The certainty that now the decisive moment had come, and the joy that
the same moment had brought back his brother, again gave Lambert a
touch of the peculiarities on account of which young and old valued and
praised him--calmness, circumspection, confidence. Without hesitating a
moment as to what was next to be done, and calling to his brother to
notify those in the house, he hastened across the plank over the creek
to the hill yonder, where the signal pile had been erected, which from
there could be clearly seen from Ditmar's house away from the creek. A
minute later there rose from the lofty, ingeniously constructed
wood-pile a dark column of smoke, pushing its way up like the stem of a
mighty palm, and spreading out above in the still air like an immense
crown. Then, a quarter of a mile down the creek, there came up a dark
cloud of smoke. Uncle Ditmar has kept good watch. The signal has been
answered and carried farther. In a quarter of an hour they will also
know on the Mohawk, six miles farther, that here on the creek the enemy
has broken in. Then back over the creek--a strong push--the fastening
is broken off. The plank floats away.
"Are you here yet, Conrad? How the rest will rejoice! Come!"
Lambert hastened ahead. Conrad followed with slow, lingering steps. Was
it fatigue after the dreadful running? Had the blood with which his
leathern jacket was dotted spurted from his veins?
So asked Lambert, but received no answer. And now they had reached the
temporary bridge, where the friends who stood on the wall received them
with loud cheers. Lambert hastened up and shook the hand of each brave
youth with heartfelt joy. Conrad still lingered at the foot of the
bridge. His face was pale, and as if emaciated with bodily pain, or an
inward conflict. He had sworn with a terrible oath that he would not
again cross the door-sill of his father's house, or his blood should
pay the forfeit. The strong, wild heart shrunk together in his breast.
His blood--why should this trouble him? He had not spared it. He had, a
quarter of an hour ago in a battle which he alone could take up--which
he alone could bring to a happy issue--put it at hazard. But his
word! his word! that he had never yet broken--which he now shall
break--_must_ break, as his clearer soul tells him--as his noble heart
bids him, in spite of all.
As he still lingered, Catherine was suddenly standing among his
cheering companions. On her account had he renounced his father's
house. As if blinded by lightning he turned away his gaze. But she is
already at his side, has seized his hand with a soft pressure that he
cannot withstand, leads him with gentle force, that he must follow, up
the bridge, over the wall, down into the inner yard, where his
comrades, jubilant, press around him, and at the same time, with a
sudden impulse, seize him, raise him up on high, and with jubilation
and noise carry the fugitive--the returned one--into the house, as
though they would with bantering cunning drive from their prey the
demons lurking about the door-sill.
So it also seemed to him. Conrad is back, the best rifle in the colony.
They had resolved without Conrad to do their duty. But the quick looks,
the short words which they interchanged, the faces illuminated with
joy, these said plainly, "It is far better so." If only Aunt Ursul and
Christian Ditmar were here the dance might begin at once. "They could
be here already," thought Catherine. "Hurrah! there they come!" cried
Richard Herkimer, who had gone up on the gallery to see better; "and
there are three. The third is the minister. Hurrah! and again, hurrah!
and once more, _hurrah_!"
Who now has time or inclination to ask the breathless ones how the
minister came to be here? Enough that they are here at the right time,
and that at last the bridge can be thrown off and that the door can be
barricaded with the strong beams lying ready. There they now are,
locked in their wooden fortress in the midst of the wilderness, miles
away from friends, depending solely on themselves, on their firm
courage, on their strong arms, on their keen eyes--two women, nine men,
nine rifles. Though the minister is not to be counted, as he would not
know how to use a rifle even if he wished to fight, yet Aunt Ursul has
a rifle, and knows how to use it, and will fight; that can be depended
on.
Now the parts are assigned and everything and every man is in place. In
one division of the lower, thoroughly protected room is Hans, whom
Lambert will not sacrifice. In another are the sheep, which were taken
in out of compassion, and now bleated piteously in the darkness. On the
gallery of the upper story, behind the breastwork, lay Lambert,
Richard, Fritz Volz, Jacob Ehrlich and Anton Bierman, with the barrels
of their rifles in the port-holes. On the floor above, at the
trap-doors of the high, shingled roof, stood Conrad, Aunt Ursul and
Christian Ditmar, whose far-carrying rifle was, in his time, the dread
of the enemy. With them is the minister, who, though he is not a good
shot, well understands how quickly and properly, to load a rifle. This
service Adam Bellinger performs for those on the gallery. Catherine is
to bring food and drink, when necessary, to those who are to fight.
Lambert and the rest have adjured her not in any way to expose herself
to danger. She, however, secretly purposed, in case of need, to take
Adam's rifle, which now lay idle, and follow Aunt Ursul's example.
Silence reigned in the house. Whoever should see it standing there,
still, gloomy, locked, would suppose it forsaken by its former
occupants--a piece of abandoned property in the all-embracing
wilderness. Silent in its entire circuit lay that wilderness under the
ban of the hot afternoon sun. Silent was the green prairie on which
scarcely a single flower bent, or grass-stem waved. Silent the woods
whose treetops reached up unmoved toward the blue sky, from which
several white clouds looked down motionless. Deepest silence! Forest
stillness!
There!--a loud, long drawn-out, many-voiced whoop, whose dreadful echo
is reflected back from surrounding objects. From the forest break forth
at once fifty half-naked Indians in their colored war-paint, swinging
their rifles and tomahawks, and, leaping forward with wild jumps,
hastening over the prairie, one part coming directly toward the
block-house, the other going around so as in a short time to rush up
from all sides. The house stood as silent as before. There was no reply
to the demand which the on-rushing enemy kept repeating with yells and
cries and whoops. The first are already within a hundred paces--then
comes the answer, a short, sharp sound from four German rifles fired at
the same moment, so that but one report was heard. Four Indians fall
not to rise again. The others run on more rapidly, and had already
reached the surrounding wall, when again is heard the crack of four
rifles and again four Indians fall--one, having been shot through the
heart, leapt up high, like a deer.
This they had not expected. A third salvo might follow the second, and
there yet lay between them and the house a ditch and wall. Who could
tell whether this third salvo might not be more dreadful than the first
two? No one wants it tried. In a moment all turn and run, in like
haste, back to the woods, which they had not reached until again four
shots are sent after them. Two more sink dead at the feet of the
French, who had kept concealed in the woods, observing the bloody
spectacle before them, full of horror and compelled to confess that the
first attack, which they had cunningly left to their Indian allies, had
altogether failed.
Yes, the first attack had been repelled. Those in the block-house shook
hands with each other, and then again grasped their freshly loaded
guns. One of the Indians raised up on his hands and knees, and again
fell back, and then again raised up. Richard Herkimer said: "That is my
man. The poor devil shall not be in pain much longer." He raised his
rifle to his cheek, but Lambert laid his hand on his shoulder saying:
"We shall need every shot, Richard, and he has enough." The Indian, in
a death-cramp grasped the grass, twitched a few times, and then lay
rigid like the rest of his comrades.
"What will happen now? Will they seek us again in the same way, or
choose some other mode of attack? and what then?" The young men debated
the matter, and Aunt Ursul, who had come down from the upper floor,
joined in the discussion. Their views were divided. Lambert thought
that they had soon enough found out how strong the fastness was, and
how much they must sacrifice in this most dangerous pitfall until the
rest should actually reach the house. It also appeared how large the
number was, since thus far it was clear that they had had to do with
only a part, and that their principal force was still in the woods.
"Lambert is right," said Aunt Ursul. "They are one hundred and fifty
strong--fifty French and a hundred Onondagas."
"Ninety-two," said Anton Bierman, "for eight lie there."
Jacob Ehrlich usually laughed when Anton said something witty. This
time he did not laugh. He was silently reckoning how many Indians,
leaving out the French, would fall to his share if there really were so
many. Jacob Ehrlich could not make out the exact number, but he reached
the result that under all the circumstances it would be hard work.
The others looked inquiringly at Aunt Ursul. That the report came from
Conrad was certain, but how had he learned the fact? Aunt Ursul now
related her yesterday's expedition with the minister. But thus it could
not be concealed that, without her interference, Conrad would not now
have been here. But about this she did not wish to speak, at least
today. She also said that Conrad had found and watched the camp of our
enemies; that he had counted them head by head, and that they had
divided into two parts; that of these the larger, a hundred French, as
many Onondagas and at least two hundred Oneidas, had started for the
Mohawk, and would doubtless already have arrived, but that the Oneidas
had no heart for the affair, and that it was at least possible that at
the decisive moment they would fall away and go over to their old
treaty friends.
"If it is so, we can also reckon on help from my father," said Richard
Herkimer.
"We will reckon on nobody but ourselves," said Lambert.
"What are the fellows up to now?" said Anton Bierman.
Out of the woods in which the enemy for the last half-hour was entirely
concealed there came three men--one Frenchman and two Indians. They had
laid aside their arms. Instead of them they carried long rods to the
ends of which white cloths were tied. They swung the rods back and
forth and made the cloths flutter. So they came up slowly as though
they were not quite sure, and wished to assure themselves whether those
on the other side were disposed to regard a flag of truce. Anton
Bierman and Jacob Ehrlich felt no inclination to do this. They thought
that the scoundrels, the year before, had never shown mercy, and that
for their part they would send them to the devil with their white rags
and, though there were but three, they were worth three charges of
powder. Lambert had enough to do to hush the excited men, and to make
it clear to them that they, as Germans, should not be the first to do
that.
Meanwhile those who had come to ask a parley had approached to within a
short distance of the house. Lambert appeared on the gallery, after he
had told the others not to let themselves be seen, and called out:
"Halt!"
The three stood still.
"What do you want?"
"Is there one among you who speaks French?" asked the Frenchman in
German.
"We speak only German," answered Lambert. "What do you want?"
The Frenchman, a tall, dark-complexioned man, placed himself in a quite
theatrical posture while he set his flag of truce on the ground with
his left hand and raised the right hand toward heaven, and called out:
"I, Roger de St. Croix, Lieutenant in the service of his most Christian
Majesty, Louis XV., and commander of his majesty's troops here present,
and of the allied Indians of the tribe of the Onondagas, herewith bring
to your knowledge and inform you that, if you at once and on the spot
lay down your arms and give yourselves up to our mercy or severity, we
will grant life to you, your wives and children, nor will we injure you
in your possessions, but will leave everything--house, barn and
cattle--undestroyed. But should you be mad enough to make further
resistance against the formidable power of six hundred well-armed and
disciplined soldiers of his majesty, and as many more brave and
dreadful Indians, then I swear--I, Roger de St. Croix--that not one of
you shall get away with his life--neither you, nor your wives, nor your
children--and that we will level with the dust your houses and barns,
so that nobody could again find the place where they stood."
The man, who spoke German glibly enough, though with a French accent,
had spoken louder and louder until at last he shrieked. He now let his
gesticulating right arm fall to his side and stood there in an
indifferent attitude, like a man conducting a spiritless conversation
which he can stop or continue just as the other may prefer.
"Shall I answer for you?" asked Anton as he struck his rifle.
"Still!" said Lambert, and then raised his voice: "Go back to your
people and tell them that we here, united German men, one as all and
all as one, are resolved to hold the house, come what will; and that we
are quite confident that we can hold it, even if you were twelve
hundred instead of one hundred and fifty, counting in the ten already
lying there."
The Frenchman made a quick motion of surprise, and turned to his
attendants who had been standing there without altering their posture,
or stirring. He appeared to say something to them which arrested their
attention. Then he again took his former theatrical posture and called
out:
"From what you last said, though it is false, I infer that there is
with you a certain Conrad Sternberg. I promise you that not a hair
shall be bent and a hundred Louis d'or besides, if you will deliver to
us this Conrad Sternberg."
"The man of whom you speak," replied Lambert, "is with us, and you have
already twice heard the crack of his rifle, and if you so please you
can hear it again."
"But this Conrad is a traitor, who has cheated us in the most shameful
manner," cried the Frenchman. "I am no traitor," called Conrad, who now
stood beside his brother. "I told you I would escape as soon as
possible. Since you this time thought your six could hold me you will
the next time set a dozen to guard me."
"The next time I will begin by having laid at my feet, first your scalp
and then your head," cried the Frenchman in loudest tones.
"Enough!" called Lambert. "I give you ten minutes to get back into the
woods. He of you who then yet lets himself be seen outside does it at
his peril!"
The Frenchman doubled up his fist, and then bethought himself as to
what, under all circumstances, a Frenchman owes himself against German
blockheads, and taking off his large, three-cornered hat, made a low
bow, turned on his heel, and walked at first slowly, then faster and
faster toward the woods, until he fell into a regular trot, evidently
to spare the Germans the shame of shooting, after the ten minutes had
elapsed, at the messenger of his Most Christian Majesty.
"Lord of my life!" cried Anton. "Now I first know him. That is the same
fellow, Jacob, who three years ago came to us begging, and who
afterward hung about the neighborhood half a year. He called himself
Mr. Emil, and said that he had shot a comrade in a duel and had on
that account to flee. But others claimed that he was an escaped
galley-slave. Afterward he wanted to marry Sally, Joseph Kleeman's
black girl, but she said she was too good for a fellow like that, and
Hans Kessel, Sally's treasure, once pounded him as limber as a rag,
after which he disappeared. Lord of my life! He gives himself out here
as a lieutenant, and speaks of his Most Christian Majesty, and is
willing to leave us our dear lives--the mean plate-licker, the
gallows-bird!"
So honest Anton scolded and abused, and asserted that if he did not get
this Mr. Emil, or Saint Croix, or whatever the fellow's name was, in
front of his rifle, to him the whole sport would be spoiled.
The rest would gladly have known what Conrad had before had to do with
the French, but their curiosity remained unsatisfied, for Conrad had
immediately again gone up, and soon the attention of the besieged was
directed to another side. From the barn-yard arose a column of smoke,
which every moment became thicker and blacker, until the flames burst
forth from the mass. The enemy had made his threat true. It seemed to
be a useless barbarity, for the barn was too far from the block-house
for the flames to leap across, though the wind, which now began to
rise, was blowing toward the house, driving along smoke and sparks. But
this whole war was only a continuous chain of such barbarities. This
morning Lambert had mentally seen what he now actually saw. He had
wrought all this with his own hands, which now the more firmly grasped
the barrel of his gun. Then there cracked a shot above and another, and
Aunt Ursul called down the stairs: "Be watchful! Eyes left! In the
reeds!"
The meaning of these words and of the shots fired from above soon
became clear. The attention of the besieged had not been uselessly
directed to the land side. In the thick sedge and reeds, of man's
height, with which the shores of the creek were overgrown, one could
come from the woods within a hundred paces of the house. It was a
difficult undertaking, for the ground was a bottomless bog as far as
the reeds grew, and where they ended the creek was deep and rapid. But
they had ventured to do it, and it soon appeared with what result. From
among the reeds here and there shots were soon being fired with
increasing rapidity. There must indeed have been a considerable number
who had came by that dangerous way, and had concealed themselves along
the shore in spite of all that those in the house could do to free
themselves from neighbors so unwelcome and dangerous.
Wherever an eagle-feathered head or a naked arm showed itself, or the
barrel of a gun glistened, yes, if the sedge only moved, a bullet
struck. But though a few dead bodies floated down the creek, others lay
dead or wounded among the rushes and others still had sunk in the
morass, the remaining number was so great and the daring enemy was so
embittered by his heavy losses, it seemed that the worst must and would
come. Besides, the evening wind kept increasing, causing the tops of
the rushes to wave hither and thither, so that it was difficult and
often impossible to follow the movements of the unseen enemy, and many
a precious charge was wasted. This evidently made the attacking party
more bold. The fire-line was constantly receding from the shore. The
more frequent bullets rained against the breastwork and roof. It might
be expected at any moment that a rush would be made from the reeds and
that, having rapidly run across the short distance that still separated
them from the house, they would attempt to storm it.
But it soon became manifest that on the opposite side of the house they
were by no means willing to set the decision of the day on a single
card. Suddenly, at the edge of the woods, there began to be a stirring
and a moving as if the forest itself had become alive. Broad shields of
man's height cunningly contrived out of pine branches were pushed out
or carried, one could not tell which, in a connected line over the
smooth level meadow toward the house. The progress was slow, but
onward, until they had approached within rifle shot, and then the
marksmen behind the shields opened a lively fire. The shields were
indeed no sure protection for the attacking party, but they made the
aim of the beleaguered more difficult, and moreover compelled them to
be more watchful, and to direct their rifles toward two sides at once.
But the oncoming foe had not yet exhausted his ingenuity. From the
barn-yard, where everything was entirely burned down, they at the same
time came rolling before them Lambert's large casks, and, as soon as
they were near enough, they set them up and so made a wall that could
every moment be shoved farther, and offered a much more sure protection
than the pine-branch shields. Anton Bierman had laughed loudly when he
saw the casks coming toward the house, but after he had fired at them a
few times, clearly without effect, he laughed no more, but said softly
to his friend Jacob: "Things begin to look serious!"
It was indeed serious. So far no one had received apparent injury,
except that one and another was badly cut by splinters torn from the
breastwork by bullets, and bled profusely. But the battle had now
lasted for three hours. It was a warm piece of work, under the June
sun, and the cheeks of the fighters glowed, and the barrels of their
guns were hot. Furthermore, many an eye, when it could turn away a
moment from the unaccustomed bloody work toward the sun, had observed
with care how rapidly it had been sinking during this hour which would
not end--how low it already stood. So long as its light lasted a
handful of men might keep up the doubtful strife against a crafty,
cunning enemy far outnumbering them, and leave it undecided. But how
soon the sun would set, and when it did, and darkness came on, it would
cover the valley for hours with an impenetrable veil, since now the
moon did not rise till after midnight; and under the protection of the
night and of the fog the enemy could slip up and storm the place. True
the beams of the lower story were thick enough, and the only door was
barred, but a dozen axes could in a short time break in the door and,
however thick the beams, they could not withstand fire. Then the
beleaguered would have no choice but to give their living bodies to the
flames, or with their arms in their hands try to open a way from the
closely surrounded, burning house. And even then their destruction was
sure. Whoever was not killed at once would, on account of the number of
the pursuers, be overtaken and brought down.
Such was the situation. It could not be doubtful either to the
besieged, or besiegers, who had long been convinced that the house was
defended by no more than ten rifles. But however much this certainty
may have raised their desire to fight and their thirst for vengeance,
the courage of those in the blockhouse remained unbroken. Nobody
thought of flight, which was indeed impracticable; nor of surrender,
which equally meant a painful death. All were resolved to defend
themselves to the last breath, and sooner to kill themselves, or each
other, than to fall alive into the hands of the cruel enemy.
Lambert and Catherine had already before said this to each other, and
during the battle they had more than once signaled the death covenant
to each other with silent, intelligent glances. But the courageous girl
was--not only to her lover--like a banner which waves before the bold
soldier in battle and on which his eyes rest with an enthusiasm that
overcomes death. Whoever looked at the pale, still, determined,
restlessly helpful maiden, drank from a spring of courage and strength,
so that his fearful heart beat higher and his tired limbs were again
strengthened. To the commands constantly repeated from the first: "Stay
away, Catherine! Don't stand there, Catherine!" she paid no attention.
Where she knew she was needed, there she was; above with the men under
the hot roof; below with those on the gallery, giving one a drink;
taking a discharged rifle from the hands of another; giving to another
a gun that she herself had loaded. She had also learned quickly, as she
learned everything on seeing it, that Adam Bellinger, though he
reasonably exerted himself and the sweat ran in streams from his
forehead, was not equal to his task, and that the marksmen often called
in vain for their guns.
So she was again occupied in the inner room when Aunt Ursul, Conrad,
old Christian and the minister came down from above, while also those
in the gallery stopped shooting and it became still outside.
"What is going on?" asked Catherine.
"They are about to visit us with a second storming party," said
Lambert, coming in from the gallery. "It is well that you have come
down. Every man of us must now be on the gallery. We shall soon enough
have them under us."
Others also came in to hear what would happen. They were assembled in
full count.
"I think," said Lambert, "we had better not shoot until they are on the
wall, for now they will not turn back again, and then we have eight of
them sure. Afterward five of us will give attention to the others,
while the rest put a stop to the work of the scoundrels below us. Are
the rifles all loaded?"
"Here!" and, "Here!" said Catherine and Adam, handing out the last two
rifles.
It so happened that the two were Lambert's and Conrad's rifles. As they
both at the same time came up it was not by mere chance that both took
their guns with the left hand, for at the next moment their right hands
clasped, and thus they stood before Catherine, who, blushing deeply,
took a step back, fearing that her nearness should anew break the bond
of the brothers. But the minister laid his hand on the hands of the
brothers as they held each other with a firm grasp, and said: "As these
two who had for a moment lost each other, and in the hour of danger
have again found each other, to be and to remain, in life and in death
and in eternity united, so let us all, dear brothers and sisters, thank
and praise God that we here stand together so united, and that, in this
solemn hour, which according to all human calculation is our last, we
are fulfilling the chief commandment, and are loving one another. Since
life can offer us nothing greater than this, though we should live a
thousand years, let us without murmuring take our departure from this
dear life. We do not give it up lightly. We have defended it as well as
we could. But we are only flesh and blood, and this our fortress is
wood. God, however, who made us in his own likeness and breathed his
breath into us--God is a spirit and a strong tower."
As the minister uttered the word, then, as though the Spirit to whom
they were praying had inspired it, the sentiment it awakened passed
through the little assembly and Luther's battle-hymn sounded forth as
if from one mouth:
A Strong tower is our God--
A good defense and armor;
He keeps us free in every need
Which us has yet befallen;
The old and angry fiend,
Earnestly he means,
Great might and much craft
His dreadful armor is,
On earth there's nothing like him.
With our own might nothing's done;
We surely are quite helpless;
There fights for us the very Man,
Whom God himself has chosen.
Ask you who is He?
He's called Jesus Christ,
The Lord Sabaoth,
There is no other God;
The field he'll not surrender.
And were the world of devils full,
Would they us wholly swallow,
So fear we not so very much;
We yet shall surely prosper.
There they were, on every side, as though the creek and the prairie and
the woods had spit them out at once. They came on in wild leaps,
swinging axes and guns and brush-bundles. French and Indians, hunters
and dogs, rushed on to battle. In a moment they flew across the narrow
intervening space, down into the ditch, up the wall, in frenzied
motion, digging with their nails, one on another's shoulder, up, up.
Up but not over--at least not the first.
As soon as a head emerged from behind the wall, a pair of elbows put
firmly on it, a breast exposed, came the deadly bullet, and the
venturesome enemy fell back into the ditch. This fate befalls the
first, the second, the third and the fourth. The fifth at last succeeds
and the sixth; and now half-a-dozen at once, and at another point also
a couple. These are enough. The object is gained. Words of command are
called out. Those who are still on the other side of the wall retire,
forming about the house in a double circle and continually firing.
Again, and then for the last time, to rush forward so soon as those who
had pressed to the house should have finished their work.
It will to all appearance soon be finished. Sharp axes cut down the
door. The ax-swingers understand their work. They have before opened
breaches in many a barricaded house. And those on the other side,
toward which the wind was blowing, understood their business equally
well. They have often before placed a firebrand against a house they
could not otherwise take. Those above shot well through the round holes
in the bottom of the gallery, and one or two of those below must pay
for their bravery with their lives. But the others are covered, and the
rain of bullets which pours upon the house divides the force of the
besieged who must turn to every side at once. Yet a few strokes and the
door lies in fragments and out of the thick smoke which comes up over
there the flame will soon burst forth.
The beleaguered know it. An attempt to avert the threatened danger must
be made. They must risk a sally. Two of them must do it. Which two?
"I!" called out the brave minister. "Why is it not suitable for me?"
"I!" cried Conrad. "This is my business!"
"Conrad's and mine," said Lambert with determined voice, "and no one
else. Away, the rest of you, to your posts. You, Richard and Fritz,
guard the door. Here are the two axes; and now, in God's name--"
The beams which bar the door are taken away so as to uncover a strong
plank, fitting closely into the opening and against which the blows
from without are directed, the door having been shattered. The last
beam is drawn away; the plank falls; the breach desired by the
besiegers is made, and out of the breach rush Lambert and Conrad side
by side, old Christian Ditmar swinging aloft an ax with his nervous arm
and crying: "Here! Germany forever!"
It is the first word that has to-day fallen from his lips, and it is
his last for to-day and forever. Pierced at once with three bullets,
cut and crushed by a dozen knife cuts and ax-blows he falls, but his
big-hearted purpose is attained. He broke the first onset of the
attacking party. He made a way for the two young men behind him. They
rushed into this passage-way. Nothing can withstand Conrad's giant
strength. His blows fall like hail. He rages among the crowd like a
jaguar among sheep. Yes, it is a jaguar that has come among them--the
great jaguar, as they call him at the lake, who had already torn so
many of the tribe of Onondagas. They are willing to fight with the
devil himself, but cannot bear to look at the flaming eyes of the great
jaguar. They rush away toward the wall, over the wall, into the ditch,
followed by Conrad. Lambert, who had already pulled apart the burning
pile of wood, called after him that he should go no farther but come
back, for the others, who had seen the shameful flight of their
comrades, now directed their fire at the two. Bullet after bullet
strikes the wall near Lambert. It is a wonder that he is yet uninjured;
yes, that he is alive. But he does not think of himself. He only thinks
of his lion-hearted brother. He rushes toward the raging one, who is
fighting near the wall with three Indians, the last within the
enclosure. They shall not get over it again. He seizes one, whirls him
on high and dashes him against the wall where the unlucky fellow lies
with a broken neck. The two others improve the moment and climb over
the wall. One of them, before sliding down into the ditch, discharges
his gun.
"Come in, for God's sake, Conrad!" called Lambert. He seizes Conrad by
the hand and drags him away. They had reached the door when Conrad
staggered like a drunken man, Lambert caught him about the body.
"It is nothing, dear brother," said Conrad and straightened himself up.
But in the door he fell down. A stream of blood gushed from his mouth
and moistened the door-sill which he had sworn never again to cross
without the shedding of his blood.
The door is again barred more strongly than before.
The fire that Lambert had pulled apart wastes away powerless at the
base of the house. The house is saved; but how long? The little company
that guards it is poorer by two fighting men. The rest, exhausted by
their frightful labor, are more dead than alive. The ammunition is used
up to within a few charges, and the sun pours its last red rays over
the lonely battle-field in the midst of the surrounding forest. In a
few minutes it will go down. Night--the last night--will come on.
"Your brother is dead," said the minister to Lambert.
"He has gone before us," said Lambert. "Stay near me, Catherine."
The minister and Catherine had been occupied below with Conrad. The
minister was skilled in the healing art, but here his skill could
accomplish nothing. Conrad had opened his beautiful blue eyes, with a
bewildered look, but once. They for a moment became bright and clear,
as he saw Catherine's face through the mist of death. Then he lay
still with closed eyes. There was deep peace in the yet wild and
battle-angered face. He breathed but once again. Then his head sunk to
one side as if he were now sleeping quietly. The sun sinks behind the
forest, spreading its blood-red evening-light over those on the
gallery.
"On what do the fellows wait?" asked Jacob Ehrlich.
"Eternity will be long enough for you, fool," replied Anton Bierman.
"If father means to send us succor he must be quick about it," said
Richard Herkimer, with a sad smile.
"Hurrah! hurrah! and again hurrah!" cried Adam Bellinger, who now
rushes down the stairway and dances about like a crazy person, and
then, crying loudly, falls into the minister's arms.
"Poor boy! poor boy!" said the minister.
Lambert went round to the other side of the gallery, from which one
could look down the creek to the edge of the woods where the road makes
a turn and then disappears to reappear for a short distance a little
further on. On this side and on that there was nothing in the road. The
slight hope which had kindled in Lambert's breast was at once
extinguished. Sadly he shook his head.
And yet, what sound is that? Lambert clearly hears a dull, strong
sound, while, at the same moment, the noise of the enemy is stilled.
The sounds become heavier and stronger. Lambert's heart beats as though
it would split.
Suddenly there came around the corner of the woods one, two, three
riders in full run and a moment later a large company; twenty, thirty
horses, under whose hoofs the ground trembles. The riders swing their
rifles and "Hurrah! hurrah!" sound forth so that Lambert hears.
He hastens to his comrades. "Have you all loaded? Then up and out! Now
it is our turn. Now we will drive them!"
A sharp pursuit--a wild pursuit on the darkening prairie after the
French and Indians, who in frenzied flight rush toward the woods while
German rifles crack after them.