CHAPTER XXXI
PONTIAC RECOGNIZES THE TOTEM
The vexatious calm lasted for two days. During this time the schooner Gladwyn caught only such puffs of wind as carried her a few miles up the river, and left her again anchored in the very narrowest part of the channel, still some ten miles below the fort. No sign of human presence had been discovered by those on board, no sound came from the solemn forests. Shy water-fowl swam fearlessly on the unruffled current that gurgled against the schooner's bow, and for aught their senses could discover, her people might have been the sole occupants of that beautiful, treacherous wilderness.
At sunset the distant boom of a heavy gun cheered their hearts with the knowledge that Detroit still held out, and redoubled their desire to gain its safe haven after their tedious voyage. Officers and men walked the deck impatiently, and searched the sky for wind clouds, while the sailors whistled shrilly for a breeze. But none came and the night descended calm, dark, and still. As the slow hours dragged themselves away, the ship's company, weary of the monotony of their watch, sought their sleeping places, or found such scant comfort as the decks afforded, until of them all only the sentry was awake.
Still the schooner was not unprepared for an attack. Her broadside guns were loaded to the muzzle with grape and musket balls. Every man on board was armed, even as he slept, and her only danger lay in being boarded by an overwhelming number of the enemy, against whom the heavy guns would thus be rendered ineffective. But the night wore on, and he made no sign. The sentry relieved at midnight reported no cause for alarm. The one who went off duty two hours later gave a similar assurance of continued safety. His successor yawned sleepily as he paced to and fro, and shivered with the chill that had crept into the night. A slight mist was rising from the water, and through it even the black outline of the forest was undistinguishable. As nothing could be seen, the sentry gave over his pacing, and, leaning against the foremast, devoted himself to listening. He even closed his eyes to improve his hearing, and so stood halt musing, half dreaming of his distant English home, until, suddenly from out of the blackness, there rang a shout of warning. It was instantly followed by another, and a confused tumult on the water at no great distance.
As the startled sentry echoed the alarm and sprang to the bulwarks, he caught a glimpse of moving objects sweeping down on the slumbering vessel. In another minute the enemy would have swarmed irresistibly over her sides, and her fate would have been sealed. But, ere half that time had elapsed, there burst from her such a blaze of cannon and musketry that the night was illumined as though by a flash of lightning. The schooner trembled to her keel with the concussion. The advancing canoes were so torn and riddled, by the hail of grape and bullets, that several of them sank, a score of their occupants were killed, many more were wounded, and the survivors fled in consternation to the shore. From there, behind a breastwork of logs, they opened a harmless fire that was quickly silenced by the schooner's guns. Soon afterwards, a favoring breeze springing up, she weighed anchor and made her way in safety to the fort, to which she brought not only reinforcements of troops, but a supply of ammunition and provisions, without which the garrison must speedily have surrendered.
On the very night of all these happenings, the canoe containing Donald Hester and Paymaster Bullen entered the Detroit river, and began to stem its swift current, moving silently and in blackest shadows. Hoping to run the long gantlet of the channels, and reach the fort before daylight, they strained every nerve to the attainment of this purpose. They, too, had heard the defiant boom of the distant sunset gun, announcing to all the forest world that Detroit was still held for England's king, and the sound gave them a new courage.
They had paddled for hours, and knew that midnight must be long past, when, without the warning of sight or sound, they suddenly discovered their craft to be surrounded by moving shadows. These were canoes headed across the stream, and instantly Donald turned his craft in the same direction, as though it belonged to the ghostly fleet. It was a terrible situation, and one in which the slightest mistake would prove fatal. Donald noticed Bullen's start on the discovery of their danger, and blessed him for the coolness with which he continued the noiseless dip of his paddle. His hope was to work toward the outer edge of the fleet, and then slip away in the mist-clouds that were rising thinly from the water before the other side of the river should be reached. At the same time he wondered where these canoes could have come from, and what was the cause of their mysterious movements; for, thinking that the schooner he had seen two days before must long since have reached the fort, it did not occur to him that she could be the object of attraction.
Bullen was the first to see it. With a choking gasp he leaned back and whispered hoarsely, "The schooner! We must warn them!"
"Certainly," replied Donald, promptly, as though it were a matter of course that they should sacrifice themselves to save their friends. Then he raised a shout so loud and far-reaching that it seemed as though it must be heard even at the distant fort. It was instantly echoed by another from Bullen. Then an Indian canoe crashed into theirs, and in a moment they were struggling with half a dozen infuriated savages. Ere the struggle was concluded, there came a blaze of fire, a crash of thunder, the rending of wood, shrieks, and yells. To Donald also came oblivion; while Bullen first found himself in the water, then dragged from it into a canoe, and a moment later a helplessly bound captive at the mercy of an enraged foe.