23 At the Ford

The next day was one of those strange days that we have sometimes in the Western lands between the great colds. The grass bent in little waves like the ripples on a river, and the brown tint of leaf and stem was almost lost in the golden flush of the sun. The wind that came over the brow of a hill fanned our faces like a perfumed breath, and all around us was a flood of colour, the gold of the sunbeams softened by the snowy white clouds through which they came.

I turned my face to the wind and inhaled its breath. It filled my lungs, and heart and brain alike expanded. I felt again the joy of the wilderness. I could understand the philosophy of the old Greeks who believed in fauns and satyrs, and that in the morning of time we roamed the scented woods, happy and harmless.

Our course now took us toward a river which flowed into the Ohio, and presently we saw in the distance the faint line of its stream. The condition of the trail showed that we were advancing faster than the Indian army, and we increased our speed again.

The river grew broader, and its silver shaded into deeper blue. A haze of hills beyond it became purple, and the line of a distant forest cut the sky like a sabre’s edge.

We halted presently, and I looked around at my comrades, who had gathered in a great group, on foot and on horseback, two hundred strong men, faces darkened and seamed by sun, wind, and rain, figures spare but nervous and powerful, some clad in homespun, others in tanned deerskin trimmed with long fringe and little coloured beads which flashed in red and blue and yellow as the sunbeams fell upon them. All carried the Western rifle, conspicuous with its quaintly carved stock and long, slender barrel of blue steel. Looking upon them, I was proud of my comrades, though I did not forget Osseo’s warning of “too much fire.”

The leaders now talked together a little, and I preached caution.

“Caution!” cried Curry; “while we are lingering here the savages are escaping.”

His words, not mine, were grateful in the ears of the men. So I stepped aside.

“Do you think we’ll overtake them this side of the river?” asked Joe Grimes of me.

I looked at the long stretch of forest and the blue band of the stream, and saw nothing but peace and stillness, save where our men gathered. The outline of purple hills beyond the river showed no change. But through the deep grass led the trail of many footsteps which were not a puzzle to me, for as my eyes turned away from the forests and the water, I bent over and examined the traces with a trained eye. Then I shook my head and Underwood signified his agreement.

“I believe they will make their stand at the river,” he said. “That is the best place for them.”

I thought him right, and even old Joe in his confidence seemed to have lost his habitual caution. He and the others feared only that the warriors would not wait for us, that the rapidity of their flight would leave us behind, no matter how strenuously we pursued, and they were consumed with impatience at the delay. Some had talked of caution, of the superior numbers of the warriors, and the danger of ambush, but the great majority laughed at the conservatives, and did not hesitate to call them unpleasant names.

“There are a thousand of the warriors, and we are but two hundred,” said Underwood as we stood there. “We ought to wait for re-enforcements.”

Old Joe flamed out at him and boldly called him a coward. I felt pity for the man, and told Grimes that he should be ashamed of himself, but I was unheeded. Underwood did not resent the affront, merely turning away.

The council ended and our leaders rode toward the river, thus giving the sign that we should continue the pursuit. A fierce shout of approval arose, and then we poured forward in a picturesque stream, the sun flashing over the rifle barrels and the brown, eager faces, the beads on leggings and moccasins shimmering in many colours.

The river, first seen a silver thread in the morning, was now a dark-blue sheet of water, and very near; yet I looked little at it, keeping my eyes on the line of the woods which filed past on either side of us. I searched them continually for the glimpse of a brown form or the steel of a rifle barrel glinting as some stray sunbeam struck upon it. The traces that we were following led straight toward the river, yet it seemed natural in me to watch everywhere for an ambush. The lightest sounds came to my ears, and I felt a familiarity with all the phases of the wilderness. This was home.

But the woods were silent and unoccupied. My eyes could find nothing there. The peace was the same that had hung over the land in the morning. A redbird glowing in his deepest scarlet sat on a bough just over my head, and did not move as we passed.

We reached the river and stopped upon its bank, staring at the line of bare hills on the farther shore, the hills that had shone deep blue in the distance and then purple. We were astonished for the moment, and our little army, breathing deeply, expressed its opinions with freedom.

We could not see a human being on the other side. The Indian force which the men had expected with such confidence to find waiting for us there was gone. Even then it might be far on its way toward the deeper wilderness, and many hearts beat with fierce anger at its escape.

Again I eagerly searched the line of silent hills, but saw nothing. The blue bluffs and the white stone gleamed in the sun, and there was the river, flowing in blue where the channel was deep, but rippling in silver bubbles and white foam over the shallows. The peace of the world was still about us, and the little white clouds sailed calmly on in turquoise heavens.

“If necessary we should follow them even to the lakes,” said Joe Grimes to me.

“But it will not be necessary,” I replied. “Look!”

Two Indians had appeared on one of the hills beyond the river. They were Shawnee warriors in all the glory and hideousness of their war-paint, each carrying a rifle in his hand. They came a little nearer, and sitting on a rock looked intently at us. There was something particularly insulting in their stare, their air of unconcern, even disdain, and the angry blood flew to my head.

“Scouts or skirmishers,” said Grimes.

“Yes,” I replied, “and they are daring us to cross and attack them.”

“We’ll be cowards if we don’t,” he said.

“Joe,” I said, “remember one of your own favourite sayings—‘Never bite off more’n you can chew.’”

He gave an angry snort, but did not answer me. Then he raised his rifle, but it was too far for a shot. Others too had made threatening motions with their weapons, but the warriors either knew that they were safe or scorned them. One ran his fingers carelessly through his long scalp-lock, and then leaned back against the rock as if he would go to sleep.

Our leaders drew together again, and there was much talk. But I foresaw the result of it. There was the long, easy slope worn by the crossing of buffalo herds, and a dash into the fordable river would soon put us on the other side.

The talk continued. Underwood, unabashed by the name of coward, which had been applied more than once to him, pushed into the circle and advised them not to attempt the passage of the river in the face of the Indian army. Some voices were raised in his support, mine among them, but the others turned upon him and rebuffed him so hardly that he withdrew and stood at a little distance, leaning upon his gun. Even those who shared his opinions would not be his friends because everybody knew that he was a coward. I watched his face, but if he felt shame he did not show it. I could not understand him; a man might be a coward, but I had never before heard of one who did not try to hide the fact. Once Underwood’s eyes met mine, but they seemed to take no note of my look, and passed on toward the river and the two warriors who sat on the hill, combing their scalp-locks with their fingers.

The younger men were nearest the river, and they moved about in their impatience, swearing now and then under their breath, the metal of the guns clicking against metal. The scent of the great woods that had followed me all the morning came to me still. The same little white clouds sailed peacefully past the sun and left the huge coppery ball to shoot its rays upon us.

I looked at the debating leaders, and then turned my gaze back to the hill. I saw the Indians sitting upon the rocks and then I did not see them. I rubbed my eyes to remove the film which had dimmed my vision, for I could not believe that they had gone, thinking it only an illusion. The rubbing did not bring the warriors back. I saw the bare, blue hill, its outlines cutting the sky as sharply as ever, the stone outcropping seeming to smoulder in the sun, but it was lone and desolate, as if men had never been there.

“See, they have fled!” shouted old Joe; “the band is afraid of us!”

Again the cry that we follow at once was raised. I saw Underwood’s lips move as if he were about to utter another protest, and I wondered at the man’s hardihood and lack of shame. But he crushed the impulse, and closing his lips tightly, remained leaning upon his rifle’s muzzle and intently regarding the leaders.

Most of our band had closed around those who were to decide our course, urging their older comrades to delay no longer and lead them forward in the pursuit, if they were really brave men. It was a circle of hot, red faces, angry eyes, and swaying forms. Suddenly one of the officers on horseback, a large man with the reddest face of all—Curry himself—pushed his horse out of the circle and rode toward the ford. He paused near the brink, wheeled his horse about until he faced us, and cried in a voice that was a mixture of swagger, courage, and scorn:

“All who are not cowards follow me!”

Then he wheeled again and galloped into the river.

His taunt was the touch of fire to dry grass, and we poured after him, a tumultuous horde, horse and foot alike eager to be first at the crossing, leaders now as wild as the men with enthusiasm. I was in the front, but I did not forget to look again at Underwood and see whether he would go or stay. He kept pace with the rear ranks, and then I lost him as I dashed into the stream. These were my comrades, and I could not leave them.

The water rose to my waist, and for the moment I was blinded by the foam and spray kicked up by so many men and horses. A clamour of shouting and splashing water rose around me, but I cleared my eyes, and holding up my gun and powder to keep them dry, pushed for the farther shore, stumbling over the boulders and the uneven bottom.

The river was neither deep nor wide here, and its waters were churned up now by many feet, and men and horses blocked the way. A horse fell with a great splash, and he and his rider struggled up again, everybody giving way and deepening the confusion. I looked at the blue hills, and I was alive with apprehension. It was here that we expected the Indian army to make its stand, disputing with us the passage of the river, and if the warriors were to give us a fight at all it seemed to me that this was the best place for it. I expected them each moment to appear on the summits and pour a deadly fire upon us as we struggled in the river, but the hills remained as bare as ever, shining in the sun, and there were no sounds save those that we made.

Our wet and wild little army, thinking nothing of the cold, pulled itself out of the water and stood upon dry land, triumphant, the obstacle that we feared most overcome, our foes still fleeing the sight of our faces.

The sun was rapidly drying our clothes, though wet or dry it was a matter to which the men gave little thought, as we climbed the hills and stood upon their summits, seeing only the wilderness before us. But the scouts soon found the trail of the warriors, leading on straight ahead, and we followed. I confess that I too shared somewhat in the enthusiasm of the moment.

The ground remained rough, and we proceeded along the crest of a ridge that ran back at an angle from the river. The confused talk ceased now, and we heard only the footsteps and heavy breathing of men and horses, upon whom the long pursuit was beginning to tell. As we left the river the open nature of the country ceased, thickets of bushes and clumps of trees appearing, while farther on curved the wilderness.

I watched the dark line of the forest, sure that it now hid the fleeing warriors.

The ridge broadened a little, and seemed to extend to the distant woods in which we believed the Indian army to have sought refuge, offering us an easy path of pursuit along its crest. Full of zeal and spirit, the borderers forgot now the weariness which had begun to creep over them, and pressed on with rising ardour. I was in the front rank, keeping pace with the horsemen, and I watched the forest as it rose like a wall from the earth, ending in a sharp black line against the blue sky. A tremulous haze like that of Indian summer hung over it, and it seemed to form so secure a covert that I wondered if we should ever be able to find our enemy in its depths.

Osseo was by my side, saying nothing, though I knew well his thoughts. We had sunk into silence now, our course decided, and no breath to spare for talking. The ridge flattened out somewhat, and I noticed that it was cut on either side by a great gully, filled with a dense growth of bushes.

We halted here a moment to examine the trail, which seemed to veer about as if the warriors had become uncertain in their flight, and I glanced toward the ravine on my right and its thickets of bushes. My eyes lingered there a moment, and were passing on when they were caught by something and turned back. It was a metallic gleam, a flash quick but bright, like the sparkle of a firefly in the dark, that drew me, and I looked for it again.

That passing gleam of steel was not more sudden than my comprehension of it, of its awful nature, of the catastrophe. I knew that it was a flash of sunlight falling across the polished barrel of a rifle. I knew that a thousand sharpshooters lay concealed in the bushes of those two ravines, and we—rash fools!—had marched directly between, making of ourselves a target as full and fair as the most ferocious warrior could covet. What right had we now to taunt St. Clair?

Involuntarily I seized the arm of Osseo in so fierce a grasp that he turned upon me in surprise. This movement of my hand, this succession of vehement emotions, passed in a second, and I opened my mouth to shout the warning, but it was never uttered.

The cry was checked at my lips by a burst of fire on either side of us, like the two long, flaming edges of a sword. The red blaze seemed to reach from either ravine to our faces, and inclosed us in a rim of death. The crack of hundreds of rifles uniting made a roar as of cannon, columns of smoke arose, and the odour of burned gunpowder snuffed out the perfume of the wilderness.

The flame of the rifles fired so close flashed in our faces. The cry of death mingled with the cry of pain. Our little band reeled under the leaden sleet and dripped blood. Horses and men dropped together and the screams of wounded animals added to the confused and terrible uproar.

I was used to Indian warfare, but this was so quick that for the moment I was dazed. It scarce seemed real.

A man beside me suddenly asked what we ought to do. I was about to reply, but before I could speak a word he fell dead at my feet, struck between the eyes by a rifle ball.

A wounded horse, shrieking in pain, plunged past me, and fell among the bushes from which the red sharpshooters were pouring their fire.

The paralysis of the terrible surprise was still upon us, the fire which scorched us from all sides still drove us toward a common centre, the huddle of man and horses becoming every moment denser and more confused. Some of us were firing at random into the encircling rim of smoke. Men would pitch out of the mass and fall headlong to the ground where they lay; most of our leaders were killed already, many of those who still stood were bleeding from wounds, and all the time our ears were filled with the fierce, triumphant peal of the war-whoop.

They pressed closer and closer upon us, five times as numerous, with all the advantage of a surprise and the first volleys, using every bush and tree and stone as shelter, until sometimes we saw only the curling smoke and the dim outlines of the undergrowth.

I looked at our blood-stained group, the brilliant deerskin tunics dyed now with many a red stream, and still saw upon many faces that dim look of surprised horror, of vague dismay, borderers though they were. All the grass was torn up by our tramplings, and upon either side of us the bank of smoke had become a solid mass, through which the steady fire of the rifles blazed in hundreds of red streaks.

A warrior dashed out of the smoke, and bending over a fallen man, drew his knife to scalp him. One of our band raised his rifle and shot the savage. That seemed to arouse our army from its apathy of despair, and with a universal impulse we turned our faces toward the river, which we had crossed so gaily a few minutes before. The thought in every mind then—and they were brave men—was flight. Those who have never been surprised by the appearance of death when least expected—death in its most terrible form—may boast of their courage, not otherwise. Ours were the best men of the border, and yet for a little while the panic was the same as that of St. Clair’s day.

The warriors, when they saw the attempt of their victims to break from the trap, began to shout more fiercely than ever, and increased the vigour of their fire. The clouds of smoke grew thicker and blacker, the volleys flashed faster, and the bullets, when they did not strike flesh and bone, whistled incessantly in our ears. The men choked with the smoke and were blinded by it; they stumbled over bushes and their comrades, and had no means of knowing which way they were going, save that instinct was carrying them toward the river, now become somehow in their imagination a line of safety. Yet through all the horrible tumult, the smoke, the blaze and rattle of the firing, the groans of the wounded and the death cries, the force of old teaching and habits prevailed; the borderers mechanically loaded their rifles, and as fast as the bullets were rammed home fired into the encircling walls of smoke.

Our band, though confused, was still a compact mass, held together by the enemy, who was pressing so fiercely upon us from all sides, but the terror of death and the love of life were urging us on. We wanted to get away from those rifles that were stinging us, from that enemy hidden in his veil of smoke who found us a perfect target, while we could only see figures appearing and reappearing with the quickness of shadows on a screen.

The mass of slowly moving white men in the centre of this ring of death suddenly heaved up and broke from a walk into a run toward the river. The warriors had not closed in entirely on what had been the rear of our army, and there the line of flitting phantoms was weakest. We drove at the place where the smoke was thinnest, leaving behind us our dead, firing the loaded rifles, clubbing at savage heads with the unloaded, shouting in rage, resembling nothing so much as a buffalo with weakening strength and torn flanks surrounded by a herd of fierce and famished wolves.

The fever rose into my eyes and brain. I became a savage myself. The barrel of my rifle, hot with the frequent discharges, burned my hand; once when I touched my face it felt as hot as the rifle barrel. The blood in my eyes and the drifting smoke enlarged and distorted everything, and the faces of my comrades became as wild and savage as my own. Everything had over it the tinge of bloody redness. The skies were no longer blue, though the blue was still there. This, however, was but the rage of battle. Otherwise I retained my presence of mind, and remained a part of the circle of my comrades, the compact though bruised body that was driving at the thin point of the Indian line, firing and shouting as it came.

We struck the line of smoke and savage faces and dashed through it, a feeling of triumph flushing us for a moment as we passed. But the horde poured after us, now counting out our fallen, outnumbering us seven or eight to one, hanging in a swarm on both our flanks, pressing upon us from the rear, never giving us a moment’s rest, and keeping our wounds bleeding.

“To the river! To the river!” our men shouted incessantly, as if that river had suddenly become an impregnable fortress, destined to receive us and give us shelter.

The same instinct was in possession of all, and toward the river we went, the merciless fire of our enemies scorching our flanks and rear, the warriors still whooping and yelling their triumph. Yet the borderers already began to recover from their confusion. Retreat was necessary, but the fight was not done. I saw better now—the smoke was broken into pillars and columns, the rifle flashes were scattered more widely, but around us there was always the same reek of blood and sweat. Some comrade would press against me, shoulder to shoulder, straining like myself, and then he would go down, to become a victim of the tomahawk. Those who fell did not rise again.

We were a huge bank of fire and smoke moving over the ground, ourselves the front of it, the Indians the rear and sides, and always the bank was rent by many flashes and shouts and cries, and it left a trail of the dead that it spat out; yet there was some order among us, and it was not our men alone who fell. The savages, too, were beginning to pay a price.

Still the bank of fire and smoke rolled on, giving forth a volume of harsh and confused sound, and increasing its speed as the blue streak of the river began to shine before it. The gleam of the water was like a magnet to many; they believed that beyond it lay safety, but, however they struggled on, the streak broadened too slowly.

Osseo was beside me, fighting as he had fought in St. Clair’s defeat. Despite the confusion, I was now able to watch the attack, and when a warrior dashed out of the smoke to scalp one of our wounded who had begun to lag a little from weakness, I raised my rifle and shot the savage through the head.

“Well done!” said a voice near me, and looking through the film of smoke I beheld Underwood, whom they had called a coward. It struck me even then that I saw no fear upon his face.

The fight and the flight seemed to me to grow in ferocity as we approached the river. The great cloud increased in density and hung closer to the earth, the firing of the rifles made an unbroken crash, and the yelling of the savages was as steady and fierce as the howling of a pack of wolves. They spread farther along our flanks, and tried to overlap us and pass in front of us before we reached the ford, but we drove them back for a moment; then, with these wolves again hanging to us, we reached the river, and into the water we rushed, pursuers and pursued, white men and Indians together, still fighting, some of us now hand to hand, knives against tomahawks, the gun muzzle pressed upon the target, the silver of the river’s current already flowing in red streaks.

That terrible cloud of fire and smoke which had followed us so far was not turned back by the stream, but still hovered over and inclosed us, and the core of it was now a fighting jumble of white men and red. The water was dashed into bubbles and foam by whistling bullets and striking arms. Men stumbled on the rough bottom, and falling, disappeared. Some came up again and others did not. A floating body struck against me and passed on. The stream from bank to bank was full of red and white men, in whom only the animal was left, shooting, stabbing, and striking, and filling the air with shouts, yells, and groans. More savages lined the bank and fired at every white face they saw. The river now seemed to roar and splash around us and encourage us with an evil song to kill. The ferocity of the battle in the water excelled anything that we had seen on the land this day, and I began to believe that with all these Indians clinging to us and hacking at us we could never reach the farther shore.

Nothing oppressed me so much as that horrible river. I hated its hiss and gurgle, and my heart revolted at the sight of the bloody bubbles that floated past me. When I fell once and came up with my mouth full of water I spat it out as if it were so much poison.

As we rocked and reeled about in the stream we struggled always to burst from the grasp of the savages, to throw them off, and to escape to the shore. There was no order, no plan in our fighting, and we were without a leader, until at last I heard one voice raised above the uproar—a voice that had the tone of a commander. Wiping the smoke and spray from my eyes, I saw Underwood, up to his waist in the river, but calm.

“Comrades, men!” he shouted in a voice that everybody heard, “stand together! We must beat them back now, or none of us will be saved! Won’t you help?”

His voice resounded above all the tumult of the battle, and his face was that of a man without fear. He inspired the defence anew, he brought back the courage that was natural to our little army, though partly beaten out of it by the sudden ambuscade and overwhelming attack. He dashed here and there, encouraging one, directing the efforts of another, and all of us found ourselves obeying him, as if he were our natural and chosen leader, which he now was, become such by supreme fitness. Though the bullets sang their venomous little song around him, he paid no heed to them, but continued to encourage us with voice and hand, to fight with us sometimes, and always to direct the combat. I knew then that his was the wisest and bravest mind among all these men, and for a moment I was overwhelmed with shame that I had ever called him a coward or thought of him as such.

The violence of the fight in the water deepened. The Indians, despite their superiority in numbers, had not been able to pass us, and the panic that had assailed the men began to give way to a kind of fierce exultation.

Underwood was unremitting in his exertions, and presently we found ourselves formed into a line of battle—a rough line, it is true, but one that presented a defensive front to the enemy, bristling with rifles, and more dangerous to them than the wild mélée of single-handed fighting in the river.

The warriors, savage as they were for our lives, shrank a moment from this little band, dripping with blood and water, wholly desperate, conscious that the time to make the last stand, if a single one was to escape, had come, and animated with the courage that the wounded beast has when he sets his back against a rock and faces his enemy. But that moment quickly passed, and then, more lustful than ever for our blood, they rushed upon us, each uttering the war-whoop. We had reloaded our rifles, and under the command of Underwood awaited the shock, half of us delivering a volley at only a few yards into their faces, the other half following it up with an equally deadly fire as they reeled back under the first blow. Then we charged them, smashing with clubs and stabbing with knives, and so great was the impetus of our slender force, borne on by the last courage which is the most desperate, that their line bent before ours and was driven back toward the shore. Numbers and their daring, of which they had a full share, were of no avail; we were a band of wild men, and elated with the triumph of the moment we forgot death, the desire to escape, and everything else save the wish to end the lives of the yelling savages in front of us. And always Underwood led the men on, calm, watchful, unwounded.

Fighting thus, we drove them back across the river and up the hills, and so heavy was the blow we gave that the whole numerous band shrank from us, and their fire sank just as the effort and impulse which bore us on had begun to die. But the precious time to get our wounded and ourselves out of their grasp and across the river was gained. The men rushed about, still under the guidance of Underwood, and reached the farther shore as the howling pack recovered their courage and came swarming after us. But we stood upon the bank and received them as they plunged into the water with so fierce and deadly a fire that they recoiled again, and we exulted in our triumph.

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