“Ay, and found there that I might as well have stayed here, for it’s a question if they are not better informed as to the situation than are we. Two days before I arrived there, Colonel Zebulon Butler came from the army on a five days’ furlough, and, learning of the danger which menaces, declares that he will allow the word ‘deserter’ written against his name rather than leave this valley while the enemy are so strong against us. The people have made him their commander, and it is agreed that Forty Fort shall be the general rendezvous. Before I got there, nearly all the women and children from roundabout had come up for safety. Runners have been sent to General Washington’s camp, which is now near New Brunswick, begging that troops be sent at least sufficiently long for us to make an attack upon John Butler’s force; Colonel Zebulon Butler himself writing to the general that it is impossible for our people to retreat to a place of safety, and unless succor be sent at once we must all perish.” Elias ceased speaking as if his story was told, and Master Bartlett said, in a tone of satisfaction: “It is well that they are alive to the danger which menaces. Does Colonel Zebulon believe Forty Fort will be attacked?” “Indeed he does,” Elias replied, “and with good reason. Yesterday did John Butler send a demand for surrender, not only of the fort, but of the entire valley, threatening that unless we throw ourselves on his mercy the savages shall be let loose upon us. It was when his messengers returned to Wintermoot’s that I followed not above three hundred paces in their rear, believing safety lay in keeping as near to them as might be possible with secrecy, and thus did I come up as far as that nest of Tories without fear.” Even though Elias’s journey had proved unnecessary, so far as warning our friends in the valley was concerned, it seemed to me of great benefit, since we had gained information of the general situation, and knew it was not necessary we absolutely sacrifice our lives in order to give them tidings of what might be expected. Yet with such assurance it must not be supposed that the thought of surrendering the fort came into my mind, save as a last dread resort. “How many men, think you, are in the Pittstown stockades?” Master Bartlett inquired, of no one in particular. “Surely not more than a corporal’s guard,” I replied. “Why did you ask?” “There was in my mind the thought as to whether we might not persuade them to come over to us,” the old man replied, slowly, as if to weigh his own words, and Giles March said, sharply: “If, as we believe, the two lads who are yet missing succeeded in reaching those stockades, then do the men of Pittstown know by this time all our needs, and would make effort to reinforce us if they were minded to do so.”