The besiegers turned.

Croghan’s sweating gunners swabbed and loaded and fired, roaring like lions.

The Indians, of whom there were nearly a thousand, were not in the charge, and when retreat began they went in panic.  We could hear calls and yells, the clatter of arms, and a thumping of the earth; the strain of men tugging cannon ropes; the swift withdrawal of a routed force.

Two thousand more Indians approaching under Tecumseh, were turned back by refugees.

Croghan remarked, as we listened to the uproar, “Fort Stephenson can hardly be called untenable against heavy artillery.”

Then arose cries in the ditch, which penetrated to women’s ears.  Neither side was able to help the wounded there.  But before the rout was complete, Croghan had water let down in buckets to relieve their thirst, and ordered a trench cut under the pickets of the stockade.  Through this the poor wretches who were able to crawl came in and surrendered themselves and had their wounds dressed.

By three o’clock in the morning not a British uniform glimmered red through the dawn.  The noise of retreat ended.  Pistols and muskets strewed the ground.  Even a sailboat was abandoned on the river, holding military stores and the clothing of officers.

“They thought General Harrison was coming,” laughed Croghan, as he sat down to an early breakfast, having relieved all the living in the trench and detailed men to bury the dead.  “We have lost one man, and have another under the surgeon’s hands.  Now I’m ready to appear before a court-martial for disobeying orders.”

“You mean you’re ready for your immortal page in history.”

“Paragraph,” said Croghan; “and the dislike of poor little boys and girls who will stick their fists in their eyes when they have to learn it at school.”

Intense manhood ennobled his long, animated face.  The President afterwards made him a lieutenant-colonel, and women and his superior officers praised him; but he was never more gallant than when he said: 

“My uncle, George Rogers Clark, would have undertaken to hold this fort; and by heavens, we were bound to try it!”

The other young officers sat at mess with him, hilarious over the outcome, picturing General Proctor’s state of mind when he learned the age of his conqueror.

None of them cared a rap that Daniel Webster was opposing the war in the House of Representatives at Washington, and declaring that on land it was a failure.

A subaltern came to the mess room door, touching his cap and asking to speak with Major Croghan.

“The men working outside at the trenches saw a boy come up from the ravine, sir, and fall every few steps, so they’ve brought him in.”

“Does he carry a dispatch?”

“No, sir.  He isn’t more than nine or ten years old.  I think he was a prisoner.”

“Is he a white boy?”

“Yes, sir, but he’s dressed like an Indian.”