THE BATTLE-FIELD
Fired with stern enthusiasm, three hundred men—a large proportion of
them grey-haired and beyond their prime, the rest brave boys—had filed
out from the fort and organized on the banks of a small stream, which
winds its way from the mountains and falls into the Susquehanna, above
Kingston. Six companies marched from the fort, and here the civil
officers and justices of the court from Wilkesbarre joined them. After a
brief consultation, Captain Durkee, Ransom and Lieutenants Ross and
Wells, were sent forward to reconnoitre. As their horses thundered off,
the Wyoming companies approached separately, and filed into columns;
there was the pallor of stern courage in every face; a gleam of
desperate energy in every eye.
The march commenced; steadily and eagerly that little body of patriots
moved forward; the hot sun poured down upon them; the unequal plain
broke the regularity of their march; but the steady tramp of their
approach never faltered; the youngest boy in the ranks grew braver as he
passed the fort where his mother watched, and turned his face to the
enemy; old, grey-headed men lifted their bent frames and grew eagle-eyed
as they looked back towards the shelter of their dames, and onward for
the foe.
Late in the afternoon they came in sight of Wintermoot’s Fort. The enemy
was prepared to receive them: Colonel John Butler and his Rangers
occupied the banks of the river between them and the fort, and all the
black, marshy plain, stretching to the mountains, was alive with
savages, led on by Gi-en-gwa-tah and Queen Esther. Indian marksmen stood
at intervals along the line, and Johnson’s Royal Greens formed on
Colonel’s Butler’s right.
The Butlers had chosen their own battleground—a level plain, covered
with shrub oaks and yellow pines, with patches of cultivation between.
The Americans halted. For one moment there was a dead, solemn pause.
Col. Zebulon Butler spurred his horse, and rode in front of his lines;
he lifted his hand—his voice rang like a trumpet from man to man.
“Men, yonder is the enemy. We came out to fight, not for liberty, but
for life itself, and, what is dearer, to preserve our homes from
conflagration, and women and children from the tomahawk. Stand firm the
first shock, and the Indians will give way. Every man to his duty!”
There was no shout, no outcry of enthusiasm, but a stern fire burned in
those old men’s eyes, and the warrior boys grew white with intense
desire for action. The brave leader wheeled his horse, and fronted the
enemy. His sword flashed upward—three hundred uncouth weapons answered
it, and the battle commenced, for against all that fearful odds the
Americans fired first, obeying their orders steadily, and advancing a
step at each volley.
The Tory leader met the shock, and thundered it back again. His plumes
and military trappings were all cast aside; a crimson handkerchief
girded his forehead, and he fought like any common soldier, covered with
dust and blackened with smoke, while his son, who held no other command,
galloped from rank to rank, carrying his orders.
But notwithstanding the fierce valor of their leader and the discipline
of those troops, the charge made by men fighting for their wives and
little ones was too impetuous for resistance. The British lines fell
back after the third charge. He threw himself before them like a madman,
rallied them, and gained his own again. Then the fight grew terrible on
both sides; the Americans, brave as they were, began to feel the power
of numbers.
A flanking party of Indians, concealed in the shrub oaks, poured death
into their ranks. In the midst of this iron rain Captain Durkee was shot
down, leading on his men. The Indian sharp-shooters saw him fall, and
set up a fiendish yell that pierced the walls of Forty Fort and made
every soul within quake with horror.
The strife was almost equal. On the left wing the force under Colonel
Denison fought desperately against the Indians, but they outflanked him
at last, and, pouring from the swamp, fell like bloodhounds on his
rear—a raking fire swept his men.
Thus beset by the savages behind and the Tories in front, he thought to
escape the iron tempest by a change of position. In the heavy turmoil,
his order was mistaken, and the word “retreat” went hissing through his
ranks. It flew like fire from lip to lip, striking a panic as it fell.
The British lines already wavered, another moment and they would have
yielded. But that terrible mistake gave them the victory. As Denison’s
division fell into confusion they rallied, pressed forward, and the
battle became a rout.
In vain Zebulon Butler plunged into their midst, and riding like a
madman through a storm of bullets, entreated them to rally.
“Don’t leave me, my children!” he cried; “one blow more—a bold front,
and the victory is ours!”
It was all in vain. The ranks were already scattered, the Indians leapt
in among them, like ravenous wild beasts. The captains were cut down
while striving to rally their companies. Tomahawks and bullets rained
and flew after them as they fled. Some were pierced with stone-headed
lances; some fell with their heads cleft; some broke away towards Forty
Fort, or, making for the river, plunged in, and struggled against the
rushing stream for their lives.
No beasts of prey were ever hunted down like those unhappy men. They
were shot down everywhere—in the grain fields, in the swamp. Regardless
of all cries for mercy, they were chased to the river bank, dragged out
from the bushes in which they sought to hide themselves, even back from
the waves, or beaten and slaughtered among the stones which smoked with
the warm blood poured over them. Thus the pursuit raged opposite
Monockonok Island. Towards Forty Fort scenes of equal horror were
perpetrated. The Indians rushed, leaping and howling, like hungry
wolves, over the plain, cutting off retreat to the fort, and those poor
fellows who turned that way were shot and hewed down in scores, or
dragged back prisoners, and hurled among the savages for future torture.
For a long time Catharine Montour and her daughter remained absorbed in
painful reflection amid the silence of the tent; then, as their thoughts
began to revert to surrounding objects, the stillness reigning upon the
island roused them at the same moment.
“Mother, how is this? I hear no sound abroad!” exclaimed Tahmeroo,
starting from her mother’s arms, and looking apprehensively in her face.
Catharine rose to her feet, and went out into the camp. The island was
wholly deserted, save by a few squaws and the usual guard around her
tent. In a moment she returned with something of former energy in her
manner.
“There is treachery intended here,” she said; “not an Indian is on the
island. This bloodshed must be prevented. Hark! there are shots. I hear
distant drums—that yell! God help the poor souls that must perish this
day!”
“But what can we do, mother? The fight rages now!”
“Give me time to think,” returned Catharine, clasping her hands over her
forehead, and striving to force back her old fortitude.
“Oh, may God help me! that angel girl on the island! Tahmeroo, we must
save her. I have promised—but the warriors leave me—that bracelet may
not be enough!”
“Mother, I will preserve her life with my own—let us go, for this will
be a terrible day. Come, mother, come!”
“Listen!” exclaimed Catharine; “I hear the sound of oars.”
“It may be Butler—oh, if it is!” cried Tahmeroo, the thought of her
husband always uppermost in her mind.
Catharine hastened towards the entrance of the tent, but at that moment
the hangings were put aside, and the missionary stood before them.
“Woman—Lady Granby!” he exclaimed, “what do you here?—death and blood
are all around—beware that it does not rest on your soul. Stop the
progress of your savages—save the innocent.”
“My God! I am helpless!” broke from Catharine’s lips. “Go, Tahmeroo, go
at once and find the queen or the chief—hasten, if you would not have
this murder on our heads. Oh, sir, I am almost powerless here; but what
a weak woman can do, I will.”
Tahmeroo bounded away like a wild animal, while Catharine sank into a
seat, unnerved as she had not been for years.
“This is no time for weakness,” exclaimed the missionary, almost
sternly; “you have grown too familiar with scenes of blood to shrink
here, ‘lady.’”
“But I am unusually helpless now,” she said, despondingly; “my power is
gone.”
“Is not Gi-en-gwa-tah your wedded slave?—is not your will a law among
his people?”
“It was while I was reckless and strong to maintain it; but now, alas! I
am only a poor weak woman! Since we first met on the banks of this
river, thoughts have awakened in my bosom which had slept for years.
This terrible life shocks me to the soul, and the chief despises what he
deems cowardice. Queen Esther has regained her old power, and Walter
Butler, my child’s husband, urges them on like a demon. They have left
me here without a word; Heaven only knows what the end will be.”
“You must do something—do not give way; there is not a moment to spare;
human life is at stake!”
“It is like a dream,” said Catharine, vaguely; “the present is gone from
me—your voice carries me back—back to my early youth. Where did I hear
it then?”
“This is no time for dreams, lady,” cried the missionary. “Only rouse
yourself—come away. Do you hear those shots—that yell?”
But Catharine yielded more completely to the power which dulled her
senses—she could realize nothing: years rolled back their troubled
tempest from her brain; she was once more in her English home. Even the
war-whoop of her tribe could not arouse her.
“Will you not move?” groaned the missionary. “The whole valley will be
slaughtered—that innocent child on the island will be killed. A second
time, Caroline, as you value your soul, save her!”
“That child—the girl with an angel’s face, and that form,” said
Catharine, dreamily, but with a look of affright, as if she were just
awakening. “Bless her, Heaven bless that angel girl!”
“Can you realize nothing? Then I must say that which will waken, or
drive you wholly mad! Woman—Lady Granby—fly—save that girl—for, as there
is a God to judge between us two, she is your own daughter.”
Catharine sat motionless, staring at him vaguely with her heavy eyes.
“I have no daughter but Tahmeroo,” she said; “and she is only half my
child now.”
“I tell you, Mary Derwent is your daughter—the child whom you nearly
killed in your insanity! and believed dead.”
Catharine started up with a cry, so long and wild that it made the
missionary start almost with terror.
“And you,” she gasped; “you——”
“I am Varnham, your husband!”
She fell back with the dull heavy fall of a corpse, burying her face in
her robe. The missionary raised her, trembling, and shrinking both from
her and himself.
“Caroline—my—wife—look up. Or has God been merciful, and is this death?”
“My husband—my husband—is dead; he is dead—drowned, in the deep, deep
unfathomable sea, years and years ago.”
“Caroline, do not longer deceive yourself. Look at this picture, this
ring; do you recognize me now?”
“And Heaven has not blasted me!” she moaned. “I live still!”
“Your daughter—our child—Caroline! They will murder her!”
“My daughter!” She rose to her feet again and repeated the words with a
gasp, as if she were shaking a great weight from her heart. “My
daughter!”
“Save her. The battle rages close by the island where she lives. Go with
me; your presence alone will protect her.”
The anguish of his tone might have roused marble to consciousness; it
brought back Catharine’s tottering reason.
“Child—Mary—daughter—I will go, I will go. At least, we can die
together! I and that child whom the angels loved, but would not take.”
She rushed from the tent, followed by Varnham. They met Tahmeroo, who
had just landed.
“They are near the fort,” she cried, “fighting like wolves. The chief
and Queen Esther are in the thickest of the battle, and Butler, too, my
husband—oh, my husband!”
“Fly to her, and say her mother is coming, Varnham. Man, or ghost, help
me,” cried Catharine. “I cannot speak—I cannot even have your
forgiveness; but we will save her, and then God may be good, and let us
die.”
He rushed to his canoe without a word, and sped down the waters like an
arrow from a bow. All of Catharine’s strength came back. With resolute
command she put off the madness which had begun to creep over her, and
turned to Tahmeroo.
“Follow me to the island near the fort. There is a young girl there. Oh,
my God, my God! let me see her once more! Let me call her my child, and
die.”
They pushed off in their canoe, and kept steadily down the stream until
within a mile of the island.
The sun was setting, and the crimson of the sunset deluged the western
sky, but the whole horizon was dark with smoke. The report of
firearms—the echo of bullets—the shrieks of the dying filled the air
with clamor and surged heavily over the waters.
“My husband, my husband!” moaned Tahmeroo.
Catharine never spoke, but watched eagerly for a sight of the island.
She scarcely breathed, and her eyes were terrible in their strained
gaze.
At that moment a party of Indians appeared on the western shore. They
pointed to the canoe with angry gestures. Suddenly they sprang into the
water like wild beasts and swam towards the canoe.
“Mother,” cried Tahmeroo, “they are coming here. Queen Esther has sent
them to murder us!”
A dozen hands grasped the frail bark, and dusky faces, terrible with
war-paint, glared on the two women.
“Back!” exclaimed Catharine, rising up in her canoe and drawing her
knife; “dare to disobey me, and you shall be sent from the tribe.
Catharine Montour has spoken.”
“The chief commands; Catharine Montour must go on shore.”
“Yes, on the island yonder, but nowhere else. Tell Butler, your white
chief, that he will find me there.”
They wrested the knife from her grasp, and sprang into the canoe,
offering no harm to either of the two women, but urging the boat to the
shore, heedless of cries and expostulations.
“God, oh God, my child!” groaned Catharine from between her clenched
teeth; “lost, lost!”
When they reached the shore, the savages forced them out of the boat,
and with their tomahawks stove it to atoms. Then they rushed off with a
whoop that apprised their employer of his triumph.
“This is Butler’s work!” cried Catharine. “They are lost!”
“No, mother; come, we will go on foot—it is not far—there may be a boat
near the island.”
They hastened along the shore with frantic speed through the gloom of
the coming night, pausing neither for words nor breath, clasping each
other’s hands closer as the breeze bore nearer and nearer the sounds of
conflict.
The storm of battle was over, but the scenes that followed were more
terrible by far than the first shock of arms had been; for now murder
ran red-handed over the plains, and the demons of victory were, like
wild beasts, ravenous for more blood.
Along that vast plain there was but one hope of escape; a broad swamp,
teeming with Indians, lay between them and the mountains, who covered
the ground above Forty Fort, and cut off the wretched men who turned
that way; but Monockonok Island was almost in a line with the
battlefield, and, though the river was swollen from a late freshet, to a
good swimmer a passage was not impossible; from thence they escaped up a
gully in the hills on the other side; and to this point the patriots
made, in the frenzy of desperation.
As Catharine Montour and Tahmeroo came down the river, urged to
breathless speed by the shrieks of dying men and the fiendish yells of
their captors, fugitive after fugitive fled to the water; some were shot
down before their eyes; some making superhuman efforts, swam for the
island, and, dashing across, either escaped or perished on the other
side; the savages followed them like demons; but their human game was
too thick in the bushes of the shore for individual pursuit upon the
river and when a man escaped that way the painted hounds sent a derisive
yell after him, and turned to other bloody work.
The Tories were more relentless still; to them kindred blood gave zest
to murder, and many a brother fell on that awful shore by the hands that
had helped rock his cradle.
To this spot Grenville Murray came, while Catharine was toiling towards
it in the gathering twilight. He had appealed to the Butlers, and
expostulated with the savages, but all in vain; he might as well have
attempted to force bloodhounds from their scent as persuade these
monsters from their horrid work. So desperately were they urged by
insatiate passion that torches were applied to their own fort, that the
red glare of conflagration might give them light for more murder when
the sun refused to look down upon their sickening cruelties.
Hopeless of doing good, and shocked to the soul by scenes into which he
had been inadvertently thrown Murray turned to the island, hoping to
find the missionary there, and unite with him in some project to save
the prisoners yet left alive.
As he stood upon the shore, looking vaguely for some means of
conveyance, a figure rushed by him, plunged into the water, and swam for
life towards the nearest point of land; a half dozen Indians bounded
after the man, shrieking and yelling out their disappointment. Directly
a young man, black with powder and fierce as a tiger, sprang in among
the savages, crying out:
“Have you got him? Give me the scalp—twenty-five guineas to the man who
holds his scalp!”
The Indians pointed to the struggling man, now but dimly seen in the
smoky twilight; Butler uttered a fierce oath, snatched a rifle from the
nearest savage, and, levelling it with deliberate aim, fired—sending an
oath forward with the bullet.
The fugitive sank, and his disappearance was greeted with another yell
from the savages; but a moment after the head reappeared, and Edward
Clark struggled up the banks of the willow cove and went towards the
cabin, staggering either from exhaustion or some wound.
“I’ve missed him!” cried Butler, tossing the rifle back to its owner;
“but we’ll save that island, and all that’s on it, for our night
carouse. There is a little hunchbacked imp that you may have for your
own humors, but as for that young rascal, and a girl that we shall find
there, I don’t give them up to any one. Now off again; here are more
rats creeping to the river.”
Murray had stopped behind a tree as the party came up and rushed away
again, yelling and whooping as they went. He was about to throw off his
coat, and attempt to spring into the river, and make for the island,
when he was startled by footsteps and the quick, heavy breathing of
persons in his neighborhood. He peered among the thick trees that
towered around him, but could discern no one, though the sound of
murmuring voices came distinctly to his ear.
“Thank God!” said a clear, female voice, in accents of deep feeling,
“thank God! the horrid work has not commenced here; let us hasten to the
fort—we may yet be in time!”
“No, mother, no,” replied a voice of sadder melody; “if there is more
bloodshed, it will be done on that little island. If my husband has a
part in this, the fair girl whom I have seen gliding among the trees
yonder, day by day, waiting his coming, that girl will be his victim;
she must have angered him in some way. That beautiful girl was to have
been married to-night, mother. Can you think why Butler should seek
vengeance on her? Oh, you do not know all! You have not heard him
whisper her name in his sleep, sometimes mingling it with endearments,
and again with curses. You have not felt his heart beating beneath your
arm, and know that it was burning with love, or hate born of love, for
another. But why do we stand here? I do not wish her to die, and he
shall not take her alive. Let us go and give them warning; is there no
boat—nothing that will take us over?”
“Alas, no! what can we do?”
“Mother, help me pull off my robe; I can swim.”
“Father of heaven! No; the distance is beyond your strength—the water is
very deep!” exclaimed the first voice, in alarm.
“Mother, he shall not kill that angel girl—he shall not have the other.
I am very strong; I _can_ swim to that island; see, now the lights
stream upon the water; it does not look so dangerous. Let me try!”
“Is there no other way?” exclaimed the answering voice. “I cannot
consent to this risk; it may be death to you, my child!”
But while the words were on her mother’s lips Tahmeroo flung off her
robe, and with a wild leap, plunged far out into the waves, calling
back:
“Stay there—do not move—I will come back with a canoe.”
“My child—oh, Father of mercies! she is lost!”
“Not so, madam; she is light and self-possessed—have no fear,” said
Murray stepping out from the shadow in which he had stood.
Before Catharine could turn, or had distinctly heard his voice, a man
rushed by her, with the bound of a wild animal, and plunged into the
river. Catharine caught one glimpse at the wild face, but before she
could catch her breath he was struggling with the current and his
pursuers stood upon the bank. The men were both white, though the
ferocity of fifty savages broke from the eyes which glared down upon the
water, where that old friend was struggling.
“Come back, Lieutenant Shoemaker—come back!” cried the man upon the
bank; “the current is too swift—you’ll be lost; come on shore and I’ll
protect you.”
The fugitive turned. That man had fed at his table; partaken of his
wealth and his kindness; he belonged to the Tory army, and a word from
him was safety. He was almost sinking, but these words of sweet charity
brought him to life again; and swimming back to the shore, he held up
his trembling hand to be dragged from the water. Windecker, for that was
the demon’s name, grasped the hand, whirled his tomahawk aloof, and
buried it in that noble forehead, uplifted in gratitude towards him!
Catharine Montour uttered a shriek of horror; the fiend turned his face
towards her with a sickening laugh, and, lifting the body of his
benefactor half from the water, dashed him back, reddening the waves
with his blood, and shouting:
“That’s the way to serve traitors!”
All this happened so suddenly that the horror was perpetrated and the
assassin had fled while Murray and Catharine were stunned by the shock.
When the atrocity came upon her in its force, Catharine sat down on the
earth, sick and trembling, while Murray drew his sword, to cut the
murderer down; but he plunged into the bushes and rushed off towards the
fort, which was now one vast cloud of lurid smoke.
Murray returned to the bank just as Tahmeroo shot across the river in
Mary Derwent’s little craft, which she found in the cove.
“It was bravely thought of!” exclaimed Murray, stepping into the boat
and drawing Catharine after him; “they must search for other boats, and
this will give us time. Hah! they have completed their work at the fort.
See!”
As he spoke, a volume of dusky light surged heavily across the river,
and a spire of flame shot upwards, quivering and flashing, and flinging
off smoke and embers, till the forest trees and the still waters gleamed
red and dusky for miles about the burning fort. The poetry of Catharine
Montour’s nature was aroused by the fierce solemnity of this scene.
“See!” she cried, starting to her feet in the canoe, and pointing down
the river, where the fire reflected itself like a vast banner of
scarlet, torn, and mangled, and weltering in the waters. “See! the very
river seems aflame—the woods and the mountains, all are kindling with
light. Can a day of judgment be more terrible than that?”
She stood upright as she spoke, with one hand pointing down the stream.
Her crimson robe floated out on the wind, and the jewelled serpent about
her brow gleamed like a living thing in the red light which lay full
upon her. As she stood there, the very priestess of the scene, her
extended arm was grasped until the gemmed bracelet sunk into the flesh,
and a face, pale and convulsed, was bent to hers.
“Woman—Caroline—Lady Granby! speak to me.” The words died on Murray’s
lips; he remained with his grasp still fixed on her arm, and his eyes
bent on her face, speechless as marble.
A wild, beautiful expression of joy shot over Catharine Montour’s face;
her heart leaped to the sound of her own name, and she started as if to
fling herself upon his bosom. The impulse was but for an instant; her
hand had quivered down to her side, but while his eyes were fixed on her
face, it became calm and tranquil as a child’s. She released herself
gently from his grasp and sat down.
“Grenville Murray,” she said, in a clear, steady voice; “for more than
twenty years we have been dead to each other; do not disturb the ashes
of the past. My child—my first-born child is in danger on that island.
Help me to save her, and then let us part again forever and ever!”
The words were yet on her lips when a bullet whistled from the shore,
and cut away the ruby crest of the serpent which lay upon her temple.
She fell forward at Murray’s feet, stunned, but not otherwise injured. A
moment, and she lifted her head.
“Who was shot? Was he killed?” she muttered, drawing her hand over her
eyes, and striving to sit upright.
“The gentleman is safe, mother,” said Tahmeroo, “and I—you hear me
speak?—and I am well.”
“Bless you, my brave girl! Grenville Murray, why are we here? There is
death all around us! On, on!”
Murray had regained his self-command; he took up the oar which Tahmeroo
had dropped, and urged the canoe forward with a steadiness that belied
his pale face and trembling hands. Bullet after bullet cut along their
track before they reached the island; but the distance became greater,
and the aim of their pursuers was more uncertain.
They reached the little cove and sprung on shore. But they had scarcely
touched the green sward, when the flames rushed up from the burning pile
in a bright, lurid sheet of fire, revealing the opposite shore, and the
forest far beyond, as if a volcano had burst among the mountains.
“Mother, look yonder!” said Tahmeroo, in a voice full of terror, which
arose to little above a husky whisper, and she pointed to the opposite
shore, where it lay in the full glare of the burning fort. A swarm of
red warriors were gathered upon the steep banks, and lay crouching along
the brink of the river, like a nest of demons, basking in the
fire-light; and there, on the spot which they had just left, she saw her
husband, standing with arms in his hands, stamping with rage as he saw
them from the distance.
“We have landed on the wrong side of the island,” said Catharine
Montour, after a hasty glance at the demons swarming on the shore, and
securing the cable of another boat that lay moored in the cove.
“Tahmeroo, remain with this gentleman and warn the people at the house
while I take the boat to the opposite side—there will be no escape
within the range of their rifles.”
“Caroline—Lady Granby, this must not be,” said Murray, evidently
forgetting their relative positions in the deep interest of the moment.
“How are you to escape the rifle-balls which those fiends may level at
you? for they are mad with blood, and fire on friends and foes alike. I
will take the boats round while you and this young woman warn the people
up yonder.”
The familiar name which Murray had unconsciously used melted like dew
over the heart that listened; but Catharine struggled against the
feeling which almost made a child of her, even in that hour of danger.
The thoughts of other years were swelling in her bosom, but there was
calmness and decision in her voice as she answered him.
“The danger would be alike to either,” she said; “nor could one person
row the canoe and secure the others at the same time. I will go with
you. My child, hasten to the house and warn them of their danger—keep
within the bushes as you pass; send them down to the shore in small
numbers; and, mark me, avoid bustle or appearance of alarm. Do you
understand, and have you courage to go alone?”
The unhappy young woman stood with her face turned towards the shore;
tears rolled down her cheek and dropped on her clasped hands while her
mother was speaking.
“Yes, mother, I understand, and will save that poor girl—though he kill
me, I will save her. I know the path; I have trodden it before,” she
replied, in a sorrowful and abstracted voice.
A low howl, like the prolonged cry of a pack of hungry wolves, fired her
to action once more. She looked on her mother. “They have found some
means of crossing,” she said; “they will murder us when they see us
warning their prey; but I will do it. Kiss me, mother—farewell!”
One wild kiss, a quick embrace, and Tahmeroo dashed up the path with the
bound of a wild deer.
Catharine Montour turned wildly to her companion. “That cry! In—in!” she
cried, vehemently, springing into the canoe. “They are upon the water;
let them fire upon us if they will. Give me an oar; I can use one hand.
Father of heaven! Did you hear that shout?”
Murray saw that no time was to be lost. He sprang to her side and
steered round the island as rapidly as her impatient spirit could
demand, though his superior coolness kept them from danger which she
would have braved. By rowing close within the shadows of the island he
escaped observation from the Indians; and those two persons who had been
a destiny each to the other, sat alone, side by side, without speaking a
word, and with scarcely a thought of each other. The lives of more than
fifty persons were in peril, and among them Catharine had two
children—the Indian girl, already on her path of mercy, and the gentle
deformed, whom she was to call child for the first time.
They landed on the eastern shore of the island. Murray was drawing the
canoes half on land, while Catharine dashed forward, expecting every
instant to meet Tahmeroo with the family she had come to save. But
instead of the females she sought, a half dozen men, white as death,
with bloodshot eyes and hair erect with terror, dashed by, aiming for
the gully on the eastern shore. They were fugitives from the battle, and
reeled with the terrible exhaustion of swimming the river as they passed
her with wild, staggering bounds.
They saw her Indian dress, swerved with a despairing cry, and fell upon
their faces.
“On, on!” cried Catharine, waving her hand as she ran towards the house;
“I am no enemy. In the name of heaven, save yourselves!”
They started up again, and rushed to the river—saw the canoes half in
the water, half upon the land—pushed them into the stream, dashed Murray
aside, and sent him reeling back against the trunk of a tree, when he
attempted to interfere, and, tumbling over each other in desperate
haste, pushed off, leaving the family on the island, and those who had
come to save them, in a more desperate situation than ever.