“Where is Major Lewis, corporal?” Captain Bullitt shouted to Robert.
“I don’t know, sir. I was sent on a scout early in the morning.”
“He was afterward ordered back here to the baggage so as to give the Regulars the glory!” stormed Captain Bullitt. “Now he’s gone on his own hook to help the Regulars! Well, they didn’t want the Buckskins, but they’ll be glad of ’em now! Quick, men! We’ll fort behind the baggage and save what men we can. We’ll not run from the red rascals.”
In a moment the rout poured in, with the Indians and the French close behind. Aye, but that was a fight! The fifty “backwoodsmen” of Captain Bullitt gave ball for ball. The war-whoop of Scarouady sounded high; the musket in Robert the Hunter’s hands grew hot.
They were savage, those Indians who usually feared the Long Knives; and the French mingled with them. At last Captain Bullitt waited until they had crowded to within thirty feet; then he gave the word: “Fire!” The muskets spoke together, mowing down the enemy. “With the bayonet: Charge!” That cleared the field.
The wagons were loaded at lightning speed, the wounded were put aboard, no more fugitives were coming in; and they all hastened back for Loyalhannon.
It was learned later that Major Grant and Major Lewis had both been captured. Major Lewis (a strapping man, very strong) had killed a warrior in hand-to-hand fight before he surrendered.
Altogether Major Grant had lost two hundred and seventy-three out of eight hundred; and of the “Provincials” Captain Bullitt was the only officer unhurt.