Bryan's Station

We tightened stirrup; buckled rein;     Looked to our saddle-girths again;     Shook hands all round; then mounted.     The gate swung wide: we said, "Good-bye."     No time for talk had Bell and I.     One cried, "God speed!" another, "Fly!"     As out we rode to do or die,     And every minute counted.     The trail, the buffaloes had worn,     Stretched broad before us through the corn     And cane with which it blended.     We knew for miles around the gate     Hid Indian guile and Tory hate.     There was no time to hesitate.     We galloped on. We spurred like Fate,     As morn broke red and splendid.     No rifle cracked. No arrow whirred.     Above us piped a forest bird,     Then two and three together.     We 'd reached the woods. And still no shout     Of all the wild Wyandotte rout     And Shawanese had yet rung out:     But now and then an Indian scout     Flashed here and there a feather.     We rode expecting death each stride     From fallen tree or thicket side,     Where, snake-like, they could huddle:     And well we knew that renegade,     The blood-stained Girty, only stayed     His hate awhile before he played     His hand: that Fiend, who had betrayed     The pioneers of Ruddle.     And when an arrow grazed my hair     I was not startled; did not care;     But rode with rifle ready.     A whoop rang out beyond a ford     Then spawned the wood a yelling horde     Of devils, armed with tomahawk     And gun. I raised my flintlock's stock     And let 'em have it steady.     Tom followed me. And for a mile     We matched our strength with redskin guile:     And often I have wondered     How we escaped. I lost my gun:     And Tom, whose girth had come undone,     Rode saddleless. . . . The summer sun     Was high when into Lexington,     With flying manes we thundered.     Too late. For Todd at break of day     Had left for Hoy's; decoyed, they say,     By some reported story     Of new disaster. Bryan's needs     Cried"On!" Although we had done deeds,     We must do more, whatever speeds.     We had no time to rest our steeds,     Whose panting flanks were gory.     Again the trail; rough; often barred     By rocks and trees. Oh, it was hard     To keep our souls from sinking:     But thoughts of those we 'd left behind     Gave strength to muscle and to mind     To help us on on, through the blind     Deep woods, where often we would find     Our hearts of loved ones thinking.     The hot stockade. No water left.     The night attack. All hope bereft     The powder-grimed defender.     The warwhoop and the groan of pain.     All night the slanting arrow-rain     Of fire-brands from the corn and cane:     The fierce defense, but all in vain:     And then, at last, surrender.     But not for Bryan's! No! Too well     Must they remember what befell     At Ruddle's and take warning. . . .     And like two madmen, dust and sweat,     We rode with faces forward set,     And came to Boone's. The sun was yet     An hour from noon. . . . We had not let     Our horses rest since morning.     Here Ellis heard our news: his men     Around him, back we turned again,     And like a band of lions     That leap some lioness to aid,     Of death and torture unafraid,     We charged the Indian ambuscade     And through a storm of bullets made     Our entrance into Bryan's.     And that is all I have to tell.     No more the Huron's hideous yell     Whoops to assault and slaughter.     Perhaps to us some praise is due:     But we are men, accustomed to     Face danger, which is nothing new.     The women did far more for you,     Risking their lives for water.