Calm, and bright, and beautiful, the Sabbath morning broke over the
woody world around Edith Prevost. Through the tall pine-trees left
standing within the earthwork, the rosy light streamed sweetly; and
though no birds deserving the name of songsters inhabit the forests of
America, yet many a sweet short note saluted the rising day.
Edith, with the good negro woman lying near, had slept more soundly
than she had hoped; but she was awake with the first ray, and rousing
her dark companion, she said,--
"We must not forget that this is Sunday, Bab. Call in our good friend,
Woodchuck; and we will pray before the noise and bustle of the day
begins. I am sure he will be glad to do so."
"But you have no book, missy," answered the woman.
"That matters not," returned Edith; "I know almost all the prayers by
heart, from reading them constantly."
Sister Bab opened the little hurdle-door, and looked round. She could
not see the person she sought. Three sentinels were pacing to and fro
at different points; one man was rousing himself slowly from the side
of an extinguished fire; but all the rest within sight were fast
asleep. It was useless for Sister Bab to ask the neighbouring sentinel
any questions, and she looked round in vain.
"He has most likely gone to sleep in one of the huts," said Edith,
when the woman told her Woodchuck was not to be seen; "we will not
wait for him." And, closing the door again, she kneeled and prayed
with the poor negress by her side.
It was a great comfort to her, for her heart that day was sad. Perhaps
it was the memory of many a happy Sabbath with those she loved, and
the contrast of those days with her situation at the time; perhaps it
was the uncertainty of her brother's fate; and doubtless, too, the
thought that every rising sun brought nearer the hour when a parent
and a lover were to be exposed to danger--perhaps to death, had its
weight likewise. But she was that day very sad, and prayer was a
relief--a blessing.
Before she had concluded, a good deal of noise and turmoil was heard
without; voices speaking sharply; calls such as Edith had not heard
before; and in a moment after, the door of the hut opened, for it had
no latch, and Monsieur le Courtois appeared, inquiring if she had seen
anything of her English companion.
"No, indeed," replied Edith. "I sent my servant out to seek for him
half an hour ago; but she could not find him, and I concluded that he
was in one of the huts."
The Frenchman stamped his foot upon the ground, and, forgetting his
usual politeness, uttered some hasty and angry words which implied a
belief that "Mademoiselle knew where Woodchuck was," and had aided his
escape. Edith drew herself up with an air of dignity, and replied,--
"You make me feel, sir, that I am a prisoner. But you mistake me
greatly. I do not permit myself to speak falsely on any occasion. If
he have escaped, and I trust he has, I know nothing of it."
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," returned the officer; "but this to
me is a very serious matter. I may be subject to the severest military
punishment for this unfortunate affair. It was of the utmost
importance that the existence of this post should be kept a secret.
The utmost precautions have been taken to keep its existence
concealed, even from the forces in Fort Carillon; and now this man is
at large, to bear the intelligence to the enemy. This must excuse a
little heat. How he has escaped, it is impossible to divine; for I
ordered him to be kept in sight by the sentinels continually, as well
as the Indians who came with you. He must be worse than an Indian, for
_they_ are all safe and quiet enough; but he has disappeared, though
the sentinel swears he passed him sleeping on the ground, under the
great pine-tree, not an hour ago."
"Half an hour ago, he certainly was gone," observed Edith; "for the
servant went to look for him, and could not find him."
"He may be still in the bushes," said the French officer. "I will send
a party to search." And he turned from the door of the hut.
Edith followed a step or two, to see the result; but hardly had
Monsieur Le Courtois given his orders, and about a dozen men issued
forth--some clambering over the breastwork, some running round by the
flanks--when a French officer, brilliantly dressed, rode into the
redoubt, followed by a mounted soldier; and Edith retired into the hut
again.
Le Courtois saluted the new-comer reverently; and the other gave a
hasty glance round, saying,--
"Get your men under arms as speedily as possible. On the maintenance
of this post and the _abattis_ depends the safety of the fortress. I
trust them to the honour of a French gentleman, and the faith of our
Indian allies. Neither will tarnish the glory of France, or their own
renown, by yielding a foot of ground while they can maintain it."
He spoke aloud, so as to make his voice heard all over the enclosure;
but then, bending down his head till it was close to Le Courtois' ear,
he added, in a low tone, almost a whisper,--
"The English are within sight. Their first boats are disembarking the
troops. Monsieur de L----, with our reinforcements, has not appeared.
All depends upon maintaining the outposts till he can come up. This,
sir, I trust to you with full confidence, as a brave man and an
experienced soldier. I must now visit the other posts. Farewell!
Remember, the glory of France is in your hands."
Thus saying, he rode away; and the bustle of instant preparation
spread through the little fort. The French soldiers were drawn up
within the breastworks; the stores and ammunition gathered together
near the centre of the open space, so as to be readily available
whenever they were wanted; two parties of Hurons were placed upon the
flanks, so as to be ready to rush out with the tomahawk the moment
opportunity offered; next came the long lines of French muskets, and
in the centre of the longest face of the breastwork were placed Apukwa
and his companions, with their rifles in their hands, and a small
party of French soldiers forming a second line behind them, thus
insuring their faith, and rendering the fire in the centre more
fierce. Their presence, indeed, was needed at the moment; for the
men who had been sent out in pursuit of Woodchuck had either mistaken
the order not to go far, or had lost their way; and they had not
re-appeared when the whole preparations were complete.
These had taken some time, although Monsieur le Courtois had shown all
the activity and precision of a thorough soldier, giving his orders
rapidly, but coolly and clearly, and correcting any error as soon as
made. The Indians, indeed, gave him the greatest embarrassment; for
they were too eager for the fight, and never having been subjected to
military discipline, were running hither and thither to the points
they thought most advantageous without consideration for the general
arrangements.
The Frenchman found time, however, for a few courteous words to Edith.
"I am greatly embarrassed, my dear young lady," he said, "by your
presence here, as we expect to be attacked every instant. I wish to
Heaven, Monsieur de Montcalm had taken you away with him; but in the
hurry of the moment I did not think of it, and I have no means of
sending you away now; and, besides, the risk to yourself would be
still greater than staying here. I believe you are as safely posted in
this hut as anywhere. It is near enough to the breastwork to be
protected from the fire of the enemy; but you may as well lie down
upon the bear-skin if you hear musketry."
"Could I not place myself actually under the breastwork?" asked Edith,
remembering the instructions sent to her.
"Impossible," replied the officer. "That space is all occupied by the
soldiers and Indians. You are better here. If we should be driven
back, which God forbid, you will be safe, as you speak English, and
can say who you are; but, remember, address yourself to an officer,
for the canaille get mad in time of battle, and on no account trust to
an Indian."
"I speak the Iroquois tongue," answered Edith.
"My dear young lady, there is no trusting them," said the officer;
"friends or enemies are the same to them when their blood's hot. All
they want is a scalp; and that they _will_ have. It would be terrible
to see your beautiful tresses hanging at an Indian's belt."
As he spoke, one of the men who had been sent forth came running up,
exclaiming,--
"They are coming now, captain,--they are coming."
"Who?" demanded Le Courtois, briefly.
"The red-coats, the English," replied the man. "I saw their
advance-guard with my own eyes; they are not two hundred yards'
distance."
"Where are your companions?" asked Le Courtois. "We want every
musket."
"I do not know," answered the man; "they have lost their way, I fancy,
as I did. I saw two amongst the bushes just in front, trying to get
back."
"_Sacré Dieu_, they will discover us!" said the captain.
And, running forward, he jumped upon the parapet just behind one of
the highest bushes, and looked over. The next instant, he sprang
down again, saying, in a low tone, to the corporal near him,--
"Stand to your arms! present! pass the word along not to fire,
whatever you see, till I give the order."
At the same moment, he made a sign with his hand to the renegade
Oneidas; but probably they did not see it, for their keen black eyes
were all eagerly bent forward, peeping through the bushes, which now
seemed agitated at some little distance. A moment after, a straggling
shot or two was heard, and instantly the Honontkoh fired. The order
was then given by Le Courtois, and the whole front poured forth a
volley, which was returned by a number of irregular shots blazing out
of the bushes in front.
Then succeeded a silence of a few moments, and then a loud cheer, such
as none but Anglo-Saxon lungs have ever given.
Edith sat deadly pale and trembling in the hut; but it is not too much
to say that but a small portion of her terror was for herself. The
battle had begun--the battle in which father and lover were to risk
life, in which, among all the human beings destined to bleed and die
that day, her love singled out two, while her fancy painted them as
the aim of every shot. It was of them she thought, much more than of
herself.
The door of the hut was turned, as I have shown, towards the inside of
the square; and Captain le Courtois had left it open behind him. But,
as Edith sat a little towards one side of the entrance, she had a
view, both of a great part of the square itself, and of the whole of
the inner front of the western face of the redoubt, along which were
posted a few French soldiers and a considerable body of Hurons.
The firing was soon resumed, but in a somewhat different manner from
before. There were no longer any volleys, but frequent, repeated,
almost incessant, shots, sometimes two or three together, making
almost one sound. Twice she saw a French soldier carried across the
open space; and laid down at the foot of a tree. One remained quite
still where he had been placed; one raised himself for a moment upon
his arm, and then sank down again; and Edith understood the signs full
well. Clouds of bluish-white smoke then began to roll over the
redoubt, and curl along as the gentle wind carried it towards the
broad trail by which she had been brought thither. The figures of the
Indians became indistinct, and looked like beings seen in a dream.
Still the firing continued, drawing apparently more towards the
western side, and still the rattle of the musketry was mingled with
loud cheers from without.
But suddenly those sounds were crossed, as it were, with a wild yell,
such as Edith had heard only once in life before, but which now seemed
to issue from a thousand throats, instead of a few. It came from the
northwest, right in the direction of the broad trail. The French
soldiers and the Hurons, who had been kneeling to fire over the
breastwork, sprang upon their feet, looked round, and from that side,
too, burst forth at once the war-whoop.
"O missy, missy, let us run!" cried Sister Bab, catching Edith's
wrist.
"Hush, hush, be quiet!" ejaculated the young lady. "These may be
friends coming."
As she spoke, pouring on like a dark torrent was seen a crowd of dusky
forms rushing along the trail, emerging from amongst the trees, and
spreading over the ground; and, amidst them all, a youth dressed like
an Indian, and mounted on a grey horse which Edith recognized as her
own. The sight confused and dazzled her. Feathers and plumes and
war-paints, rifles and tomahawks and knives, grim countenances and
brandished arms, swam before her like the things that fancy sees for a
moment in a cloud; while still the awful war-whoop rang horribly
around, drowning even the rattle of the musketry, and seeming to rend
the air. Two figures only were distinct: the youth upon the horse, and
the towering form of Black Eagle himself, close to the lad's side.
Attacked in flank and front and rear, the French and Hurons were
broken in a moment, driven from the breastworks, beat back into the
centre of the square, and separated into detached bodies. Still they
fought with desperation; still the rifles and the muskets pealed;
still the cheer, and the shout, and the war-whoop, resounded on the
air. A large party of the French soldiery were cast between the huts
and the Oneidas, and the young man on the horse strove in vain,
tomahawk in hand, to force his way through.
But there are episodes in all combats; and a pause took place when a
gigantic Huron rushed furiously against the Black Eagle. It may be
that they were ancient enemies; but, at all events, each seemed
animated with the fury of a fiend. Each cast away his rifle, and
betook himself to the weapons of his race--the knife and the tomahawk;
but it is almost impossible to describe, it was almost impossible to
see, the movements of the two combatants, such was their marvellous
rapidity. Now here, now there, they turned, the blows seeming to fall
like hail, the limbs writhing and twisting, the weapons whirling and
flashing round. Each was the giant of his tribe, each its most
renowned warrior; and each fought for more than life--for the closing
act of a great renown. But the sinewy frame of the Black Eagle seemed
to prevail over the more bulky strength of his opponent; the Huron
lost ground; he was driven back to the great pine-tree near the centre
of the square; he was forced round and round it; the knife of the
Black Eagle drank his blood, but missed his heart, and only wounded
him in the shoulder.
Those nearest to the scene had actually paused in the contest for a
moment to witness the fierce single combat going on; but in other
parts of the square the bloody fight was still continued. For an
instant, the French party in front of the huts, by desperate efforts,
seemed likely to overpower the Oneidas before them. A tall French
grenadier bayoneted the Night Hawk before Edith's eyes; and then,
seeing the Huron chief staggering under the blows of his enemy, he
dashed forward, and, not daring in the rapid whirls of the two
combatants to use his bayonet there, he struck the Black Eagle on the
head with the butt of his musket. The blow fell with tremendous force,
and drove the great chief on his knee, with one hand on the ground.
His career seemed over, his fate finished. The Huron raised his
tomahawk high to strike; the Frenchman shortened his musket to pin the
chief to the earth.
But, at that moment, a broad, powerful figure dropped down from the
branches of the pine-tree between the Oneida and the grenadier, bent
slightly with his fall, but even in rising lifted a rifle to his
shoulder, and sent the ball into the Frenchman's heart. With a yell of
triumph, Black Eagle sprang up from the ground, and in an instant his
tomahawk was buried in the undefended head of his adversary.
Edith beheld not the end of the combat; for, in the swaying to and fro
of the fierce struggle, the French soldiery had, by this time, been
driven past the huts, and the eye of one who loved her was upon her.
"Edith, Edith!" cried the voice of Walter Prevost, forcing the horse
forward through the struggling groups, amidst shots and shouts and
falling blows. She saw him, she recognized him, she stretched forth
her arm towards him; and, dashing between two parties, Walter forced
the horse up to the door of the hut, and caught her hand.
"Spring up, spring up!" he cried, bending down, and casting his arms
around her. "This is not half over; I must carry you away."
Partly lifted, partly springing from the ground, Edith bounded up
before him; and, holding her tightly to his heart, Walter turned the
rein, and dashed away through friends and enemies, trampling,
unconscious of what he did, alike on the dead and the dying. The
western side of the square was crowded with combatants, and he
directed his horse's head towards the east, reached the angle, and
turned sharp round to get in the rear of the English column, which was
seen forcing its way onward to support the advance party of Major
Putnam. He thought only of his sister, and pressing her closer to his
heart, he said,--
"We are safe, Edith--we are safe!"
Alas, he said it too soon! One group in the square had stood almost
aloof from the combat. Gathered together in the south-eastern angle,
Apukwa and his companions seemed watching an opportunity for flight.
But their fierce eyes had seen Walter, and twice had a rifle clanged
at him from that spot, but without effect. They saw him snatch his
sister from the hut, place her on the horse, and gallop round. Apukwa,
the brother of the Snake, and two others, jumped upon the parapet, and
scarcely had Walter uttered the words, "We are safe!" when the fire
blazed at once from the muzzles of their rifles. One ball whistled by
his ear, another passed through his hair; but, clasping Edith somewhat
closer, he galloped on, and in two minutes after came to a spot where
three or four men were standing, and one kneeling with his hand under
the head of a British officer who had fallen.
Walter reined up the horse sharply, for he was almost over them before
he saw them; but the sight of the features of the dead man drew the
sudden exclamation from his lips of "Good God!" They were those of
Lord H----. Edith's face, as he held her, was turned towards him, and
he fancied that she rested her forehead on his bosom to shut out the
terrible sights around. He looked down at her to see whether she had
caught even a glimpse of the features of the corpse. Her forehead was
resting there still; but over the arm that held her so closely to his
heart Walter saw welling a dark red stream of blood. He trembled like
a leaf.
"Edith!" he exclaimed, "Edith!"
There was no answer. He pushed the bright chestnut curls from her
forehead; and, as he did so, the head fell back, showing the face as
pale as marble. She had died without a cry, without a sound.
Walter bent his head, and kissed her cheek, and wept.
"What is the matter, sir?" said the sergeant, rising from beside the
body of Lord H----. "Did you know my lord?"
"Look here!" cried Walter. It was all he uttered. But in an instant
they gathered round him, and lifted Edith from the horse. The sergeant
put his hand upon the wrist, then shook his head sadly, and they laid
her gently by the side of Lord H----. They knew not with how much
propriety,--but thus she would have loved to rest.
Thus they met, and thus they parted; thus they loved and thus they
died. But in one thing they were happy; for neither, at the last hour
of life, knew the other's peril or the other's fate.