Part 29 (2/2)

As the waggon moved forward, those who carried the muskets drew still nearer under cover of their horses, and once more played upon us their uncertain but dangerous shower. With the bullets hissing above and around us, we were forced to lie low--only at intervals raising our heads to note the progress of the party proceeding to storm.

Slowly but surely the machine moved on--its wheels turning under the impulse of brawny arms--and impelled forward by pressure from behind.

To fire upon it would have been of no avail: our bullets would have been thrown away. As easily might they have pierced through a stockade of tree-trunks. Oh! for a howitzer! but one discharge of iron grape to have crashed through those planks of oak and ash--to have scattered in death, that human machinery that was giving them motion! Slowly and steadily it moved on--stopping only as some large pebble opposed itself to the wheel--then on again as the obstacle was surmounted--on till the intervening s.p.a.ce was pa.s.sed over, and the triumphant cheer of our savage foemen announced the attainment of their object.

Risking the straggling shots, we looked over. The waggon had reached the base of the b.u.t.te; its tongue was forced up among the trees--its body stood side by side with the granite prisms. The storming party no longer required it as a s.h.i.+eld: they would be sufficiently sheltered by the great boulders; and to these they now betook themselves--pa.s.sing from one to the other, until they had completely surrounded the b.u.t.te.

We observed this movement, but could not prevent it. We saw the Indians flitting from rock to rock, like red spectres, and with the rapidity of lightning flashes! In vain we attempted to take aim; before a barrel could be brought to bear upon them, they were gone out of sight. We ourselves, galled by the leaden hail, were forced to withdraw behind our ramparts.

A moment of suspense followed. We knew not how to act: we were puzzled by their movements, as well as by the silence in which they were making them. Did they intend to climb up the b.u.t.te, and openly attack us?

What else should be their design? What other object could they have in surrounding it? Only about a dozen had approached under cover of the waggon. Was it likely that so few of them would a.s.sail us boldly and openly? No. Beyond a doubt, they had some other design! Ha! what means that blue column slowly curling upward? It is smoke! See!

Another and another--a dozen of them! From all sides they shoot upward, encircling the mound! Hark to those sounds! the ”swish” of burning gra.s.s--the crackle of kindling sticks? They are making fires around us!

The columns are at first filmy, but soon grow thicker and more dense.

They spread out and join each other--they become attracted towards the rocky ma.s.s--they fall against its sides, and wreathing upward, wrap its summit in their ramifications. The platform is enveloped in the cloud!

We see the savages upon the plain--dimly, as if through a c.r.a.pe. Those with the guns in their hands still continue to fire; the others are dismounting. The latter abandon their horses, and appear to be advancing on foot. Their forms through the magnifying mist loom spectral and gigantic! They are visible only for a moment. The smoke rolls its thick volume around the summit, and shrouds them from our sight. We no longer see our enemy or the earth. The sky is obscured-- even the rock on which we stand is no longer visible, nor one of us to the other!

Throughout all continues the firing from the plain; the bullets hurtle around our heads, and the clamour of our foemen reaches our ears with fierce thrilling import. We hear the crackling of f.a.ggots, and the spurting hissing noise of many fires; but perceive no blaze--only the thick smoke rising in continuous waves, and every moment growing denser around us. We can bear it no longer; we are half-suffocated. Any form of death before this! Is it too late to reach our horses? Doubtless, they are already s.n.a.t.c.hed away? No matter: we cannot remain where we are. In five minutes, we must yield to the fearful asphyxia.

”No! never! let us die as we had determined, with arms in our hands!”

Voices husky and hoa.r.s.e make answer in the affirmative.

We spring to our feet, and come together--so that we can touch each other. We grasp our guns, and get ready our knives and pistols. We make to the edge of the rock, and, sliding down, a.s.sure ourselves of the path. We grope our way downward, guided by the granite walls on each side. We go not with caution, but in the very recklessness of a desperate need. We are met by the ma.s.ses of smoke still rolling upwards. Further down, we feel the hot caloric as we come nearer to the crackling fires. We heed them not, but rush madly forward--till we have cleared both the cloud and the flames, and stand upon the level plain!

It is but escaping from the fires of h.e.l.l to rush into the midst of its demons. On all sides they surround us with poised spears and brandished clubs. Amidst their wild yells, we scarcely hear the cracking of our guns and pistols; and those who fall to our shots are soon lost to our sight, behind the bodies of others who crowd forward to encompa.s.s us.

For a short while we keep together, and fight, back to back, facing our foes. But we are soon separated; and each struggles with a dozen a.s.sailants around him!

The struggle was not protracted. So far as I was concerned, it ended, almost on the instant of my being separated from my comrades. A blow from behind, as of a club striking me upon the skull, deprived me of consciousness: leaving me only the one last thought--_that it was death_!

CHAPTER SIXTY.

A CAPTIVE ON A CRUCIFIX.

Am I dead? Surely it _was_ death, or an oblivion that equalled it? But no--I live! I am conscious that I live. Light is falling upon my eyes--thought is returning to my soul! Am I upon earth? or is it another world in which I awake? It is a bright world--with a sky of blue, and a sun of gold; but are they the sky and sun of the earth?

Both may belong to a future world? I can see no earth--neither fields, nor trees, nor rocks, nor water--nought but the blue canopy and the golden orb. Where is the earth? It should be under and around me, but I cannot see it. Neither around nor beneath can I look--only upward and forward--only upon the sun and the sky! What hinders me from turning?

Is it that I sleep, and dream? Is the incubus of a horrid nightmare upon me? Am I, like Prometheus, chained to a rock face upward? No--not thus; I feel that I am standing--erect as if nailed against a wall! If I am not dreaming, I am certainly in an upright att.i.tude. I feel my limbs beneath me; while my arms appear to be stretched out to their full extent, and held as in the grasp of some invisible hand! My head, too, is fixed: I can neither turn nor move it. A cord traverses across my cheeks. There is something between my teeth. A piece of wood it appears to be? It gags me, and half stifles my breathing! Am I in human hands? or are they fiends who are thus clutching me?

Anon my senses grow stronger, but wild fancies still mock me: I am yet uncertain if it be life! What are those dark objects pa.s.sing before my eyes? They are birds upon the wing--large birds of sable plumage. I know them. They are vultures. They are of the earth. Such could not exist in a region of spirits? Ah! those sounds! they are weird enough to be deemed unearthly--wild enough to be mistaken for the voices of demons. From far beneath, they appear to rise--as if from the bowels of the earth, sinking and swelling in prolonged chorus. I know and recognise the voices: they are human. I know the chaunted measure: it is the death-song of the Indian! The sounds are suggestive. I am not dreaming--I am not dead. I am awake, and on the earth.

Memory comes to my aid. By little and little, I begin to realise my situation. I remember the siege--the smoke--the confused conflict--all that preceded it, but nothing after. I thought I had been killed. But no--I live--I am a captive. My comrades--are _they_ alive? Not likely.

Better for them, if they be not. The consciousness of life need be no comfort to me. In that wild chaunt there is breathing a keen spirit of vengeance. Oh! that I had not survived to hear it! Too surely do I know what will follow that dirge of death. It might as well be my own!

I am in pain. My position pains me--and the hot sun glaring upon my cheek. My arms and limbs smart under thongs that bind too tightly. One crosses my throat that almost chokes me, and the stick between my teeth renders breathing difficult. There is a pain upon the crown of my head, and my skull feels as if scalded. Oh Heavens! _have they scalped me_?

With the thought, I endeavour to raise my hand. In vain: I cannot budge either hand or arm. Not a finger can I move; and I am forced to remain in horrid doubt as to whether the _hair_ be still upon my head--with more than a probability that it is gone! But how am I confined? and where? I am fast bound to something: every joint in my body is fixed and immobile, as if turned to stone! I can feel thongs cutting sharply into my skin; and my back and shoulders press against some supporting substance, that seems as hard as rock. I cannot tell what it is. I cannot even see my own person--neither breast nor body--neither arms nor legs--not an inch of myself. The fastening over my face holds it upturned to the sky; and my head feels firmly set--as if the vertebral column of my neck had become ossified into a solid ma.s.s!

<script>