Mass' George: A Boy's Adventures in the Old Savannah

by George Manville Fenn

But I did not fire it. I could only stand and gaze first at one, and then at the other, as I saw the great calm black now frenzied with rage and the thirst for battle. He was bleeding from blows given by the knife of one Indian and the axe of the other, but his wounds only seemed to have made him furious, and he stood there now looking like a giant, holding one of his enemies by the throat, the other by the wrist, in spite of their writhings and desperate efforts to strike him some deadly blow. He looked to me then like a giant in strength; but the Indians were strong too, and though he was rapidly subduing the one whose throat he grasped, the other was gradually wriggling himself free, when, seizing my opportunity, rendered desperate by the position, I raised the heavy piece I held as if it were a club, and brought the barrel down with all my might upon the Indian’s head.

I stepped back sickened by what I had done, as his arm relaxed and he fell prone, while, freed now from one adversary whose axe would the next moment have brained him, Hannibal grasped his remaining enemy with both hands, raised him up, and dashed him heavily upon the earth.

It was time, for Morgan was down, the Indian upon him, his knife raised high to plunge into the poor fellow’s throat, but held back by Morgan’s hand, which was yielding fast.

I stood paralysed and watching, when, with a roar like a wild beast, Hannibal dashed at this last man, and with the axe he had at his waist struck him full in the temple, and he dropped down sidewise quivering in death.

I remember thinking it very horrible as I saw all this bloodshed, but I knew it would have been far more horrible if the savage wretches had killed us. Then every other thought was driven out of my head by the appearance of Hannibal, who was quite transformed. As a rule he was the quiet, gentle-looking black, always ready to obey the slightest command; now he seemed to tower up a ferocious-looking being, with wild glaring eyes looking about for something else to destroy, and had I not caught hold of his arm he would have used the axe he held on the fallen men.

“Under cover, my lad,” said Morgan, who was panting heavily. “Don’t leave that gun. Now Hannibal, quick!”

He led the way in among the trees, where we quickly loaded the discharged pieces, crouching down under bushes, while Hannibal knelt beside us keeping watch, his wild eyes glaring round in every direction for some fresh enemy to attack.

“Nice—narrow—escape that! Master George,” said Morgan, in a low voice, as he gave the ramrod a thud between every two words. “Pretty object I should have looked if I’d had to go back to your father and say you were killed by the Indians. Oh dear! Oh dear! I did hope I’d done killing people to the end of my days, and now look yonder.”

“It was forced upon you, Morgan,” I whispered, as I finished charging one of the pieces.

“Upon me!” cried Morgan. “Oh, come now, Master George, play fair. Don’t get putting on all down to my account. My word! Who’d have thought old Hannibal here could fight like that?”