Everett-Green Evelyn
French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America
Book 3: Disaster
Chapter 1: A Tale Of Woe
The intrepidity of the officer in command, and the alertness and courage of the Rangers, had saved Fort William Henry from one threatened disaster.
When the French had fairly retreated, after having been forced to content themselves with the burning of the boats and the unfinished sloop and certain of the surrounding huts and buildings, the English found out from their prisoners how great their peril had been. For the French force sent against them had been a strong one, well equipped, and hopeful of surprising the place and carrying it by a coup de main.
Failing in this, they had made a show of hostility, but had not really attempted anything very serious. The season was against anything like a settled siege, and they had retreated quickly to their own quarters.
But this attack was only to be the prelude to one on a very different scale already being organized at headquarters. The English heard disquieting rumours from all quarters, and turned eager eyes towards England and their own colonies from whence help should come to them, for their numbers were terribly thinned by disease, and death in many forms had taken off pretty well a third of their number.
Rogers himself had been attacked by smallpox, and upon his recovery he and the large body of the Rangers betook themselves to the woods and elsewhere, preferring the free life of the forest, with its manifold adventures and perils, to the monotonous life in an unhealthy fort.
But Fritz remained behind. When Rogers left he was not fit to accompany him, having been suffering from fever, though he had escaped the scourge of smallpox. He had felt the death of Charles a good deal. He had become attached to the strange, half-crazed man who had been his special comrade for so long. It seemed like something wanting in his life when his care was no longer required by any one person. Indeed all the Rangers missed their white-headed, wild-eyed, sharp-eared recruit; and as the saying is, many a better man could better have been spared.
Stark went with Rogers, too much the true Ranger now to be left behind. Fritz intended to follow them as soon as he was well enough. Meantime he had formed a warm friendship with two young officers lately come to the fort with the new commander, Colonel Monro-one of them being Captain Pringle, and the other a young lieutenant of the name of Roche.
Colonel Monro was a Scotchman, a brave man and a fine soldier. Those under his command spoke of him in terms of warm and loving admiration. Fritz heard of some of his achievements from his new friends, and in his turn told them of his own adventures and of the life he had led during the past two years.
"We have heard of the Rangers many a time and oft," cried Roche. "We had thought of offering ourselves to Rogers as volunteers; but men are so sorely wanted for the regular army and the militia that our duty seemed to point that way. But I should like well to follow the fortunes of the hardy Rogers."
It was true indeed that men were sorely wanted at Fort William Henry. Colonel Monro looked grave and anxious as he examined its defences. It was an irregular bastioned square, built of gravel and earth, crowned by a rampart of heavy logs, and guarded by ditches on three sides, and by the lake on the north. But it was not strong enough to stand a very heavy assault, although it was provided with seventeen cannons, besides some mortars and swivels.
The garrison numbered at this time something over two thousand; but there were many sick amongst these, and sickness was inclined to spread, to the grave anxiety of the commander.
Fourteen miles away to the south lay Fort Edward, and General Webb was there with some fifteen hundred men. He had sent on as many men as he felt able to spare some short time before, in response to an appeal from Colonel Monro. Disquieting rumours of an advance from Ticonderoga were every day coming to their ears. Summer was at its height, and if a blow were to be struck, it would certainly be soon.
A scouting party was sent out under the command of a certain Colonel Parker, in order to learn the strength of the enemy and what they were about. Three days passed in anxious suspense, and as nothing was heard of the scouting party, Fritz begged leave to go forth with a handful of men to look for them, promising not to expose himself or them to danger. As he knew the forest so well, and was an experienced Ranger, leave was quickly obtained, and Pringle and Roche were permitted to be of the company.
They started with the first dawn of the summer's morning; but they had not gone far before they came upon traces of their companions. Fritz's quick eyes saw tracks in the forest which bespoke the near neighbourhood of Indians, and this made them all proceed with great caution. The tracks, however, were some days old, he thought, and led away to the westward. At one spot he pointed out to his companions certain indications which convinced him that a large number of Indians had lately been lying there.
"Pray Heaven it has not been an ambush sent to outwit and overpower our men!" he said. "What would those raw lads from New Jersey do if suddenly confronted by a crew of yelling Indians? I trust I am no coward myself, but the sound of that awful war whoop thrills me still with a kind of horror; it has been the forerunner of many a tragedy to the white man out in wildernesses such as this."
"I have heard it once," said Pringle, with an expressive gesture, "and I could well wish never to hear it again, did not duty to King and country drive me willingly forth to fight against these dusky savages, who make of these fair lands a veritable hell upon earth.
"Hark! what is that?"
It was like the sound of a faint cry not so very far away. They listened, and it was presently repeated. Fritz started forward at a run.
"That is no Indian voice," he exclaimed; "it is one of our men calling for aid. He has heard our voices."
Followed by the rest of the party, Fritz ran forward, and soon came out into a more open glade, commanded by the ridge where he had observed the signs of Indian occupation. As he did so he uttered a startled exclamation, which was repeated in all kinds of keys by those who came after. For in this glade lay the bodies of full fifty of their soldiers, for the most part stripped and scalped; and the place was so trodden and bloodstained as to show plainly that it had been the scene of a bloody conflict.
Crawling forth from a little sheltered gorge was a wan, dishevelled figure, bloodstained and ghastly. And Fritz, springing forward, caught the lad in his strong arms, whilst he fell to feeble sobbing in the plenitude of his thankfulness and relief.
When he was fed and heartened up he had a terrible tale to tell.
It had been as Fritz thought. A party of Indians had been crouching in the forest, and had fallen upon the company unawares. Colonel Parker had not been wise. He had divided his men into two companies. One had gone by boats, and one had skirted through the forest. What had happened to the boats the lad could not tell. He had been one of the very few survivors of the land party, and he owed his escape to his having fallen wounded and breathless into the little cleft in the rocks hidden by the thick undergrowth, so that the Indians did not find him when they made their search after scalps and accoutrements.
Crouching amongst the bushes, half fainting from terror, the lad had seen it all.
"They scalped them one by one, yelling and shouting and dancing. They cared not whether they were dead or not. Oh, it was horrible, horrible! They lighted a fire to burn some of the prisoners, and danced around it yelling and jeering as their victims died. Oh, I can never forget the sight! Every moment I thought they would find me. I thought of all the things I had heard that savages did to their prisoners. If I had had my sword, I would have run it through my heart. But I had nothing, and presently I suppose I fainted, for I can remember no more; and when I woke they had all gone, and only the bodies lay about beside me. They had taken off their own dead; but I durst not come out, lest they should come back and find me, and I did not know where I was.
"There was water in the brook, or I should have died; and I used to crawl out and drink, and go and hide myself again. And last of all I heard English voices, and called out; and that is all I can tell you."
They made a litter and carried the lad back to the fort, where he lay tossing in fever for many a long day to come. It was evil news that they had for their comrades; and it was not more cheering when stragglers from the scouting party came back by twos and threes, all with the same tale. The Indians were overrunning all the forests and lakes. They had mustered around the French camp by hundreds and thousands, and were scouring the woods everywhere, under no sort of discipline, excited, rebellious, rapacious, yet too useful as allies not to be humoured by those who had summoned them to their aid.
All had horrid tales to tell of cannibal feasts, and of the savage treatment of prisoners. Some declared they had seen French officers and ecclesiastics striving to interfere, but that the Indians paid no manner of heed to them.
"There was a young priest who saw them eating human flesh at their fire, and he came up and rebuked them. I was sitting by. I had a cord round my neck. Sweat was pouring from me, for I knew I should be the next victim. They looked at the priest, and one young Indian cried out in French, 'You have French taste, I have Indian; this is good meat for me. Taste it yourself, and see if you cannot learn to like it too!' Whereat all the rest laughed aloud. But the priest rebuked them again, and offered money if they would give me up; and presently they did, though rather against their will. They were sending some prisoners to Montreal, and I was to have gone there, too; but in the night I escaped, and as I knew something of the forest, I have got back safe and sound."
Tales like these came pouring in as the survivors struggled back to the fort. All were agreed that the Indians were very numerous and very fierce, and it was said by all that the muster of the French seemed to be very strong.
Anxiety and fear reigned throughout the fort. Fritz almost lived upon the lake in his boat, watching for the first signs of the enemy's approach. That a great part of it would come by water he did not doubt. And sometimes he would leave his boat in a creek, and climb some adjacent height, from whence he could scan the surface of the lake, and see what was stirring there.
Roche was his companion on those excursions; and the two had climbed together to a commanding height, when upon the dawn of a glorious midsummer morning they saw the long-expected flotilla covering the lake and making headway up it.
What a sight it was! The hearts of the onlookers seemed to stand still within them as they looked. And yet it was a magnificent spectacle. Myriads and myriads of Indian canoes like flocks of waterfowl seemed swarming everywhere, whilst from two to three hundred bateaux conveyed the French and Canadian soldiers. Then there were great platforms bearing the heavy guns, and rowed by huge sweeps, as well as being assisted by the bateaux; whilst the blaze of colour formed by the uniforms of the various battalions formed in itself a picture which had seldom been seen in these savage solitudes.
"We shall have our work cut out to face such odds!" cried Fritz, as he turned to dash down the hill and regain his canoe. But Roche laid a hand upon his arm, and pointed significantly in another direction.
Fritz looked, and a smothered exclamation, almost like a groan, broke from him.
Far away through the mazes of the forest, skirting round towards the doomed fort by a road parallel with the lake, was a large body of troops-how large the spectators could not guess, but they saw enough to tell them that it was a very considerable detachment. Such an army as the one now marching upon Fort William Henry had not been seen there before. To those who knew the weakness of the fort and of its garrison it seemed already as though the day were lost.
Moreover these men knew that the great Marquis de Montcalm himself was coming this time to take personal command, and his name inspired respect and a certain fear. He was known to be a general of considerable distinction; it was felt that there would be no blundering when he was at the head of the expedition.
To fly back to the fort with these ominous tidings was but the work of a few short hours. In a moment all was stir and bustle. The soldiers were not to be disheartened. They were ready and almost eager for the battle, having become weary of inaction and suspense. But the face of Colonel Monro was grave and stern, and he called Fritz aside presently and conferred with him apart.
"I must send a messenger to Fort Edward to General Webb, to report to him our sorry plight. He has said that he can spare no more men; but this extremity of ours should be told him. Think you that you can take a letter safely to him? You Rangers are the best of messengers; and you have seen this great armament, and can speak with authority concerning it. Tell him how sore our need is. It may be that he can hurry up the reinforcements, or that they may be already on their way. Even a few hundreds would be better than none. At least he should know our need."
Fritz was ready in a moment to take the message, but he had small hope of any result, and he saw that the brave Colonel had little either. General Webb was a man upon whose courage and generalship several aspersions had already been cast. If ever he was to regain confidence and show these aspersions to be untrue, this was the time to show himself in his true colours. But it was with no confidence that Fritz set forth upon his errand.
Not long ago General Webb had visited the fort, and had given certain orders and had spoken brave words about coming to command in person should need arise; but he had returned to Fort Edward the following day, and had then sent the reinforcements which were all he was able to spare. It remained to be seen whether he would fulfil his promise when he knew that the attack of the enemy might be expected every hour.
Fritz rode in hot haste to the fort and asked for the General. He brought news of urgency, he told them, and was instantly shown to the General's quarters. He stood in silence whilst the letter which Fritz brought was opened and read; then he abruptly asked the tall young Ranger what it was he had seen.
Fritz told his tale in simple, graphic words, the General marching up and down the room meantime, evidently in some perturbation of spirit; but all he said at the close was:
"Go back and tell Colonel Monro that I have no troops here which I can safely withdraw, but that I have sent, and will send, expresses to the provinces for help."
Fritz was too much the soldier to make reply. He bowed and retired, well knowing that no express sent to New England could be of the smallest service now. It was with a bitter sense of failure that he took the fresh horse provided for him and made all speed back to the camp.
The road was still clear, but how long it would remain so there was no knowing. Swarms of Indians were drawing around them. If succour did not come quickly, it would arrive too late.
Monro received the message in silence, and continued to strengthen his own defences as best he might. The next day brought the enemy full in view, and the numbers of the hostile host astonished though they did not dismay the brave little garrison.
Once more Monro sent forth Fritz with a letter to the General.
"The French are upon us," he wrote, "both by land and water. They are well supplied with artillery, which will make sad havoc of our defences, for these, you have seen for yourself, are none of the strongest. Nevertheless the garrison are all in good spirits, and eager to do their duty. I make no doubt that you will send us a reinforcement, for we are very certain that a part of the enemy will soon get possession of the road, and in that case our condition would become very serious."
Again Fritz was entrusted with this letter; again he made the rapid night journey over the familiar road.
This time he was not admitted to the General's presence, and after he had remained at Fort Edward about an hour and had been refreshed, a message came to say that General Webb had received the letter and considered it, but could make no other reply than he had done the previous day.
"Then God help us," said the Scotch veteran when this message was brought him, "for vain is the help of man!"
And although he went about the fort with as calm and cheerful a mien as before, he was certain in his own heart that Fort William Henry was now doomed.
"They are surrounding us on all sides," cried Roche, as soon as Fritz appeared upon the ramparts with his disheartening message, which, however, he kept for the moment to himself. "See, they are working their way through the forest to the rear, just beyond our range. Soon we shall be hemmed in, and they will bring up their guns. We have done what we can for these poor walls; but they will not long stand the cannonade of all those guns we see lying yonder on the platoons upon the lake."
"We must hope that the militia from the provinces will come up before their preparations are complete," said Fritz. "They should be on their way by now. But delay and procrastination have ever marked our methods through this war. Nevertheless the men are in good spirits; they are eager for the fight to begin. I marvel at their courage, seeing how great are the odds. But even the sick seemed fired by martial ardour!"
It was so. The long inaction of the winter and spring had been wearisome and disheartening. It was impossible for the soldiers to doubt that they would receive help from without now that it was known that the enemy was actually upon them. Moreover, they all knew, and some remembered, how the assault of a few months back had been repulsed; and not realizing the different scale upon which this one was to be conducted, were full of hopeful confidence and emulation.
Before hostilities actually commenced, Colonel Monro summoned his officers about him. Great excitement prevailed in the fort, for it was known that a messenger had been admitted under a flag of truce, and that he brought a letter from the Marquis de Montcalm. It was to the reading of this letter that Monro invited his officers.
"We have to deal with an honourable foe, gentlemen," said the veteran, looking at those about him, "as you will know when I read to you his words. 'I owe it to humanity,' so writes M. de Montcalm, 'to summon you to surrender. At present I can restrain the savages, and make them observe the terms of a capitulation, as I might not have power to do under other circumstances; and the most obstinate defence on your part can only retard the capture of the place a few days, and endanger an unfortunate garrison which cannot be relieved, in consequence of the dispositions I have made. I demand a decisive answer within an hour.' That, gentlemen, is the message brought to us. What answer shall we return to our high-minded adversary?"
There was only one word in the mouths of all.
"No surrender! no surrender!" they called aloud, waving their swords in the air; and the cry was taken up by those without, and reached the soldiers upon the ramparts, and the welkin rang with the enthusiastic shout:
"No surrender! no surrender!"
By this time the Indians were swarming about close outside the ramparts, and hearing this cry and knowing its meaning, they looked up and gesticulated fiercely.
"You won't surrender, eh?" bawled in broken French an old Indian chief. "Fire away then and fight your best; for if we catch you after this, you shall get no quarter!"
The response to this threat was the heavy boom of the cannon as Fort William Henry discharged its first round of artillery.
For a moment it produced immense effect amongst the swarms of painted savages, who scuttled away yelling with fear; for though well used to the sound of musketry, and having considerable skill with firearms themselves, they had never heard the roar of big guns before, and the screaming of the shells as they whistled overhead filled them with terror and amaze.
They were intensely eager for the French guns to be got into position, and were a perfect nuisance to the regular soldiers, as they worked with intrepid industry at their trenches and mounds. But before long even the Indians were satisfied with the prolonged roar of artillery, which lasted day after day, day after day; whilst within their walls the brave but diminished garrison looked vainly for succour, and examined with a sinking heart their diminished store of ammunition and their cracked and overheated guns.
"It cannot go on long like this," the officers said one to the other. "What is the General doing over yonder? He must hear by the heavy firing what straits we are in. He knows the condition of the fort. He should risk and dare everything to come to our aid. If this fort is lost, then our western frontier has lost its only point of defence against the inroads of Indians and the encroachments of France."
A few days later and a cry went up from the walls, "A white flag! a white flag!" and for a moment a wild hope surged up in the hearts of the soldiers that the enemy had grown tired of the game of war, and had some proposal to make.
The messenger brought a letter. It was not from the French commander himself, though it was delivered with a courteous message from him. It had been found upon the body of a white man slain by the Indians a few days before, and brought to the French camp. The Marquis de Montcalm had read it, and sent it now to the person for whom it was intended.
"Give my thanks," said Monro, "to the Marquis for his courtesy, and tell him that it is a joy to me to have to do with so generous a foe."
But the letter thus received was one of evil omen to the hapless garrison. It came from General Webb, and repeated that, until reinforced from the provinces, he could do nothing for the garrison of Fort William Henry; and advised Colonel Monro to make the best terms that he could with the enemy, who were plainly too strong for him to withstand.
It was time indeed for the gallant little garrison to think of surrender. Men and officers stood in knots together gloomily surveying the scene.
"We have done what men can do," said Captain Pringle to his friends Fritz and Roche; "but where are we now? A third of our men are sick and wounded. Almost all our big guns are burst. The enemy's trenches are being pushed nearer and nearer, and there are still more of their guns to be brought to bear. Our wall is breached; I marvel they have not already made an assault. There is nothing for it but surrender, if we can obtain honourable terms of capitulation."
"Nay, rather let us die sword in hand and face to foe!" cried Roche, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Let us make a last desperate sortie, and see if we cannot drive the enemy from their position. Anything is better than dying here like rats in a hole! A forlorn hope is better than none. Why should we not at least cut our way out to the free forest, if we cannot rout the enemy and drive them back whence they came?"
"The life of the free forest would mean death to those raw lads who have come out from England or from the provinces," said Fritz gravely. "It would be hardly more than a choice of deaths; and yet I would sooner die sword in hand, hewing my way to freedom, than cooped up between walls where every shot begins to tell, and where the dead can scarce be buried for the peril to the living."
And indeed the position of affairs was so deplorable that a council was held by Monro; and it was agreed that if any desired to make this last sortie, either for life and liberty for themselves, or in the last forlorn hope of driving the enemy from their position, it might be attempted; but if it failed, there was nothing for it but capitulation, if honourable terms could be had, or if not to die at their posts, fighting to the very last.
A cheer went up from the men when they heard these words. If they had well nigh lost hope, their courage was not quenched, and a large band volunteered for the sortie. Fritz and Roche were amongst these, but Pringle remained behind in the fort.
"I will stand by the Colonel and the sinking ship," he said. "It is but a choice of evils. I doubt if any of us will see the light of many more days. I prefer the chances of war to the unknown horrors of the forest filled with savages."
He laid a hand upon Roche's arm and looked affectionately into the boyish brave young face. Then he turned to Fritz.
"If you should get through, take care of the lad. You are a Ranger; you know the forest well. If any can escape safely thither, it will be you and such as you. But don't forsake the boy-don't let him fall alive into the hands of the Indians; kill him yourself sooner. And now fare well, and God bless you both: for I think that on this earth we shall meet no more."
"Nay, why think that?" cried Roche eagerly; "stranger things have happened before now than that we should all live to tell the tale of these days."
Pringle shook his head; whilst Fritz wrung his hand and said:
"At least remember this: if you should wish to have news of us, ask it of Rogers' Rangers, who are always to be heard of in these parts. If we escape, it is to Rogers we shall find our way. He will be glad enough to welcome us, and from any of his Rangers you will hear news of us if we ever reach his ranks."
There was no sleep for the fort that night. Indeed the hot summer nights were all too short for any enterprise to be undertaken then. The glow in the western sky had scarcely paled before there might have been seen creeping forth through the battered gateway file after file of soldiers, as well equipped as their circumstances allowed-silent, stealthy, eager for the signal which should launch them against the intrenched foe so close at hand.
But alas for them, they had foes wily, watchful, lynx-eyed, ever on the watch for some such movement. Hardly had they got clear of their protecting walls and ditches, when, with a horrid yell, hundreds and thousands of dusky Indians leaped up from the ground and rushed frantically towards them. The next moment the boom of guns overhead told that the French camp had been alarmed. The regular soldiers would be upon them in a few minutes, driving them back to the fort, killing and wounding, and leaving the Indians to butcher and scalp at their leisure. The fearful war whoop was ringing in their ears. The line wavered-broke; the men made a frantic rush backwards towards their lines.
"Don't fly!" cried Roche suddenly to Fritz, at whose side he marched; "let us cut our way through, or die doing it. It is death whichever way we turn. Let us die like men, with our faces and not our backs to the foe!"
"Come then!" cried Fritz, upon whom had fallen one of those strange bursts of desperate fury which give a man whilst it lasts the strength of ten.
With a wild bound he sprang forward, bursting through the ranks of Indians like the track of a whirlwind, scattering them right and left, hewing, hacking, cutting! Roche was just behind or at his side; the two seemed invulnerable, irresistible, possessed of some supernatural strength. The Indians in amaze gave way right and left, and turned their attention to the flying men, who were easier to deal with than this strange couple.
A shout went up that the devil was abroad, and the Indian, ever superstitious, shrank away from these stalwart figures, believing them to be denizens from some other world; whilst the French soldiers, who might have felt very differently, had not yet so far equipped themselves as to be ready to come out from their lines.
Fritz had marked his line with care. Only upon one small section between lake and forest was there any possible passage without peril from the French lines, and that was by skirting the head of the lake just where their own intrenched camp, now almost in ruins, gave them shelter.
The woodsman's and the Ranger's instinct kept true within him even in the confusion and darkness. He never deflected from his line.
"This way! this way!" he called to Roche in smothered tones, as they heard the sound of the fight growing fainter behind them. He took the lad's hand, and plunged into the marshy hollow. He knew that none would follow them there; the ground was too treacherous. But there was a path known to himself which he could find blindfold by day or night.
He pulled his comrade along with a fierce, wild haste, till at a certain point he paused. There was a little cavernous shelter in the midst of the morass, and here the pair sank down breathless and exhausted.
"We are saved!" gasped Roche, clasping his comrade by the hand.
"For the moment-yes," answered Fritz; "but what of afterwards?"
