“Fire!” I cried, and the bullets flew onward.
Yells from within the stockade told that some had been hit, probably through the loops. Immediately I ordered all my men to drop flat on their faces. As I expected, the volley from the fort that replied passed harmlessly over our heads.
“Now for it!” I cried.
“Forward, in the name of the King, and for the honor of Salem!” was the answer from the men.
I was leading the advance, and in less than a minute it seemed to me, we were at the stockade. The men strove to climb over, but were fiercely beaten back by the French and Indians. Guns were used as clubs now, for there had been no time to reload on either side. Man after man of my little force was hurled backward from the top of the stockade, some suffering grievously. It was cut and slash and thrust with me, without stopping to take breath. I was on top of the hickory fence, supporting myself by a small foothold on a larger tree than some of the others. Those below me, inside the stockade, thrust at me, but I gave back as good as they sent, and my sword turned red.
A big Indian, hideous in paint, leaped to the top and struck at my head with his keen little axe. I dodged the blow, and the weapon buried itself to the middle in a sapling. Then, while he vainly tried to pull his tomahawk out, I raised my sword and brought it down on his naked head, shearing through his scalp lock and nigh cutting him to the chin. He fell back, ugly enough in his death agony, and his hand clutched the axe so strongly that it came out from where the wood clipped it.
Now there was a sudden rally to this part of the stockade. I had time to see that soldiers were pouring from around the front, or seaward, side of the fort, before I leaped back to the ground. This told me more plainly than a message that the sloops no longer sufficed to hold the enemy’s attention. The whole force of the fort would now engage us. I hastily retreated my men, until we had put ourselves beyond musket shot. Then we halted to take account of the damage we had received, and to plan how we might save ourselves from utter annihilation; for it would not be long ere we should have to battle against fearful and heavy odds.
Three of our men had been laid low at the first volley from the fort, and two at the second. Then, in the assault on the stockade, several had received sword thrusts, which must eventually cause their deaths. A few suffered minor hurts, and four were killed outright, so that, in all we had been deprived of eleven men. I looked toward the fort. There seemed to be some movement inside, and presently the great gate swung open. Half a dozen naked savages came out uttering their war cry. Then, while my heart turned faint with horror, I watched the Indians approach the bodies of our dead that were just without the palisade. There was a gleam of steel flashing in the sunlight above their earth-pillowed heads, then the bloody scalp trophy was snatched from them; from some ere the breath of life had departed. One poor fellow, Peter Rankin (he had been next to me when we stormed the stockade), had received a cut in the breast from one of the tomahawks. He yet breathed when his hideous tormentors stooped over him. As we looked on in anguish we saw Rankin rise to a sitting position. The Indian never paused. His knife described a quick circle, and the blood red scalp was torn off. Then the savage, mercifully, though he did not intend it so, thrust his knife into poor Rankin’s heart, and a groan went up from my men.
But in the midst of it a rifle cracked. The Indian threw up his hands, one holding Rankin’s scalp, and, with a screech, pitched forward, dead. I looked around. Samuel Hopkins, the best marksman in the Colony, had, with his gun, crept forward in the grass when he saw the Indians come out. He it was who had taken swift vengeance on Rankin’s slayer. The groan of the men was turned into a wild cheer, and the other Indians fled in confusion to the protection of the stockade, slamming the gate behind them.
“There is one devil the less,” said Hopkins as he came back among us, and several of his comrades silently pressed his hand.