Chapter 26
The plan was simple. Nicholas would lead the men out over the drawbridge to the west ravelin while the marksmen covered them from the ramparts and distracted the Indians with Paddy. Once in position, they would each throw a hand grenade along the riverbank, some to the north, some to the south, forcing the Indians to break cover so that marksmen, already prepared, could finish them off. Then Nicholas and his men would quickly make their way back through the ravelin to the drawbridge and into the fort.
Nicholas looked into each man’s eyes. “Tomahawks and knives only until we reach the sally port. And, boys, don’t light those fuses too early. I don’t want to bring anyone back in pieces.”
The men chuckled.
“Ready?”
A dozen heads nodded.
Nicholas signaled the sergeant on the ramparts, heard a volley of grenades land in the ditch just outside the walls, clearing away any Indians who might lie in ambush.
Slowly the heavy drawbridge began to lower.
Tomahawk in hand, grenades in a leather pouch on his shoulder, Nicholas waited.
War whoops. A volley of rifle fire from the walls.
Then the drawbridge was open.
On the other side stood the ravelin and, beyond that, the moonlit water of the Monongahela, gliding smooth and silent.
He led the men across, spied Indians hiding in the shelter of the ravelin, charged.
Surprised, and perhaps afraid the rest of the garrison was on its way out, most of the Indians fled out through the sally port and down to the river. Those who remained were quickly dispatched.
“Form two lines—one north, one south. Go!”
The men did as Nicholas ordered while he covered them, firing upon two Indians who’d recovered from their surprise and turned to fight.
“They know we’re here, boys. Let’s do what we came to do!”
Quickly the men in front of the two lines lit their fuses, stepped out of the sally port, threw their grenades, retreated.
Small explosions. Frightened shouts. Cries of pain. The whine of a passing arrow.
Almost immediately, gunfire from the ramparts increased as marksmen took down those who’d fled their cover. The plan was working.
By the time the sound of the first explosions had died, the next men in line had already lit their fuses and hurled their grenades. Frightened shouts turned to outright cries of retreat as the second, third, and fourth waves of grenades hit.
It seemed the mission would go off without a hitch, when one of the militiamen slipped and fell to the sandy riverbank. Three Indians, crouching at the river’s edge, saw the fallen man and made straight for him.
They were Wyandot.
And then Nicholas saw him.
Atsan.
Even through the darkness, the war chief’s gaze bored into Nicholas. The man who had ordered Eben and Josiah’s death. The man who had spared Nicholas’s life, embraced him as a son. The man whose daughter, grandchild, and son Nicholas had killed.
A wave of conflicting emotion slammed into Nicholas, hot and thick. Shock. Rage. Gnawing regret. But there was no time. He could not settle this here.
“Cover me!” Nicholas leapt down, reached for the fallen militiaman, jerked him to his feet. “Time to get out of here! Go!”
As Nicholas turned to follow the militiaman, he heard the end-over-end rush of a tomahawk hurtling through the air and Atsan’s shout of warning. He had just enough time to push the militiaman through the sally port when something exploded against the back of his skull, sent him plummeting into darkness.
***
