THE ONE WHO ARRIVED
Henry Ware, when his last comrade, hurt and spent, drifted away in the
darkness, felt that he was alone in every sense of the word. But the
feeling of failure was only momentary. He was unhurt, and the good God
had not given him great strength for nothing. He still held the rifle in
his left hand above his head and swam with the wide circular sweep of
his right arm. The yellow waves of the Ohio surged about him and soon he
heard the nasty little spit, spit of bullets upon the water near his
head and shoulders. The warriors were firing at him as he swam, but the
kindly dusk was still his friend, protecting him from their aim.
He would have dived, swimming under water as long as his lungs would
hold air. But he did not dare to wet his precious rifle and ammunition,
which he might need the very moment he reached the other shore--if he
reached it.
He heard the warriors shooting, and then came the faint sound of
splashes as a half dozen leaped into the water to pursue him. Henry
changed the rifle alternately from hand to hand in order to rest
himself, and continued in a slanting course across the river, drifting a
little with the current. He did not greatly fear the swimmers behind
him. One could not attack well in the water, and they were likely,
moreover, to lose him in the darkness, which was now heavy, veiling
either shore from him. Had it not been for the rifle it would have been
an easy matter to evade pursuit. Swimming with one arm was a difficult
thing to do, no matter how strong and skillful one might be. But the
pursuing warriors, who would certainly carry weapons, suffered from the
same disadvantage. He heard another faint report, seeming to come from
some point miles away, and a bullet struck the water near him, dashing
foam in his eyes. It was fired from the bank, but it was the last from
that point. He was so far out in the river now that his head became
invisible from the shore, and he was helped, also, by the wind, which
caused one wave to chase another over the surface of the river.
Henry was now about the middle of the stream, here perhaps half a mile
in width, and he paused, except for the drifting of the current, and
rested upon arm and shoulder. He looked up. The sky was still darkening,
and only a faint silvery mist showed where the moon was poised. Then he
looked toward either shore. Both were merely darker walls in the general
darkness. He did not see any of the heads of the swimming warriors on
the surface of the river, and he believed that they had lost him in the
obscurity.
Refreshed by his floating rest of a minute or two, he turned once more
toward the Kentucky shore. It was an illusion, perhaps, but it seemed to
him that he had been lying at the bottom of a watery trough, and that he
was now ascending a sloping surface, broken by little, crumbling waves.
He swam slowly and as quietly as possible, taking care to make no splash
that might be heard, and he was beginning to believe that he was safe,
when he saw a dark blot on the yellow stream. Far down was another such
blot, but fainter, and far up was its like.
They were Indian canoes, and the one before him contained but a single
occupant. Henry surmised at once that they were sentinels sent there in
advance of the main force, and that the trained eyes of the warriors in
the canoes would pierce far in the darkness. It seemed that the way was
shut before him, and that he would surely be taken. He felt for an
instant or two a sensation of despair. If only the firm ground were
beneath his feet he could fight and win! But the watching warrior before
him was seated safely in a canoe and could pick him off at ease.
Undoubtedly the sentinels had been warned by the shots that a fugitive
was coming, and were ready.
But he was not yet beaten. He called once more upon that last reserve of
strength and courage, and, as he floated upon his back, holding the
rifle just over him, he formed his plan. He must now be quick and strong
in the water, and he could not be either if one hand was always devoted
to the task of keeping the rifle dry. He must make the sacrifice, and he
tied it to his back with a deerskin strap used for that purpose. Then,
submerged to his mouth, he swam slowly toward the waiting canoe.
It was a tremendous relief to use both hands and arms for swimming, and
fresh energy and hope flowed into every vein. It was a thing terrible in
its delicacy and danger that he was trying to do, but he approached it
with a bold heart. He was absolutely noiseless. He made not a single
splash that would attract attention, and he knew that he was not yet
seen. But he could see the warrior, who was high enough above the water
to stand forth from it.
The man was a Wyandot, and to the swimming eyes, so close to the surface
of the river, he seemed very formidable, a heavily-built man, naked to
the waist, with a thick scalp lock standing up almost straight, an alert
face, and the strong curved nose so often a prominent feature of the
Indian. One brown, powerful hand grasped a paddle, with an occasional
gentle movement of which he held the canoe stationary in the stream
against the slow current. A rifle lay across his knees, and Henry knew
that tomahawk and knife were at his belt. He not only seemed to be, but
was a formidable foe.
Henry paused and sank a little deeper in the water, over his mouth, in
fact, breathing only through his nose. He saw that the warrior was wary.
Some stray beams of moonlight fell upon the face and lighted up the
features more distinctly. It was distinctly the face of the savage, the
hunter, a hunter of men. Henry marked the hooked nose, the cruel mouth,
and the questing eyes seeking a victim.
He resumed his slow approach, coming nearer and yet nearer. He could not
be ten yards from the canoe now, and it was strange that the Indian did
not yet see him. His whole body grew cold, but whether from the waters
of the river he did not know. Yet another yard, and he was still unseen.
Still another yard, and then the questing eyes of the Wyandot rested on
the dark object that floated on the surface of the stream. He looked a
second time and knew that the head belonged to some fugitive whom his
brethren pursued. Triumph, savage, unrelenting triumph filled the soul
of the Wyandot. It had been his fortune to make the find, and the trophy
of victory should be his. It never entered into his head that he should
spare, and, putting the paddle in the boat, he raised the rifle from his
knees.
The Wyandot was amazed that the head, which rose only a little more than
half above the water, should continue to approach him and his rifle. It
came on so silently and with so little sign of propelling power that he
felt a momentary thrill of superstition. Was it alive? Was it really a
human head with human eyes looking into his own? Or was it some phantasy
that Manitou had sent to bewilder him? He shook with cold, which was not
the cold of the water, but, quieting his nerves, raised his rifle and
fired.
Henry had been calculating upon this effect. He believed that the nerves
of the Wyandot were unsteady and, as he saw his finger press the
trigger, he shot forward and downward with all the impulse that strong
arms and legs could give, the bullet striking spitefully upon the water
where he had been.
It was a great crisis, the kind that seems to tune the faculties of some
to the highest pitch, and Henry's mind was never quicker. He calculated
the length of his dive and came up with his lungs still half full of
air. But he came up, as he had intended, by the side of the canoe.
The Wyandot, angry at the dexterity of the trick played upon him, and
knowing now that it was no phantasy of Manitou, but a dangerous human
being with whom he had to deal, was looking over the side of the canoe,
tomahawk in hand, when the head came up on the other side. He whirled
instantly at the sound of splashing water and drew back to strike. But a
strong arm shot up, clutched his, another seized him by the waist, and
in a flash he was dragged into the river.
Henry and the warrior, struggling in the arms of each other, sank deep
in the stream, but as they came up they broke loose as if by mutual
consent and floated apart. Henry's head struck lightly against
something, and the fierce cry of joy that comes to one who fights for
his life and who finds fortune kind, burst from him.
It was the canoe, still rocking violently, but not overturned. He
reached out his hand and grasped it. Then, with a quick, light movement,
he drew himself on board.
The Wyandot was fifteen feet away, and once more their eyes met. But the
positions were reversed, and the soul of the Wyandot was full of shame
and anger. He dived as his foe had done, but he came up several feet
away from the canoe, and he saw the terrible youth with his own rifle
held by the barrel, ready to crush him with a single, deadly blow. The
Wyandot perhaps was a fatalist and he resigned himself to the end. He
looked up while he awaited the blow that was to send him to another
world.
But Henry could not strike. The Indian was wholly helpless now and, his
first impulse gone, he dropped the rifle in the canoe, seized the
paddle, and with a mighty sweep sent the canoe shooting toward the
Kentucky shore. He had turned none too soon. Other canoes drawn by the
shot were now coming from both north and south. The Wyandot turned and
swam toward one of them, while Henry continued his flight.
Henry was so exultant that he laughed aloud. A few minutes before he had
been swimming for his life. Now he was in a canoe, and nothing but the
most untoward accident could keep him from reaching the Kentucky shore.
One or two shots were fired at long range from the pursuing canoes, but
the bullets did not come anywhere near him, and he replied with an
ironic shout.
The Wyandot's bullet pouch and powder horn, torn from him in the
struggle, were lying in the boat. Henry promptly seized them, and
reloaded the Wyandot's rifle. Just as he finished the task his canoe
struck against the shore, and, as he leaped out, he gave it a push with
his foot that sent it into the current. Then carrying the Indian's rifle
in addition to his own, strapped on his back, he darted into the woods.
Once more Henry Ware trod the soil of Kain-tuck-ee, and for an instant
or two he did not think of his wounded or exhausted companions behind.
Nature had been so kind to him in giving him great physical power, which
formed the basis of a sanguine character, that he always and quickly
forgot hardships and dangers passed and was ready to meet a new
emergency. The muddy Ohio was flowing from him in plentiful rills, but
one rifle was loaded, and he had of dry ammunition enough to serve.
Moreover, his trifling wound was forgotten. His mind responded to his
triumph, and, laughing a little, he shook his captured rifle gleefully.
He stopped three or four hundred yards from the river in a dense clump
of oak and elm and listened. He could hear no sound that betokened the
approach of the Indians, nor did he consider further pursuit likely.
They would be too busy with their intended attack on Fort Prescott to be
searching the woods in the night for a lone fugitive, who, moreover, had
shown a great capacity for escaping.
The night was dark and a cool wind was blowing. A less hardy body would
have been chilled by the immersion in the Ohio, but Henry did not feel
it. He was now studying the country, half by observation and half by
instinct. It was hilly, as was natural along the course of the river,
but the hills seemed to increase in height toward the north and east,
that is, up the stream. It was reasonable to infer that Fort Prescott
lay in that direction, as its builders would choose a high point for a
site.
Henry began his advance, sure that the fort was not far away. The wind
rose, drying his yellow hair and blowing it about his face. His
clothing, too, began to dry, but he was unconscious of it. The dusky sky
served him well. There were but few stars, and the moon was only
half-hearted. Nevertheless, he kept well in the thickets, although he
veered back toward the Ohio, and now and then he saw its broad surface
turned from yellow to silver in the faint moonlight. He saw, also, two
or three dark spots near the shore, moving slowly, and he knew that they
were Indian canoes. Girty and his force were almost ready for the attack
on the fort. A portion of the band was already crossing to the southern
shore, and it was likely that the attack would be made from several
sides.
Henry increased his pace and came into a little clearing partly filled
with low stumps, while others that had either been partially burned or
dragged out by the roots lay piled on one side. It looked like a poor
little effort of man to struggle with the wilderness, and Henry smiled
in the darkness. If this tiny spot were left alone, and it surely would
be if Fort Prescott fell, the forest would soon claim it again. But he
was glad to see it, because it was a sign that he was approaching the
fort.
A little further on he came to a small field of Indian corn, the fresh
green blades shimmering in the moonlight and giving forth a pleasant,
crooning sound as the wind blew gently upon them. Beyond, on the crest
of the hill, he saw a dark line that was a palisade, and beyond that a
blur that was roofs. This obviously was Fort Prescott, and Henry
examined it with the eye of a general.
The place was located well for defense, on the top of a bare hill, with
the forest nowhere nearer than two hundred yards and the underbrush cut
cleanly away in order that it might afford no ambush. Henry judged that
a spring, rising somewhere inside the palisade, flowed down to the Ohio.
He had no fault to find with the place except that it was advanced too
far into the Indian country, but that single fault was most serious and
might prove fatal.
The fort seemed strong and well built and it was likely that one or two
sentinels were on the watch, although he could not see from the outside.
One of his hardest problems was now before him, how to enter the fort
and give the warning without first being fired upon as an enemy. He had
no time to waste, and he decided upon the boldest course of all.
He drew all the air that he could into his lungs, and then, uttering a
piercing shout, magnified both in loudness and effect by the quiet
night, he rushed directly for the lowest point in the palisade. "Up!
up!" he cried. "You are about to be attacked by the tribes! Up! Up! if
you would save yourselves!"
Before he was half way to the palisade two heads looked over it, and the
muzzles of two long rifles were thrust toward him.
"Don't shoot!" he cried. "I'm a friend and I bring warning! Don't you
see I'm white?"
It was hard in the darkness of night to see that one so brown as he was
white, but the bearers of the rifles were impressed by his forcible
words and withdrew their weapons. Henry ran on, and, despite the burden
of his two rifles, seized the top of the parapet with his hands and in a
moment was over. As he disappeared on the inside, a rifle shot was fired
from some point behind, and a bullet whistled where he had been. Henry
alighted upon his feet and found facing him two men in buckskin, rifle
in hand and ready for instant action. His single glance showed that they
were men of resolution, not awed either by his dramatic appearance or
the rifle shot fired with such evident hostile intent.
"Who are you?" asked one.
"My name is Henry Ware," replied Henry rapidly, "and I bring you word
that you are about to be attacked by a great force of the allied tribes
led by the famous chiefs, Timmendiquas, Yellow Panther, and Red Eagle
and the renegades, Girty, Blackstaffe, Eliot, McKee, Quarles, and
Wyatt."
It was a terrible message that he delivered, but his tone was full of
truth, and both men paled under their tan. While Henry was speaking,
lights were appearing in the log houses within the palisades, and other
men, drawn by the shot, were approaching. One, tall, well built, and of
middle age, was of military appearance, and Henry knew by the deference
paid to him that he must be the chief man of the place.
"What is it?" he asked in a voice of much anxiety.
"The stranger brings news of an attack," replied one of the sentinels.
"Of an attack by whom?"
"By Indian warriors in great force," said Henry. "I've just escaped from
them myself, and I know their plans. They are in the woods now beyond
the clearing."
"To the palisade, some of you," said the man sharply, "and see that you
watch well. I believe that this boy is telling the truth."
"I would not risk my life merely to tell you a falsehood," said Henry
quietly.
"You do not look like one who would tell a falsehood for any purpose,"
said the man.
He looked at Henry with admiration, and the boy's gaze met his squarely.
Nor was it lacking in appreciation. Henry knew that the leader--for such
he must be--was a man of fine type.
"My name is Braithwaite, Major Braithwaite," said the man, "and I
believe that I am, in some sort, the commander of the fort which I now
fear is planted too deep in the wilderness. I had experience with the
savages in the French war and I know how cunning and bold they are."
Henry learned later that he was from Delaware, that he had earned the
rank of major in the great French and Indian war, and that he was brave
and efficient. He had opposed the planting of the colony on the river,
but, being out-voted, he had accepted the will of the majority.
Major Braithwaite acted with promptness. All the men and larger boys
were now coming forth from the houses, bringing their rifles, and as he
assigned them to places the Indian war cry rose in the forest on three
sides of the fort, and bullets pattered on the wooden palisade.