TECUMSEH had chosen well the ground where he had forced Proctor to
stand at bay. The River Thames, running between high precipitous banks,
protected his left flank, and a great marsh nearly parallel to the
river protected his right. He could be reached only by a direct frontal
attack, during which the Americans would be continually under fire.
Midway between river and swamp was a smaller swamp, almost impassable.
The only road ran close along the river; the rest of the space between
swamp and river was a park-like expanse thinly set with great trees,
beech, sugar maple, and oak. Beneath them the ground was bare, save
where trees had fallen. Any enemy who might advance across it must
infallibly have his columns broken and would yet be exposed to volley
fire, against which the trees would offer little or no protection.
Beyond this park, at the edge of a thicket of beech, the British
regulars were posted on a line running from the river to the smaller
swamp. Their artillery was placed so as to sweep the river road.
Tecumseh and his warriors held the line between the two swamps and
along the front of the larger swamp, ready to pour an enfilading fire
on the American flank and to charge upon its rear the moment it
pressed too far forward in its attack. One false move, one error, and
the disaster of the River Raisin might be repeated. But this time a
real soldier was in command.
It was long past noon when the American regiments swung out of the
underbrush that had screened their movements onto the broad park-like
expanse that rolled to the edge of the beech wood and the swamp where
their foes waited.
Over the sun-drenched fields and through the pleasant woods they held
their way, thrashing through the tall grass, crushing the underbrush
beneath their columned tread. Their slanting flags, whipping in the
rising breeze, revealed the stripes and the soaring stars and flaunted
the regimental symbols. On the right were the regulars of the 25th
infantry, one hundred and twenty strong, grim, well-drilled men who
marched with a precision not found among the volunteers. In the center
and on the left were the Kentucky volunteers, headed by Johnson’s
cavalry, burning to avenge the butchery of their kindred at the River
Raisin. Above them the bayonets flashed back the sunlight.
Steadily they advanced. The distance was still too great for musketry
fire, but it was lessening every instant. The British howitzers, too,
were waiting, masked behind their leafy screen.
A far-off report broke the silence. A mound of white erected itself at
the end of the river road and a howitzer ball hummed along it. Along
the edge of the beech wood ran the crackle of small arms. From the
swamp on the left came the enfilading fire of the Indians. A private
in Desha’s regiment fell forward and lay upon his face, motionless. A
sergeant a hundred feet away doubled up with a grunt.
Steadily the volunteers swung forward to where the westering sun shone
red across the red and yellow carpet that autumn’s winds had strewn.
As they marched they sang, at first low, then with a swing that rose
terribly to the skies:
Scalps are bought at stated prices,
Proctor pays the price in gold.
Freemen, no more bear such slaughters,
Rouse and smite the faithless foe.
Most of the victims of the River Raisin had been Kentuckians; it was
meet and proper that Kentuckians should avenge them at the Thames.
Jack was far in advance of the troops. Familiar with the ground from
his adventure of the night before, he knew where to look for the
enemy’s lines and could venture nearer to them than any other scout. He
had left his horse behind, well out of danger, and had crept forward on
foot, closer and closer, determined to learn in what order the British
designed to meet the attack. Nearer and nearer he crept, flat on the
ground, worming his way. At last, beneath the shadow of the trees he
saw the crossed white on red that marked the British soldiers. Detail
after detail he noted; then, when a bugle at the rear told him that the
Americans were advancing, he began to worm backward.
At his horse at last, he leaped to the saddle and drove the spurs deep,
heading for the spot where the ringing bugle was sounding the advance.
General Harrison, surrounded by his staff, stood watching. “Now’s the
time,” he muttered. “Trumpeter! Sound the----” He broke off, as a scout
came dashing toward him.
It was Jack. “General!” he clamored. “They’re in two lines in open
order.”
Harrison started. “In open order!” he cried. “You’re mad.”
“No! It’s true! I’ve been within a hundred yards of them. It’s true! I
swear it.”
Another horseman wearing the shoulder straps of a major dashed up.
“General!” he cried. “They’re in open order. I’ve just----”
“Enough!” Harrison spun around. “By God! We’ve got them! Mr. Telfair,
tell Colonel Johnson my orders are to charge home.” He swung around.
“Major Wood, tell Colonel Trotter the plans have been changed. Colonel
Johnson will attack on horseback and the infantry will support him. Go!”
Ten minutes later the Kentucky cavalry rode into the narrowing neck
between the river and the small swamp. As they crowded in, the
space grew too small for effective manœuvres. Colonel R. H. Johnson,
afterward to be elected vice-president of the United States, rode
at the head of the left-hand squadron, naked saber resting against
his shoulder. He noticed the constriction and called to his brother,
commanding the right-hand column. “Say, Jim,” he cried. “You handle the
British. I’ll cross the swamp and tackle Tecumseh.” He turned to his
men. “Column left,” he ordered.
Jack, defiant of the rule that bade him rejoin General Harrison, once
his message had been delivered, had followed close at Colonel Johnson’s
heels. Now, he sped across to those of Lieutenant-Colonel James Johnson.
“Attention!” James’s voice rang above the thudding hoofs. “By troops!
Right front into line. March.”
The shimmering column broke up, dividing into four. “Forward! Steady!
Right dress. Forward!” Quickly the orders followed.
James faced about. “Advance rifles,” he ordered; and the muskets
rattled as they fell into position.
The woods in front were veiled in smoke. The rattle of small arms was
incessant. The screech of bullets filled the air. Here and there a man
fell forward, clutching at his horse’s neck. Here and there one swayed
and crashed to the ground. Over all the sunlight pulsed in bands of
fire.
Coolly James’s voice arose. “Hold your fire till you can see the whites
of their eyes,” he ordered. “Then give ’em h--l.” He waved his sword.
“Forward! Gallop!” he cried.
The pace quickened. The ground was becoming more open and the enemy’s
bullets were coming faster. But the Americans did not fire. They could
not see the foe in the tangled thicket ahead of them, and they had no
shots to waste.
“Form for attack! By fours! Right front into line! March!”
The columns broke up, changing, as if by magic, into a long double line
of horsemen, galloping toward the smoking woods.
“Forward! Remember the Raisin! Charge!”
The trumpets sounded and from the crowding horsemen rose a yell.
“Remember the Raisin;” loud and thrilling the cry echoed back from the
woods. The horses sprang forward, furious with the battle clangor.
Still the Americans did not fire. Their first weapon was the running
horse; against the enemy’s lines they hurled him. Later they would use
their muskets and the long pistols that hung at their belts.
At the front rode Johnson. Neck and neck with him rode Jack, heading
for the very center of the British line. Not for all the devils in
h--l would he have fallen back an inch.
For a moment blinding smoke filled his eyes. Right and left ran the
red flash of the British rifles. Then he was among the trees, plunging
through a line of redcoated men, who reeled and ran, throwing down
their guns as they went. “Quarter! Quarter!” The cry rang loud above
the crash of falling arms.
Jack did not heed it. A second line, fringed with flames, was rising
behind the first. Midway of it, through the smoke, he saw Brito’s face.
At it he drove. “Wait for me,” he yelled.
But Brito did not wait. Before the rush of the maddened horses the
second line was breaking up, dissolving into fragments. To wait was
to surrender or to die, and Brito had no mind for either. Probably he
did not hear Jack’s challenge. Certainly he did not wait. As the line
dissolved he turned and fled, bending low upon his horse’s neck.
Jack glanced neither to the right nor to the left. His eyes were fixed
only on his foe. For an instant the roar of battle rose around him.
Rifles flashed in his face. Men struck at him with sabers and clubbed
guns. Then he was out of the ruck, crashing through the autumn woods.
Saplings lashed at him with stinging strokes. Low-hung branches scraped
his horse’s back, dragging at him. Thickets, seemingly impassable,
broke before the impetus of his rush. Then, abruptly the roar of
battle died away. The flickering rifle flames vanished.
Then far to his left a second roar arose; Jack did not know it, but it
was Colonel Johnson and his first squadron striking the Indian line,
and it sounded the knell of the great chief, Tecumseh. Jack paid no
attention to it; heart and soul alike were concentrated on the rider
whose red coat he saw far ahead through the packed woods. Recklessly he
spurred.
After a time the woods opened and he saw his enemy clearer. He was
gaining rapidly, too rapidly. He was in no haste to bring his foe to
bay. His horse, a bright bay, bred in Kentucky and brought north with
Johnson’s regiment, had come through the short, sharp battle without
a wound and was in perfect condition, well rested, and capable both
of long pursuit and of extraordinary bursts of speed when need should
arise. He knew nothing of Brito’s horse, except the patent fact that it
was a big black that seemed to carry its heavy rider with ease, but he
had little doubt that his own was better. Almost at will he could close
in and sooner or later he meant to do so and to balance the long-due
account between himself and Brito. But he did not know where Alagwa
was. Brito did. Therefore Brito should lead him to her.
For a long time he galloped on, keeping his distance behind the
fleeing Englishman, and availing himself of every bit of cover to
screen himself from observation, though he had little fear that Brito
would suspect his identity. He guessed, what he afterwards learned
to be a fact, that nearly all the British officers who possessed
horses were using them to escape; General Proctor, for instance, fled
sixty-five miles without a halt. If Brito should see him he was far
more likely to think him a brother officer and to halt and wait for him
than to suspect that an American had dared to venture so far behind the
British lines even after the destruction of the British army.
The chase went on. The sun was dropping toward the west and dusk was
creeping over the brown fields and low tree-crowned sandy ridges.
Already a veil of deep blue shadow lay on the land. Soon it would be
night. The moon, high overhead, a pale ghost in the daylit sky, might
or might not illumine the darkness. Jack shook his reins and his bay
responded gloriously, cutting down by half the interval between himself
and Brito’s black.
Steadily the fugitive drove on. Deserted farm-houses swept by; thickets
rose and passed; but he showed no signs of stopping. Anxiously Jack
glanced at the darkening west. Soon he must bring the other to bay or
risk losing him. Could he have judged wrong? Could Brito be merely
fleeing to save himself, careless of Alagwa? Could she be already far
behind? Jack’s heart sank at the thought. Should he close in and have
done with it?
As he hesitated Brito turned abruptly aside, urging his horse toward
the crest of a low ridge that rose to the north. An instant later he
vanished into the fringe of trees that crowned it.
Jack’s anxiety swelled uncontrollably. For the first time he used the
spur, and the bay responded nobly, turning into the narrow wood road
that Brito had followed and tearing up the slope and crashing into the
fringe of trees like a tornado. He, like his master, seemed to guess
that the long chase was nearing its end.
Jack leaned forward, listening with all his ears. Sight no longer aided
him and he could depend only on hearing, and this availed him little.
The snapping branches, the hollow thunder of his horse’s hoofs, the
rustling of the night wind in the trees, the laboring breathing of his
own steed, drowned all more distant sounds. Jack set his teeth hard.
Over the crest of the ridge he passed and thundered down the opposite
slope. Then in a moment the woods broke sharply off, opening to right
and to left, and he found himself on the edge of a wide, open space in
which stood a farmhouse. Before it, just drawing his horse to a halt,
was Brito.
Jack halted, reining in and leaning forward, every nerve thrilling.
Was it the place? Had Brito led him true?
A crowd of men and women came pouring from the farmhouse door. With
staring eyes Jack watched, counting them as they came. Two men, five
women, as many children, then--then--last of all came Alagwa.
Jack shouted aloud--a great shout that startled the sleepy birds. He
had found her. His hour had come.