IN WHICH A BATTERING RAM IS USED
The announcement that the frontiersman made filled Dave and the others
who heard it with horror. For the moment the youth could not believe the
evidence of his senses.
“Going to blow us up?” he queried.
“Yes—look for yourself, if you don’t believe it!” And the man ran
further away than ever.
“What does he say?” asked Joseph Morris, who had just come up.
“He says the Indian you wounded is in the storehouse and is going to set
fire to the casks of powder stored there.”
“In there?” returned the planter.
“Let us stop him—if we can,” went on Dave, and rushed forward, without
considering the great risk he was assuming by such action.
He ran into the storehouse, and his uncle came at his heels. Sure
enough, the wounded Indian was there, firebrand in hand. He was waving
it over a powder keg that was broken open and muttering a weird chant.
He knew that he was mortally wounded, and if he had to die he wanted his
hated enemies to die with him.
Dave and his uncle gazed on the scene as if bound by a spell. A single
spark from that torch dropped into the powder would mean death and
destruction to nearly everybody and everything in the post. The Indian
was calm and continued to chant.
Presently, with a start, Dave broke the spell that bound him. He made
one swift leap, caught the torch from behind and sent it whizzing away
through the open doorway. Some sparks dropped to the floor and as they
fell his foot covered them.
The Indian, taken completely off his guard, turned in consternation. The
youth sprang upon him and bore him to the floor. Then Joseph Morris
leaped in, and together they dragged the miscreant out of the building.
A crowd of half a dozen had collected. They saw the torch and saw the
red man pushed and dragged into the open. They waited for an explosion,
but it did not come. Then all began to breathe easier.
“Dave, you saved us all!” It was Joseph Morris who spoke. The great
beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead.
“I—I am glad if I did,” answered the youth. Now the danger was past, he
found himself trembling like a leaf.
“Kill that Injun!” was the cry. “Kill him! He ain’t fit to live!”
Swiftly the crowd turned on the red man. The Indian had sunk on the
ground in a heap. His wound had broken afresh and he was gasping
heavily. Barringford ran to him, hunting knife in hand. Then the old
frontiersman shook his head and motioned the others back.
“He’s dying, men,” he said. “Let him alone.”
“Are ye sure o’ thet, Sam?” asked one man.
“Dead sartin.” And Barringford’s words proved true, for the Indian
expired soon after.
The alarm had put everybody in the post on his mettle, and a strict hunt
was made, to see if anybody else was in hiding around the place. Nobody
was found, and gradually the garrison settled down.
“It is maddening to think that Henry is missing,” said Joseph Morris,
shortly after the noon hour. “I would give a great deal to know what has
become of him.”
“And I’d like to know what Jean Bevoir intends to do next,” returned his
nephew.
“He and his followers may wait until to-night and then attack us.”
Slowly the rest of the day wore away, and during that time all in the
post made themselves as comfortable as possible. An examination of the
stores showed that the Frenchmen and Indians had provided themselves
with plenty of food, so the present garrison would not suffer in that
respect.
“So far as rations are concerned, we can hold this place for a month,”
said Joseph Morris. “And as the river is so near, they cannot very well
close off our water supply.”
“Jean Bevoir won’t wait to starve us out,” said Barringford. “He’ll
attack us, or do somethin’ else, mark my words.”
An early supper was had, and then the men on guard began a closer
vigilance than ever. Every tree and bush and every rock without was
closely watched. The tunnel had been shut up in such a way that it could
not be used for the time being.
So far there had been little wind, but now a strong breeze came up.
Hardly had it started than a shower of fire arrows came sailing over the
stockade, to land in many directions.
“They are going to try to set fire to the buildings!” cried Dave.
“Put out the arrows!” cried Joseph Morris, and ran for some wet bags.
With the bags the majority of the fire arrows were quickly extinguished.
Two lodged on the roof of the main building, and Dave climbed up to put
them out.
“Be careful,—don’t expose yourself!” exclaimed his uncle.
The instant Dave made a whack with his wet bag at the fire arrow several
other arrows flew in the direction, one striking his hunting shirt. The
flame on it burnt fiercely and set fire to the youth’s garments.
“Look out, you’re burning!” cried one man.
“Roll down in the snow!” came from Sam Barringford.
This was good advice, and Dave lost no time in following it. Down he
came in a pile of snow and rolled over and over, and the small blaze was
immediately extinguished.
One of the arrows shot last had got a good hold between the logs of the
roof and was burning at a lively rate.
“We ought to have some water,” said Joseph Morris.
“Snow will do,” answered the old frontiersman, and taking up a
good-sized chunk, he hurled it at the arrow. His aim was good and the
fire was blotted out. Then others took up handfuls of snow, and as soon
as the burning arrows appeared, covered them completely; so that that
new danger was quickly past.
The Indians under Moon Eye had hoped much from their burning arrows and
were deeply chagrined to see them put out so easily. They sent out half
a hundred or less and then ceased operations.
“The snow has aided them,” grunted the chief in disgust. “We must try
some other plan.”
“Why not get a battering ram and ram down the gate?” asked Benoit Vascal
of Jean Bevoir, in French.
The Frenchman suggested this to Moon Eye. The Indian leader was willing,
provided the Frenchmen would use the ram, leaving the Indians to enter
the post after the gate was down.
During the early part of the evening, another band of red men and
several Frenchmen had come up, friendly to Moon Eye and to Bevoir. They
joined forces with those besieging the post, making those without much
stronger than before. Jean Bevoir promised the Indians and his
countrymen all sorts of things if they would aid in capturing the post
and in killing all the whites found defending it.
The plan to batter down the gate was carefully made. A fair-sized tree
was cut down and trimmed off, leaving just enough of the branches to
make good handles. This battering ram was brought up in the forest in a
direct line with the stockade gate. At the front was placed a shield of
loose branches and bark.
It the meantime, it was decided that six Indians should go to the rear
of the post and make a demonstration there, shouting loudly and firing
their guns and arrows,—doing this to draw the attention of the post
defenders to that point. When the alarm was at its height, the battering
ram was to be used with all force and as swiftly as possible. The moment
the gate was down, Indians and Frenchmen were to rush into the post
grounds and slaughter all who opposed them.
Having eaten his supper after the others, Sam Barringford walked around
the entire stockade, questioning all who were on guard. Nobody had seen
either a Frenchman or an Indian, although constantly on the alert.
“Tell ye wot I heard though,” said one frontiersman to Barringford. “I
heard ’em choppin’ down a tree over yonder.”
“Sure it war a tree, Collins?” asked the old frontiersman, with
interest.
“I am.”
“Humph!”
Sam Barringford said no more, but went straight to Joseph Morris.
“We want to watch thet gate harder nor ever,” he announced.
“Why, Sam?”
“They have been cuttin’ down a tree.”
“Ha! Do you think they wish to use it for a battering ram?”
“Don’t know wot else they’d want it fer. Anyway, it won’t hurt to watch
the gate extry well.”
“I’ll have it done,” answered the planter, and was as good as his word.
Another hour went by and still the silence around the trading post
continued. A few of the men were sleepy, but they were ordered to keep
awake.
“Our sleeping will be done in the daytime after this—until the alarm is
at an end,” said Joseph Morris.
Suddenly there burst upon the night air a chorus of wild yells, coming
from a point at the rear of the stockade. The six Indians sent to that
place appeared, but took care to keep out of range of the frontiersmen’s
rifles.
“They are coming—over the back stockade!” was the cry.
“Don’t run that way yet!” roared Sam Barringford. “Watch the gate! Watch
the gate!”
Some of the men paused in bewilderment. Looking to the front, they could
see nobody. From the rear a shot rang out, followed by several others,
and then came a shower of arrows.
“Pretend to go back—and then turn and watch the gate,” ordered Joseph
Morris.
The men obeyed. But Dave remained at the gate, his eye glued to a near
loophole. Only the stars were shining, so he had to watch closely in
order to see anything at all.
The demonstration at the rear of the post went on, and now the Indians
became a little bolder, running to within fifty yards of the palisade.
As a consequence one received a bullet wound in his arm, and then all
slipped behind the trees.
“Here they come!” yelled Dave, suddenly. “Here they come! Sam, quick!
They have a battering ram!”
“Jest as I supposed!” returned the old frontiersman. “Give it to ’em,
Dave!”
Crack! went the rifle of the youth and one of the Frenchmen carrying the
ram staggered for a moment, grazed in the side. Then the crowd came
forward, swiftly and silently. Barringford took aim and fired, and
another Frenchman dropped back, seriously wounded. But the others did
not pause.
Crash! The battering ram struck the gate with great force, causing it to
quiver from top to bottom. But the posts and the oaken bars held, and
those outside had to run back with the tree-trunk.
“Fire on ’em! Fire on ’em!” yelled Barringford, and he and Dave let
drive a second time, and two other defenders followed suit. The men with
the battering ram came up, but just as they were within three yards of
the gate one of the leaders staggered and fell, shot through the knee.
This confused the others, and the second blow on the gate was,
consequently, a feeble one.
“Again! Again!” shrieked Jean Bevoir. “Up with the log!” he added, in
French. “Remember the reward, if you get into the post! Now then, all
together!”
Once more those outside raised the battering ram and ran back with it.
They paused for a moment, to gather their strength. Then they hurled
themselves forward, and the ram hit the gate with a crash that was
deafening, causing the splinters to fly in all directions.