“Must be a sharpshooter with an eye on this p’int,” went on the soldier. “If so, wish I could draw a bead on him.”
“The shot came from yonder tree, I saw the smoke,” replied the young soldier, and grated his teeth over the pain his shoulder was causing him.
“I see his cap!” ejaculated the older soldier. Up came his rifle like a flash and down came the hammer on the flint. There was a flash and a crack, and Dave saw a French sharpshooter pitch from the tree and fall on the rocks, dead.
“You got him,” said Dave, grimly. “He’ll never shoot my cousin or me again.” Then he turned back once more, to have his wound bound up, for the blood was flowing freely down his side. He had to wait some time for this, because the surgeon and his assistants had more than they could do, with men dropping every few minutes.
At last it grew dark, and with the coming of night the firing ceased. The French and their Indian allies had withdrawn to a safe distance and gone into camp. At the fort half of the soldiers remained on guard while the others threw themselves on their guns to snatch a bit of rest. The scanty food which remained was divided evenly among all, Washington getting no greater share than that of the commonest private.
What the morrow would bring forth nobody could surmise, yet to tell the truth matters looked very black. The French and Indian force was a large one and through some trustworthy scouts Washington learned that the French commander had sent back to Fort Duquesne for reinforcements.
“We’ll be wiped out to-morrow,” said more than one of the soldiers. “And if they can’t wipe us out they’ll starve us out.” And a good many others said the same.
Dave was thinking more of Henry than of what was going to happen on the morrow. The sufferer had regained consciousness but was deathly weak. Dave’s shoulder now felt stiff but the pain was gone. He sat on the cedar boughs with Henry’s head in his lap.
Late in the evening the French commander sent word to Washington that he desired a parley and old Jacob Van Braam, now a captain of the Virginians, went forth to see what was wanted. It still rained steadily and in that downpour Washington waited for Van Braam’s return. When the old soldier got back the paper he brought was written in French, and he had to translate it by candle-light.
“They want us to surrender,” said Washington, as the paper was translated.