CHAPTER XI. A COMRADE IN DISTRESS

Because of the questions regarding the future, which had come into my mind, I gave no heed to the fact that Daniel had not finished his recital, since the story had been concerning our unfortunate friends and neighbors, but never a word as to how he succeeded in returning to us.

It was Giles March who noticed the omission, and while my heart was filled with grief because of the fact that we were virtually prisoners in the cave, unable to raise our hands in defence of those who were needing help so sorely, he asked of Daniel:

“How is it that you were able to get away? Was your face painted black, and did you carry a white cloth on a stick, in order to show John Butler that you were one of those who pledged obedience to him?”

“I was neither painted black, nor did I carry the badge of disgrace,” Daniel replied, curtly. “By moving here and there about the stockade, keeping as close to the ranks of the Tories as possible, I managed to avoid attracting very much attention, and when the surrender was fully effected I stole quietly out, making my way down to the shore. And well it was that I did not linger, for before gaining this side of the river it was possible to see the flames shooting up from those houses which had been left standing near the fort, and I knew that, despite John Butler’s promises, the Indians were continuing their work of destruction.”

When Daniel had thus come to an end of his story, we sat silent and motionless, turning over in our minds that which he had told, and questioning whether there was any ray of hope in the future.

When perhaps five minutes had passed, I asked, looking at Master Bartlett:

“Is it in your mind that we are to stay in the cave until such time as it may be possible for us to go out in perfect safety, or might we try to play the part of men?”

“In what way, lad?” the old man asked in perplexity.

“It strikes me that such a party as we can muster might, possibly effect very much in the way of holding John Butler’s wolves to the strict letter of the surrender. We number six able-bodied men and lads. Why should we not go forth to do whatsoever we may for those who are in distress? The women need no assistance in caring for Samuel Rogers and Oscar Stephenson, and if we stay here, it is simply to suck our paws in the sun, like bears who have laid in sufficient of fat long before it is time to den up.”

“If I knew what we might do, lad, an answer to your question could be better given. Tell us what may be in your mind.”

“That we set out as soon as may be, not showing ourselves boldly to court an encounter with those who are stronger, but in the effort to give assistance where it may be needed. I dare venture to say work will be found for our hands, at the same time that we hold ourselves in prudence, remembering that those whom we leave behind us in the cave may have the first claim upon our services.”

Instead of answering my question, Master Bartlett turned to Stephen Morley, as he asked:

“What think you of it? Soldiering has become your trade, and you should be able to give a better opinion than me.”

“I believe the lad to be in the right,” Stephen Morley replied, promptly. “It is true we can be of no service here after laying in a store of fuel. There are of provisions in the cave sufficient to fill all the stomachs in case we should remain away three weeks, and surely in that time we would rust out, if, indeed, there were no harm attached to our remaining idle when men are needed as they never were before.”

“True for you, Master Morley!” Giles March cried, emphatically. “It would be a disgrace for us to linger here in idleness at such a time.”

There was no need of further discussion; the question had already been settled, and Master Bartlett gave good proof that he so considered it by saying, thoughtfully:

“We can’t well set off before sunset or thereabouts, and until such time it seems necessary Daniel Hinchman should gain some rest, while we provide against the needs of the women and the wounded during our absence.”

It was a most intense relief to have thus decided upon some plan which promised action, and, when we returned to the cave to tell the women what it was we proposed to do, never one of them raised a voice against our departure.

Mistress Morley, gathering her two children in her arms, said in a low tone as she caressed them:

“We could not ask father to stay, and it would be selfish in us if we did not bid him go.”

Esther Hinchman spoke privately with her brother for a few moments, and then, coming up to me, said, as she laid her hand in mine:

“I’m glad you have decided to go, and shall pray that you may all be allowed to come back. There is no reason why you should have any anxiety concerning us, for here, if anywhere in the province, are we secure from intrusion.”

Miles Parker showed plainly how well such a plan suited him, while the two wounded lads strove unsuccessfully to hide the sorrow which they felt at not being able to accompany us. Oscar Stephenson even went so far as to claim that it could do him no harm to march in our company; but Mistress Morley very quickly put an end to his hopes by saying, emphatically, that he should not be allowed even so much as to stand on his feet until his wound gave better promise of healing.

Well, we did whatsoever we might around about the cave, and then, as Stephen Morley had said, those whom we would leave behind us were provided for in the way of necessities for at least three weeks.

The entrance to this dwelling in the mountainside had been, as I have already said, nearly closed by boulders, and there was enough of fuel inside to make as much of a fire as they would dare build, for it was not wise that too large an amount of smoke be allowed to escape, lest it attract attention from a distance. The water-supply was unfailing; the deer meat would be all the better for seasoning awhile, and in event of our being absent longer than we then counted on, that which was not eaten could readily be smoked.

We left behind us two muskets, with a goodly amount of ammunition, and, although two of our party would march forth unarmed, save as to their knives, we counted on being able to supply them with weapons before many days had passed.

Then came the time for us to set off, and I feared that the leave-taking would be painful; but it was Mistress Morley who spared us, by saying, as she held the two children up for her husband to kiss:

“It shall only be a God love you, Stephen, and not a good-by.”

Then Giles March cried out cheerfully to the wounded:

“Take care of yourselves, lads, and get into condition as soon as possible. One or the other of us will be back every few days to know how you are progressing, and in a short time you will join us, for it is in my mind that the Minute Boys of the Wyoming Valley are far from being wiped out of existence.”

Then we set our faces toward the river, marching rapidly in order to take advantage of the daylight which yet remained, and making no effort to hold converse one with another, for, although it was our desire to thus go out in the hope of being able to succor those who were in need, our hearts were heavy, as indeed they well might be.

We travelled light, carrying only so much of provisions as would allay the pangs of hunger during twenty-four hours, and therefore moved with reasonable rapidity, covering the five miles of distance before the sun had been out of sight an hour.

Daniel Hinchman went to where he had hidden the canoe, believing as did I that we would cross that same night, and two trips would be necessary, since the light craft could carry no more than four; but, before she was launched, Stephen Morley said:

“I see no good reason why we should push across the river yet awhile, for there is as much distress this side as yonder. Let us make our way to the settlement of Wilkesbarre, and see what can be found.”

“The dwellings were all burned, as I have told you, and we shall find nothing but ruins,” Daniel replied.

“And it is among the ruins we should look for those whom we would aid,” Stephen Morley said, curtly. “It must be there are some portions of the buildings yet remaining, however complete the work of destruction, and my proposition is that we search in turn each of the settlements, taking plenty of time for the work, because there is no reason why we try to cover any great extent of territory immediately.”

Now it must be understood that we were come to the river between Fort Ogden and the stockade at Wilkesbarre, known as Wyoming Fort, therefore, in order to carry out Master Morley’s suggestion, it was necessary we travel down-stream perhaps a mile and a half, and this required but a short time, since we were no longer traversing the wilderness, but a beaten road.

On arriving at the site of the settlement, we found that Daniel Hinchman had not drawn upon his imagination when he told us of its destruction. In the night the blackened ruins of the settlers’ homes spoke more eloquently of the wilful havoc that had been wrought than if the sun was shining upon them, and as we went past this pile of yet smouldering embers or the other, saying that here lived one friend and there that neighbor, our hearts heavy with grief, it was difficult indeed to repress audible evidences of our sorrow.

To me the strangest of it all was that we six had been permitted to pass through so much of danger, and yet come out unharmed.

It was necessary we go the entire length of what had been the settlement before arriving at the fort, and why Stephen Morley should have led us so far I could not understand. He had no real purpose in so doing, as I believed, for, when we were come within sight of the stockade, finding it untouched by the flames, he gave vent to an exclamation of astonishment, and Master Bartlett said, warningly, as he halted:

“Have a care, lads, lest we come suddenly upon too large a force of the enemy. It must be they have taken possession of the stockade, else why has it been spared?”

“I will make it my business to find out whether there be any of John Butler’s crew in this vicinity,” Giles March whispered hurriedly. “Wait you here until I come back.”

We had halted near by the ruins of Phineas Barnes’s dwelling, and there were yet enough of the timbers standing to make a fairly good hiding-place for us within the deep shadow. There we crouched until five minutes had passed, when we heard Giles crying:

“Come on, the stockade is deserted, and it strikes me we can find no better place in which to spend the night.”

I was vexed that he should think then of our own comfort, when we were come so near to where we might search out those who were, possibly, in direst distress; but, because the others obeyed his call, I could do no less, and we entered the stockade, finding it, I fancy, exactly as when Colonel Zebulon Butler and his soldiers abandoned it to go to Forty Fort.

As we passed through the main gates, which were standing open, Master Bartlett closed and barred them carefully, whereat I, remembering our experience in Fort Ogden, asked in a tone of irritation because of my nervousness:

“Is it well we should fasten ourselves in here, when for aught we know the enemy may be creeping up on us at this moment?” and he replied, grimly:

“If they are on our trail, lad, it strikes me we were better off with this gate closed than open. We are not now running from every one who has any connection with John Butler, as were you when you blundered into the Ogden stockade; but are out with the determination to hold our own when the forces are anywhere near equal. With the supply of ammunition which we have, it should be possible to make good our possession here for many days, however large a crew might come against us.”

“Ay, and be wofully hungry before the first four and twenty hours had gone by,” I replied, vexed because he spoke so confidently, as if we might stand against any who were abroad in the valley thirsting for blood.

Not until the stockade had been closed as if we intended to make permanent quarters there, did Master Bartlett give token as to why he had entered, and then, mounting one of the platforms, he said:

“We should be able to get a good idea from here of what is being done on the other side of the river, and I propose that we stand guard to-night as if regularly stationed.”

“Is that all we have come here for?” I asked, sharply.

“Nay, lad, it was in my mind, when we found this place untouched by fire, that, because it had been abandoned so hurriedly, we might find here some small store of provisions, or a secret hoard of ammunition. You who are acquainted with the fort should know all the likely places.”

Upon this Giles March claimed to be as familiar with the interior of the stockade as he had been with his own home, and agreed to make diligent search if I would accompany him.

There were within the walls of this fort two blockhouses, and perhaps half a dozen small buildings intended for the use of the settlers at such times as they might be driven to take shelter in moments of danger, and I said to the lad as he entered the first dwelling:

“If it be in your mind to search all these houses, then we may as well understand that there is a long task before us.”

“Now, Jonathan Ogden, have you grown almost as unreasonable as was I the first night we took possession of Fort Jenkins! If I was hot-headed then, what may you be counted now, who would push on at the best possible speed from one place to another, regardless of the fact that, if we are to find those who are in distress, it will be in hiding, and our work must of necessity be done slowly?”

Giles’s words were sufficient to show me how childishly I was behaving, and without further remark I followed him from one building to another, while he made hurried search in such places as he knew things of value had formerly been kept, until we were come to a small structure of logs which had been put up for the shelter of horses or cattle, and, as he passed it, I said, laughingly:

“Since you are making so diligent a hunt, Giles March, I wonder you fail to enter this place,” and he replied in a tone of good nature:

“Because we have nothing better to do just now, Jonathan Ogden, it seems to me you should be willing to spend your time uselessly, as it appears to you, for we shall come into places of danger soon enough to satisfy the most bloodthirsty.”

He had no more than spoken, when from the interior of the shed came a low moan, and as we halted involuntarily, it was to hear the words:

“Is Jonathan Ogden there?”

Although not recognizing the voice, and having no idea in my mind that we might find a comrade there, on the instant it was borne in upon me that Elias Shendle was near at hand, and straightway I called his name.

Then it was we heard distinctly:

“I am here, Jonathan, which is not surprising; but how you have come, I fail to understand.”

In a twinkling we entered the shed, where all was darkness save for the gray light which came through the doorway, but, peer into the gloom as we might, nothing could be seen.

Giles March walked entirely around the inside of the small building, and then, clutching me by the arm, whispered:

“It was the lad’s ghost, Jonathan, for there is no one here.”

I confess to being terrified, for it seemed as if Giles spoke truly; but, luckily, I plucked up sufficient courage to call:

“Elias! Elias! Where may you be?”

“Here! Here underneath the timbers of the wall, and so pinned down that I cannot get out unaided.”

Even then we had difficulty to find where the voice came from. Not until we had crept across one end, searching with our hands for any excavation wherein a human being might be hidden, did we come upon the lad, and most grievous was his plight.

At the rear of the shed, where doubtless the horses had pawed away the earth, was a depression extending beneath the first tier of logs, and here my hands touched his garments.

“Be as careful as you may, Jonathan,” he said, with a moan, “for I am well mangled by the bullets of the savages.”

Without making too long a story, for it was nearly half an hour before we succeeded in getting our wounded comrade out from the narrow place into which he had crowded himself, and then only after having had the assistance of all the rest of our company, let it suffice to say that he had escaped from the fight at Jenkins’s Fort, drifted down the river after stopping twice on the western shore, until come to this stockade, where he arrived in the night before Colonel Zebulon Butler’s men had taken shelter there.

Finding the fort abandoned, he crept into the shed as the most likely place of concealment, believing the savages were close on his heels, and thinking they would search every other building rather than that. Coming upon the depression of which I have spoken, he had crawled into it, dug away the earth with his hands while burrowing yet deeper, and gotten so far beneath the timbers that, owing to his wounds, he could not get back unaided.

When we had the poor lad where Stephen Morley and Master Bartlett could attend to his wounds, which they did without delay, Miles Parker, too eager for information to take heed of the fact that the lad was so nearly exhausted it was cruel to force him into conversation, asked why he had not come out when Colonel Zebulon and his men were there.

“I heard them when they entered,” Elias said, striving manfully against the pain in order to make the explanation. “I knew who they were, and, finding it impossible, because of this mangled arm, to get out of the hole, I cried again and again for help; but they, most like, remained in the blockhouse nearest the main gate and heard me not, or, if my voice did reach their ears, it alarmed them, even as Jonathan and Giles were frightened. My efforts to attract their attention must have thrown me into a delirium, for I became unconscious during a time, and, when my senses returned, the yells and cries of Indians could be heard on every hand.”

“That was when they were destroying the settlement,” Giles March said half to himself, and Elias continued:

“So I believed at the time, and felt certain the stockade would be given over to the flames, when I must be burned to death. Then it was that I contrived to get my knife from the belt and turn its point against my heart, that I might drive it in rather than suffer a painful death. But the moments passed without bringing further harm until it was as if the savages had departed, since which time I have been like one in a frightful dream, knowing well my condition at times, and again overcome by fever, as it were.”

“I reckon it can do you no good to tell overly long stories just now,” Master Bartlett interrupted. “We shall have plenty of time to hear the tale when you are mended somewhat.”

“The wonder of it is that he did not starve,” I said in a low tone to the old man, thinking that the greatest kindness we could do him would be to satisfy the pangs of hunger, and he, hearing my words, replied:

“When I came through the settlement on the night of the battle, the people had just abandoned their dwellings, and, as I ran, I found near half a loaf of corn bread which had been dropped by some of the fugitives. It is water I need, although while coming down the river it seemed as if I could never be thirsty again, so much was I forced to drink in.”

Giles March had hastened toward the spring inside the enclosure when Elias first spoke of his thirst, and we soon gave him as much clear water as seemed safe at one time.

Then, the wounds being bandaged rudely, I took Master Bartlett aside and asked him if, in his belief, they were dangerous.

“I am not overly much of a surgeon, Jonathan, but it looks to me as if the lad was badly hurt. One leg and an arm are useless, bearing no less than three wounds, and he has what appears to be a knife-thrust in his right side. If he was at the cave, where the women could care for him, there might be some chance for his life; but, as it is, I believe we have only come in time to ease his meeting with death.”

Then it was as if I forgot my impatience to be out in the valley, searching here and there for sufferers, and had in mind only the plight of my comrade. If it was possible his life could be saved by taking him to the cave, then would I carry Elias Shendle on my back the entire distance, begrudging not the labor if he might be spared one single pang; but when I gave words to that thought, Master Bartlett said, gravely:

“I question, lad, if he would live to get there. The journey could not be otherwise than long and rough, and he holds on to his life, as it seems to me, but by a thread. The wonder of it is that he had sufficient strength remaining to cry out when you and Giles were near him.”

“But we must do something for him, Master Bartlett.”

“Ay, lad, so we have to the best of our ability, and will do as much more as is within our power.”

Then came the thought that, if we could not carry Elias to the cave, we must be held there in the stockade as prisoners, for verily I would not leave him, even though I was forced to stand against all John Butler’s wolves until they had overcome me.

Elias Shendle was the dearest comrade I ever had, and whatsoever of distress or danger there might be abroad was as nothing compared with the duty I owed him, for I knew full well he could never be frightened or coaxed from my side if I was needing his assistance.

It was a black perplexity. We who had come out on a definite enterprise, knowing that it might be possible for us to aid very many, would be held here by one, unless those who had come with me minded to act contrary to my wishes.

While I had been talking with the old man, Elias sank into a sort of stupor, which was not unlike death itself; but Stephen Morley, who claimed, and with good reason, to have more experience in such matters than either of us, stated as his belief that the lad was suffering more just then from exhaustion than from his wounds, and declared positively that, now he was in comparative safety, it would be possible for him to sleep, which was the best medicine that could come to him.

“We will make up such a bed as is within our power, here in the open, rather than inflict pain by moving him into one of the blockhouses, and he shall be left in quietude until morning, after which I am looking for so much of an improvement as will make it seem as if he was on the road to recovery.”

I could have kissed the old soldier, who gave me such relief of mind, and, after we had made Elias as comfortable as we might with the poor materials at our hands for a bed, I took Giles March one side, explaining to him all which I have set down here, whereupon the lad said manfully, and as a comrade should:

“You may count on me, Jonathan Ogden, to go as far in behalf of Elias Shendle as you would. If it be necessary, we two will stay here by him; but I am thinking, because of what Stephen Morley has said, that we may rig up with saplings what will serve as a litter, so that he can be carried to the cave without too much of jolting. We are warranted, I believe, in taking more than ordinary risks in moving him, since it seems certain he will die here, where at any moment the enemy may come upon us.”