hundred and thirty soldiers, traders, and hardy backwoodsmen in the
garrison, with numbers of women and children. In command was Captain
Simeon Ecuyer, a brave Swiss officer who had enlisted with the British
and who was as doughty a warrior as the stubborn Gladwyn,--and with
an equal contempt for the red men. "I believe from what I hear that
I am surrounded by Indians," he wrote to his commanding officer in
the settlements, two hundred miles away. "I tremble for our outposts.
I neglect nothing to give them a good reception, and I expect to be
attacked tomorrow morning. Please God I may be, I am fairly well
prepared. Everybody is at work, and I do not sleep; but I tremble
lest my messenger should be cut off." Well might he tremble, for the
Tuscaroras and the Delawares were gathering in force to attack the
fort, burn it to the ground, and, if possible, to massacre the captured
garrison. Rumors of terrible outrages upon the settlers came hourly to
the ears of the startled soldiers. Men, women and children flocked to
the protection of the walls of the fort, while it became dangerous to
venture outside the palisades, as the few who did were shot and scalped
by lurking Indians. All night the savages fired upon the sentinels, and
soon during the day no one dared to put his head above the rampart,
because of the hidden redskins on the edge of the forest. It was
apparent that the surrounding woods were full of Indians, whose numbers
daily increased, though they made no attempt at a general attack upon
the frowning log walls of Fort Pitt, where, with courage, cheer, and
resolution, those within waited for the onslaught which they knew to be
at hand.
Finally, on a bright June day, numbers of painted warriors appeared
in the cleared lands behind the fort, drove off the horses which were
grazing there, killed a herd of cattle belonging to the soldiers, and
then began a hot fire at the stockades, which soon broke with a dull
roar from every thicket of the forest. In reply, the garrison turned
some howitzers upon the woodland, touched them off, and, as the iron
shells burst in the dense underbrush with a loud and ominous report,
the frightened red men could be seen scurrying out of harm's way, in
every direction. The day wore to a close, and, as darkness settled
upon the forest, the flashes from the guns of the Indians grew less;
gradually their weird war whoops melted away, and in their place
sounded the shrill piping of frogs. As darkness came, occasionally the
sharp crack of a rifle warned the sentinels on the ramparts that the
savages were still upon the alert.
Next morning gallant Ecuyer was watching the woodland through a glass,
when several painted warriors strode from the shade of the trees to
the ditch beyond the palisades. One of them stepped forward, and,
proclaiming that he was a great chief of the Delawares called Turtle's
Heart, addressed the garrison with the following words:
"My brothers, we that stand here are your friends; but we have bad news
to tell you. Six great nations of Indians have taken up the hatchet,
and have cut off all the English garrisons, excepting yours. They are
now on their way to destroy you also.
"My brothers, we are your friends, and we wish to save your lives.
What we desire you to do is this: You must leave this fort, with all
your women and children, and go down to the English settlements, where
you will be safe. There are many bad Indians already here, but we will
protect you from them. You must go at once, because if you wait till
the six nations arrive here, you will all be killed, and we can do
nothing to protect you."
Certainly this was a bold proposal to an old warhorse like Ecuyer, and,
like a true English bulldog, he voiced a reply which made the Indians
wince. He spoke in loud and eloquent tones, so that all could not fail
to hear him.
"My brothers," said he, "we are very grateful for your kindness, though
we are convinced that you must be mistaken in what you have told us
about the forts being captured. As for ourselves, we have plenty of
provisions, and are able to keep the fort against all the nations of
Indians that may dare to attack it. We are very well off in this place,
and we mean to stay here.
"My brothers, as you have shown yourselves such true friends, we feel
bound in gratitude to inform you that an army of six thousand English
will shortly arrive here, and that another army of three thousand
is gone up the lakes to punish the Ottawas and Ojibwas. A third has
gone to the frontiers of Virginia, where they will be joined by your
enemies, the Cherokees and Catawbas, who are coming here to destroy
you. Therefore, take pity on your women and children, and get out of
the way as soon as possible. We have told you this in confidence, out
of our great solicitude lest any of you should be hurt, and we hope
that you will not tell the other Indians, lest they should escape from
our vengeance."
At the close of this speech the Indians withdrew, but it could be
easily seen that the tale of the approach of the three armies had
the desired effect, for the faces of some of the braves showed fear
and consternation. Next day most of the savages moved away from the
neighborhood and marched to meet a great body of warriors who were
advancing from the westward to make an attack upon the fort, while the
garrison labored with vim to make the palisades shot proof, to fill
up a part of the palisades which had fallen into the ramparts, and to
construct a fire engine, so that any flames which came from the burning
arrows of the Indians could be extinguished with ease. But for several
weeks no attacks came from the skulking foes, although they frequently
appeared in the vicinity of the stockade and fired random shots at the
sentinels. All communication was cut off with the settlements, and the
soldiers nerved themselves for the coming affray which they knew would
be a desperate affair.
Finally, on the twenty-sixth of July, a small party of Indians
approached the gate bearing a flag of truce, and requesting that
they be admitted. They were brought inside, and again--in a long and
pompous address--requested the English to withdraw, or they would be
overwhelmed by the attack of their own braves, assisted by Pontiac's
Ottawas. But, although listening to them with respect, Ecuyer was not
to be frightened by savage bravado. "I have warriors, ammunition, and
provisions enough to defend this place for three years" he replied,
"and against all the Indians on earth. We shall not abandon Fort Pitt
as long as a white man lives in America. I despise the Ottawas of
Pontiac, and am very much surprised at our brothers, the Delawares,
for proposing to us to leave this place and go home. This is our home.
You have attacked us without reason or provocation. You have murdered
and plundered our warriors and traders; you have taken our horses and
cattle; and at the same time you tell us that your hearts are good
towards your brethren, the English. How can I have faith in you?
Therefore, now, brothers, I will advise you to go home to your towns
and to take care of your wives and children. Moreover, I tell you that
if any of you appear again about this fort, I will throw bombshells,
which will burst and blow you to atoms, and I will fire a cannon among
you loaded with a whole bag full of bullets. Therefore, take care, for
I don't want to hurt you."
The chiefs departed, glowering with anger and hatred, and bitterly
disappointed in not gaining a bloodless possession of the fort, while
the men of the garrison nerved themselves for the impending attack.
On the night succeeding the conference it came. At dusk, dark forms
could be seen stealing from the edge of the woodland. Hundreds of
savages crawled as noiselessly as possible towards the log stockade,
many of them dropping down behind the banks of the river and digging
holes in the earth with their knives, so that they could be sheltered
from the bullets from the fort. Silently and surely they made their
line around the palisades, and, when the first flush of dawn reddened
the East, a wild war whoop announced that the attack was to begin.
Immediately a gruelling fire was opened upon the silent walls of Fort
Pitt, bullets and arrows flew thick and fast into the palisades, but
hiding behind the stout log breastwork, the garrison paid little heed
to the rain of shot and other missiles. Occasionally a red man would
expose his head from one of the holes in the bank, whereupon a dozen
rifles would speak from the stockade, and as many bullets would whizz
past the ears of the wily brave. Several were hit and died where they
fell, and, although the Royal American troops had on the customary
red uniforms which offered a bright mark to the Indians, not a single
one was killed. Ecuyer ran among his men, exhorting them to do their
best, and himself firing a rifle from the ramparts at the screeching
savages. In broken English he was yelling defiance at the redskins,
when an arrow hit him in the leg and pierced him through. Pulling it
out immediately, he continued to direct the fire of his own men with as
much spirit as before, and, when approached by the backwoodsmen with
the request that they be allowed to make a sortie against the foe,
called out with much spirit: "Allow you to go outside, my hearties? No,
by Heaven, you are too valuable to me to permit me to risk even one of
your necks in the open. Fight here, my boys, and we'll make good my
boast to the redskins that I can hold this fort against all the Indians
in the woods. Lie low, shoot straight, and when you see an Indian's
head be sure that you hit it." As he ceased speaking a burning arrow
flew into the stockade and ignited the roof of one of the houses, while
the women and children--much terrified--rushed into the street with
wails of distress. The savages fairly howled with joy when they saw the
flames burst from the thatched roof, but water from the fire engine
quickly put out the blaze, and, as several of the Indians exposed
themselves in order to fire more arrows into the fort, they were killed
by well-directed volleys of the Royal Americans. As darkness shut down
upon the first day of fighting, there had been nothing accomplished by
the besiegers.
For five days the redskins continued their screeching, howling, and
desultory firing upon the palisades. As at Detroit, they did not have
the heart to rush the stockade, and, as at Detroit, their irregular
attack did little damage. The troops enjoyed the fun, shot carefully
and did some damage. "The redskins were well under cover and so were
we," wrote the gallant Ecuyer to Sir Geoffrey Amherst. "They did us
no harm: nobody killed, seven wounded, and I, myself, slightly. Their
attack lasted five days and five nights. We are certain of having
killed and wounded twenty of them, without reckoning those we could
not see die. I let nobody fire until he had marked his man; and not an
Indian could show his nose without being pricked with a bullet, for I
have some good shots here. Our men are doing admirably, regulars and
the rest. All that they ask is to go out and fight. I am fortunate
to have the honor of commanding such brave men. I only wish the
Indians had ventured an assault. They would have remembered it to the
thousandth generation. I forgot to tell you that they threw fire-arrows
to burn our works, but they could not reach the buildings, nor even
the rampart. Only two arrows came into the fort, one of which had the
insolence to make free with my left leg."
On the sixth day of the attack, suddenly the men of the garrison saw
the Indians crawling out of their burrows in the river bank and running
away to the woods. As they moved off they were peppered by the shots of
the backwoodsmen and Royal Americans, who knocked over two half-clad
braves as they leaped from the waters of the river. Heavy firing
could be heard to the southwest, which lasted for a short time only.
Then wild yells sounded from the forest which seemed deeper and more
human than those of the redskins. Brave Ecuyer jumped to the top of
the stockade with a glass in his hand and eagerly scanned the edge of
the timber, and, as he did so, a loud cheer arose from the defenders
of Fort Pitt, for, bursting into the open, came the red coats of
British soldiers, the tartans and plaids of Highlanders, the fringed
buckskin shirts of Virginia rangers, and a torn and battered rag of a
flag, half shot away from the pole to which it was fastened. The doors
of the fort were thrown wide open, the defenders made a rush for the
oncoming army of deliverance, and, before very many moments the men of
Colonel Bouquet's army--for such they were--were being clasped in the
arms of the rough soldiers who had held the stockade at Fort Pitt. A
mighty cheer welled into the clear air, women cried, children laughed,
and the doughty Ecuyer was seen to dance a cantata on the walls of
the stockade, for the garrison was saved, and the power of Pontiac in
Pennsylvania was irrevocably broken.
This little force which had come to succor the beleaguered garrison on
the Allegheny had just been through one of the stiffest fights in the
annals of Indian warfare. Colonel Bouquet had marched from Carlisle,
Pennsylvania, a town which was filled with refugees from the outlying
districts, ravaged by the friends and allies of Pontiac. His total
numbers did not exceed five hundred men, and they were unused to
frontier warfare, although he himself had served for seven years on
the border and knew how to fight a redskin and how to give him measure
for measure. When they reached Fort Ligonier--forty-five miles from
Fort Pitt--a crowd of Indians, who were besieging the place, vanished
into the depths of the wood, and the small garrison was overjoyed to
be suddenly relieved from a siege which had lasted over a month. They
had heard nothing of Fort Pitt, so, fearing that the oxen and wagons
would be greatly in the way should he be suddenly attacked, Bouquet
left them behind him, and pressed onward to the banks of a stream
called Bushy Run. The forest was deep, vast, impenetrable, wild, and
rugged boulders impeded the progress of the hardy troops. They marched
compactly with scouts on either flank to warn them of any lurking foe,
and a number of backwoodsmen thrown well out to the front and to the
rear. Before them was Turtle Creek, a stream flowing at the bottom of a
deep hollow, flanked by steep precipices, where an ambuscade could be
most effective; and, fearing this, Bouquet decided to camp at Bushy Run
and to pass through this gorge during the night, when the savages could
not see how to make a formidable attack. So the men pressed cautiously
on, feeling their way and ever ready for a brush with the lurking foe.
It was soon to come.
At one o'clock that day, when the little force was within half a mile
of Bushy Run, a rifle shot sounded through the stillness of the forest,
and a wild yell far to the front was followed by that volley for which
the English had been waiting during every hour of the past week. A
rattle of musketry and a round British cheer showed that the guard had
been furiously attacked, so the foremost companies were at once ordered
to rush forward and aid the backwoodsmen of the advance. As they fixed
bayonets for the assault, a tremendous volley warned Bouquet that the
enemy were there in numbers. The troops were, therefore, halted, formed
in line, and ordered to charge with the bayonet. With a wild cheer they
bore down through the forest, ran into a band of yelping redskins,
and drove them, "screeching like wildcats," into the dim forest. But
as this foe vanished, a tremendous yelling and firing was heard upon
either flank, while cheers, shots, and war whoops in the rear showed
that the entire force was attacked, and that--if not protected--the
horses would be stampeded. So, turning about, the Highlanders and
backwoodsmen hastened to form a circle around the terrified animals,
while from all sides wild cries and yells showed that a vast number of
Pontiac's allies were thirsting for their life blood. But steady, firm,
and resolute, the Regulars crouched upon one knee; hid behind trees
and logs; carefully aimed at the puffs of smoke which issued from the
underbrush, and cheerfully awaited the charge of the savages; while
Bouquet--in the centre--urged them with voice and gesture to be calm,
to take certain aim, and to make every bullet count.
The Indians did not content themselves with remaining hidden within the
dark brush and shadows of the forest. Suddenly a considerable body of
them charged furiously upon the British line, holding their knives and
tomahawks ready for a close encounter. But they were met by a gruelling
volley, and with the cry of "No quarter!" the Highlanders charged with
fixed bayonets and drove the whooping warriors into the forest, where
they scampered away like deer. Few of them were either shot or stabbed,
while over fifty of the English were soon writhing upon the ground
with severe wounds from bullets and arrows. Again and again the red
men thus charged; again and again they were repulsed; while the hoarse
shouts of the sturdy backwoodsmen were mingled with the bloodthirsty
whoops of the Indian braves, the rattle of musketry, the screams of the
wounded, and the snorting of the terrified horses. Twilight came, but
the red men and white still fought on in the forest, and only night
with its blackness put an end to this furious fight in the wilderness.
The combatants parted only to sleep upon their arms, and wait for the
renewal of the struggle which the first flush of daylight was again to
bring.
The watchful sentries of the English camp no sooner saw the dim red
light of dawn in the far east than hideous and awe-inspiring whoops
arose from all sides of the British camp. The English soldiers sprang
to their guns, and it was not a moment too soon, for, with a thundering
roar, a volley was poured in upon them. Under cover of the trees and
bushes the enemy crept up close to where courageous Bouquet stood in
the centre of his men, crying to them to fight the red men as they
themselves fought: to crouch behind logs, boulders, bushes, and to
shoot with the greatest accuracy. Terrible thirst beset the English,
for no water was at hand and they could not reach the stream near by,
while the groans of the wounded stirred the savages to renewed vigor
in the assault. Again and again the English charged, but the Indians
vanished into the brush like serpents, and reappeared to the onslaught
just as soon as the Highlanders and backwoodsmen had reformed their
line. The redskins redoubled their yells and saw the horses plunging
and rearing to gain their freedom from behind a wall of flour bags,
which also sheltered the wounded, and aiming at them, endeavored to
stampede the entire herd. This had its effect. Many maddened brutes
broke away from their halters, galloped through the ring of kneeling
troops and yelping Indians, and rushed madly into the forest, sweating
with fear and terror. The savages yelled with pleasure at this and
taunted the troops in broken English from behind the shelter of trees
and boulders, saying, "We got you! We got you!"
The fight had now waged from daylight until ten o'clock, and there
was a lull in the battle--a lull which allowed Bouquet to perfect a
plan for drawing the Indians into an ambuscade, which he hoped would
finish the affair. This was: to allow two companies on the centre of
the line to fall back and swing around to the left, behind some thick
brush where they could not be seen. The place vacated by them was not
to be filled up, and thus the British commander hoped to entice the
Indians into the gap in his line. When they had come well inside, the
two companies which had retreated were to close in upon their rear,
and then hem them in so that they could be slaughtered. At the word of
command, the two companies fell back and disappeared from view.
When the savages saw this retreat, they were sure that they at last had
the British on the run, and so pressed onward with loud and exultant
yells of defiance. A thin line of troops had filled up the gap in the
line, and these were pushed back towards the interior of the camp,
while the Indians seemed to be about to break into the very heart of
the circle. With wild, hilarious yelpings they ran headlong into the
gap, but, as they did so, the two companies which had retreated broke
from the cover of the bushes which had hidden them, and bore down upon
their rear with yells as fierce as those of the men of the forest. The
Indians faced about with great courage and fired into the oncoming mass
of men, but the Highlanders fell upon them with the bayonet. Nothing
could stand such an attack; the red warriors broke and fled, while two
companies which had advanced from their position in the line and had
lain down upon the ground, poured a murderous fire into them as they
passed. Numbers fell to the ground in their death agony. The remainder
fled precipitously, while the four companies united and chased them
furiously through the woods. Seeing which, the remaining Indians gave
up all hope of success against the stalwart British, and, with one
parting volley and yell of defiance, they, too, melted away into the
forest. The fight at Bushy Run was over. About sixty Indian corpses lay
upon the ground, among which were those of several chiefs, while eight
English officers and one hundred and fifteen men had breathed their
last amidst the dark forests of Pennsylvania. Next day the victorious
troops marched onward to the relief of Fort Pitt--with their wounded
upon litters--and, although frequently attacked by small bands of
savages, reached there without further loss or mishap.
At far-away Detroit the siege went merrily on, but a detachment of
three hundred regular troops was hastening to its relief. On July the
26th the seasoned veterans of this remarkable siege were overjoyed to
see the red coats of their brethren-in-arms as they silently entered
the fort, after coming down the river under cover of the night.
This was fortunate, for so bold had Pontiac's warriors become that
it would have fared ill with them had they advanced by daylight.
Commanded by Dalzell, a brave and courageous man, the detachment was
composed of seasoned British soldiers and twenty independent forest
rangers, who were so anxious to get at the enemy that arrangements
were immediately made for an attack upon Pontiac. But by some unknown
means this arch-conspirator and Napoleonic designer of the movement
against the English learned of the plan, and not only removed the women
and children from his camp, but stationed two strong parties of his
warriors in an ambuscade, behind piles of cord-wood which lay on either
side of the road that the English had to take. Three hundred of the
British left the fort about an hour before day, and marched rapidly
up the bank of the stream in the direction of the Ottawa camp. They
proceeded in silence until they reached a small bridge over a stream
called Bloody Run, and were half way across it before they knew that
the Indians had the slightest suspicion of their approach. Suddenly
terrific yells burst from their front and a roar of musketry sounded
in their ears from the high banks on either side. Half the advance
party fell in their tracks, while the rest turned to run, but Dalzell
raised his voice above the uproar, rushed to the front, sword in
hand, and led on his men. They pushed across the bridge, and ran up
the banks, but not an Indian was in sight. In vain the British looked
for them--they had fled--but in the murk of the early morn their guns
flashed from behind outhouses and fences, while fierce war cries rose
with vigor and intensity. Again and again the soldiers advanced, but it
was useless, and so, abandoning all idea of a successful attack upon
Pontiac's camp, they retreated to the stockade at Detroit, fired at all
the way and presenting somewhat the same appearance as Lord Percy's
troops in the retreat from Lexington some years later, at the outbreak
of the American Revolution.