Читать книгу Iron Hand, Chief of the Tory League; or, The Double Face - Frederick Forest - Страница 4

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It was near midnight when Captain Sherwood and his men arrived in the vicinity of the Whig’s house. They had miscalculated the distance from the fort, and were later than was designed.

The Whig’s residence was one of the old-fashion farmhouses common in those days, and on all sides of it was a thick growth of foliage which, at a short distance, completely hid it from view.

The soldiers marched in single file cautiously up the road that led to the front of the house and halted. All was quiet and dark around the place. Captain Sherwood advanced a few steps and listened—the low, melancholy howl of a dog broke the stillness. Then he approached the front door to knock, but finding it open, entered.

The lower rooms of the house were dark and deserted; the furniture was scattered about in great disorder. Again the captain heard the howl of a dog which seemed to come from over his head, and hastening up the stairs he entered one of the upper rooms, where a horrid spectacle met his sight. There, on the floor, lay an old man weltering in his blood—dead. His body was horribly mangled and the scalp torn from his head. A faithful Newfoundland dog was standing with his forepaws upon the dead man’s breast, mourning over him.

Captain Sherwood turned away sick at heart, and darted down the stairs back to his men.

“The villains have been here,” said he, “and sacked the house. The old man lies dead upon the floor; the rest of the family were probably taken prisoners. Let War-Cloud hunt out their trail, for we must shoot every man of this gang.”

The soldiers were furious at this new outrage, and manifested their willingness to follow the Tory League to the end of the earth, for vengeance. In a few moments War-Cloud—the scout—gave the signal that he had found the trail, and the company started off in pursuit. Every foot of the ground was familiar to the scout, and he had no difficulty in leading the way.

All night long they hurried on in pursuit, over hills and valleys, through woods, and across plains. The trees, clad in their autumnal garb, looked like iron warriors in the moonlight, and every now and then, as a slight wind whirled the leaves to the ground, the troops would stop and listen for their enemy.

The night wore on until the moon having completed her course, left the land in darkness—but darkness not long to last, for soon the orient heralded the approach of dawning day.

As the eastern horizon began to show these signs, the soldiers, being fatigued, halted upon the summit of a high hill. Their tramp had been a long one, but still there were no signs of the Tory League save their trail, which they seemed to have taken no pains to conceal. The League had undoubtedly got a good start and were improving their advantage.

Captain Sherwood and War-Cloud withdrew a short distance from the troops, to a cliff that jutted out from the general line of the mountain. Here they could command a view of an entire valley to the distance of many miles. It was quite level and presented a beautiful scene. The surface was covered with a carpet of bright green, enameled by flowers that gleamed like many-colored gems, and here and there the willow mingled its foliage in soft shady groves, forming inviting retreats. A stream, like a silver serpent, bisected the valley—not running in a straight course, but in luxuriant windings, as though it loved to tarry in the midst of the bright scene.

War-Cloud, after scanning the whole plain before him for some time, turned to the captain with delight.

“Look, chief!” said he, pointing to that part of the valley almost below them. “See! white and red devils right there.”

Yes, there was the Tory League sure enough, quietly seated upon the ground, enjoying their morning meal in full sight of the captain.

It was a motley crowd, indeed. There were white men dressed in British uniforms and others merely in loose hunting-shirts and breeches, together with the dusky savages who were in full war-costume—that is, naked to the waist, and painted over the breast and face so as to render them as frightful as possible. Their heads were closely shaven over the temples and behind the ears—a patch upon the top was cropped short, but in the center of the crown, one long lock of hair remained uncut, which was intermingled with plumes and plaited so as to hang down the back.

“Surely,” said the captain, “this is but a small part of the Tory League, for there are hardly more than seventy-five men here, and the band is said to number two or three hundred.”

“We’ll make the snakes these many less!” said the scout.

“Yes, we’ll give the villains their deserts in a short space of time; but where are the prisoners?” exclaimed the captain, glancing searchingly over the band.

“There!” said War-Cloud, his practiced eye observing them at once, seated beneath the shade of a willow tree. “Three women.”

“To their rescue at once!” cried the captain, dashing away to his company. “Up, up, every man of you, and follow me!”

The path that led from the cliff to the valley was nearly half a mile in length before it reached the level below, winding through a growth of young trees which completely hid the soldiers from view.

Down, down the mountain’s side they hurried faster and faster, until at length they burst forth upon the open plain within a few hundred yards of the enemy.

“Now, my brave fellows!” shouted Captain Sherwood, wielding his sword above his head, “teach these British villains and red rascals decency!” and away the whole troop rushed wildly upon the foe.

This was a surprise to the Tories and Indians, and a general panic seized upon them. Unmindful of every thing but their own safety, they took to flight, leaving their prisoners. But, after fleeing a short distance, and finding themselves hard pressed by their foe, they turned about like hunted game at bay to give battle.

But a moment elapsed, and full two hundred men were engaged in deadly conflict.

Crack—crack—crack, went the rifles, and a sulphury smoke spread a cloud upon the air. As the vapory mass cleared away, some were seen dashing at each other with their empty guns, some twanging their bows from a distance, and others grappling in hand-to-hand combat.

Neither bugle nor drum sent forth its inspiring notes; no cannon rolled its thunder; no rocket blazed; but every now and then the wild war-whoop rung out upon the air, making the blood of the listener run cold. And then came the fierce charging cheer of the troops, and the cries of triumph and vengeance.

While the fight was raging, War-Cloud, observing two Indians making for their prisoners, lashed under the willow tree, uttered the war-cry and started after them at full speed. The savages looked behind them, and seeing but one adversary, gave fight. War-Cloud whirled his tomahawk at the foremost one’s head, but the savage with a quick movement evaded the weapon and sprung forward with his knife. Then there was a desperate struggle of life and death. The bodies of the combatants seemed twined around each other; then one of them fell heavily to the ground. War-Cloud’s antagonist had fallen. But before the scout could whirl about, the other Indian—an active warrior—rushed upon him and bore him down. His knee was pressed on War-Cloud’s breast, and his arm raised on high to drive the deadly blade into his heart! but at this instant Captain Sherwood’s trusty rifle sounded on the air—the savage dropped dead, and the scout was saved.

At length, after an hour of hard fighting, the Tories were completely routed; and but few ever lived to tell the tale of their disaster. After the excitement was over, and while the soldiers were looking after their dead and wounded, the white captives, who had been silent observers of the fray, were released from their fetters. Their joy was great at being restored to liberty again, but their grief was greater for their murdered father. The story of the captives was to this effect:

At an early hour in the evening, and while the old man and his three daughters were gathered round their fireside chatting, their Newfoundland dog sprung to his feet and rushed toward the door, growling fiercely.

His growl shortly increased to a bark—so earnest, that it was evident some one was outside. The door was shut and barred; but the old man, thinking perhaps it might be the soldiers whom he expected, pulled out the bar, and opened the door without inquiring.

He had scarcely shown himself, when the wild whoops of Indians rung on their ears, and a blow from a heavy club prostrated him upon the threshold. In spite of the terrible onset of the brave dog, the savages, white and red, rushed into the house yelling fearfully, and brandishing their weapons. In less than five minutes the house was plundered of every valuable article. The old man, partly recovering, had seized his gun and mounted the stairs, where he was met and butchered outright. When the marauders had finished plundering, they seized their prisoners and made off in haste.

Such was the tale of the three females.

The soldiers were soon collected into ranks, and were ready for marching orders. They had been triumphant, and were in good spirits. Nearly every man of their foe lay dead or dying upon the field, while they had lost but three men and only five wounded. However, in the midst of their exultations, a murmur ran through the crowd, and every man looked at his companion inquiringly. “What had become of their brave leader, Captain Sherwood?” each asked, in a whisper. He had disappeared from their midst.

An hour was spent in search for him; the valley and surrounding woods were scoured in vain, for he was not found. The troops were obliged to turn their steps homeward without him. It was nearly evening when they arrived at the fort, where they were hailed with loud shouts from their comrades when the news of victory was proclaimed. But, afterward, when it was found that the captain was missing, a shade of sadness seemed to fall on all. Immediately scouts were sent in all directions to search for him.