But as they reached the rocky jaws of the Susquehanna all was still as death; no flock of birds ever flitted over that stream more silently. About a mile above Fort Jenkins they took to the shore. This fort was in the hands of the patriots, and the chief thirsted to strike a leading blow in the contest. Instead of proceeding to Wintermoot’s Fort, he drew his warriors from the river, and clearing the stockades like a pack of wolves, took the fort by surprise.
But brave men lay waiting behind those rough logs—old men of cool courage and nerves of iron. Three of their number fell dead in front of the fort, where, unconscious of danger, they had been conversing in the starlight. The savages rushed on to complete their work, but they were met with a blaze of musketry, so sudden and furious that half a dozen stalwart forms fell upon the men they had murdered. Then the crack of a single rifle—a shrill cry—the youngest son of Queen Esther leaped into the air, and fell dead upon the sward he had been so eager to bathe with blood.
The skirmish had not lasted half an hour when that band of savages retreated, under shelter of the night, and laying the body of their chief in a canoe, floated down the river with a low, monotonous death-chant, which was lost in the deep solitude of the woods. When they came opposite Wintermoot’s they again lifted their chief and bore him among them into the fort, still wailing out that mournful death-song.
The garrison was aroused; armed men came out and bore the body of the dead brave into the inclosure.
Tahmeroo, who lay awake, waiting the return of her husband, heard the death-wail of her tribe, and followed the sound, pale with apprehension. A group of warriors sat upon the earth, with their faces buried in their robes; the death-song was hushed, but the silence of those stout hearts was more solemn even than the mournful voices had been.
In the centre of this group she saw the prostrate form of a chief, with his gorgeous war-robes lying in heavy masses around him. The Indian girl held her breath and crept forward, looking fearfully down into the face of the dead. It was her father’s brother! She asked no questions, but crouched down on the earth among those silent warriors, and was still as the dead she mourned.
After a little, a young warrior rose from the circle and went out; no one spoke, no one looked up; but they all knew that he was departing to bear to Queen Esther tidings of her son’s death.
Slowly and with mournful steadiness the lone savage crept up the river; he broke the profound stillness of the mountains with the death-cry as he passed along; the lonely whip-poor-will answered him from the woods; and between the pauses of its melancholy wail the sleepless owl hooted him for not dying instead of his chief. It was daybreak when he reached the encampment at Bowman’s Creek. Queen Esther was lying awake in her tent; indeed no one could tell if the old woman ever slept; come upon her at any time in the night—no matter with what tidings—and she was sure to meet you with those vigilant glances that seemed never to relax an instant. When the warrior lifted the mat from her tent, and stood so solemnly in the light of her dying fire, she prolonged that look, till it seemed to cut into him like steel. All at once a gleam of cruel trouble shot into the glance; those stony features moved, and a spasm of agony locked them closer than before. The smoky light could not alone have left those shadows on her face; they were the color of ashes.
He laid the tomahawk, red at the edge, the keen scalping-knife, and the rifle that had belonged to her son down at the old queen’s feet. There was a rustle under her robes, as of dry boughs in winter, and her head drooped slowly forward on her bosom, while her fierce eyes gleamed down on the implements of death colder and sharper than they.
The following morning Aunt Polly rose at an early hour and went vigorously about her multifarious duties, preparing breakfast for herself and Sim, helping to milk the cows, and setting the house in order generally.