Late the
previous evening it had disappeared behind a prominent headland far up a
valley farther to the south, and probably had there gone into camp for
the night. Late _this_ night they get the news that gives rise to vast
speculation and some genuine anxiety. Runners come in who say that
instead of camping there, the White Chief rode all night; turned
northward soon as it was dark; crossed this very valley far above them
at dawn, and where he went from there they couldn't say. They dare not
follow. Was it possible the White Chief was going to beat them at their
own tactics? Could it be that he was going to head them off? Attack them
in the early morning far to the northwest? Lying on the ground, the
officers heard many hoof-beats dying away in the distance, and wondered
what it might mean. It meant that some fifty of their foemen had
galloped away to look for their families and the rest of the band, and
warn them of the new danger. It was more than certain that no help could
come to the soldiers in the valley; but they must guard their people
against this mysterious move. At daybreak those left behind would resume
the effort to dislodge the soldiers, and then there would be a revel.
And daybreak comes all too soon. Far to the east the stars are paling,
and a grayish veil rises slowly from the horizon. One by one the
night-lamps in the heavens lose their sparkle and radiance, as the
filament of the dawn shrouds and stifles them. Far down the valley
tumbling outlines of ridge and height are carved out in sharper relief
against the lightening sky. There is a stir in the leaves o'erhead and
the soft rustle of the morning breeze. Presently the pallid veil at the
east takes on a purplish blush, that is changing every instant to a
ruddier hue. Faces are beginning to be dimly visible in the groups of
defenders, pinched and drawn and cold in the nipping air, and Wayne
notes with a half sob how blue poor Dana's lips are. The boy's thoughts
are far away. Is he wandering? Is it fever already?
His eyes are closed, and he whispered to himself but a moment ago.
Hunter is taking a cat-nap. Wayne is too anxious, too unhappy to sleep,
and his wound is stiff and painful. A veteran first sergeant comes
creeping up to them for orders, and they are brief enough:
"Don't let the men waste a shot. It's our only hope of holding out until
help can come. They'll be on us again soon as it is fairly light."
"Captain," whispers Dana, "have you been awake all the time?"
"Yes, lad. Why?"
"Have you heard nothing,--no signal?"
"Nothing; not a sound. Why do you ask?"
"I'm afraid I've been only dreaming; yet I thought, I surely thought a
while ago I heard a trumpet-call,--far away--far out on the prairie."
"Which way, Dana?"
"Off to the southwest. I didn't like to speak of it, but I thought I
heard it twice."
"If Ray got through all right that's where the --th should be coming
from. It may be, Dana. It may be, for they'd lose no time, though Ray
thought six would be the earliest hour at which he could fetch them even
at a trot. It's only about three now, or a little after. I'll put men on
watch and have them listen. Go and bring the trumpeter to me," he said,
to one of the men.
The light grows broader every moment. Already forms can be dimly
distinguished up and down the stream-bed, and mounted Indians darting
about out on the prairie. A sergeant comes up to the group of officers
with quiet salute:
"Those fellows up-stream are getting ready, captain. Several of them
mounted a few minutes ago and rode away rapidly towards the southwest. I
saw others out on the prairie heading over to the bluffs. They seemed
excited-like, and looked to be in full fighting trim."
Dana's eyes light with eager hope.
"Captain, they heard what I did. Some of our fellows _are_ off there,
taking short cut across country to find us, and are signalling with
their trumpets. Let us go farther out,--to the prairie. I'm sure I heard
it, and we can answer."
Almost broad daylight now, though it is long before sun-up, but in very
short time Wayne, Dana, and the trumpeter are crouching just at the edge
of the timber, listening, listening, while a prayer goes up with every
heart-beat.
At last Dana's weakness tells upon him. He sinks down at the bottom of a
tree exhausted, but his ears are still alert. Suddenly he springs again
to his knee. "There! for God's sake listen. What is that?"
And far, far out to the southwest, far beyond the line of bluffs, there
rises upon the still morning air soft, clear, floating, and oh! sweeter
than the harmonies of seraphs, the quick, joyous notes of officer's
call. Oh, heaven! was ever reveille so blessed?
"Up with you, Rheinhart! Answer them! Blow your whole soul into it, but
make 'em hear!" shouts Wayne; and the burly young Prussian rolls over on
his back, braces his copper clarion at his lips, and rouses the echoes
of the valley with the ringing, jubilant, pealing reply. None of the
dolorous business of Roland at Roncesvalles about Rheinhart's
performance this time! It is like the bugle-horn of Roderick vich Alpine
Dhu,--
"One blast were worth a thousand men."
From rifle-pit and stunted log, from shore to shore, the timber leaps
into life and rings with the triumphant cheers of the besieged.
"Down with you, you idiots! back to your holes!" yell the officers, none
too soon, for with vengeful howls every Indian in the valley seems at
the instant to open fire, and once more the little command is encircled
by the cordon of savage sharpshooters. Holding their own fire except
where some rabid young foeman too daringly exposes himself, the men wait
and listen. Little by little the fury of the attack draws away, and only
scattering shots annoy them. They can see, though, that already many
Indians are mounting and scurrying off to the north side of the valley,
though plenty remain in the timber to keep vigilant watch over their
every move. Hunter begs permission to mount and move out with twenty men
to guide the rescuers, but there is no ammunition to warrant it. All men
are needed just where they are. Scattering shots keep coming in; the
yells of the Indians still continue; the trumpeter raises a lusty blast
from time to time, but officers and men are again all eagerly listening.
"They're coming! they're coming!" is next the cry, for distant shots are
heard, then the thunder of hoofs, the shouts and yells of excited
Indians; then warrior after warrior comes darting back over the bluffs
at the south, springing from his pony at the crest, as though for one
more shot at rapidly-advancing foe; more shots and yells; a
trumpet-blare, and then,--then ringing like clarion over the turmoil of
the fight,--echoing far across the still valley, the sound of a glorious
voice shouting the well-known words of command, "Left--front--into
line--_gallop_!" And Dana can hold in no longer. Almost sobbing, he
cries aloud,--
"Jack Truscott, by all that's glorious! I'd know the voice among a
million!"
Who in the --th would not? Who in the old regiment had not leaped at its
summons time and again? Who that was there will ever forget the
scene,--the welcome those wellnigh hopeless fellows give it now? Dana's
men break from their cover, and cheering madly, go dashing through the
timber towards their persecutors of the day before. Hunter's skirmishers
push eastward through the trees for one more crack at the besiegers.
Others--cheering too, yet spell-bound--cling to the spot, and go wild
with joy as the long blue line comes flashing into view across the
bluffs from the south, the just rising sun flaming at their crests and
tinting the wild war-bonnets of the foe, who go tumbling and scurrying
away before them; and their old adjutant comes thundering down the
slopes with ninety splendid troopers at his heels, sweeping the valley
of their late humiliation,--riding home to the rescue.
Fired by the sight, some of Wayne's men seize their saddles and throw
them on their excited steeds, but before they can mount Truscott's men
are whirling up and down the valley, driving the few remaining warriors
to the other side, and leaving some wounded ponies and two bedizened
braves prone upon the prairies. Quickly the leader comes darting through
the timber with hearty, yet laughing, greeting for Wayne, and a wave of
the hand to the cheering group. There is no time for compliments now.
Out go the skirmishers across the river bottom, through the trees, and
spinning away across the valley northward, whirling the Cheyennes before
them until they are driven to the bluffs. Then, as the "halt" is
sounded, and the vigilant line forms big semicircle to ward off further
attack, and the little pack-mules with their escort come ambling briskly
in from the south, Jack Truscott comes quietly back, lining his
broad-brimmed scouting-hat and wiping the sweat from his brow; and as
they throng about him--officers and men--almost the first question asked
is,--
"And where is Ray?"
"Safe, but badly wounded."
And then little by little the story was told. But for Ray no rescue
could have come. The regiment was miles away across country. Truscott's
squadron had reached their late camp the previous evening to find them
gone. There was a stockade there, where, with underground defences and
stout palings, a little company of infantry stood guard over a lot of
ammunition and supplies. They found there the sick and two wounded of
the regiment, a doctor and some scouts who had backed out of going, and
they also found a letter to Truscott from the colonel commanding,
telling him that Wayne ought to be somewhere west of him up the next
valley, to push on and join him, and then together they would be strong
enough to ride through the Cheyenne trails and find the regiment.
Fearing that Wayne would get too far up the valley, Truscott decided to
make a night march due north and strike it some distance up-stream. From
four P.M. until eleven they had rested, then had coffee, fed the horses,
and started. Somewhere about one o'clock through the dim light of the
waning moon they caught sight of a mounted man rapidly nearing them from
the east, and heard the whinny of a horse. That was enough to prove
'twas no Indian. Who could it be? One or two flankers galloped to meet
him, and the next thing a sergeant came rushing to Truscott at the head
of column.
"My God! captain, it's Loot'nant Ray, an' he's most dead."
In an instant Truscott had halted the command and was at the side of his
old friend, whom the men had lowered, weak and faint, to the ground. The
surgeon came, administered stimulant, examined and rebound his wound; a
bullet had torn through the right thigh, and he had bled fearfully, but
all he seemed to think of was the errand on which he came. In few words
he told of Wayne's position, pointed out the shortest way, and bade them
be off at once. Three men were left with him, one galloped back to the
station for an ambulance and the hospital attendant there, and with his
faint blessing and "good luck to you, fellows!" Ray had sent them at
lively lope bound for the valley and the rescue. There were men that
July morning who hid their heads to hide their tears as Truscott quietly
told of Ray's heroism and suffering, his narrow escape, his imminent
dangers, all met and borne that they might live. There were others who
cared not if their tears were seen. There was no one there who did not
vow that it would go hard with him if ever man ventured to malign Billy
Ray in his presence; but there was no one there who dreamed that even
while daring death to save them the man whose praise was on every lip
stood bitterly in need of friends, that blackest calumny, that lowest
intrigue, had conspired to pull him down.
It was a week before the four companies rejoined the --th, and the
reunited regiment pushed northwestward towards the Big Horn Mountains;
but by that time Ray with other wounded was being carefully wheeled
back to Russell, where the news of his heroic exploit had preceded him,
and where widely different feelings had thereby been excited. One
household heard it as it will never be forgotten. Mrs. Truscott and Miss
Sanford were just seating themselves at breakfast one bright morning,
when Mrs. Stannard came rushing in all aglow with mingled excitement and
emotion.
"Hurrah for the Sanford colors!" she cried. "Read that! I cannot,--I
cannot!" And throwing them a long despatch, she astonished her next-door
neighbors by fairly bursting into tears.
It was with difficulty that the ladies could recover composure in time
for the inevitable visit that they knew must come from Mrs. Whaling, and
_did_ come at ten o'clock.