Of all that dreadful story of Wyoming, the only bright spot in it, if there can be anything bright amid so much of horror, was that out of Fort Jenkins went all those women and children in safety, while our little force of twenty-three or four got away with a loss of seven, three of whom were killed at the first rush, one stricken down by a hatchet hurled at him as we stood near the blockhouse, and three captured when we began the retreat. From the small gate to the river bank was not above eighty paces, and, knowing that Master Bartlett could not run as swiftly as either of us, because of his infirmities, Giles March and I each took him by the hand, literally dragging the old man along with us, and into the river we three went. Elias Shendle I had not seen since the fight began; but it seemed to me probable that he was among those who had first been killed. I believe it was fully three minutes after we, who were the hindermost of that retreating company, leaped into the water before our pursuers opened fire, and then the chances of their doing any execution were exceeding small, for we had but to keep within the shadows of the western bank to be entirely hidden from view. “Better leave me, lads, for I can’t swim,” Master Bartlett said when Giles and I had forced him into the stream, and were striking out lustily that we might get into the line of shadow where we would be hidden, and I, burning to do something which would lessen the shame of having retreated when I should have remained to be killed, said, sharply: “It shall be all three of us, Master Bartlett, or none. Do you take hold of Giles’s collar and mine, and it will go hard if we can’t succeed in carrying you along with us.” “It is best to leave me, lads; I am grown too old to be of much service, and a matter of a few days more or less will make no difference either to me or the people of the valley.” “You go with us, Master Bartlett, whether you will or no,” Giles said, sharply, and then we held our peace, fearing to speak again lest we give the savage foe good warning of where a target might be found. And the waters of the Susquehanna carried us swiftly and silently away, as they carried that night the women and children who were battling for life, down past Wintermoot’s, past this bend and that cove, until the shrieks and yells of triumph raised by John Butler’s wolves, as they exulted in their victory, were lost to our ears in the distance. CHAPTER VII. MONOCASY ISLAND