Part 99 (1/2)
On every side the knoll was black with them as they came leaping forward, hatchets glittering; while over their heads the leaden hail of Tory musketry pelted us from north and south and east and west.
Down crashed Yoiakim at my side, his rifle exploding in mid-air as he fell dead and rolled over and over down the slope toward the ma.s.ses of his enemies below.
As a Seneca seized the rolling body, set his foot on the dead shoulders and jerked back the head to scalp him, the Yellow Moth leaped forward, launching his hatchet. It flew, sparkling, and struck the scalper full in the face. The next instant the Yellow Moth was among them, snarling, stabbing, raging, almost covered by Senecas who were wounding one another in their eagerness to slay him.
For a moment it seemed to me that there was a chance in this melee for us to cut our way through, and I caught Boyd by the arm and pointed. A volley into our very backs staggered and almost stupefied us; through the swirling powder gloom, our men began to fall dead all around me. I saw Sergeant Hungerman drop; privates Harvey, Conrey, Jim McElroy, Jack Miller, Benny Curtin and poor Jack Putnam.
Murphy, clubbing his rifle, was bawling to his comrade, Elerson:
”To h.e.l.l wid this, Davey! Av we don't pull foot we're a pair o' dead ducks!”
”For G.o.d's sake, Boyd!” I shouted. ”Break through there beside the Yellow Moth!”
Boyd, wielding his clubbed rifle, cleared a circle amid the crowding savages; Sergeant Parker ran out into the yelling crush; the two gigantic riflemen, Murphy and Elerson, swinging their terrible weapons like flails, smashed their way forward; behind them, using knife, hatchet, and stock, I led out the last men living on that knoll--Ned McDonald, Garrett Putnam, Jack Youse, and a French coureur-de-bois whose name I have never learned.
All around us raged and yelled the maddened Seneca pack, slas.h.i.+ng each other again and again in their crazed attempts to reach us. The Yellow Moth was stabbed through and through a hundred times, yet the ghastly corpse still kept its feet, so terrible was the crus.h.i.+ng pressure on every side.
Suddenly, tearing a path through the frenzied mob, I saw a mob of cursing, sweating, green-coated soldiers and rangers, struggling toward us--saw one of Butler's rangers seize Sergeant Parker by the collar of his hunting s.h.i.+rt, bawling out:
”Hurrah! Hurrah! Prisoner taken from Morgan's corps!”
Another, an officer of British regulars, I think, threw himself on Boyd, shouting:
”By heaven! It's Boyd of Derry! Are you not Tom Boyd, of Derry, Pennsylvania?”
”Yes, you b.l.o.o.d.y-backed Tory!” retorted Boyd, struggling to knife him under his gorget. ”And I'm Boyd of Morgan's, too!”
I aimed a blow at the red-coated officer, but my rifle stock broke off across the skull of an Indian; and I began to beat a path toward Boyd with the steel barrel of my weapon, Murphy and Elerson raging forward beside me in such a very whirlwind of half-crazed fury that the Indians gave way and leaped aside, trying to shoot at us.
Headlong through this momentary opening rushed Garrett Putnam, his rifle-dress torn from his naked body, his heavy knife dripping in the huge fist that clutched it. After him leaped Ned McDonald, the coureur-de-bois, and Jack Youse, letting drive right and left with their hatchets. And, as the painted crowd ahead recoiled and shrank aside, Murphy, Elerson, and I went through, smas.h.i.+ng out the way with our heavy weapons.
How we got through G.o.d only knows. I heard Murphy bellowing to Elerson:
”We're out! We're out! Pull foot, Davey, or the dirty Scutts will take your hair!”
A Pennsylvania soldier, running heavily down hill ahead of me, was shot, sprang high into the air in one agonized bound, like a stricken hare, and fell forward under my very feet, so that I leaped over him as I ran. The Canadian coureur-de-bois was. .h.i.t, but the bullet stung him to a speed incredible, and he flew on, screaming with pain, his broken arm flapping.
Behind me I dared not look, but I knew the Seneca warriors were after us at full speed. Bullets whined and whizzed beside us, striking the trees on every side. A long slope of open woods now slanted away below us.
As I ran, far ahead of me, among the trees, I saw men moving, yet dared not change my course. Then, as I drew nearer, I recognized Mr. Lodge, our surveyor, and Thomas Grant with the Jacob-staff, the four chain-bearers with the chain, and Corporal Calhawn, all standing stock still and gazing up the slope toward us.
The next moment Grant dropped his Jacob-staff, turned and ran; the chain-men flung away their implements, and Mr. Lodge and the entire party, being totally unarmed, turned and fled, we on their heels, and behind us a score of yelling Senecas, now driven to frenzy by the sight of so much terrified game in flight.
I saw poor Calhawn fall; I saw Grant run into the swamp below, shouting for help. Mr. Lodge, closely chased by a young warrior, ran toward a distant sentinel, and so eager was the Seneca to slay him that he chased the fleeing surveyor past the sentinel, and was shot in the back by the amazed soldier.
And now, all along the edge of the mora.s.s where our pickets were posted, the bang! bang! bang! of musketry began. Murphy and Elerson bounded into safety; Ned McDonald, Garrett Putnam, the coureur-de-bais, and Jack Youse went staggering and reeling into the swamp. I attempted to follow them, but three Senecas cut me out, and, with bursting heart, I sheered off and ran parallel with them, striving to reach our lines, the sentinels firing at my pursuers and running forward to intercept them. Yet, so intent were these Seneca bloodhounds on my destruction that they never swerved under the running fire of musketry; and I was forced out and driven into the woods again to the northwest of our lines.
Farther and farther away sounded the musketry in my ears, until the pounding pulses deadened and finally obliterated the sound. I could no longer carry the shattered and b.l.o.o.d.y fragment of my rifle, and dropped it. Bullet-pouch, shot-pouch, powder-horn, water-bottle, hatchet I let fall, keeping only my knife, belt, and the thin, flat wallet which contained my letters from Lois and my journal. Even my cap I flung away, moving always forward on a dog-trot, and ever twisting my sweat-drenched head to look behind.
Several times I caught distant glimpses of my pursuers, and saw that they walked sometimes, as though exhausted. Yet, I dared not bear to the South, not knowing how many of them had continued on westward to cut me off from a return; so I jogged on northward, my heart nigh broken with misery and foreboding, sickened to the very soul with the memory of our slaughtered men upon the knoll. For of some thirty-odd riflemen, Indians, line soldiers, and scouts that Boyd had led out the night before, only Elerson, Murphy, McDonald, Youse, the coureur-de-bois, and I remained alive or untaken. Boyd was a prisoner, together with Sergeant Parker; all the others were dead to a man, excepting possibly my three Indians, Mayaro, Grey-Feather, and Tahoontowhee, who Boyd had sent in to report us before we had sighted the Senecas, and who might possibly have escaped the ambuscade.
As I plodded on, I dared not let my imagination dwell on Boyd and Parker, for a dreadful instinct told me that the dead men on the knoll were better off. Yet, I tried to remember that a red-coated officer had taken Boyd, and one of Sir John's soldiers had captured Michael Parker.