“We demand unconditional surrender,” was the answer.
“You will never get it,” replied Silas.
“Take more time to think it over. You see we have a force here large enough to take the Fort in an hour.”
“That remains to be seen,” shouted someone through a porthole.
An hour passed. The soldiers and the Indians lounged around on the grass and walked to and fro on the bluff. At intervals a taunting Indian yell, horrible in its suggestiveness, came floating on the air. When the hour was up three mounted men rode out in advance of the waiting Indians. One was clad in buckskin, another in the uniform of a British officer, and the third was an Indian chief whose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt and legging.
“Will you surrender?” came in the harsh and arrogant voice of the renegade.
“Never! Go back to your squaws!” yelled Sullivan.
“I am Capt. Pratt of the Queen’s Rangers. If you surrender I will give you the best protection King George affords,” shouted the officer.
“To hell with King George! Go back to your hair-buying Hamilton and tell him the whole British army could not make us surrender,” roared Hugh Bennet.
“If you do not give up, the Fort will be attacked and burned. Your men will be massacred and your women given to the Indians,” said Girty.
“You will never take a man, woman or child alive,” yelled Silas. “We remember Crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to give up to be butchered. Come on with your red jackets and your red devils. We are ready.”
“We have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now all hope of succor must be abandoned. Your doom is sealed.”
“What kind of a man was he?” shouted Sullivan.
“A fine, active young fellow,” answered the outlaw.
“That’s a lie,” snapped Sullivan, “he was an old, gray haired man.”
As the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consult their companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one of the portholes of the blockhouse. It was followed by the ringing report of a rifle. The Indian chief clutched wildly at his breast, fell forward on his horse, and after vainly trying to keep his seat, slipped to the ground. He raised himself once, then fell backward and lay still. Full two hundred yards was not proof against Wetzel’s deadly smallbore, and Red Fox, the foremost war chieftain of the Shawnees, lay dead, a victim to the hunter’s vengeance. It was characteristic of Wetzel that he picked the chief, for he could have shot either the British officer or the renegade. They retreated out of range, leaving the body of the chief where it had fallen, while the horse, giving a frightened snort, galloped toward the woods. Wetzel’s yell coming quickly after his shot, excited the Indians to a very frenzy, and they started on a run for the Fort, discharging their rifles and screeching like so many demons.
In the cloud of smoke which at once enveloped the scene the Indians spread out and surrounded the Fort. A tremendous rush by a large party of Indians was made for the gate of the Fort. They attacked it fiercely with their tomahawks, and a log which they used as a battering ram. But the stout gate withstood their united efforts, and the galling fire from the portholes soon forced them to fall back and seek cover behind the trees and the rocks. From these points of vantage they kept up an uninterrupted fire.
The soldiers had made a dash at the stockade fence, yelling derision at the small French cannon which was mounted on top of the blockhouse. They thought it a “dummy” because they had learned that in the 1777 siege the garrison had no real cannon, but had tried to utilize a wooden one. They yelled and hooted and mocked at this piece and dared the garrison to fire it. Sullivan, who was in charge of the cannon, bided his time. When the soldiers were massed closely together and making another rush for the stockade fence Sullivan turned loose the little “bulldog,” spreading consternation and destruction in the British ranks.
“Stand back! Stand back!” Capt. Pratt was heard to yell. “By God! there’s no wood about that gun.”
After this the besiegers withdrew for a breathing spell. At this early stage of the siege the Indians were seen to board Sullivan’s pirogue, and it was soon discovered they were carrying the cannonballs from the boat to the top of the bluff. In their simple minds they had conceived a happy thought. They procured a white oak log probably a foot in diameter, split it through the middle and hollowed out the inside with their tomahawks. Then with iron chains and bars, which they took from Reihart’s blacksmith shop, they bound and securely fastened the sides together. They dragged the improvised cannon nearer to the Fort, placed it on two logs and weighted it down with stones. A heavy charge of powder and ball was then rammed into the wooden gun. The soldiers, though much interested in the maneuver, moved back to a safe distance, while many of the Indians crowded round the new weapon. The torch was applied; there was a red flash—boom! The hillside was shaken by the tremendous explosion, and when the smoke lifted from the scene the naked forms of the Indians could be seen writhing in agony on the ground. Not a vestige of the wooden gun remained. The iron chains had proved terrible death-dealing missiles to the Indians near the gun. The Indians now took to their natural methods of warfare. They hid in the long grass, in the deserted cabins, behind the trees and up in the branches. Not an Indian was visible, but the rain of bullets pattered steadily against the blockhouse. Every bush and every tree spouted little puffs of white smoke, and the leaden messengers of Death whistled through the air.
After another unsuccessful effort to destroy a
