United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Juvenile fiction; Wyoming Valley (Pa.) -- History -- Juvenile fiction
However timorous one may be, he does not linger long in such a place as
I then was, for it stood to reason there were many pairs of sharp eyes
fixed on this particular portion of the stockade, and, lying flat on my
stomach, I began the advance, which needed to be slow and cautious if
one would continue it many moments.
Before having gotten fifty yards away, following the line of the river
at about an hundred paces from it, I suddenly came upon an Indian
leaning against a tree as if half-asleep.
It might have been possible to have struck a blow that would have
carried him out of this world; but the chances were that, in making
such an attempt, I would bring his fellows down upon me, and,
therefore, hardly daring to breathe lest he should be aware of my
neighborhood, I made such a détour as soon left him behind me.
Then half an hour more of creeping and stopping to listen, suspicious
of every leaf that was stirred by the wind, and after having gone, so
nearly as I could judge, a mile in distance, I was literally paralyzed
with fear when I laid my hand squarely upon the leg of a man.
In an instant he had kicked back with such force that the breath was
knocked out of me, and, before I could recover, he was upon my back,
clutching me by the throat with a grip which threatened soon to put an
end to my struggles.
It was impossible for me to draw my knife, and the musket which I
gripped in my right hand was useless at such a time. My brain was in a
whirl, and consciousness rapidly deserting me when, suddenly, the iron
grip upon my throat was loosened, as I heard dimly the whisper:
“Who are you?”
Then I understood who was my assailant, and it was with difficulty I
prevented myself from crying aloud with joy, for I knew now that I had
thus inadvertently come upon Elias.
It was not needed that I should reply to the question, for, passing his
hand quickly over my face, he knew who I was, and throwing himself by
my side, whispered:
“What are you doing here? Have they taken the fort?”
I explained in as few words as possible why I had ventured forth, and
in turn asked the reason for his failing to come back within the time
agreed upon.
“The stockade was all surrounded when I left, and since noon have I
been trying to have speech with you. Once I got within sight of the
fort, but was obliged to fall back when an additional force was sent up
from Wintermoot’s.”
“Did you get anywhere near the nest of Tories?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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