“I must get into the fort,” he thought as he ran into the river. Crossing it, he hurried on, and ten minutes later was pounding at the great gate. The guard heard him, and called the officer of the night, when he was taken in and put under the surgeon’s care.
No one warned General Herkimer of the foe, and at sunrise he was on the move anxious to traverse the six miles which separated him from the waiting garrison. While passing through a dense wood he was suddenly attacked by a heavy force of the enemy, who poured in a terrific fire from both sides, cutting down his men like swaths of grass. A terrible hand-to-hand fight ensued. General Herkimer seemed to be everywhere, gallantly directing his men. At length he fell, mortally wounded.
“Here, boys,” he called to two men near him, “pick me up, and place me against yonder tree.”
They did so, and then, taking his pipe from his pocket, the brave commander filled and lighted it. Puffing slowly away, he directed his men in a struggle which, owing to the superior numbers of the enemy, seemed hopeless. But unexpected help was at hand. After Captain Swartwout heard from the lips of the wounded scout the full particulars of the proposed attack he said:
“St. Leger will not come here until after that battle. I may as well have a hand in it,” and, therefore, leading an hundred picked men, he hurried toward Oriskany. Falling upon the rear of the red-coats just as they were about to claim a victory, he put them to flight.
Before they could realize the weakness of the reinforcements and rally again, he, with the wounded hero and the remnant of his gallant force, beat a safe retreat to the garrison.
That evening he sat beside the cot of Joe Fisher, telling him of the events of the day.
“Then Late did not find the general,” the lad said sadly. “I wonder what happened to him?”
“I fear he fell into the hands of the British,” the captain replied.
“Were they badly whipped?” asked the lad.