“As you know, part of it was burnt down during the attack. I heard at the fort that Jean Bevoir was repairing it and had taken possession. Well, such are the fortunes of war,” and James Morris sighed deeply.
“Didn’t you save anything, father?”
“Oh, yes, I saved my furs and a good part of the stores. I suspected the attack and sent the things by pack train to Lambert’s post. Yesterday I heard, through a soldier, that Lambert sent everything of his own and mine to Winchester. So the loss is not near so great as it might otherwise have been,” concluded Mr. Morris.
The march through the wilderness was slow and painful and at every half mile Dave had to rest, and most of the others were glad enough to do the same. Once there came an alarm, and Barringford and White Buffalo went forward to investigate. They discovered two grenadiers and a Ranger, who had lost themselves in the woods. These soldiers were glad enough to join them, and this made the little party correspondingly stronger.
They did not dare to fire at any game, and lived entirely on fish taken from brooks flowing into the river and on some corn bread Mr. Morris had with him. Thus three days were spent in the wilderness when, late one afternoon, they came in sight of a soldiers’ camp.
“The Rangers!” cried Dave, and he was right, and soon they were among the Virginians, or rather among what was left of them, for the Rangers had lost nearly three-quarters of their command.
All was still in confusion, for those in charge of the baggage train had fled as soon as the news of the defeat reached them, and the drivers had taken a large number of the horses along. The camp was filled with the wounded, and so many officers were down that in some instances the oldest private had to command what was left of his company. The grenadiers, especially, were utterly downcast and their one thought was to return to some safe English town without delay. They were brave, and on an open field of battle would have done well, but the Indian method of fighting from behind trees, rocks, and bushes unnerved them.
At Will’s Creek there had been erected Fort Cumberland, and to this place of safety the army now directed its footsteps and Washington sent on ahead for extra horses to carry the wounded. The worst of the panic over, Colonel Dunbar assumed command, but this English officer was still so full of fear that he would not listen to any plan of Washington’s for a stand at Fort Cumberland. It would be foolhardy, the French were too powerful and the Indians aiding them too numerous, to dream of such a thing, was the way in which Dunbar reasoned, and in the end he did not stop until he had pushed his way across Pennsylvania to Philadelphia. His sick and wounded he left at Will’s Creek, under the care of the colonists.
Yet no other attack came from the French, and for a good reason. The garrison at Fort Duquesne was much reduced, and as a matter of fact, the “army” that had attacked Braddock’s troops had been nothing but a detachment of several hundred French regulars and Canadians and six or seven hundred Indians! Had this detachment been met as Washington and others wished to meet it, victory it is likely would have been upon the side of the English. As it was, while the fight was going on, the commander at the fort was considering whether he should withdraw in secret or wait and surrender upon honorable terms!
The long, weary march to Will’s Creek told upon poor Dave and when the settlement was gained he looked but the shadow of himself. He was glad to find his Uncle Joe awaiting their arrival and equally glad to obtain permission from Washington to go home on sick leave. With him went Barringford, who was now attached to his protégé more than ever. White Buffalo had left the party when the fort had been sighted, saying he would come in when the snow came. The next day the Indian and his followers were off to avenge the fall of their brethren.