“Don’t leave me, my children!” he cried; “one blow more—a bold front, and the victory is ours!”
It was all in vain. The ranks were already scattered, the Indians leapt in among them, like ravenous wild beasts. The captains were cut down while striving to rally their companies. Tomahawks and bullets rained and flew after them as they fled. Some were pierced with stone-headed lances; some fell with their heads cleft; some broke away towards Forty Fort, or, making for the river, plunged in, and struggled against the rushing stream for their lives.
No beasts of prey were ever hunted down like those unhappy men. They were shot down everywhere—in the grain fields, in the swamp. Regardless of all cries for mercy, they were chased to the river bank, dragged out from the bushes in which they sought to hide themselves, even back from the waves, or beaten and slaughtered among the stones which smoked with the warm blood poured over them. Thus the pursuit raged opposite Monockonok Island. Towards Forty Fort scenes of equal horror were perpetrated. The Indians rushed, leaping and howling, like hungry wolves, over the plain, cutting off retreat to the fort, and those poor fellows who turned that way were shot and hewed down in scores, or dragged back prisoners, and hurled among the savages for future torture.
For a long time Catharine Montour and her daughter remained absorbed in painful reflection amid the silence of the tent; then, as their thoughts began to revert to surrounding objects, the stillness reigning upon the island roused them at the same moment.
“Mother, how is this? I hear no sound abroad!” exclaimed Tahmeroo, starting from her mother’s arms, and looking apprehensively in her face.
Catharine rose to her feet, and went out into the camp. The island was wholly deserted, save by a few squaws and the usual guard around her tent. In a moment she returned with something of former energy in her manner.
“There is treachery intended here,” she said; “not an Indian is on the island. This bloodshed must be prevented. Hark! there are shots. I hear distant drums—that yell! God help the poor souls that must perish this day!”
“But what can we do, mother? The fight rages now!”
“Give me time to think,” returned Catharine, clasping her hands over her forehead, and striving to force back her old fortitude.
“Oh, may God help me! that angel girl on the island! Tahmeroo, we must save her. I have promised—but the warriors leave me—that bracelet may not be enough!”