This was the opportunity that had long been waited for, and the order came sharp and short--
"Fire!"
A dozen flashes of fire burst forth from behind the barricade, and a hail of bullets was poured out upon the Indians, and a confused heap of dead and wounded lay beside their fallen comrade, but ere the smoke had cleared away the piercing scream of an eagle rent the air. It was the signal for a general attack given by the Iroquois chief, and before the palefaces had time to reload their pieces, a hundred braves leapt from the cover of the trees, where they had been hidden on three sides of the camp.
The forest rang with their wild whoops, as, brandishing their hatchets and tomahawks, they leapt over the tree trunks and fell upon the voyageurs. A desperate hand-to-hand fight ensued. Frightful blows were given and received. Paleface and redskin fought like demons. Some of the former, seeing the hopelessness of prolonging the fight against such numbers of their fierce and crafty foe, rushed to the river bank, and launching one of the canoes pushed off and threw themselves in, followed by a storm of bullets and arrows.
From that moment the fight was lost, and even those who thus deserted their comrades gained nothing but dishonour and death, for they were quickly overtaken, and killed and scalped.
The rest of the small band still fought on bravely against desperate odds, for they were outnumbered by more than ten to one. Major Ridout seemed to have the strength of ten, for single-handed he encountered four Indians at once, and had stretched two of them on the ground, and wounded a third, when a fierce painted warrior, with a plume of eagle's feathers upon his head, uttered a wild cry and buried his knife in the brave man's heart.
Where were the lads all this time? As soon as the general attack was made, they placed their backs against a pine-tree that stood nearly in the middle of the clearing, and defended themselves against all-comers. They were the last survivors of that little band, and they still fought desperately with their clubbed muskets, which they wielded with a vigour and frenzy that had already sent half-a-dozen Iroquois to the ground.
The end was not far off, however. They had both received several nasty wounds, and Jack was both stunned and bleeding.
"Good-bye, Jamie!" he said, as he sank to the ground.
Jamie felt that he, too, must soon follow him, but when Jack fell he stepped across his body and swung his clubbed musket about so fiercely that the enemy fell back for a minute. An Indian hurled a hatchet, which just missed his head and buried its keen, trembling blade in the tree behind him.