But a moment elapsed, and full two hundred men were engaged in deadly conflict.
Crack—crack—crack, went the rifles, and a sulphury smoke spread a cloud upon the air. As the vapory mass cleared away, some were seen dashing at each other with their empty guns, some twanging their bows from a distance, and others grappling in hand-to-hand combat.
Neither bugle nor drum sent forth its inspiring notes; no cannon rolled its thunder; no rocket blazed; but every now and then the wild war-whoop rung out upon the air, making the blood of the listener run cold. And then came the fierce charging cheer of the troops, and the cries of triumph and vengeance.
While the fight was raging, War-Cloud, observing two Indians making for their prisoners, lashed under the willow tree, uttered the war-cry and started after them at full speed. The savages looked behind them, and seeing but one adversary, gave fight. War-Cloud whirled his tomahawk at the foremost one’s head, but the savage with a quick movement evaded the weapon and sprung forward with his knife. Then there was a desperate struggle of life and death. The bodies of the combatants seemed twined around each other; then one of them fell heavily to the ground. War-Cloud’s antagonist had fallen. But before the scout could whirl about, the other Indian—an active warrior—rushed upon him and bore him down. His knee was pressed on War-Cloud’s breast, and his arm raised on high to drive the deadly blade into his heart! but at this instant Captain Sherwood’s trusty rifle sounded on the air—the savage dropped dead, and the scout was saved.
At length, after an hour of hard fighting, the Tories were completely routed; and but few ever lived to tell the tale of their disaster. After the excitement was over, and while the soldiers were looking after their dead and wounded, the white captives, who had been silent observers of the fray, were released from their fetters. Their joy was great at being restored to liberty again, but their grief was greater for their murdered father. The story of the captives was to this effect:
At an early hour in the evening, and while the old man and his three daughters were gathered round their fireside chatting, their Newfoundland dog sprung to his feet and rushed toward the door, growling fiercely.
His growl shortly increased to a bark—so earnest, that it was evident some one was outside. The door was shut and barred; but the old man, thinking perhaps it might be the soldiers whom he expected, pulled out the bar, and opened the door without inquiring.
He had scarcely shown himself, when the wild whoops of Indians rung on their ears, and a blow from a heavy club prostrated him upon the threshold. In spite of the terrible onset of the brave dog, the savages, white and red, rushed into the house yelling fearfully, and brandishing their weapons. In less than five minutes the house was plundered of every valuable article. The old man, partly recovering, had seized his gun and mounted the stairs, where he was met and butchered outright. When the marauders had finished plundering, they seized their prisoners and made off in haste.
Such was the tale of the three females.
The soldiers were soon collected into ranks, and were ready for marching orders. They had been triumphant, and were in good spirits. Nearly every man of their foe lay dead or dying upon the field, while they had lost but three men and only five wounded. However, in the midst of their exultations, a murmur ran through the crowd, and every man looked at his companion inquiringly. “What had become of their brave leader, Captain Sherwood?” each asked, in a whisper. He had disappeared from their midst.