Some minutes were spent in arranging the order of our march. It was deemed prudent that a few of the more skilled of the men should go forwards as scouts on foot, and thoroughly explore the woods before the advance of the main body. This would secure us from any sudden attack, in case the enemy had formed an ambuscade. The old hunters were once more to act as trackers, and lead the van.
These arrangements were completed, and we were on the point of starting—the men had mounted their horses, the scouts were already entering the edge of the timber, when, all on a sudden, several shots were heard, and at the same time, the alarm-cries of the sentries who had fired them. The four had discharged their pieces almost simultaneously.
The woods appeared to ring with a hundred echoes. But they were not echoes—they were real reports of rifles and musketry; and the shrill war-cry that accompanied them was easily distinguished above the shouting of our own sentries. The Indians were upon us.
Upon us, or, to speak less figuratively, around us. The sentries had fired all at once, therefore, each must have seen Indians in his own direction. But it needed not this to guide us to the conclusion that we were surrounded. From all sides came the fierce yells of the foe—as if echoing one another—and their bullets whistled past us in different directions. Beyond doubt, the glade was encompassed within their lines.
In the first volley two or three men were hit, and as many horses. But the balls were spent and did but little damage.
From where they had fired, the glade was beyond the “carry” of their guns. Had they crept a little nearer, before delivering their fire, the execution would have been fearful—clumped together as we were at the moment.
Fortunately, our sentries had perceived their approach, and in good time given the alarm.
It had saved us.
There was a momentary confusion, with noise—the shouting of men—the neighing and prancing of horses; but above the din was heard the guiding voice of old Hickman.
“Off o’ yer horses, fellers! an’ take to the trees—down wi’ ye, quick! To the trees, an’ keep ’em back! or by the tarnal arthquake, every mother’s son o’ us’ll git sculped! To the trees! to the trees!”