AT CLOSE GRIPS WITH DEATH
Major Rogers' force on this occasion was the largest he had thus far
commanded, comprising as it did a big body of Connecticut men, and a
small detachment of regulars, chiefly light infantry, bringing the
total up to seven hundred in all.
They marched through the forest to where Whitehall now stands, and
thence made their way up Wood Creek to old Fort Anne, long abandoned
and falling into decay. Here in the already overgrown clearing that
surrounded the ruin they encamped.
Up to this time Rogers had observed his usual caution, commanding
silence on the march, and forbidding fires at night, but having
discovered no signs of the enemy, and led into over-confidence,
perhaps, by the unusual strength of his party, he was rash enough to
accept a wager with one of the officers of the light infantry as to
which was the best marksman, and the following morning was set for the
trial of skill.
When Seth learned of this he was much troubled, for although he had not
come upon any trace of the enemy, he somehow had a conviction that
they were not far away, and he ventured to suggest to his chief that it
might not be wise to have musket firing until the neighborhood had been
more thoroughly examined.
But the Major took his remonstrance amiss.
"When I wish your advice I will ask you for it, young man," he said,
with an asperity of tone that made Seth's countenance redden. "I am
quite sure there are no French or Indians within cannon sound of us, so
you need give yourself no concern about what I propose to do."
Seth knew that it was vain to argue the matter, and said no more,
although the foreboding of approaching disaster grew stronger through
the night.
Soon after daylight the shooting match took place, and Major Rogers
proved an easy victor, but the triumph, which evidently gave him
great satisfaction, was obtained at a fearful cost, for the sound
of the shots reached the ears of a large band of French and Indians
under command of the famous partisan Marin, who at once took steps to
reconnoitre and ambuscade his reckless enemy.
All around the old fort the forest had formerly been cut down and
burned, but during the long years of neglect the opening thus made
became overgrown with bushes and saplings so densely as to be
impassable save where a narrow Indian path traversed it.
Along this path Major Rogers and his men were forced to march in single
file, and so soon as the shooting contest was settled they slung their
packs and set out.
The Connecticut men were in the lead, then came the regulars, and the
Rangers brought up the rear.
Never in his life before had Seth felt so depressed in spirits,
although he could in no wise account to himself for it.
"I'm sure there's trouble coming," he said to the Ranger who walked
next him. "I do wish they hadn't been firing at the mark. The sound of
their guns will go far this still morning."
The words had hardly left his lips when the noise of rapid firing came
over the tops of the bushes, and he exclaimed excitedly:
"I knew it! I knew it! The French have ambushed us. Quick now to the
front!"
And he dashed off through the brushwood, followed by his men. They had,
of course, great difficulty in making their way, although the yells of
Indians mingling with the reports of the muskets made clear to them
that Seth's surmise as to what had taken place was correct, and they
were wild to get to the assistance of their imperilled comrades.
What had happened was this: When the head of the line emerged from the
tangled shrubbery, and was about to enter the forest there broke forth
a horrid chorus of savage yells, and suddenly the place became alive
with Indians.
One of them, a huge Caughnawaga chief, with uplifted hatchet sprang at
the foremost of the English, who threw up his gun, and pulled trigger.
But unhappily it missed fire, and the next moment he fell with cloven
skull.
Then the firing began. The French and the Indians, lying across the
path in a semicircle, had the double advantage of surprise and of
position, and the Connecticut men at first fell back among the bushes
in disorder, but presently rallied, and held their opponents in check
until the regulars and Rangers could force their way through the
thickets to their support.
So dense was the brushwood that it was only after much loss of time and
with great difficulty that the English were able to assume some kind of
order in front of the enemy, and even then each man was forced to fight
for himself as best he could.
The fulfilment of his foreboding cast no spell over Seth's courage. He
plunged into the conflict as though he bore a charmed life, and many an
Indian fell at the crack of his gun.
Yet with the wisdom of the true woodsman he did not expose himself
unnecessarily, but took advantage to the utmost of such cover as their
position afforded.
The fusillade continued for nearly two hours with heavy loss on both
sides, but without the combatants coming to close quarters, as the
French evidently feared a hand-to-hand struggle, and the English
leaders, having no idea of the actual strength of their assailants, did
not deem it prudent to attempt to charge upon them.
The fierce and bloody conflict was at its height when Seth, moving
forward to get a better position for shooting, suddenly found himself
face to face with three Indians, who had crept upon him through the
underbrush.
His gun was empty, and he had no time to reload it, but he felled one
of the savages with the butt, and was about to treat another in the
same fashion when the third sprang at him and tripping him cleverly,
flung him heavily to the ground, where both threw themselves on him,
and pinned him fast.
They were powerful braves, and, although Seth struggled frantically
to free himself, they soon had his hands bound with thongs which hurt
cruelly, and rendered him helpless.
Then, each seizing an arm, they rushed him to the rear of their own
line, where they lashed him to a tree so that he could not move a limb.
All this time Seth had not spoken. He knew how vain was any appeal
for mercy, and steeled his heart for the torture that was sure to be
his fate.
Having secured him to the tree, his captors, letting the battle take
care of itself, proceeded to amuse themselves in characteristic fashion
by throwing their tomahawks at Seth's head with the idea of seeing
which could come closest to without actually striking their living
target.
[Illustration: IT WAS A TERRIBLE ORDEAL FOR SETH.]
It was fine fun for the dusky fiends no doubt, but it was a terrible
ordeal for Seth, and yet the brave fellow hardly blinked as the cruel
steel flashed past his eyes, and buried itself in the tree with a
vicious thud, sometimes severing a stray lock of his hair in its flight.
Nor were the redskins the only ones to act thus inhumanly, for when
they had wearied of their amusement, a French officer came up, who
after assailing the helpless captive with vigorous abuse, thrust the
muzzle of his gun violently against his body, pretending to fire it,
and then struck him in the face with the butt, inflicting a painful
bruise.
Still Seth maintained his stoical silence, for he had determined that
although they should tear him to pieces, or burn him with slow fire,
they should not extort from him any sign or sound of weakness.
When the retreat began the Indians unloosed Seth from the tree,
stripped him of nearly all his clothing, bound his wrists together
so tightly that the pain was intense, and then placing upon his bare
back as many of the packs of their wounded as could be piled up, they
hurried him along until at last in sheer exhaustion he fell to the
ground, and could not move despite the blows showered upon him.
He might have been despatched there and then had not a French officer,
moved to compassion by his desperate plight, persuaded the Indians to
untie his hands, and lighten his crushing burden. They also gave him a
pair of moccasins to protect his lacerated feet, from which they had
taken his shoes and stockings.
His misery being thus somewhat mitigated, Seth was able to go on and to
stagger under his load until his captors encamped for the night.
But cruelly as he had suffered already there was worse yet to come,
for, having removed the last vestige of clothing, they tied him to a
tree, and set to work to surround him with brushwood.
"Merciful Heaven, they are going to burn me!" he groaned. "If they
would only kill me first! How can I stand the terrible torture?"
Nevertheless he nerved himself to bear the awful ordeal, not deigning
to utter a cry for mercy.
The savages were evidently impressed by his heroic bearing, and
delayed lighting the wood, while they danced about him, brandishing
their tomahawks in his face, and trying to make him flinch from their
pretended blows.
In the midst of their fiendish frolicking there fell a sudden shower
of rain which soaked the wood so that it would not light, and this
seemed to offer some hope of a respite for their victim. But no sooner
had the rain ceased than the merciless wretches resumed their horrid
preparations, and this time succeeded in surrounding him with a circle
of brushwood which they set on fire, and then yelled and danced before
him in delight at his vain endeavors to avoid the rising flames.
His case certainly seemed desperate to the last degree. Thus far he had
held the hope that his tormentors might stop short of taking his life
in order to carry him back to Canada as a trophy of their prowess, but
when the fire began to scorch his naked limbs he gave himself up to
despair.
The flames were climbing to his waist. A few more minutes and it would
have been all over with him, when into the midst of the dancing,
yelling crowd there burst a stalwart figure shouting in French:
"You red devils, what are you about? How dare you torture one of our
prisoners like that and disgrace us all? If I had known what you were
about I would have put a stop to it before this."
It was Marin, the Canadian leader of the war party, who, on hearing
what was taking place, had with courageous humanity rushed to the
scene, determined to interpose at all hazards.
Nor was he content with upbraiding the Indians for their cruelty, but
dashed at the blazing brushwood, tore it away from Seth, cut his bonds
with a slash of his knife, and dragged him out of danger.
The whole thing was done so quickly and in so dauntless a fashion
that the savages were completely taken back, and when Marin, having
berated them further, placed Seth under the protection of a Caughnawaga
chief, who promised to be responsible for him, they acquiesced in the
arrangement without a murmur.
The Caughnawaga accepted the trust reposed in him, and at first seemed
disposed to treat Seth kindly, but the means he took to insure the
prisoner not attempting his escape, while certainly effective, were
by no means considerate of his comfort, seeing that he stretched him
on the ground in the form of a St. Andrew's cross with his wrists and
ankles fastened to the stems of young trees.
Nor was he satisfied with this, but must needs place brushwood upon his
body, and across it long slender saplings on the ends of which several
warriors lay down to sleep, so that Seth could not make the slightest
movement without rousing them.
The misery of that night may hardly be conceived, since in addition
to all the physical suffering, the proud, sensitive nature of the New
Englander writhed as he realized what an utterly ludicrous figure he
presented.
Next day after a painful march he reached Fort Ticonderoga, and was
taken before Montcalm, who asked him a number of questions about the
strength of the English forces, and their plans for the future.
But he got little light from Seth, who, thoroughly understanding the
purpose of the examination, either evaded the questions, or firmly
refused to reply to them, even though the French commander threatened
to have him tortured if he did not answer in the way desired.
The end of it was that Montcalm, finding he could elicit nothing from
him, ordered him to be sent up to Montreal as a prisoner of war.