George saw in a moment the excellence of the old chief's advice. Tanacharison knew the road, which was comparatively easy, and offered to guide them, and to assist with several of his braves. It was then nine o'clock, and rain had begun to fall in torrents. George retired to his rude shelter of boughs, called together his officers, and announced his intention of attacking this party of fifty Frenchmen. He made a list of forty picked men, and at midnight he caused them to be wakened quietly, and set off without arousing the whole camp.
The wind roared and the rain changed to hail, but still the Virginians, with Washington at their head, kept on through the woods. Sometimes they sank up to their knees in quagmires—again they cut their feet against sharp stones; but they never halted. At daybreak they entered the glen in two files, the Indians on one side, the Virginians on the other, George leading. It was a wild place, surrounded by rocks, with only one narrow cleft for entrance. Just as the last man had entered the alarm was given, and firing began from both parties at the same time. The French resisted bravely, headed by Captain Jumonville, who was the first man to fall; but a quarter of an hour's sharp fighting decided the skirmish, and the French called for quarter. This was George's baptism of fire, and it was the beginning of war between France and England, which was to last, with but a few years' intermission, for more than fifty years.
The prisoners were at once taken back to the American camp, and then sent, under guard, back to Virginia. This little success raised the spirits of the troops very much, but George, with a prophetic eye, knew that as soon as the story of Jumonville's defeat and death reached the French, a formidable force would be sent out against him. He had brave and active spies, who penetrated almost as far as Fort Duquesne, as the French had named Trench's fort, but none of them equalled old Tanacharison. One night, the last of June, he and three other scouts brought the news that the French were advancing, nine hundred strong, and were near at hand. A council of war was called, and it was determined to retreat to Great Meadows, where a better stand could be made, and where it was thought provisions and re-enforcements would meet them. Accordingly at daybreak a start was made. The horses had become so weak from insufficient food that they could no longer drag the light swivels, and the men were forced to haul them. George himself set the example of the officers walking, and, dismounting, loaded his horse with public stores, while he engaged the men, for liberal pay, to carry his own small baggage. It very much disgusted Billy to be thrown out of his comfortable seat in the baggage-wagon, but he was forced to leg it like his betters.
Two days' slow and painful marching brought them to Great Meadows, but, to their intense disappointment, not a man was found, nor provisions of any sort. The men were disheartened, but unmurmuring.
George immediately set them to work felling trees and making such breastworks of earth and rocks as they could manage with their few tools.
"I shall call this place Fort Necessity," he said to his officers; "for it is necessity, not choice, that made me retreat here."
Every hour in the day and night he expected to be attacked, but no attack would have caught him unprepared to resist as best he could with his feeble force. His ceaseless vigilance surprised even those who knew how tireless he was.
At last, on the morning of the 3d of July, just as George had finished making the round of the sentries, he heard, across the camp, a shot, followed by the sudden shriek of a wounded man. The French skirmishers were on the ground, and one of them, being seen stealing along in the underbrush, had been challenged by the sentry, and had fired in reply and winged his man. The alarm was given, and by nine o'clock it was known that a French force of nine hundred men, with artillery, was approaching rapidly. By eleven o'clock the gleam of their muskets could be seen through the trees as they advanced to the attack. Meanwhile not a moment since the first alarm had been lost in the American camp. George seemed to be everywhere at once, animating his men, and seeing that every possible preparation was made. He had posted his little force in the best possible manner, and had instructed his officers to fight where they were, and not to be drawn from their position into the woods, where the French could slaughter them at will.
The French began their fire at six hundred yards, but the Americans did not return a shot until the enemy was within range, when George, himself sighting a swivel, sent a shot screeching into the midst of them. He fully expected an assault, but the French were wary, and, knowing their superiority in force, as well as the longer range of their artillery, withdrew farther into the woods, and began to play their guns on the Americans, who could not fire an effective shot. The French sharp-shooters, too, posting themselves behind trees, picked off the Americans, and especially aimed at the horses, which they destroyed one by one. All during the hot July day this continued. The Americans showed an admirable spirit, and this young commander, with the fortitude of a veteran, encouraged them to resist, but he was too good a soldier not to see that there could be but one issue to it. At every volley from the French some of the Americans dropped, and this going on, hour after hour, under a burning sun, by weary, half-starved men, would have tried the courage of the best soldiers in the world. But the men and their young commander were animated by the same spirit—they must stubbornly defend every inch of ground and die in the last ditch.
Captain Vanbraam, who was second in command, was a man of much coolness, and knew the smell of burning powder well. During the day, standing near him, he said quietly to George: