Private Fitchie ran after her. “The lieutenant will have my hide if you dinnae do as he says! You’re to go to your quarters!”
“I cannae, no’ so long as he’s out there!” She ran through the throng toward the drawbridge, searched through the crowd, praying to see his face.
She heard a soldier talking to the quartermaster.
“Are they all in?”
“All except Kenleigh and McKee.”
Barely able to breathe, she pushed through the throng, tried to get closer to the bridge.
And then she saw him. He strode over the drawbridge, his shirt torn and bloodied, a man draped over his shoulder. He did not see her, but shouted to one of the sergeants, lowering the man he carried carefully to the ground.
“He needs the surgeon. He took a ball to the knee.”
“Aye, sir!”
Then he turned to the quartermaster. “Is everyone in and accounted for?”
“Aye, Kenleigh, but that was damned close.”
“Too close.”
She knew the exact moment he saw her, knew he was beyond furious.
He closed the distance between them. “What are you doing out here! Get Belle, and get back to our quarters now!”
“But you were out there, and I—”
“This is the second time you’ve defied me, and I won’t tolerate it!”
Tears pricked her eyes. “You’re hurt! At least let me—”
“It’s nothing! This is war, Bethie. You’ll likely see far worse before it’s over. There are God knows how many warriors on the other side of these walls. Now go!” He turned to Private Fitchie. “You have my permission to drag her, carry her, do whatever you need to do to see that she is safely indoors. Get her out of here, and then report to your commanding officer.”
Private Fitchie nodded sharply. “Aye, sir!”
Bethie started to object, but Private Fitchie was already pulling her in one direction, and Nicholas had disappeared in another.
***
The attack lasted all day and into the night, showed no sign of letting up. Before the sun had set, Captain Écuyer had taken an arrow in the leg, and a corporal and one of the frontiersmen had been killed. The Delaware and Shawnee had taken cover wherever they could around the fort—in the shelter of the steep riverbanks, in the garden, in the burned-out ruins of Upper and Lower Town—and fired both arrows and lead balls on anything that moved.
Although Écuyer’s marksmen were highly trained, they could not bring down targets they could not see. And Nicholas, who had positioned himself on the Monongahela curtain directly above the officers’ barracks with a team of militia marksmen, quickly realized they had a problem.
“The fort is positioned so much nearer the Monongahela that they are able to fire arrows over the walls while using the riverbank for cover,” he told Écuyer. “Your marksmen cannot reach them. Cannon are of no use. They simply hide or shift from one position to another.”
The captain grimaced as the surgeon finished bandaging his leg. “What do you suggest, Kenleigh?”
“A direct assault on the riverbank from the cover of the west ravelin. A team of grenadiers could toss grenades directly into their stronghold, forcing them into the open.”
Écuyer gaped at him. “You would send men outside the walls in the midst of battle?”
“It’s the only way we’re going to dislodge them from the riverbank.”
Écuyer shook his head. “That’s suicide! I won’t risk it.”
Nicholas left Écuyer’s quarters sure the captain was making a grave mistake.
