"These men know best, sir," cried Washington, reining in his horse beside him. "This is the only way to fight the Indians."
The general wrenched his arm away and, fairly foaming at the mouth, spurred his horse forward and beat the men from behind the trees with the flat of his sword.
"Back into the road, poltroons!" he yelled. "Back into the road! I'll have no cowards in my army!"
Washington and Waggoner watched him with set faces, while the men, too astounded to speak, fell slowly back into the open. Not until that moment did I comprehend the blind folly of this man, determined to sacrifice his army to his pride.
We fell back with our men, and there in the road found Peyronie, with the remnant of his company, his face purple and his mouth working with rage. All about us huddled the white-faced regulars,—the pride of the army, the heroes of a score of battles!—crazed by fright, firing into the air or at each other, seeing every moment their comrades falling about them, killed by an unseen foe. I turned sick at heart as I looked at them. Hell could hold no worse.
Hotter and hotter grew the fire, and I realized that it was not the French attacking us at all, but only their Indian allies. Not half a dozen Frenchmen had been seen. It was by the savages of the forest that the best troops in Europe were being slaughtered. Sir Peter Halket was dead, shot through the heart, and his son, stooping to pick him up, fell a corpse across his body. Shirley was shot through the brain. Poison was dead. Totten, Hamilton, Wright, Stone, were dead. Spendelow had fallen, pierced by three bullets. The ground was strewn with dead and wounded. Horses, maddened by wounds, dashed through the ranks and into the forest, often bearing their riders to an awful death. The Indians, growing bolder, stole from the ravines, and scalped the dead and wounded almost before our eyes. I began to think it all a hideous nightmare. Surely such a thing as this could not really be!
Colonel Burton had succeeded in turning some of his men about to face a hill at our right, where the enemy seemed in great number, and we of Waggoner's company joined him. A moment later, Colonel Washington, who alone of the general's aides was left unwounded, galloped up and ordered us to advance against the hill and carry it. With infinite difficulty, a hundred men were collected who would still obey the order. As we advanced, the enemy poured a galling fire upon us. A ball grazed my forehead and sent a rush of blood into my eyes. I staggered forward, and when I had wiped the blood away and looked about me, I saw with amazement that our men had faced about and were retreating. I rushed after them and joined two or three other officers who were trying to rally them. But they were deaf to our entreaties and would not turn.
As I glanced back up the slope down which we had come, I saw a sight which palsied me. Colonel Burton had fallen, seemingly with a wound in the leg, and was slowly dragging himself back toward the lines. Behind him, an Indian was dodging from tree to tree, intent on getting his scalp. Burton saw the savage, and his face grew livid as he realized how rapidly he was being overtaken. In an instant I was charging up the slope, and ran past Burton with upraised sword. The Indian saw me coming, and waited calmly, tomahawk in air. While I was yet ten or twelve paces from him, I saw his hand quiver, and sprang to one side as the blade flashed past my head. With a yell of disappointment, the Indian turned and disappeared in the underbrush. I ran back to Burton, and stooped to raise him.
"Allow me to aid you, Lieutenant Stewart," said a voice at my elbow, and there stood Harry Marsh, as cool as though there were not an Indian within a hundred miles. "I saw you turn back," he added, "and thought you might need some help."
I nodded curtly, for the bullets were whistling about us in a manner far from pleasing, and between us we lifted Burton and started back toward the lines.