The Black Eagle; or, Ticonderoga

by G. P. R. James

Edith sat deadly pale and trembling in the hut; but it is not too much to say that but a small portion of her terror was for herself. The battle had begun--the battle in which father and lover were to risk life, in which, among all the human beings destined to bleed and die that day, her love singled out two, while her fancy painted them as the aim of every shot. It was of them she thought, much more than of herself.

The door of the hut was turned, as I have shown, towards the inside of the square; and Captain le Courtois had left it open behind him. But, as Edith sat a little towards one side of the entrance, she had a view, both of a great part of the square itself, and of the whole of the inner front of the western face of the redoubt, along which were posted a few French soldiers and a considerable body of Hurons.

The firing was soon resumed, but in a somewhat different manner from before. There were no longer any volleys, but frequent, repeated, almost incessant, shots, sometimes two or three together, making almost one sound. Twice she saw a French soldier carried across the open space; and laid down at the foot of a tree. One remained quite still where he had been placed; one raised himself for a moment upon his arm, and then sank down again; and Edith understood the signs full well. Clouds of bluish-white smoke then began to roll over the redoubt, and curl along as the gentle wind carried it towards the broad trail by which she had been brought thither. The figures of the Indians became indistinct, and looked like beings seen in a dream.

Still the firing continued, drawing apparently more towards the western side, and still the rattle of the musketry was mingled with loud cheers from without.

But suddenly those sounds were crossed, as it were, with a wild yell, such as Edith had heard only once in life before, but which now seemed to issue from a thousand throats, instead of a few. It came from the northwest, right in the direction of the broad trail. The French soldiers and the Hurons, who had been kneeling to fire over the breastwork, sprang upon their feet, looked round, and from that side, too, burst forth at once the war-whoop.

"O missy, missy, let us run!" cried Sister Bab, catching Edith's wrist.

"Hush, hush, be quiet!" ejaculated the young lady. "These may be friends coming."

As she spoke, pouring on like a dark torrent was seen a crowd of dusky forms rushing along the trail, emerging from amongst the trees, and spreading over the ground; and, amidst them all, a youth dressed like an Indian, and mounted on a grey horse which Edith recognized as her own. The sight confused and dazzled her. Feathers and plumes and war-paints, rifles and tomahawks and knives, grim countenances and brandished arms, swam before her like the things that fancy sees for a moment in a cloud; while still the awful war-whoop rang horribly around, drowning even the rattle of the musketry, and seeming to rend the air. Two figures only were distinct: the youth upon the horse, and the towering form of Black Eagle himself, close to the lad's side.

Attacked in flank and front and rear, the French and Hurons were broken in a moment, driven from the breastworks, beat back into the centre of the square, and separated into detached bodies. Still they fought with desperation; still the rifles and the muskets pealed; still the cheer, and the shout, and the war-whoop, resounded on the air. A large party of the French soldiery were cast between the huts and the Oneidas, and the young man on the horse strove in vain, tomahawk in hand, to force his way through.

But there are episodes in all combats; and a pause took place when a gigantic Huron rushed furiously against the Black Eagle. It may be that they were ancient enemies; but, at all events, each seemed animated with the fury of a fiend. Each cast away his rifle, and betook himself to the weapons of his race--the knife and the tomahawk; but it is almost impossible to describe, it was almost impossible to see, the movements of the two combatants, such was their marvellous rapidity. Now here, now there, they turned, the blows seeming to fall like hail, the limbs writhing and twisting, the weapons whirling and flashing round. Each was the giant of his tribe, each its most renowned warrior; and each fought for more than life--for the closing act of a great renown. But the sinewy frame of the Black Eagle seemed to prevail over the more bulky strength of his opponent; the Huron lost ground; he was driven back to the great pine-tree near the centre of the square; he was forced round and round it; the knife of the Black Eagle drank his blood, but missed his heart, and only wounded him in the shoulder.