On gaining entrance to the fort, Ross placed Amy and her child in care
of some refugees, who occupied a large tent at the eastern end of the
inclosure, immediately behind the grand traverse, and went to hunt his
comrades. He found them at a camp-fire, around which a number of lolling
soldiers were talking and smoking.
Duke was the first to note the presence of his master; and, with a yelp
of joy, sprang to meet him. Bright Wing uttered a guttural exclamation,
which was smothered by Farley’s lusty shout:
“Ross Douglas—’r my name ain’t Joe Farley! Alive an’ a-livin’—but
wetter’n a drownded mus’rat an’ lookin’ paler ’n a piller-case!
Youngster, you’ve been in the dangedest scrimmage that ever was—anybody
can see that. How in the name o’ all the purty women in the universe, did
you ever git out o’ that yaller-jackets’ nest, an’ make y’r way here? Set
down an’ tell us all ’bout it.”
Douglas dropped upon the ground and, affectionately patting Duke’s head,
replied wearily:
“I’m thoroughly exhausted, Joe. Get me something to eat.”
“That’s it!” cried one of the soldiers. “Git y’r comrade somethin’ to
eat, Limber Tongue. He’s ’bout played out.”
“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” grumbled Joe. “I never did have no sense!
The idee o’ askin’ a man, who hain’t had a bite to eat sence last night
at this time, to set down an’ spin yarns. I’ve a notion to pull my
larripin’ tongue out by the roots—I have, by Molly! An’ you’ve got some
scratches, too, Ross Douglas; an’ wher’ you ain’t pale, you’re blacker’n
a nigger with powder smoke, an’ redder’n an Injin with blood. Set there
an’ rest an’ dry y’r duds. I’ll have you somethin’ in a jiffy, that’ll
make you feel better—I will, by ginger!”
Still muttering to himself, of his own shortcomings, Farley left the
group around the fire. When he returned a few minutes later, he cried
exultingly:
“A long an’ limber tongue may be a nuisance most o’ the time, but once in
a while it comes mighty handy. Jest now mine helped me to p’rsuade Ol’
Tippecanoe to divide his supper with you, Ross Douglas——”
“What!” Douglas interrupted sternly. “Surely, Joe, you didn’t go to the
commander and ask him for food for me.”
“Surely I did,” Farley replied coolly.
The soldiers burst into roars of laughter. Ross’s face flushed angrily.
But Farley continued naïvely:
“You see, it was jest like this. You had to have somethin’ to eat—an’ you
needed it quick. Well, our suppers was over—no chance fer you there. I
could ’ave gone to the commissary an’ got some _raw_ grub, but it would
’ave took time to cook it. In the meantime you was starvin’. So thinks I,
‘I’ll jest go to Ol’ Tippecanoe—I’m purty well acquainted with him by
this time, an’ he’s probably at supper—an’ ask him to divide his supper
with Ross Douglas.’ So that’s what I done. An’ here’s y’r grub—steamin’
hot an’ calkerlated to make you feel like a fightin’ cock.”
And with the words, Farley triumphantly spread the food upon the ground
before his exhausted friend.
“There’s hot coffee,” he said, “an’ hot pone, an’ hot meat. They’ll warm
up y’r in’ards an’ limber up y’r tongue. Fall to now—’fore the things
gits cold.”
Douglas required no urging. He was trembling with hunger and fatigue; he
felt as though he should faint, if he fasted much longer. With evident
satisfaction, Farley and Bright Wing silently watched him as he ate. Duke
rested his nose upon his master’s knee and, heaving a sigh of content,
drowsily closed his great eyes. The soldiers knocked the ashes from their
pipes and, one by one, curled up in their blankets and fell asleep. When
Ross had finished, he stretched his feet to the fire and, turning to
Farley, asked smilingly:
“What did General Harrison say when you made a demand upon him, for a
share of his supper for me?”
“Said it ’forded him great pleasure to do so—a pleasure ’xceeded only by
the pleasure he felt in knowin’ you was still alive an’ _able_ to eat.
Then he told me to say to you to call at his quarters, in the mornin’;
that he wanted to meet you ag’in, an’ that ther’ was a subject demandin’
your attention—’r words to that effect.”
A pleased expression rested upon Douglas’s powder-stained face, as he
said:
“And I shall be delighted to meet my old commander again. He’s one of
nature’s gentlemen.”
Then he dreamily stared into the red embers, and was silent.
“Look here!” Joe cried in a testy tone. “Don’t be goin’ back into the
past an’ dreamin’ ’bout things that can never be, Ross Douglas. Me an’
Bright Wing wants to hear ’bout how you sarcumvented the redskins an’ got
here to the fort. Don’t we, Injin?”
The Wyandot lifted his head from between his knees and answered:
“Ugh! Want know ’bout fight—heap much, all, everything.”
Douglas smiled wearily and began his narrative. As he proceeded with
his graphic description of the battle and the incidents and adventures
following it, his interested comrades drew closer to him and listened
with eager attention, to every word that fell from his lips. The
camp-fires died down; the garrison was wrapped in silence and darkness.
Nothing broke the stillness but Douglas’s whispered tones, the heavy
breathing of the sleeping soldiers, and the muffled footfalls of the
sentries pacing their beats about the walls. At last Ross closed his
recital, and yawningly remarked:
“I’ve told you all. Now let’s lie down to rest; my eyes are so heavy that
I can hardly keep them open.”
“An’ no wonder,” Farley murmured. “Ross, you’ve been through a heap
to-day—a dang sight! But jest let me ask you one question. Now you’ve
found ol’ Sam Larkin’s gal—an’ she’s a wife an’ a mother—what’re you
goin’ to do?”
“Save her from the brute who has ruined her life,” Douglas replied
fiercely.
“That’s all right,” Joe persisted. “But how’re you goin’ to do it?”
“I don’t know yet,” Douglas answered. “I’ve not learned what she desires.”
“Well, you can’t marry her, of course.”
“What nonsense you’re talking, Joe!” Ross cried sharply. “She’s the wife
of another. Let’s drop the subject.”
“Ugh! No Fleet Foot’s squaw—fat paleface’s squaw,” grunted Bright Wing
sagely.
“An’ Fleet Foot takes it mighty cool, too,” Farley muttered to himself.
“’Pears to me he’s thinkin’ a heap more ’bout the little red-headed
gal he _hain’t_ found, than he is ’bout this gal he _has_ found. But I
don’t blame him. Amy Larkin’s played him false—she wan’t forced into no
marriage. You can’t fool me on women folks. Hain’t I had the ’xperience,
I’d like to know? Oh, gosh, yes!”
The three rolled over upon the ground, and two of them were soon snoring
loudly. But Ross did not fall asleep so readily. For an hour or more,
he lay with closed lids thinking—thinking. At last, however, outraged
nature asserted itself.
Early the next morning, the young scout managed to procure enough water
to remove the stains of battle from his person. After he had washed
himself, dressed his slight wounds, and eaten his breakfast, he went to
call upon General Harrison.
The commander’s seamed visage was alight with genuine pleasure, as
he took Ross by the hand and led him to a seat. Closely scanning his
caller’s face, the old warrior remarked:
“Douglas, I’m delighted to see you—to again grasp your hand. I didn’t
know you were with General Clay’s command; that you were in yesterday’s
terrible battle”—the commander’s careworn features twitched—“until your
two old comrades came to me and asked permission to go to your aid.”
“Did they do that?” Ross quickly inquired.
“Yes, indeed. Didn’t they tell you?”
Douglas shook his head; tears were in his eyes.
“They’re loyal fellows,” Harrison continued feelingly; “they would give
their lives for you, at any time.”
“I know,” Douglas answered chokingly. “I’ve four good friends, at least,
General Harrison—yourself, my two old comrades, and my dog. I’ve had a
varied experience in the last eighteen months. I’ve endured much——”
“And all for your country’s sake,” the general interrupted. “You have
suffered mentally and physically.”
Douglas remained silent and Harrison continued:
“And the worst is not come. But we’ll go on to the glorious end.”
“Yes,” was the firm reply.
“Yes,” the commander went on, “all of us have made sacrifices for
home and country. But opposition will not appal us; defeat will not
discourage us. We are _Americans_. This exacting service, with its
suspense—its disappointments, is calculated to discourage and unnerve.
But, pshaw!”—with a light laugh—“of what am I talking? We’re American
patriots—we can stand _anything_.”
Then with animation:
“But I didn’t bring you here to talk of such things. During yesterday’s
sorties we took a number of prisoners—British regulars, Canadian
militiamen, and Indians. At present they’re confined in the blockhouses;
and among those in the blockhouse at the southeastern angle of the
fortification, is an old acquaintance of yours.”
“An acquaintance of mine?” Douglas remarked wonderingly.
“Yes—a man both of us have good reason to remember.”
“Ah! Who is it, General?”
“Hiram Bradford.”
Like one electrified, Douglas sprang erect—his lips apart, his cheeks
flushed.
“Hiram Bradford!” he ejaculated.
General Harrison nodded.
“And you have seen him, General?”
“I have.”
“Did he send for you?”
“No; I knew nothing of his capture, till I went among the prisoners,
yesterday evening. I recognized him instantly, although he has changed
much since the Tippecanoe campaign. Evidently he is not in good health.
He’s emaciated, and his hair is white as snow. But he’s the same cool,
self-reliant villain.”
Harrison uttered this last sentence, in a tone of intense and bitter
hatred. Ross Douglas winced. Instantly he realized what Bradford’s fate
was likely to be. But hiding his feelings as well as he could, the young
man inquired:
“Did you talk with him, General Harrison?”
“A little. I called him by name. He didn’t attempt to conceal his
identity. He asked about you; and when I informed him you were with
Colonel Dudley, in the battle across the river, and hadn’t returned to
the fort with the survivors, he groaned aloud. When he had recovered his
equanimity, he exacted from me a promise that, should you return, I would
send you to him. For some reason, Douglas, that scoundrel is interested
in your welfare—for some reason he likes you very much. His actions
toward you in the past, his agitation about your welfare yesterday, prove
it.”
For a moment Ross stood with downcast eyes and said nothing. Then
suddenly looking up, he inquired with a show of emotion:
“He didn’t ask for mercy at your hands, General?”
The general slowly shook his head, all the while keenly eyeing his
companion.
“Nor inquired as to his fate?”
“Not a word.”
“But he asked that I be sent to him, upon my return?”
General Harrison again nodded, and remarked:
“Here’s a pass that will admit you to his presence. When you have talked
with him, return to me.”
Douglas silently took the bit of paper extended to him, and turned to
leave the tent. At the door he paused and, looking back, said:
“General Harrison.”
“Well?”
“Will Hiram Bradford be exchanged?”
“He—will—not!”—slowly and distinctly.
“And his fate?”
“An ignominious death—probably! It all depends upon what a court-martial
may do.”
And General Harrison’s thin lips were firmly drawn; his brows, lowering.
Douglas again bowed, and quickly withdrew. On reaching the open air, he
took a deep breath and, lifting his eyes to the clouded heavens, moved
his lips as though in prayer. Then, at a brisk pace, he set out toward
the blockhouse where Bradford was confined. As he passed along, he
observed a number of children playing in front of a large tent.
“I must call upon Amy, first,” he thought; “she may be needing something.”
Gently pushing aside the children who crowded the doorway, he entered
the tent. Several families were quartered within. Bedding and cooking
utensils were scattered about promiscuously. Near the entrance sat a
plethoric matron industriously knitting. She looked up at Douglas’s
unannounced entrance and, chuckling asthmatically, remarked by way of
greeting:
“Come in.—But I don’t see how you got through the swarm o’ young’uns. As
the Britishers has quit the’r shootin’, we thought it ’ld be no harm to
let the little things go out an’ play. They was pinin’ fer fresh air, you
know. Say!—how long do you think it’ll be ’fore we can go back to our
cabins?”
“I have no idea,” Ross replied, pausing momentarily.
“You hain’t?”—in evident surprise.—“Hain’t you got somethin’ to do with
managin’ the war?”
Douglas shook his head.
“Well—well!” she continued. “I knowed you wasn’t an officer, ’xactly, fer
you don’t wear no uniform; but I thought you surely was a soldier o’ some
kind—such a trim young feller as _you_ be. Then you hain’t got nothin’ to
do with runnin’ the war?”
Ross smilingly disclaimed the honor.
“Oh!” the woman exclaimed suddenly, laughing until her fat sides shook
and she threatened to suffocate. “I know you _now_. You’re the feller
that fetched the poor young woman here, last night. You’ve got y’r face
washed—an’ I didn’t know you. They say you was in the fight ’cross
the river. Had a hard time of it, didn’t you? The young woman? She’s
over there on that pile o’ beddin’. She ain’t feelin’ re’l peart, this
mornin’.”
Douglas hurriedly passed onto the spot indicated. Amy lay upon an
improvised bed near the center of the tent. At his approach, she arose
to a sitting posture and smiled feebly. In the semi-twilight of the
interior, she looked wan and haggard. Her clothing was threadbare and
shabby; her brown hair, falling about her shoulders, was a tangled mass.
The corners of her mouth were sagged. Truly she was a wreck. Little of
her girlish beauty remained. Douglas looked upon her, and shuddered at
the awful change in her appearance.
Near the bedside sat a middle-aged woman, striving vainly to soothe Amy’s
fretful child. The emaciated, peevish baby was a miniature of its mother.
Its cry was weak and querulous. Apparently it was about six months old;
but it had the claw-like hands and mummified features of an old woman.
Yet Ross noted its resemblance to its mother.
Taking the thin, calloused hand extended toward him, he seated himself
and asked kindly:
“How are you feeling this morning, Amy?”
“Not very well. Baby’s cross—and my head aches.”—Then, after a slight
pause, she added gloomily:
“But I’m feeling as well as I ever expect to feel.”
“Don’t say that,” he remonstrated. “You’ll regain your health and
strength—and again be happy.”
Sadly shaking her head, she replied:
“I’ll regain my health and strength, I hope. I must do so for baby’s
sake; she needs my care and protection. But, for me, happiness is a thing
of the past.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
She turned away her face and made no reply. The woman holding the babe
arose and sauntered to another part of the tent.
“Why do you say that for you happiness is a thing of the past?” Douglas
pursued. “You are young, Amy—life is all before you——”
“Listen!” she interrupted. “I say there is no further happiness for me,
because my heart is broken—is dead within me.”
For some seconds both were silent, neither looking at the other. At last
he inquired:
“Where will you go when you leave here?”
“I don’t know—yet.”
There was a world of meaning in the last word. And as she uttered it, she
turned her hollow eyes full upon her questioner. Ross saw the soul-hunger
reflected in her face—and he started. Their eyes met. She dropped her
white lids, and the hot blood mantled her pale cheeks. An embarrassing
silence fell upon them. He was the first to speak.
“Amy,” he murmured softly, “I want to help you—I want to be kind to you——”
Passionately she caught his hand in both of hers, and whispered—all her
soul in her voice and manner:
“Ross—Ross! Listen to me! Say that you’ll take me away from here—to a
place where George Hilliard can never find us—where we can begin life
over and——”
The look in his eyes repelled her advances; and breaking off in the
middle of the sentence, she trembled and was silent.
Gently but firmly withdrawing his hand from her clinging clasp, he
said—almost sternly:
“Amy, what you have in mind can never be. I loved Amy Larkin tenderly and
truly. Amy Hilliard I have no _right_ to love!”
For a moment she stared at him, as though she did not comprehend. Then,
with a groan, she fell back upon the bed and, hiding her face, burst into
tears.
Ross was greatly moved. He pitied her sincerely; yet he felt that he had
done right in telling her the truth. Now he bent over her and whispered
soothingly:
“Do not weep. The past is forever past. For months, I was a wounded
prisoner among the savages. As soon as I could, I made my escape and
went back to Franklinton. But you were gone. No one knew of your
whereabouts—you had left no trail behind you. I went to your old home
in Pennsylvania. I was disappointed. At last I have found you. But you
are the wife of another. Of course you were forced into the hateful
marriage——”
She had been convulsively sobbing. Suddenly she snatched her hands from
her face and, springing erect, cried excitedly:
“Ross Douglas, I’ve been deceiving you. I hoped that you still loved
me—that I could win you back—that I still might be happy with you. That
hope is dead. I’ll deceive you with my silence, no longer. I’ll tell you
the truth—all—everything!”
For one fleeting second, she paused and hungrily searched his face, still
hoping to detect there some faint glimmer of the passion he had borne
her. His features were pale, but calm—impassive; his manner was keenly
expectant. Stifling a sob, she dashed the hot tears from her eyes and
proceeded hurriedly:
“When you left me at Franklinton and went to join General Harrison’s
army, I was piqued. I argued with my better self that you didn’t
love me, as you had professed, or you wouldn’t have left me. I felt
angry—spiteful. I wanted to do something to make you suffer. My father
and George Hilliard taunted me with your desertion. They said you had
been too ready to leave me—that you didn’t love me—that you wouldn’t
return. I listened to them—I half believed them. A month from the day of
your departure, I had convinced myself of your perfidy and had consented
to marry George Hilliard.”
She paused momentarily, to moisten her dry lips. Ross Douglas’s eyes were
shining with a strange, indefinable light. But he said nothing. Hastily
she resumed:
“Let me hurry over the events of my brief married life—I cannot bear
to recall them. I promised to marry George Hilliard, on condition that
my father should sell off everything and remove to a place where you
would never find me. For, in spite of all my reasoning, I felt guilty.
We disposed of our property and removed to Frenchtown, between here and
Detroit. On our arrival there, George Hilliard and I were married. Before
our marriage he had been very kind to me; humored me—spoiled me. But
scarcely was he my husband, ere his whole nature seemed to change. He
began to drink heavily, to curse me, to abuse me. Then I realized the sad
truth that I had married a drunken brute!”
For half a minute she could not proceed. When she had regained control of
herself, she said huskily:
“He was jealous. He accused me of still loving you. And—God help me!—I
couldn’t deny the accusation. He tormented me—he beat me. My father
remonstrated; and the two had many fierce quarrels. At last my child
was born—six months ago. A few days after, my husband demanded that my
father give him money with which to buy land. My father refused—and again
they quarreled. In a whirlwind of drunken rage, George Hilliard caught up
an axe and struck my father a blow that laid him dead upon the floor. I—I
saw it all, while lying helpless upon my bed!”
Once more she stopped in her recital. No sound broke the stillness of
the place, but the fretful cry of her child in another part of the tent.
Douglas’s jaws were set; his hands, clenched. With a fluttering sigh, Amy
continued:
“After he had murdered my father, George Hilliard took all the money
he could find and fled. For weeks I lay between life and death, hardly
realizing where I was or what had happened. The good people of the
settlement provided for my wants, and took care of me. Slowly I regained
something of my wonted strength. But I had no means of support; so, with
a number of others who were returning to the East, I set out for western
Pennsylvania, hoping to find a shelter among my father’s people. But
a short distance up the lake from here, our company was set upon by a
band of Indians, and we were taken prisoners and brought to the British
encampment. Among the savages who attacked our party was George Hilliard,
disguised as an Indian. He recognized me—of course. He mocked at my
misery, cuffed and kicked me, and threatened to kill my baby——”
Here her voice almost failed her. But she went on resolutely:
“I believe he would have done so, had it not been for an angel at the
encampment—I can’t call her anything else—a beautiful girl who shielded
me from his violence, and helped me to escape. Oh, how beautiful her face
was—but how sad! She had red-gold hair, and eyes of heaven’s own blue——”
Ross Douglas had arisen to his feet. Eagerly he asked:
“And her name—her name?”
Amy Hilliard keenly eyed her questioner, before replying. Presently she
said slowly:
“I heard my captors call her La Violette.”
Douglas, in spite of a strong effort to control himself, uttered an
exclamation of joyful surprise. His countenance was alight, his eyes were
shining.
“You know her?” Amy said, with lifted brows.
“Yes—I know her,” he replied cautiously. “Go on with your story.”
But she did not. Instead she inquired:
“How long have you known her?”
“Ever since I was a captive among the Indians,” he answered candidly.
“She nursed me when I was wounded; she helped me to escape.”
Her woman’s intuition enabled her to arrive at the truth at a bound.
Calmly she said:
“Ross, you love this beautiful girl—you love La Violette.”
He made no reply in words. But the hot blood crimsoned his tanned cheeks
and mounted to his white forehead. Then the tell-tale tide receded as
quickly as it had arisen; and again he was outwardly calm.
At that moment, the woman who had been caring for the baby approached the
mother and remarked:
“The little thing’s gone to sleep, at last. I see you’re feelin’
better,”—in a slightly sarcastic tone—“so I’ll let you take care of her
now, while I look after my own affairs.”
“I thank you for your kindness,” Amy murmured confusedly.
“You’re welcome,” the woman replied, with a slight toss of the head, and
turned and left.
“You love La Violette,” the young woman repeated, again fixing her gaze
upon Ross’s face.
“Yes, I love her, Amy,” he answered deliberately. “But I didn’t fully
realize the fact until this hour. She was very kind to me during my
captivity. She loved me—and I knew it. But I thought of you; and
blinded myself to her charms. I was true to you through it all—in
deed and in thought. As soon as I escaped, I returned to your home,
intending—desiring to make you my wife. You were gone. But still I
thought you true. I had no idea that you would marry George Hilliard, of
your own choice. I searched for you—longed for you. I loved you still—I
believed in your love for me. Yesterday I found you. I said to myself:
‘She has been forced into this marriage—she isn’t to blame. But she is
lost to me forever; I have no right to love her now.’ Then La Violette’s
face arose before me. And I knew that I loved her—that my love for
you was a thing of the past. Last night was the first time that I
acknowledged to myself that I loved La Violette. But I argued with myself
that you hadn’t been at fault, and that it would be cruel—heartless for
me to think of marrying La Violette, should I ever find her. In the
silent watches of the night—alone with my God—I resolved to give up
all quest for her, to remain faithful to my plighted troth. But this
morning——”
He broke off abruptly and looked her full in the eyes.
“Go on,” she whispered, with pale lips.
“But this morning you have told me your story; and——”
Again he stopped.
“Well?” she breathed faintly.
“_I—am—free!_”
Spasmodically hugging her baby to her breast, she sank back upon the bed
and turned her face from him. He saw that she was pale and trembling; and
he sincerely pitied her. Bending over her, he whispered gently:
“I’ll be your friend, Amy, as in the past. I’ll do all in my power to
find you a home, to make your future life comfortable and happy.”
She made no reply, by word or sign.
“I believe you said you had started to return to your relatives in
Pennsylvania?” he remarked.
She slightly inclined her head.
“Very well. When we can leave here, I’ll find you company and send you
thither. Now I must be going. Don’t think me cruel. I’m trying to be just
and merciful.”
A few moments later, he was without the tent. The heavens were thickly
clouded; the rain was falling drearily. A short time he stood with bared
head, unmindful of the buzz of human life around him. Then, sighing, he
took his way toward the place where Hiram Bradford was confined.
[Illustration]