The sun rose red. Its ruddy rays peeped over the eastern hills,
kissed the tree-tops, glinted along the stony bluffs, and chased
away the gloom of night from the valley. Its warm gleams penetrated
the portholes of the Fort and cast long bright shadows on the walls;
but it brought little cheer to the sleepless and almost exhausted
defenders. It brought to many of the settlers the familiar old
sailor's maxim: "Redness 'a the morning, sailor's warning." Rising
in its crimson glory the sun flooded the valley, dyeing the river,
the leaves, the grass, the stones, tingeing everything with that
awful color which stained the stairs, the benches, the floor, even
the portholes of the block-house.
Historians call this the time that tried men's souls. If it tried
the men think what it must have been to those grand, heroic women.
Though they had helped the men load and fire nearly forty-eight
hours; though they had worked without a moment's rest and were now
ready to succumb to exhaustion; though the long room was full of
stifling smoke and the sickening odor of burned wood and powder, and
though the row of silent, covered bodies had steadily lengthened,
the thought of giving up never occurred to the women. Death there
would be sweet compared to what it would be at the hands of the
redmen.
At sunrise Silas Zane, bare-chested, his face dark and fierce,
strode into the bastion which was connected with the blockhouse. It
was a small shedlike room, and with portholes opening to the river
and the forest. This bastion had seen the severest fighting. Five
men had been killed here. As Silas entered four haggard and
powder-begrimed men, who were kneeling before the portholes, looked
up at him. A dead man lay in one corner.
"Smith's dead. That makes fifteen," said Silas. "Fifteen out of
forty-two, that leaves twenty-seven. We must hold out. Len, don't
expose yourselves recklessly. How goes it at the south bastion?"
"All right. There's been firin' over there all night," answered one
of the men. "I guess it's been kinder warm over that way. But I
ain't heard any shootin' for some time."
"Young Bennet is over there, and if the men needed anything they
would send him for it," answered Silas. "I'll send some food and
water. Anything else?"
"Powder. We're nigh out of powder," replied the man addressed. "And
we might jes as well make ready fer a high old time. The red devils
hadn't been quiet all this last hour fer nothin'."
Silas passed along the narrow hallway which led from the bastion
into the main room of the block-house. As he turned the corner at
the head of the stairway he encountered a boy who was dragging
himself up the steps.
"Hello! Who's this? Why, Harry!" exclaimed Silas, grasping the boy
and drawing him into the room. Once in the light Silas saw that the
lad was so weak he could hardly stand. He was covered with blood. It
dripped from a bandage wound tightly about his arm; it oozed through
a hole in his hunting shirt, and it flowed from a wound over his
temple. The shadow of death was already stealing over the pallid
face, but from the grey eyes shone an indomitable spirit, a spirit
which nothing but death could quench.
"Quick!" the lad panted. "Send men to the south wall. The redskins
are breakin' in where the water from the spring runs under the
fence."
"Where are Metzar and the other men?"
"Dead! Killed last night. I've been there alone all night. I kept on
shootin'. Then I gets plugged here under the chin. Knowin' it's all
up with me I deserted my post when I heard the Injuns choppin' on the
fence where it was on fire last night. But I only--run--because--they're
gettin' in."
"Wetzel, Bennet, Clarke!" yelled Silas, as he laid the boy on the
bench.
Almost as Silas spoke the tall form of the hunter confronted him.
Clarke and the other men were almost as prompt.
"Wetzel, run to the south wall. The Indians are cutting a hole
through the fence."
Wetzel turned, grabbed his rifle and an axe and was gone like a
flash.
"Sullivan, you handle the men here. Bessie, do what you can for this
brave lad. Come, Bennet, Clarke, we must follow Wetzel," commanded
Silas.
Mrs. Zane hastened to the side of the fainting lad. She washed away
the blood from the wound over his temple. She saw that a bullet had
glanced on the bone and that the wound was not deep or dangerous.
She unlaced the hunting shirt at the neck and pulled the flaps
apart. There on the right breast, on a line with the apex of the
lung, was a horrible gaping wound. A murderous British slug had
passed through the lad. From the hole at every heart-beat poured the
dark, crimson life-tide. Mrs. Zane turned her white face away for a
second; then she folded a small piece of linen, pressed it tightly
over the wound, and wrapped a towel round the lad's breast.
"Don't waste time on me. It's all over," he whispered. "Will you
call Betty here a minute?"
Betty came, white-faced and horror-stricken. For forty hours she had
been living in a maze of terror. Her movements had almost become
mechanical. She had almost ceased to hear and feel. But the light in
the eyes of this dying boy brought her back to the horrible reality
of the present.
"Oh, Harry! Harry! Harry!" was all Betty could whisper.
"I'm goin', Betty. And I wanted--you to say a little prayer for
me--and say good-bye to me," he panted.
Betty knelt by the bench and tried to pray.
"I hated to run, Betty, but I waited and waited and nobody came, and
the Injuns was getting' in. They'll find dead Injuns in piles out
there. I was shootin' fer you, Betty, and every time I aimed I
thought of you."
The lad rambled on, his voice growing weaker and weaker and finally
ceasing. The hand which had clasped Betty's so closely loosened its
hold. His eyes closed. Betty thought he was dead, but no! he still
breathed. Suddenly his eyes opened. The shadow of pain was gone. In
its place shone a beautiful radiance.
"Betty, I've cared a lot for you--and I'm dyin'--happy because I've
fought fer you--and somethin' tells me--you'll--be saved. Good-bye."
A smile transformed his face and his gray eyes gazed steadily into
hers. Then his head fell back. With a sigh his brave spirit fled.
Hugh Bennet looked once at the pale face of his son, then he ran
down the stairs after Silas and Clarke. When the three men emerged
from behind Capt. Boggs' cabin, which was adjacent to the
block-house, and which hid the south wall from their view, they were
two hundred feet from Wetzel. They heard the heavy thump of a log
being rammed against the fence; then a splitting and splintering of
one of the six-inch oak planks. Another and another smashing blow
and the lower half of one of the planks fell inwards, leaving an
aperture large enough to admit an Indian. The men dashed forward to
the assistance of Wetzel, who stood by the hole with upraised axe.
At the same moment a shot rang out. Bennet stumbled and fell
headlong. An Indian had shot through the hole in the fence. Silas
and Alfred sheered off toward the fence, out of line. When within
twenty yards of Wetzel they saw a swarthy-faced and athletic savage
squeeze through the narrow crevice. He had not straightened up
before the axe, wielded by the giant hunter, descended on his head,
cracking his skull as if it were an eggshell. The savage sank to the
earth without even a moan. Another savage naked and powerful,
slipped in. He had to stoop to get through. He raised himself, and
seeing Wetzel, he tried to dodge the lightning sweep of the axe. It
missed his head, at which it had been aimed, but struck just over
the shoulders, and buried itself in flesh and bone. The Indian
uttered an agonizing yell which ended in a choking, gurgling sound
as the blood spurted from his throat. Wetzel pulled the weapon from
the body of his victim, and with the same motion he swung it around.
This time the blunt end met the next Indian's head with a thud like
that made by the butcher when he strikes the bullock to the ground.
The Indian's rifle dropped, his tomahawk flew into the air, while
his body rolled down the little embankment into the spring. Another
and another Indian met the same fate. Then two Indians endeavored to
get through the aperture. The awful axe swung by those steel arms,
dispatched both of them in the twinkling of an eye. Their bodies
stuck in the hole.
Silas and Alfred stood riveted to the spot. Just then Wetzel in all
his horrible glory was a sight to freeze the marrow of any man. He
had cast aside his hunting shirt in that run to the fence and was
now stripped to the waist. He was covered with blood. The muscles of
his broad back and his brawny arms swelled and rippled under the
brown skin. At every swing of the gory axe he let out a yell the
like of which had never before been heard by the white men. It was
the hunter's mad yell of revenge. In his thirst for vengeance he had
forgotten that he was defending the Fort with its women and its
children; he was fighting because he loved to kill.
Silas Zane heard the increasing clamor outside and knew that
hundreds of Indians were being drawn to the spot. Something must be
done at once. He looked around and his eyes fell on a pile of
white-oak logs that had been hauled inside the Fort. They had been
placed there by Col. Zane, with wise forethought. Silas grabbed
Clarke and pulled him toward the pile of logs, at the same time
communicating his plan. Together they carried a log to the fence and
dropped it in front of the hole. Wetzel immediately stepped on it
and took a vicious swing at an Indian who was trying to poke his
rifle sideways through the hole. This Indian had discharged his
weapon twice. While Wetzel held the Indians at bay, Silas and Clarke
piled the logs one upon another, until the hole was closed. This
effectually fortified and barricaded the weak place in the stockade
fence. The settlers in the bastions were now pouring such a hot fire
into the ranks of the savage that they were compelled to retreat out
of range.
While Wetzel washed the blood from his arms and his shoulders Silas
and Alfred hurried back to where Bennet had fallen. They expected to
find him dead, and were overjoyed to see the big settler calmly
sitting by the brook binding up a wound in his shoulder.
"It's nothin' much. Jest a scratch, but it tumbled me over," he
said. "I was comin' to help you. That was the wust Injun scrap I
ever saw. Why didn't you keep on lettin' 'em come in? The red
varmints would'a kept on comin' and Wetzel was good fer the whole
tribe. All you'd had to do was to drag the dead Injuns aside and
give him elbow room."
Wetzel joined them at this moment, and they hurried back to the
block-house. The firing had ceased on the bluff. They met Sullivan
at the steps of the Fort. He was evidently coming in search of them.
"Zane, the Indians and the Britishers are getting ready for more
determined and persistent effort than any that has yet been made,"
said Sullivan.
"How so?" asked Silas.
"They have got hammers from the blacksmith's shop, and they boarded
my boat and found a keg of nails. Now they are making a number of
ladders. If they make a rush all at once and place ladders against
the fence we'll have the Fort full of Indians in ten minutes. They
can't stand in the face of a cannon charge. We _must_ use the
cannon."
"Clarke, go into Capt. Boggs' cabin and fetch out two kegs of
powder," said Silas.
The young man turned in the direction of the cabin, while Silas and
the others ascended the stairs.
"The firing seems to be all on the south side," said Silas, "and is
not so heavy as it was."
"Yes, as I said, the Indians on the river front are busy with their
new plans," answered Sullivan.
"Why does not Clarke return?" said Silas, after waiting a few
moments at the door of the long room. "We have no time to lose. I
want to divide one keg of that powder among the men."
Clarke appeared at the moment. He was breathing heavily as though he
had run up the stairs, or was laboring under a powerful emotion. His
face was gray.
"I could not find any powder!" he exclaimed. "I searched every nook
and corner in Capt. Boggs' house. There is no powder there."
A brief silence ensued. Everyone in the block-house heard the young
man's voice. No one moved. They all seemed waiting for someone to
speak. Finally Silas Zane burst out:
"Not find it? You surely could not have looked well. Capt. Boggs
himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom. I
will go and find it myself."
Alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb
feeling round his heart. He knew what was coming. He had been in the
Captain's house and had seen those kegs of powder. He knew exactly
where they had been. Now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor
at any other place in the storeroom. While he sat there waiting for
the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end
of the room to the other. At last they found what they were seeking.
A young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing
with a bellows. It was Betty. Her face was pale and weary, her hair
dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but
notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained. Lydia was
kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood.
Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal
with a steady hand and an admirable precision. Too much or too
little lead would make an imperfect ball. The little missile had to
be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles. Then Lydia
dipped the mould in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on
the floor. A small, shiny lead bullet rolled out. She rubbed it with
a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar. For nearly forty hours,
without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had
been at their post.
Silas Zane came running into the room. His face was ghastly, even
his lips were white and drawn.
"Sullivan, in God's name, what can we do? The powder is gone!" he
cried in a strident voice.
"Gone?" repeated several voices.
"Gone?" echoed Sullivan. "Where?"
"God knows. I found where the kegs stood a few days ago. There were
marks in the dust. They have been moved."
"Perhaps Boggs put them here somewhere," said Sullivan. "We will
look."
"No use. No use. We were always careful to keep the powder out of
here on account of fire. The kegs are gone, gone."
"Miller stole them," said Wetzel in his calm voice.
"What difference does that make now?" burst out Silas, turning
passionately on the hunter, whose quiet voice in that moment seemed
so unfeeling. "They're gone!"
In the silence which ensued after these words the men looked at each
other with slowly whitening faces. There was no need of words. Their
eyes told one another what was coming. The fate which had overtaken
so many border forts was to be theirs. They were lost! And every man
thought not of himself, cared not for himself, but for those
innocent children, those brave young girls and heroic women.
A man can die. He is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when
he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall,
a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then
he is sublime. Then he wrings respect from the souls of even his
bitterest foes. Then he is avenged even in his death.
But what can women do in times of war? They help, they cheer, they
inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse.
Few women have the courage for self-destruction. "To the victor
belong the spoils," and women have ever been the spoils of war.
No wonder Silas Zane and his men weakened in that moment. With only
a few charges for their rifles and none for the cannon how could
they hope to hold out against the savages? Alone they could have
drawn their tomahawks and have made a dash through the lines of
Indians, but with the women and the children that was impossible.
"Wetzel, what can we do? For God's sake, advise us!" said Silas
hoarsely. "We cannot hold the Fort without powder. We cannot leave
the women here. We had better tomahawk every woman in the
block-house than let her fall into the hands of Girty."
"Send someone fer powder," answered Wetzel.
"Do you think it possible," said Silas quickly, a ray of hope
lighting up his haggard features. "There's plenty of powder in Eb's
cabin. Whom shall we send? Who will volunteer?"
Three men stepped forward, and others made a movement.
"They'd plug a man full of lead afore he'd get ten foot from the
gate," said Wetzel. "I'd go myself, but it wouldn't do no good. Send
a boy, and one as can run like a streak."
"There are no lads big enough to carry a keg of powder. Harry
Bennett might go," said Silas. "How is he, Bessie?"
"He is dead," answered Mrs. Zane.
Wetzel made a motion with his hands and turned away. A short,
intense silence followed this indication of hopelessness from him.
The women understood, for some of them covered their faces, while
others sobbed.
"I will go."
It was Betty's voice, and it rang clear and vibrant throughout the
room. The miserable women raised their drooping heads, thrilled by
that fresh young voice. The men looked stupefied. Clarke seemed
turned to stone. Wetzel came quickly toward her.
"Impossible!" said Sullivan.
Silas Zane shook his head as if the idea were absurd.
"Let me go, brother, let me go?" pleaded Betty as she placed her
little hands softly, caressingly on her brother's bare arm. "I know
it is only a forlorn chance, but still it is a chance. Let me take
it. I would rather die that way than remain here and wait for
death."
"Silas, it ain't a bad plan," broke in Wetzel. "Betty can run like a
deer. And bein' a woman they may let her get to the cabin without
shootin'."
Silas stood with arms folded across his broad chest. As he gazed at
his sister great tears coursed down his dark cheeks and splashed on
the hands which so tenderly clasped his own. Betty stood before him
transformed; all signs of weariness had vanished; her eyes shone
with a fateful resolve; her white and eager face was surpassingly
beautiful with its light of hope, of prayer, of heroism.
"Let me go, brother. You know I can run, and oh! I will fly today.
Every moment is precious. Who knows? Perhaps Capt. Boggs is already
near at hand with help. You cannot spare a man. Let me go."
"Betty, Heaven bless and save you, you shall go," said Silas.
"No! No! Do not let her go!" cried Clarke, throwing himself before
them. He was trembling, his eyes were wild, and he had the
appearance of a man suddenly gone mad.
"She shall not go," he cried.
"What authority have you here?" demanded Silas Zane, sternly. "What
right have you to speak?"
"None, unless it is that I love her and I will go for her," answered
Alfred desperately.
"Stand back!" cried Wetzel, placing his powerful hand on Clarke's
breast and pushing him backward. "If you love her you don't want to
have her wait here for them red devils," and he waved his hand
toward the river. "If she gets back she'll save the Fort. If she
fails she'll at least escape Girty."
Betty gazed into the hunter's eyes and then into Alfred's. She
understood both men. One was sending her out to her death because he
knew it would be a thousand times more merciful than the fate which
awaited her at the hands of the Indians. The other had not the
strength to watch her go to her death. He had offered himself rather
than see her take such fearful chances.
"I know. If it were possible you would both save me," said Betty,
simply. "Now you can do nothing but pray that God may spare my life
long enough to reach the gate. Silas, I am ready."
Downstairs a little group of white-faced men were standing before
the gateway. Silas Zane had withdrawn the iron bar. Sullivan stood
ready to swing in the ponderous gate. Wetzel was speaking with a
clearness and a rapidity which were wonderful under the
circumstances.
"When we let you out you'll have a clear path. Run, but not very
fast. Save your speed. Tell the Colonel to empty a keg of powder in
a table cloth. Throw it over your shoulder and start back. Run like
you was racin' with me, and keep on comin' if you do get hit. Now
go!"
The huge gate creaked and swung in. Betty ran out, looking straight
before her. She had covered half the distance between the Fort and
the Colonel's house when long taunting yells filled the air.
"Squaw! Waugh! Squaw! Waugh!" yelled the Indians in contempt.
Not a shot did they fire. The yells ran all along the river front,
showing that hundreds of Indians had seen the slight figure running
up the gentle slope toward the cabin.
Betty obeyed Wetzel's instructions to the letter. She ran easily and
not at all hurriedly, and was as cool as if there had not been an
Indian within miles.
Col. Zane had seen the gate open and Betty come forth. When she
bounded up the steps he flung open that door and she ran into his
arms.
"Betts, for God's sake! What's this?" he cried.
"We are out of powder. Empty a keg of powder into a table cloth.
Quick! I've not a second to lose," she answered, at the same time
slipping off her outer skirt. She wanted nothing to hinder that run
for the block-house.
Jonathan Zane heard Betty's first words and disappeared into the
magazine-room. He came out with a keg in his arms. With one blow of
an axe he smashed in the top of the keg. In a twinkling a long black
stream of the precious stuff was piling up in a little hill in the
center of the table. Then the corners of the table cloth were caught
up, turned and twisted, and the bag of powder was thrown over
Betty's shoulder.
"Brave girl, so help me God, you are going to do it!" cried Col.
Zane, throwing open the door. "I know you can. Run as you never ran
in all your life."
Like an arrow sprung from a bow Betty flashed past the Colonel and
out on the green. Scarcely ten of the long hundred yards had been
covered by her flying feet when a roar of angry shouts and yells
warned Betty that the keen-eyed savages saw the bag of powder and
now knew they had been deceived by a girl. The cracking of rifles
began at a point on the bluff nearest Col. Zane's house, and
extended in a half circle to the eastern end of the clearing. The
leaden messengers of Death whistled past Betty. They sped before her
and behind her, scattering pebbles in her path, striking up the
dust, and ploughing little furrows in the ground. A quarter of the
distance covered! Betty had passed the top of the knoll now and she
was going down the gentle slope like the wind. None but a fine
marksman could have hit that small, flitting figure. The yelling and
screeching had become deafening. The reports of the rifles blended
in a roar. Yet above it all Betty heard Wetzel's stentorian yell. It
lent wings to her feet. Half the distance covered! A hot, stinging
pain shot through Betty's arm, but she heeded it not. The bullets
were raining about her. They sang over her head; hissed close to her
ears, and cut the grass in front of her; they pattered like hail on
the stockade-fence, but still untouched, unharmed, the slender brown
figure sped toward the gate. Three-fourths of the distance covered!
A tug at the flying hair, and a long, black tress cut off by a
bullet, floated away on the breeze. Betty saw the big gate swing;
she saw the tall figure of the hunter; she saw her brother. Only a
few more yards! On! On! On! A blinding red mist obscured her sight.
She lost the opening in the fence, but unheeding she rushed on.
Another second and she stumbled; she felt herself grasped by eager
arms; she heard the gate slam and the iron bar shoot into place;
then she felt and heard no more.
Silas Zane bounded up the stairs with a doubly precious burden in
his arms. A mighty cheer greeted his entrance. It aroused Alfred
Clarke, who had bowed his head on the bench and had lost all sense
of time and place. What were the women sobbing and crying over? To
whom belonged that white face? Of course, it was the face of the
girl he loved. The face of the girl who had gone to her death. And
he writhed in his agony.
Then something wonderful happened. A warm, living flush swept over
that pale face. The eyelids fluttered; they opened, and the dark
eyes, radiant, beautiful, gazed straight into Alfred's.
Still Alfred could not believe his eyes. That pale face and the
wonderful eyes belonged to the ghost of his sweetheart. They had
come back to haunt him. Then he heard a voice.
"O-h! but that brown place burns!"
Alfred saw a bare and shapely arm. Its beauty was marred by a cruel
red welt. He heard that same sweet voice laugh and cry together.
Then he came back to life and hope. With one bound he sprang to a
porthole.
"God, what a woman!" he said between his teeth, as he thrust the
rifle forward.
It was indeed not a time for inaction. The Indians, realizing they
had been tricked and had lost a golden opportunity, rushed at the
Fort with renewed energy. They attacked from all sides and with the
persistent fury of savages long disappointed in their hopes. They
were received with a scathing, deadly fire. Bang! roared the cannon,
and the detachment of savages dropped their ladders and fled. The
little "bull dog" was turned on its swivel and directed at another
rush of Indians. Bang! and the bullets, chainlinks, and bits of iron
ploughed through the ranks of the enemy. The Indians never lived who
could stand in the face of well-aimed cannon-shot. They fell back.
The settlers, inspired, carried beyond themselves by the heroism of
a girl, fought as they had never fought before. Every shot went to a
redskin's heart, impelled by the powder for which a brave girl had
offered her life, guided by hands and arms of iron, and aimed by
eyes as fixed and stern as Fate, every bullet shed the life-blood of
a warrior.
Slowly and sullenly the red men gave way before that fire. Foot by
foot they retired. Girty was seen no more. Fire, the Shawnee chief,
lay dead in the road almost in the same spot where two days before
his brother chief, Red Fox, had bit the dust. The British had long
since retreated.
When night came the exhausted and almost famished besiegers sought
rest and food.
The moon came out clear and beautiful, as if ashamed at her
traitor's part of the night before, and brightened up the valley,
bathing the Fort, the river, and the forest in her silver light.
Shortly after daybreak the next morning the Indians, despairing of
success, held a pow-wow. While they were grouped in plain view of
the garrison, and probably conferring over the question of raising
the siege, the long, peculiar whoop of an Indian spy, who had been
sent out to watch for the approach of a relief party, rang out. This
seemed a signal for retreat. Scarcely had the shrill cry ceased to
echo in the hills when the Indians and the British, abandoning their
dead, moved rapidly across the river.
After a short interval a mounted force was seen galloping up the
creek road. It proved to be Capt. Boggs, Swearengen, and Williamson
with seventy men. Great was the rejoicing. Capt. Boggs had expected
to find only the ashes of the Fort. And the gallant little garrison,
although saddened by the loss of half its original number, rejoiced
that it had repulsed the united forces of braves and British.