University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

These slight defeats were sufficiently annoying in
themselves to the invaders—they were more so as
they proved not only the inadequacy of their present
mode of assault, but the watchfulness of the beleaguered
garrison. Their hope had been to take the
borderers by surprise. Failing to succeed in this, they
were now thrown all aback. Their fury was consequently
more than ever exaggerated by their losses,
and rushing forward in their desperation, through, and
in defiance of, the fire from the Carolinians, the greater
number placed themselves beneath the line of pickets
with so much celerity as to baffle, in most respects, the
aim of the defenders. A few remained to bear away
the wounded and slain to a place of safe shelter in
the thick woods, while the rest lay, either in quiet
under the walls of the Block House, secure there from
the fire of the garrison, or amused themselves in unavailing

cries of sarcasm to those within, while impotently
expending blows upon the insensible logs between
them. The elder Grayson, who directed solely
the movements of the beleaguered, was not unwilling
that the assailants should amuse themselves after this
fashion, as the delay of the Indians was to them the
gain of time, which was all they could expect at such
a period, and perhaps in a predatory warfare like the
present, all they could desire.

But Ishiagaska with his force now came upon the
scene, and somewhat changed the aspect of affairs.
He took the entire command, reinvigorated their efforts,
and considerably altered the mode and direction of
attack. He was a subtle partisan, and the consequences
of his appearance were soon perceptible in the
development of events. The force immediately beneath
the walls, and secure from the shot of the garrison,
were reinforced, and in so cautious a manner,
that the Carolinians were entirely ignorant of their
increased strength in that quarter. Creeping, as they
did, from bush to bush—now lying prone and silent
to the ground, in utter immobility—now rushing, as
circumstances prompted, with all rapidity—they put
themselves into cover, crossing the intervening space
without the loss of a man. Having thus gathered in
force beneath the walls of the fortress, the greater
number, while the rest watched, proceeded to gather
up in piles, as they had begun to do before, immense
quantities of the dry pine trash and the gummy turpentine
wood which the neighbourhood readily afforded.
This they clustered in thick masses around the more
accessible points of the pickets; and the first intimation
which the garrison had of their proceeding
was a sudden gust of flame, blazing first about the gate
of the area, on one side of the Block House, then rushing
from point to point with amazing rapidity, sweeping
and curling widely around the building itself.
The gate, and the pickets all about it, studiously
made as they had been of the rich pine, for its great
durability, was as ready an ally of the destructive element

as the Indians could have chosen; and, licked
greedily by the fire, were soon ignited. Blazing impetuously,
it soon aroused the indwellers to a more
acute consciousness of the danger now at hand. A
fierce shout of their assailants, as they beheld the rapid
progress of the experiment, warned them to greater exertion
if they hoped to escape the dreadful fate which
threatened to ingulf them. To remain where they
were, was to be consumed in the flames; to rush forth,
was to encounter the tomahawks of an enemy four
times their number.

It was a moment of gloomy necessity, that which
assembled the chief defenders of the fortress to a sort
of war-council. They could only deliberate—to fight
was out of the question. Their enemy now was one
to whom they could oppose

The Indians showed no front for assault or aim,
while the flames, rushing from point to point, and seizing
upon numerous places at once, continued to advance
with a degree of celerity which left it impossible,
in the dry condition of its timber, that the Block
House could possibly, for any length of time, escape.
Upon the building itself the savages could not fix the
fire at first. But two ends of it were directly accessible
to them, and these were without any entrance, had
been pierced with holes for musketry, and were well
watched by the vigilant eyes within. The two sides
were enclosed by the line of pickets, and had no need
of other guardianship. The condition of affairs was
deplorable. The women wept and prayed, the children
screamed, and the men, gathering generally in
the long apartment of the lower story, with heavy
hearts and solemn faces, proceeded to ask counsel of
one another in the last resort. Some lay around on the
loose plank—here and there along the floor a bearskin
formed the place of rest for a huge and sullen warrior,
vexed with the possession of strength which he was

not permitted to employ. A few watched at the musket
holes, and others busied themselves in adjusting
all things for the final necessity, so far as their thoughts
or fancies could possibly divine its shape.

The principal men of the garrison were gathered in
the centre of the hall, sitting with downcast heads and
fronting one another, along two of the uncovered sleepers;
their muskets resting idly between their legs,
their attitudes and general expression of abandon signifying
clearly the due increase of apprehension in
their minds with the progress of the flames. Broad
flashes of light from the surrounding conflagration
illuminated, but could not enliven, the sombre character
of that grouping. A general pause ensued after their
assemblage—none seeming willing or able to offer
counsel, and Grayson himself, the brave forester in
command, evidently at fault in the farther business before
them. Nichols was the only man to break the
silence, which he did in his usual manner.

“And why, my friends, are we here assembled?”
was his sagacious inquiry, looking round as he spoke
upon his inattentive coadjutors. A forced smile on
the faces of several, but not a word, attested their
several estimates of the speaker. He proceeded.

“That is the question, my friends—why are we
here assembled? I answer, for the good of the people.
We are here to protect them if we can, and to perish
for and with them if we must. I cannot forget my
duties to my country, and to those in whose behalf I
stand before the hatchet of the Indian, and the cannon
of the Spaniard. These teach me, and I would teach
it to you, my friends—to fight, to hold out to the last.
We may not think of surrender, my friends, until other
hope is gone. Whatever be the peril, till that moment
be it mine to encounter it—whatever be the privation,
till that moment I am the man to endure it. Be
it for me, at least, though I stand alone in this particular,
to do for the people whatever wisdom or valour
may do until the moment comes which shall call on
us for surrender. The question now, my friends, is

simply this—has that moment come or not? I pause
for a reply.”

“Who talks of surrender?” growled the smith, as
he cast a glance of ferocity to the speaker. “Who
talks of surrender at all, to these cursed bloodhounds;
the red-skins that hunt for nothing but our blood. We
cannot surrender if we would—we must fight, die, do
any thing but surrender!”

“So say I—I am ready to fight and die for my
country. I say it now, as I have said it a hundred
times before, but—” The speech which Nichols had
thus begun, the smith again interrupted with a greater
bull-dog expression than ever.

“Ay, so you have, and so will say a hundred times
more—with as little sense in it one time as another.
We are all here to die, if there's any need for it; but
that isn't the trouble. It's how we are to die—that's
the question. Are we to stay here and be burnt to
death like timber-rats—to sally out and be shot, or to
volunteer, as I do now, axe in hand, to go out and cut
down the pickets that immediately join the house?
By that we may put a stop to the fire, and then we
shall have a clear dig at the savages that lie behind
them. I'm for that. If anybody's willing to go along
with me, let him up hands—no talk—we have too
much of that already.”

“I'm ready—here!” cried Grayson, and his hands
were thrust up at the instant.

“No, Wat,” cried the smith—“not you—you must
stay and manage here. Your head's the coolest, and
though I'd sooner have your arm alongside of me in the
rough time than any other two that I know of, 'twon't do
to take you from the rest on this risk. Who else is
ready?—let him come to the scratch, and no long talk
about it. What do you say, Nichols? that's chance
enough for you, if you really want to die for the people.”
And as Grimstead spoke, he thrust his head
forward, while his eyes peered into the very bosom of
the little doctor, and his axe descended to the joist

over which he stood with a thundering emphasis that
rung through the apartment.

“I can't use the axe,” cried Nichols, hurriedly.
“It's not my instrument. Sword or pistol for me. In
their exercise I give way to no man, and in their use
I ask for no leader. But I am neither woodman nor
blacksmith.”

“And this is your way of dying for the good of the
people!” said the smith, contemptuously.

“I am willing even now—I say it again, as I have
before said, and as now I solemnly repeat it. But I
must die for them after my own fashion, and under
proper circumstances. With sword in hand, crossing
the perilous breach—with weapon befitting the use of
a noble gentleman, I am ready; but I know not any
rule in patriotism that would require of me to perish
for my country with the broad-axe of a wood-chopper,
the cleaver of a butcher, or the sledge of a blacksmith
in my hands.”

“Well, I'm no soldier,” retorted the smith; “but I
think a man, to be really willing to die for his country,
shouldn't be too nice as to which way he does it.
Now the sword and the pistol are of monstrous little use
here. The muskets from these holes above and below
will keep off the Indians, while a few of us cut down
the stakes; so, now, men, as time grows short, Grayson,
you let the boys keep a sharp look-out with the
ticklers, and I'll for the timber, let him follow who will.
There are boys enough, I take it, to go with Dick
Grimstead, though they may none of them be very
anxious to die for their country.”

Thus saying, and having received the sanction of
Grayson to this, the only project from which any thing
could be expected, the blacksmith pushed forward,
throwing open the door leading to the area which the
fire in great part now beleaguered—while Grayson
made arrangements to command the ground with his
musketry, and to keep the entrance, thus opened for
Grimstead and his party, with his choicest men. The
blacksmith was one of those blunt, burly fellows, who

take with the populace. It was not difficult for him
to procure three men where twenty were ready. They
had listened with much sympathy to the discussion
narrated, and as the pomposity and assumption of
Nicholas had made him an object of vulgar ridicule, a
desire to rebuke him, not less than a willingness to go
with the smith, contributed readily to persuade them
to the adventure. In a few moments the door was
unbarred, and the party sallied forth through the entrance,
which was kept ajar for their ingress, and well
watched by half a dozen of the stoutest men in the
garrison, Grayson at their head. Nicholas went above
to direct the musket-men, while his mind busied itself
in conning over the form of a capitulation, which he
thought it not improbable he should have to frame with
the chiefs of the besieging army. In this labour he
had but one cause of vexation, which arose from the
necessity he would be under, in enumerating the prisoners,
of putting himself after Grayson, the commander.

In the meanwhile, with sleeves rolled up, jacket
off, and face that seemed not often to have been
entirely free from the begriming blackness of his profession,
Grimstead commenced his tremendous blows
upon the contiguous pickets, followed with like zeal,
if not equal power, by the three men who had volunteered
along with him. Down went the first post
beneath his arm, and as, with resolute spirit, he was
about to assail another, a huge Santee warrior stood in
the gap which he had made, and with a powerful blow
from the mace which he carried, had our blacksmith
been less observant, would have soon finished his
career. But Grimstead was a man of agility as well
as strength and spirit, and leaping aside from the
stroke, as his eye rose to the corresponding glance
from that of his enemy, he gave due warning to his
axe-men, who forbore their strokes under his command.
The aperture was yet too small for any combat
of the parties; and, ignorant of the force against
him, surprised also at their appearance, he despatched
one of his men to Grayson, and gave directions,

which, had they been complied with, had certainly
given them the advantage.

“Now, boys, you shall have fun—I have sent for
some hand-to-hand men to do the fighting, while we do
the chopping,—and Nicholas, who loves dying so much,
can't help coming along with them. He's the boy for
sword and pistol—he's no woodcutter. Well, many a
better chap than he's had to chop wood for an honest
living. But we'll see now what he is good for. Let
him come.”

“Oh, he's all flash in the pan, Grimstead. His
tongue is mustard-seed enough, but it 'taint the shot.
But what's that—?”

The speaker, who was one of Grimstead's comrades,
might well ask, for first a crackling, then a whirling
crash, announced the fall at length of the huge gate to
the entrance of the court. A volume of flame and
cinders, rising with the gust which it created, rushed
up, obscuring for a moment and blinding all things
around it; but, as it subsided, the Indians lying in wait
on the outside, and whom no smoke could blind, leaped
with uplifted tomahawks through the blazing ruins, and
pushed forward to the half-opened entrance of the
Block House. The brave blacksmith, admirably supported,
threw himself in the way, and was singled out
by the huge warrior who had struck at him through
the picket. The savage was brave and strong, but he
had his match in the smith, whose courage was indomitable
and lively, while his strength was surpassed
by that of few. Wielding his axe with a degree of
ease that, of itself, warned the enemy what he had to
expect, it was but a moment before the Indian gave
way before him. But the smith was not disposed to
allow a mere acknowledgment of his superiority to
pass for a victory. He pressed him back upon his
comrades, while his own three aids, strong and gallant
themselves, following his example, drove the intruders
upon the blaze which flamed voluminously around them.
Already a severe wound, which almost severed the
arm of the Santee warrior from its trunk, had confirmed

the advantage gained by the whites, while severe
hatchet wounds had diminished not a little the courage
of his Indian fellows, when, of a sudden, a new party
came upon the scene of combat, changing entirely its
face and character, and diminishing still more the
chances of the Carolinians. This was Chorley, the
captain of the pirate. Having lodged his captives, as
we have seen, in a little hovel on the river's brink,
under a small guard of his own seamen, he had proceeded
with all due speed upon the steps of Ishiagaska.
He arrived opportunely for the band which had been
placed along the walls of the Block House, in ambush,
and whose daring had at length carried them into the
outer defences of the fortress. A single shot from one
of his men immediately warned the smith and his
brave comrades of the new enemy before them,
and while stimulating afresh the courage of their
savage assailants, it materially diminished their own.
They gave back—the three survivers—one of the
party having fallen in the first discharge. The Indians
rushed upon them, and thus throwing themselves between,
for a time defeated the aim of Chorley's musketeers.
Fighting like a lion, as he retreated to the
door of the Block House, the brave smith continued
to keep unharmed, making at the same time some
little employment in the shape of ugly wounds to
dress, in the persons of his rash assailants. Once
more they gave back before him, and again the musketry
of Chorley was enabled to tell upon him. A
discharge from the Block House in the meantime retorted
with good effect the attack of the sailors, and
taught a lesson of caution to Chorley, of which he soon
availed himself. Three of his men bit the dust in that
single fire; and the Indians, suffering more severely,
fled at the discharge. The brave smith reached the
door with a single unwounded follower, himself unhurt.
His comrades threw open the entrance for his reception,
but an instant too late. A parting shot from the
muskets of the seamen was made with a fatal effect.
Grimstead sunk down upon the threshold as the bullet
passed through his body—the axe fell from his hand—
he grasped at it convulsively, and lay extended in part
upon the sill of the door, when Grayson drew him in
safety within, and again securely closed it.

“You are not hurt, Dick, my old fellow,” exclaimed
Grayson, his voice trembling with the apprehensions
which he felt.

“Hurt enough, Wat—bad enough. No more grist
ground at that mill. But, hold in—don't be frightened
—you can lick 'em yet. Ah,” he groaned, in a mortal
agony.

They composed his limbs, and pouring some spirits
down his throat, he recovered in a few moments, and
convulsively inquired for his axe.

“I wouldn't lose it—it was dad's own axe, and must
go to brother Tom when I die.”

“Die indeed, Dick—don't think of such a thing,”
said Grayson.

“I don't, Hugh—I leave that to Nichols—but get
the axe--ah! God—it's here—here—where's Tom?”

His brother, a youth of sixteen, came down to him
from the upper apartment where he had been stationed,
and kneeling over him, tried to support his head—but
the blood gushed in a torrent from his mouth. He
strove to speak, but choked in the effort. A single
convulsion, which turned him upon his face, and the
struggle was all over. The battles of the smith were
done.