Ticonderoga: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley

by G. P. R. James

Edith sat, deathly 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, amidst 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, toward the inside of the square; and Captain Le Comtois had left it open behind him. Thus, as Edith sat a little toward one side of the entrance, she had a view of one side 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. Thrice 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 very gentle wind carried it toward 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. But still the firing continued, drawing, apparently, more toward the western side; still the rattle of the musketry was mingled with loud cheers from without. But suddenly those sounds were crossed, as it were, by a wild yell such as Edith had only heard once in her 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.

"Oh, Missy! Missy! Let us run!" cried Sister Bab, catching Edith's wrist.

"Hush! hush! Be quiet!" said 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, spreading rapidly over the ground, and amidst them all a tall youth, equipped like an Indian, and mounted on a gray 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 ear. Two figures only were distinct; the youth upon the horse, and the towering figure 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, beaten back into the center of the square, and separated into detached bodies. But 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 even a pause took place when the gigantic Huron chief 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 peculiar weapons of his race--the knife and the tomahawk; but it is impossible to describe, it was almost impossible to see the two combatants, such was their marvelous 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, 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 center 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.

Those nearest the scene had actually paused for a moment in the contest, to witness the fierce single combat going on; but in other parts of the square the bloody fight was still continued. For an instant the French party in the front of the huts, by desperate efforts, seemed likely to overpower the Oneidas before them. A tall French grenadier bayoneted the Night Hawk before Edith's eyes, and then, seeing the great Huron chief staggering under the blows of his enemy, he dashed forward, and, not daring in the rapid whirls of the two combatants, to use his bayonet there, he struck the Black Eagle on the head with the butt of his musket. The blow fell with tremendous force, and drove the old chief to his knee, with one hand upon the ground. His career seemed over, his fate finished. The Huron raised his tomahawk high to strike, the Frenchman shortened his musket to pin the Black Eagle to the earth. But at that moment a broad, powerful figure dropped down at once from the branches of the pine tree above, between the Oneida and the grenadier--bent slightly with his fall, but even in rising, lifted a rifle to his shoulder, and sent the ball into the Frenchman's heart. With a yell of triumph, Black Eagle sprang up from the ground, and in an instant his tomahawk was buried in the undefended head of his adversary.

Edith beheld not the close of the combat, for in the swaying to and fro of the fierce struggle the French soldiery had by this time been driven past the huts, and the eye of one who loved her was upon her.

"Edith! Edith!" cried the voice of Walter Prevost, forcing the horse forward through the struggling groups, amid shots, and shouts, and falling blows. She saw him, she recognized him, she stretched forth her arms toward him; and, dashing between the two parties, Walter forced the horse up to the door of the hut and caught her hand.