Death and mutilation was dealt on every side, and the fire from the ramparts grew fiercer and fiercer.
Yet so terrible in their battle-wrath are these cannibals, that--well our heroes knew--if they were to scale the ramparts, even the white men would not be able to stand against them.
Then the fight would degenerate into a ma.s.sacre, and this would be followed by an orgie too awful to contemplate.
At this moment there could not have been fewer than five hundred savages striving to capture the little hill on which stood the camp, and Roland"s men in all were barely eighty. Some who had exposed themselves were speedily brought down with poisoned arrows, and already lay writhing in the agonies of spasmodic death.
But see, led on by the chief Kaloomah himself, who seems to bear a charmed life, the foremost ranks of those sable warriors have already all but gained footing on the ramparts, while with axe and adze the pale-faces endeavour to repel them.
In vain!
Kaloomah--great knife in hand--and at least a score of his braves have effected an entrance, and the whites, though fighting bravely, are being pushed, if not driven back.
It is a terrible moment!
CHAPTER XXVIII--THE DREAM AND THE TERROR!
Far more acute in hearing are these children of the wilds than any white man who ever lived, and now, just as hope was beginning to die out of even Roland"s heart, a sudden movement on the part of the savages who had gained admittance caused him to marvel.
More quickly than they had entered, back they sprang towards the parapet, and on gazing after them, our heroes found that the hill-sides were clear.
It was evident, however, that a great battle was going on down beneath on the prairie.
Explanation is hardly needed.
Rodrigo"s men, guided by Benee, had outflanked--nay, even surrounded--the foe, and with well-aimed volleys had thrust them back and back towards the river, into which, with wild agonizing shouts, all that was left of Kaloomah"s army was driven.
They were excellent swimmers, the "gators were absent from this river, and doubtless hundreds of fugitives would find their way back into their own dark land to tell how well and bravely the pale-faces can fight.
But Kaloomah, where is he?
Intent on revenge, even while the battle raged the fiercest and the whites were being driven back, his quick eye caught the glimmer of the candle-light in the cave.
Leeboo was there, he told himself, and the false witch Weenah.
He shortened his knife, and made a rush for the entrance.
"Hab--a--rabb--rr--rr--ow!" That was the voice of the great wolf-hound, as he sprang on the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin and pinned him to the ground.
Kaloomah"s knife dropped from his hand as he tried to free himself.
But Brawn had him by the throat now, and had not brave Peggy sprung to the a.s.sistance of the savage, the dog would have torn the windpipe from his neck.
But Kaloomah was prisoner, and when the fight was all over, the dog was released from duty, and the chief was bound hand and foot and placed in the other cave beside Peter.
This cave, which had thus been turned into a prison, possessed an entrance at the side, a kind of doorway through the dark rocks, and a great hole at the top, through which daylight, or even moonlight, could stream. At some not very distant date it had evidently been used as a hut, and must have been the scene of many a fearful cannibal orgie, for scores of human skulls were heaped up in corners, and calcined bones were also found. Altogether, therefore, an unhallowed kind of place, and eerie beyond conception.
It is as well to tell the truth concerning the battle on the hill-top, ghastly though it may appear. There were no wounded men there, for even in the thick of the fight the savages not only slew the white men who dropped, but their own maimed as well.
So long as the brave fellows under Roland and d.i.c.k held the ramparts, and poured their volleys into the ranks of the enemy beneath, scarcely a white man was hurt; but when the battlements were carried by storm, then the havoc of war commenced in earnest; and at daylight a great deep trench was excavated, and in this no fewer than eleven white men were placed, side by side.
A simple prayer was said, then a hymn was sung--a sad dirge-like hymn to that sacred air called "Martyrdom", which has risen in olden times from many a Scottish battle-field, where the heather was dripping blood. I take my fiddle and play it now, and that mournful scene rises up before me, in which the white men crowd around the long quiet grave, where their late companions lie sleeping in the tomb.
Every head is bared in the morning sunshine, every eye is wet with tears.
It is Bill himself who leads the melody.
Then clods are gently thrown upon the dead, and soon the grave is filled.
There was not the slightest apprehension now that the battle would be renewed, and so all the day was spent in getting ready for the long march back to the spot where, under the charge of one of the captains and his faithful peons, the great canoes had been left.
Among the stores brought here to camp--the suggestion had emanated from Roland"s mother and Beeboo--was a chest containing many changes of raiment and dresses belonging to Peggy. In the cave, then, both she and Weenah conducted their toilet, and when, some time after, and just as breakfast was about to be served, they both came out, it would have been difficult, indeed, to keep from exclamations of surprise.
Even Benee gave way to his excitement, and, seizing Weenah, held her for a moment high in air.
"I rejoice foh true!" he cried. "All ober my heart go flapperty-flap.
Oh, Weenah! you am now all same one red pale-face lady."
d.i.c.k thought Peggy, with her bonnie sun-tanned face, more lovely now than ever he had seen her.
But while they are breakfasting, and while the men are quietly but busily engaged getting the stores down-hill, let us take a peep into the cave where the prisoners are.
When Kaloomah was thrust into the cave, Peter was fast asleep. Of late he had become utterly tired and careless of life. Was his not a wrecked existence from beginning to end? This was a question that he oftentimes asked himself sadly enough.
During the fight that had raged so long and fiercely he had remained perfectly pa.s.sive. What was it to him who won or who lost? If the Indians won, he would speedily be put out of pain. If the white men were the victors--well, he would probably die just the same. At all events, life was not worth having now.
Then, when the lull of battle came, when the wild shrieks and shouting were over, and when the rattling of musketry was no longer heard, he felt utterly tired. He would sleep, he told himself, and what cared he if it should be
"The sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil or night of waking"?
The cords that bound him hurt a little, but he would not feel their pressure when--he slept.
His was not a dreamless sleep by any means, though a long one.
His old, old life seemed to rise up before him. He was back again in England--dear old England! He was a clerk, a confidential clerk.
He had no care, no complications, and he was happy. Happy in the love of a sweet girl who adored him; the girl that he would have made his wife.
Poor? Yes, both were; but oh! when one has innocence and sweet contentment, love can bloom in a garret.