The commander at the fort was Captain Pouchot, an able French officer, who had seen service for many campaigns. He had under him a force of about six hundred soldiers--trained veterans who could boast of more than one victory. Up to a short while before, there had been other soldiers in this vicinity, but not dreaming of an attack--for his Indian spies had this time failed him--the French officer had allowed these to depart--to Venango and other trading posts, and to several of the nearby Indian villages. It was mid-summer, and traders and Indians hated to do military duty when they could bring down game and make trades.
"We are certainly in for a fight now, Henry!"
It was Dave who spoke, as he examined the priming of his new gun, to make sure that the weapon was ready for use. "That little brush day before yesterday woke the French up, and they will sail into us heavily--if they can," he added.
"Well, we came to fight," returned Henry, as he, too, looked his weapon over. "And I guess we can be thankful, all things considered, that we are here to do them battle and not killed, or laid up as Sam Barringford is."
"I hope Sam pulls through and that quickly."
"The surgeon said he would--if he'll keep quiet for a while. But it's like putting a torch to gun-powder to keep him quiet when there's a scrimmage in sight,--he's such a born fighter."
The two young soldiers were standing behind a breastworks which had been thrown up early that morning. The first works thrown up by the English engineering corps had proved untenable and the French had fired on them with disastrous effect. But now they were comparatively safe; and the English gunners were serving their various cannon steadily and effectively, knocking the logs of the fort into bits with almost every discharge.
The fort had been under bombardment for several days, and the young soldiers had been out on the firing line three times. But only one of these times had been of any consequence and that was when a French cannon ball, hitting some loose stones, had sent the latter in their faces, scratching them both on each cheek and blinding a soldier standing between them.
The bombardment had been opened at rather long range, for General Prideaux had not known the exact strength of the French garrison. Now the worthy English general was dead, having been killed on the second day by the unexpected explosion of a shell as it was being fired by some English gunners from a small bronze mortar, generally called a coe-horn.