Free Cape Cod by William Martin

fright.
    “Fire the match, Simeon,” said Jack evenly, “or we’ll none of us get out of here alive.”
    With shaking hand, Simeon pulled a burning stick from the fire and touched it to the slow match on Jack’s musket.
    Standish was now standing in full view of the Indians, letting arrows bounce off his corselet while he reloaded. When a stone-tipped arrow struck the armor near his neck, he snapped it in half and spat on it.
    This infuriated the Indians, who screamed out a strange cry—“ Woach, Woach, ha ha hach woach ”—and sent down another rain of arrows.
    “Do all the spittin’ you wants, Captain.” Jack raised his matchlock and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped, touching the smoldering cord to the powder in the pan. There was a small flash, then an explosion that once more shocked the Indians into silence, but this time, their fear neither grew as great nor lasted as long.
    Standish ordered the unarmed men after their guns. “Run, you bloody fools. Run now!”
    And as the white men fled down the beach, the Indians burst from the woods to give chase.
    “Run!” cried Jack.
    “Be men of faith,” added Bradford.
    “And you be men of the musket!” cried Standish. In the firelight, his face now shone as red as his beard.
    Bradford and John Carver rushed out with their matchlocks, dug their rests into the sand, fitted the barrels, and took aim.
    Standish pointed at the shadows churning down the beach as though driven by the wind. “Aim together,” he ordered calmly. “Together, now. Fire!”
    The noise of the guns frightened the Indians back into the woods. Their kick knocked Bradford into Jack, who fell against Carver, who fell onto the seat of his breeches.
    “On your feet,” ordered Standish. “The savages muster courage to come at us next. Load and pray we have help from the shallop presently.”
    Then they heard the men at the shallop calling for a firebrand.
    “Bloody fools!” roared Standish. “What soldier lets his match go out?”
    “What soldier leaves his gun three hundred feet from his side?” answered Hilyard. “Simeon, another firebrand.”
    Simeon poked his cutlass through the logs. “There be no more small pieces.”
    “Then a log! Take a log!”
    “Take it where?”
    “The shallop!” roared Standish. “Without a firebrand, matchlocks be no better than clubs.”
    Bradford drove the ramrod into his gun. “Be of good courage, Simeon, and be quick. God be with you.”
    But Simeon stood staring at the flames, in the grip of terror.
    So Jack took sterner measures. He kicked Simeon square in his breeches. “A firebrand, man! Fail in this and the colony dies!”
    And Simeon Bigelow found his courage. He poked at the fire until a burning log came free. He wrapped it in his cloak, then threw it onto his shoulder and ran.
    At the sight of his shadow bursting from the barricado, the Indians sped forth once more. But fear and the flames on his shoulder made Simeon run faster than any demon.
    He fired the matches of the men at the shallop and a three-gun volley exploded so loud that a flock of gulls lifted from the flats. Amidst a splattering shower of white gull shit, three more stepped forward, fixed rests, fired, and put the Indians to flight.
    These white men were demons, thought Autumnsquam. They made targets of themselves, but arrows did not pierce their clothing. Nor did war cries frighten them nor fire burn them. And their weapons made noise that could shake the ground. But even if the other Nausets were afraid, he would show bravery.
    He stepped boldly from behind a tree and bellowed a war cry. The white men raised their weapons at him, but he did not flinch. Two shots exploded around him, but he did not run. He answered them with two arrows of his own.
    These savages were demons, thought Jack Hilyard. Even in bitter winter, they wore nothing but breeches. They painted their faces, they screamed like animals, and after they attacked, they disappeared into the blackness