The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a handful, but they seemed resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Our horses pranced and bounded and could hardly be restrained as the balls whistled among them. I drew off a little and gazed upon my husband and father, who were yet unharmed, I felt that my hour was come, and endeavored to forget those I loved and prepare myself for my approaching fate.
This seems to be the moment where her narrative diverges from that of Mrs. Heald, who evidently followed the troops, as she was caught between a cross-fire of the Indians, whom the advance had left on its flanks and rear, and there received her wounds. Mrs. Helm's subsequent narrative shows that she was, when rescued, unwounded and near the Like.
While I was thus engaged, the surgeon, Dr. Van Voorhees, came up. He was badly wounded. His horse was shot under him and he had received a ball in his leg. Every muscle of his face was quivering with the agony of terror. He said to me:
"Do you think they will take our lives? I am badly wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we might purchase our lives by promising a large reward. Do you think there is any chance?"
"Dr. VanVoorhees," said I, "do not let us waste the few moments that yet remain to us in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few minutes we must appear before the bar of God. Let us make what preparation is yet in our power."
"O, I cannot die!" exclaimed he. "I am not fit to die—if I had but a short time to prepare—death is awful!"
I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded and nearly down, was still fighting with desperation on one knee. "Look at that man," said I; "at least he dies like a soldier."
"Yes," replied the unfortunate man, with a gasp, "but he has no terrors of the future. He is an unbeliever."
When we read this remarkable dialogue—remarkable as occurring amid the rattle of musketry on a battle-field where the narrators' friends were perishing in a hopeless struggle with an overpowering force of savage foes—we remember that Mrs. Kinzie's book did not assume to be history; was not written as a grave and literal record of things as they were; a statement carefully scrutinized to see that no unjust slur is cast upon any character, even so unimportant a one as the poor wounded, dying surgeon. Mrs. Helm, on the dreadful day, was a mere girl-wife of seventeen years, and was a woman of thirty-seven when Mrs. Kinzie transcribed the artless tale into Wau-Bun, a book which reads like a romance, and was meant so to be read.
The utterance of these admirable sentiments while still in sight of Ensign Ronan, mortally wounded, yet fighting with desperation on one knee, again puts us in doubt as to Mrs. Helm's location on the field; but the next part of her story shows that she was not far from the water.