Gladwyn says: "Britons, you know, never shrink," and, in this one phrase lies the secret of the white man's success against the redskins. For, with order, knowledge of firearms, the construction of fortifications, houses, and redoubts, and obedience to the commands of their officers, this mere handful of soldiers had been able to stand off the overwhelming masses of the enemy with apparent ease. Then, too, combined with a knowledge of fighting, they possessed the spirit which "never shrank." Their hearts were big with courage—that courage for which the Britons have always been noted: that bulldog courage which carried them up the sides of Bunker Hill right into the bullets of the American forces, although they could have easily conquered their opponents by an advance upon the right flank; that resolution which later on was to sacrifice numberless brave men at Modder River and Spion Kop in South Africa needlessly, and, to our way of thinking, unintelligently. For here, as at Bunker Hill, red-coated and tartaned British soldiers marched courageously and firmly, straight up to the breastworks of the enemy, there to be mown down by thousands, when a flanking movement could easily have dislodged the foe. One cannot fail to admire such bravery, for, like Burnsides' frontal attack at Fredericksburg during the Civil War in America, such courage is great and awe-inspiring, but ill-advised. We are thrilled by it, yet we cannot applaud.
While the siege progressed at Detroit, a force gathered at Niagara to relieve the garrison, and, in the meanwhile, the Indians made a violent and fierce attack upon the fortifications upon the New York and Pennsylvania frontier. Fort Le Boeuf and Fort Venango fell before the wiles of the savages and only their smouldering ruins marked where traders, soldiers, homesteaders, and red men had once congregated in apparent peace and good will. At Fort Pitt (formerly Fort Du Quesne), every preparation was made for an attack from the Indians.
This formidable stockade (where now is the city of Pittsburg) had three hundred and thirty soldiers, traders, and hardy backwoodsmen in the garrison, with numbers of women and children. In command was Captain Simeon Ecuyer, a brave Swiss officer who had enlisted with the British and who was as doughty a warrior as the stubborn Gladwyn,—and with an equal contempt for the red men. "I believe from what I hear that I am surrounded by Indians," he wrote to his commanding officer in the settlements, two hundred miles away. "I tremble for our outposts. I neglect nothing to give them a good reception, and I expect to be attacked tomorrow morning. Please God I may be, I am fairly well prepared. Everybody is at work, and I do not sleep; but I tremble lest my messenger should be cut off." Well might he tremble, for the Tuscaroras and the Delawares were gathering in force to attack the fort, burn it to the ground, and, if possible, to massacre the captured garrison. Rumors of terrible outrages upon the settlers came hourly to the ears of the startled soldiers. Men, women and children flocked to the protection of the walls of the fort, while it became dangerous to venture outside the palisades, as the few who did were shot and scalped by lurking Indians. All night the savages fired upon the sentinels, and soon during the day no one dared to put his head above the rampart, because of the hidden redskins on the edge of the forest. It was apparent that the surrounding woods were full of Indians, whose numbers daily increased, though they made no attempt at a general attack upon the frowning log walls of Fort Pitt, where, with courage, cheer, and resolution, those within waited for the onslaught which they knew to be at hand.
Finally, on a bright June day, numbers of painted warriors appeared in the cleared lands behind the fort, drove off the horses which were grazing there, killed a herd of cattle belonging to the soldiers, and then began a hot fire at the stockades, which soon broke with a dull roar from every thicket of the forest. In reply, the garrison turned some howitzers upon the woodland, touched them off, and, as the iron shells burst in the dense underbrush with a loud and ominous report, the frightened red men could be seen scurrying out of harm's way, in every direction. The day wore to a close, and, as darkness settled upon the forest, the flashes from the guns of the Indians grew less; gradually their weird war whoops melted away, and in their place sounded the shrill piping of frogs. As darkness came, occasionally the sharp crack of a rifle warned the sentinels on the ramparts that the savages were still upon the alert.
Next morning gallant Ecuyer was watching the woodland through a glass, when several painted warriors strode from the shade of the trees to the ditch beyond the palisades. One of them stepped forward, and, proclaiming that he was a great chief of the Delawares called Turtle's Heart, addressed the garrison with the following words:
"My brothers, we that stand here are your friends; but we have bad news to tell you. Six great nations of Indians have taken up the hatchet, and have cut off all the English garrisons, excepting yours. They are now on their way to destroy you also.
"My brothers, we are your friends, and we wish to save your lives. What we desire you to do is this: You must leave this fort, with all your women and children, and go down to the English settlements, where you will be safe. There are many bad Indians already here, but we will protect you from them. You must go at once, because if you wait till the six nations arrive here, you will all be killed, and we can do nothing to protect you."
Certainly this was a bold proposal to an old warhorse like Ecuyer, and, like a true English bulldog, he voiced a reply which made the Indians wince. He spoke in loud and eloquent tones, so that all could not fail to hear him.
"My brothers," said he, "we are very grateful for your kindness, though we are convinced that you must be mistaken in what you have told us about the forts being captured. As for ourselves, we have plenty of provisions, and are able to keep the fort against all the nations of Indians that may dare to attack it. We are very well off in this place, and we mean to stay here.
"My brothers, as you have shown yourselves such true friends, we feel bound in gratitude to inform you that an army of six thousand English will shortly arrive here, and that another army of three thousand is gone up the lakes to punish the Ottawas and Ojibwas. A third has gone to the frontiers of Virginia, where they will be joined by your enemies, the Cherokees and Catawbas, who are coming here to destroy you. Therefore, take pity on your women and children, and get out of the way as soon as possible. We have told you this in confidence, out of our great solicitude lest any of you should be hurt, and we hope that you will not tell the other Indians, lest they should escape from our vengeance."