With the prospect of such fatal issue--so proximate as to seem already
present--no wonder that our hearts were dismayed at sight of the waggon
moving towards us. As the inhabitants of a leaguered city behold with
fear the advance of the screened catapult or mighty "ram," so regarded
we the approach of that familiar vehicle--now a very monster in our
eyes. We were not permitted to view the spectacle in perfect security.
As the waggon moved forward, those who carried the muskets drew still
nearer under cover of their horses, and once more played upon us their
uncertain but dangerous shower. With the bullets hissing above and
around us, we were forced to lie low--only at intervals raising our
heads to note the progress of the party proceeding to storm.
Slowly but surely the machine moved on--its wheels turning under the
impulse of brawny arms--and impelled forward by pressure from behind.
To fire upon it would have been of no avail: our bullets would have been
thrown away. As easily might they have pierced through a stockade of
tree-trunks. Oh! for a howitzer! but one discharge of iron grape to
have crashed through those planks of oak and ash--to have scattered in
death, that human machinery that was giving them motion! Slowly and
steadily it moved on--stopping only as some large pebble opposed itself
to the wheel--then on again as the obstacle was surmounted--on till the
intervening space was passed over, and the triumphant cheer of our
savage foemen announced the attainment of their object.
Risking the straggling shots, we looked over. The waggon had reached
the base of the butte; its tongue was forced up among the trees--its
body stood side by side with the granite prisms. The storming party no
longer required it as a shield: they would be sufficiently sheltered by
the great boulders; and to these they now betook themselves--passing
from one to the other, until they had completely surrounded the butte.
We observed this movement, but could not prevent it. We saw the Indians
flitting from rock to rock, like red spectres, and with the rapidity of
lightning flashes! In vain we attempted to take aim; before a barrel
could be brought to bear upon them, they were gone out of sight. We
ourselves, galled by the leaden hail, were forced to withdraw behind our
ramparts.
A moment of suspense followed. We knew not how to act: we were puzzled
by their movements, as well as by the silence in which they were making
them. Did they intend to climb up the butte, and openly attack us?
What else should be their design? What other object could they have in
surrounding it? Only about a dozen had approached under cover of the
waggon. Was it likely that so few of them would assail us boldly and
openly? No. Beyond a doubt, they had some other design! Ha! what
means that blue column slowly curling upward? It is smoke! See!
Another and another--a dozen of them! From all sides they shoot upward,
encircling the mound! Hark to those sounds! the "swish" of burning
grass--the crackle of kindling sticks? They are making fires around us!
The columns are at first filmy, but soon grow thicker and more dense.
They spread out and join each other--they become attracted towards the
rocky mass--they fall against its sides, and wreathing upward, wrap its
summit in their ramifications. The platform is enveloped in the cloud!
We see the savages upon the plain--dimly, as if through a crape. Those
with the guns in their hands still continue to fire; the others are
dismounting. The latter abandon their horses, and appear to be
advancing on foot. Their forms through the magnifying mist loom
spectral and gigantic! They are visible only for a moment. The smoke
rolls its thick volume around the summit, and shrouds them from our
sight. We no longer see our enemy or the earth. The sky is obscured--
even the rock on which we stand is no longer visible, nor one of us to
the other!
Throughout all continues the firing from the plain; the bullets hurtle
around our heads, and the clamour of our foemen reaches our ears with
fierce thrilling import. We hear the crackling of faggots, and the
spurting hissing noise of many fires; but perceive no blaze--only the
thick smoke rising in continuous waves, and every moment growing denser
around us. We can bear it no longer; we are half-suffocated. Any form
of death before this! Is it too late to reach our horses? Doubtless,
they are already snatched away? No matter: we cannot remain where we
are. In five minutes, we must yield to the fearful asphyxia.
"No! never! let us die as we had determined, with arms in our hands!"
Voices husky and hoarse make answer in the affirmative.
We spring to our feet, and come together--so that we can touch each
other. We grasp our guns, and get ready our knives and pistols. We
make to the edge of the rock, and, sliding down, assure ourselves of the
path. We grope our way downward, guided by the granite walls on each
side. We go not with caution, but in the very recklessness of a
desperate need. We are met by the masses of smoke still rolling
upwards. Further down, we feel the hot caloric as we come nearer to the
crackling fires. We heed them not, but rush madly forward--till we have
cleared both the cloud and the flames, and stand upon the level plain!
It is but escaping from the fires of hell to rush into the midst of its
demons. On all sides they surround us with poised spears and brandished
clubs. Amidst their wild yells, we scarcely hear the cracking of our
guns and pistols; and those who fall to our shots are soon lost to our
sight, behind the bodies of others who crowd forward to encompass us.
For a short while we keep together, and fight, back to back, facing our
foes. But we are soon separated; and each struggles with a dozen
assailants around him!
The struggle was not protracted. So far as I was concerned, it ended,
almost on the instant of my being separated from my comrades. A blow
from behind, as of a club striking me upon the skull, deprived me of
consciousness: leaving me only the one last thought--_that it was
death_!