Early in the war of the American revolution, a Sergeant, who travelled
through the woods of New Hampshire, on his way to the American army,
met with a singular adventure, which ended much to his credit.
He had twelve men with him. Their route was far from any settlement,
and they were obliged every night to encamp in the woods. The Sergeant
had seen a good deal of the Indians, and understood them well;—early
in the afternoon, one day, as they were marching on, over bogs,
swamps, and brooks, under the towering maple trees, a body of Indians,
exceeding their own number, rushed out upon a hill in front of them.
They appeared to be pleased at meeting with the Sergeant and his party.
They considered them, they said, as their best friends; for themselves,
they had taken up the hatchet for the Americans, and would scalp and
strip those rascally English for them, like so many wild cats. “How do
you do, pro?” (meaning brother) said one. “How do you do, pro?” said
another, and so they went about, shaking hands with the Sergeant and
his twelve men.
They went off, at last, and the Sergeant, having marched onward a mile
or two, halted his men, and addressed them,—“My brave fellows,” said
he, “we must use all possible caution, or before morning we shall all
of us be dead men. You are amazed, but depend upon me, these Indians
have tried to put our suspicion to sleep; you will see more of them
by-and-bye.”
It was concluded, finally, to adopt the following scheme for defence:
they encamped for the night, near a stream of water, which protected
them from behind. A large oak was felled, and a brilliant fire kindled;
each man cut a log of wood, about the size of his body, rolled it
nicely up in his blanket, placed his hat on the end of it, and laid it
before the fire, that the enemy might take it for a man.
Thirteen logs were fitted out in this way, representing the Sergeant
and his twelve men. They then placed themselves, with loaded guns,
behind the fallen tree; by this time it was dark, but the fire was kept
burning till midnight. The Sergeant knew, that if the Savages ever
came, they would come now.
A tall Indian was seen, at length, through the glimmering of the fire,
which was getting low. He moved cautiously towards them, skulking, as
an Indian always does. He seemed to suspect, at first, that a guard
might be watching, but seeing none, he came forward more boldly,
rested on his toes, and was seen to move his finger, as he counted the
thirteen men, sleeping, as he supposed, by the fire. He counted them
again, and retired; another came up, and did the same. Then the whole
party, sixteen in number, came up and glared silently at the logs, till
they seemed to be satisfied they were fast asleep. Presently they
took aim, fired their whole number of guns upon the logs, yelled the
horrid war-whoop, and pushed forward to murder and scalp their supposed
victims. The Sergeant and his men were ready for them; they fired upon
them, and not one of the Indians was left to tell the story of that
night. The Sergeant reached the army in safety.