THE FAINT HOPE.
THERE is a scene that we must not dwell upon. There are some that awaken
emotions which no pen can describe, no imagination conceive. When
Peterson, the ranger, communicated the dreadful intelligence of the fate
of Marian to her parents, the shock was terrible. The mother swooned
away, and for nearly a week remained more in death than life. The father
received the shock like the oak when riven by the thunderbolt--firm and
unbending, but still shattered to the very heart. He groaned in spirit,
but, for the sake of his wife, bore up with superhuman calmness. But it
well-nigh killed him; and his wife, when she was pulled from the grasp
of death, felt that she could never, never recover from it. Her heart
was broken.
Russel Mansfield bore the affliction like a man. He held up in the
presence of others; but there were moments when alone in which he gave
way to his great woe. We have no desire to dwell upon this painful
scene, but hasten forward.
The resolution of Abbot to emigrate still farther to the west, instead
of being weakened by this sad calamity, was strengthened into a
determination. Why it was, he would almost have been at a loss to tell.
We all know that when death, for the first time, strikes down some one
near and dear to us, it is difficult to believe that such is the case;
it is a long time before we can bring ourselves to realize it. There is
a singular, lingering doubt, the faint shadow of a hope that, after all,
it is not death, and that through the subtle power of medicine the lost
one will still return to us. And even, after burial, for a long time,
there will be moments when we give way to the same extraordinary hope
and find ourselves indulging in dreams of fancy in which the lost one is
again found.
Those who have had a similar experience to this, will appreciate the
feeling that led Abbot and his stricken wife to emigrate to the scene
which was so full of horror to them. The same motive strengthened the
determination of Mansfield, although his parents now refused to
accompany the party. Several of the other families also refused, so that
the company bid fair to be alarmingly small. Peterson had whispered to
Mansfield the intention of Dingle and himself of seeking out the
renegade McGable and revenging themselves upon him, and he was anxious
to either join them or be so situated that he could receive the earliest
intelligence of their success.
Accordingly, one morning in September, another flat-boat floated away
from the village referred to at the commencement of this work, and
carrying with it four families only, together with young Mansfield. The
weather continued fine all the way, and they experienced no difficulty
in reaching their destination. Just before they reached the Sciota, a
desperate attempt was made to get them ashore. Mansfield, shrewdly
suspecting that it was McGable himself who acted the part of a decoy,
raised his rifle with the intention of shooting him; but the wily demon
was too quick for him. He suspected something, and secreted himself
before Mansfield could secure his aim. The latter, however, fired, and
came so uncomfortably close, that the decoy ceased his entreaties, and,
by way of a return for the compliment, a whole volley was fired at the
flat-boat by the concealed savages. Some of the bullets struck the boat
and the others whistled overhead, but they did no further damage.
The settlement, which was the destination of our friends, was a few
miles further down the river, and they came in sight of it about the
middle of the afternoon. As Peterson had given the settlers notice of
their coming, they were expected and joyfully welcomed. The flat-boat
was swept into shore and fastened, and, with the aid of the willing
settlers, its contents removed in an incredibly short space of time. The
boat itself was then hauled as far up the bank as possible, and taken
carefully apart, and its timbers preserved for building purposes.
As this village is to be the location of many of the succeeding
incidents of our story, we will here briefly describe it, and then
hasten forward to the incidents that follow.
The settlement consisted of about twenty cabins, and numbered a hundred
inhabitants. A small block-house was erected near the lower end of the
village for immediate refuge in case of sudden attack; but the governor
of the territory had ordered a large one to be erected and continually
manned by men well-skilled in border warfare. This block-house was
erected in advance of the settlement itself, so as to better guard the
approach of an enemy. It stood in a broad clearing, protected on the one
hand by a marshy swamp, and the other by the Ohio river. The block-house
consisted of two stories. The lower one was about thirty feet square,
and the upper thirty-three, so that it projected over the lower, giving
those within an opportunity of defending the door and windows, in case a
determined attack was made. A well had been sunk in one corner, so that
if besieged they could not be brought to terms by thirst. The roof was
so steeply-shelving as to prevent any burning missiles from remaining
upon it, and the planks themselves were so smooth-shaven that the most
agile savage could not maintain a position upon it for an instant. The
sides were built of solid green logs of some eighteen or twenty inches
in diameter, dove-tailed at the ends in the usual manner, and the
interstices filled in with mortar. The doors and windows and shutters
were bars of ponderous puncheons, secured by massive bars of wood on the
inside. The upper part of the house was pierced with numerous
loop-holes, through which a large force could keep up a constant fire
upon their assailants.
The block-house was surrounded by a substantial wall of palisades. These
were made by cutting trees of a foot in diameter into pieces fifteen
feet in length. These pieces were then quartered, hewed off sharply at
one end, and driven four feet into the solid ground, leaving eleven feet
above. The palisades were kept firmly in their places by means of stout
braces and wall-pieces upon the inside; and, as they were set with their
smooth side outward, and close together, no force could scale them
without the aid of ladders.
A flagstaff stood a few feet from the block-house, and the stars and
stripes ever waved from the summit. At the second story was a
projection, facing the forest, upon which the sentinel passed most of
his time while on duty, and which supported a swivel, so hung that it
could be brought to bear upon almost any point from which danger was to
be apprehended.
This fort was quite a celebrated one, and being manned by the governor
with an active force, was much resorted to by the scouts and rangers
along the frontiers. Dick Dingle was enrolled as a member of this
company, although the governor and the commander of the fort knew there
was no use of undertaking to bring any such character under discipline.
He was allowed to go and come when he pleased, and it may be said, in
fact, that the whole class of frontier rangers were a set of _Border
Zouaves_. They were ever in the most perilous situations, did the most
dangerous service, and acknowledged no leader other than their own free
will. The commander, with several of his leading men, had served in the
capacity of rangers, and were all adepts in Indian warfare.
It was the duty of Dingle to range through the adjoining country, to
keep a constant watch upon the movements of the Indians, and to return
as often as possible with his report to the commander. At this time
there were other scouts performing similar duties in other situations,
who have since become celebrated in history. McArthur, White, McCleland,
and Davis, and the Whetzel brothers are the ones to whom we refer. They
occasionally visited the fort singly, but never in company, and
sometimes remained several days in conversation and feasting with their
friends.
Peterson, upon his return with Dingle, had had his name enrolled as a
member of the company at the block-house; and they had already made
several excursions in company. When Abbot and his friends arrived at the
settlement, these two scouts had just returned from a journey up the
Sciota valley to one of the Shawnee towns. The genial settlers, having
known of the coming of their new friends, showed their good-will by
erecting several cabins and presenting them to the new-comers
immediately upon their arrival. By dusk, Abbot, with his wife and
Mansfield, were snugly domiciled in theirs, and ready to join their
neighbors, on the morrow, in clearing the forest, breaking the ground,
or whatever their duty might chance to be.
Although Abbot had not seen Peterson, he had heard that he was in the
settlement, and sent for him in the evening. The good-hearted fellow had
purposely kept out of the way, for fear that his presence would be
painful to them, but upon hearing the wish of Abbot, he immediately went
to his house.
The meeting could not be but painful upon both sides. There was a
manifest restraint about the ranger, for he well knew the feelings that
must be awakened by his presence. The conversation turned upon ordinary
subjects, and each carefully refrained from any allusion that might
bring up the matter that was in the mind of every one.
In the course of a half hour or so, the quick eye of Mrs. Abbot saw her
presence was a restraint upon something her husband wished to say; and
she made an excuse for withdrawing and retiring for the night.
After she had gone, the conversation continued a short time as usual,
and then, as it sometimes will, it suddenly came to a dead pause. Utter
silence fell upon all.
"Jim," said Abbot, glancing furtively around to assure himself that his
wife was not within hearing, "Jim, I must once more speak about _that_."
"Wal?" queried the ranger, uneasily.
"I must ask you once more to narrate, as particularly as is in your
power, the account of the attack upon the flat-boat, and the death of
Marian. I will not ask you to give anything else but that alone."
"I dunno as I can tell anything more, but, howsumever, I can tell that
over again if you want it," and thereupon he proceeded to give with
fearful vividness, the dying-words and actions of Marian Abbot. The
father heard him all through, without a syllable of interruption,
keeping his lips compressed, his brow knit, and his eye fixed upon the
smoldering fire before him.
"You think, Jim, then, that she is--she must be dead?" he inquired.
"Why, Abbot, 'sposen I had fifty bullets right smack through this h'yer
noddle of mine, and you should ax me if I had any s'pishions I'd
survive, and I should tell you I was as dead as a door nail, wouldn't
you believe me?"
"Of course."
"Wal, then, though I'm sorry to say it, there ain't a bit more hope for
her. She never seed the devils that climbed over the boat. She died
afore I got twenty feet from the boat."
"You are _certain of it_?"
"Yes, sir; I'm certain."
"You must wonder at my talking thus, Jim; but I have no hopes either; I
have given her up long since. I have still one wish--to know what fate
attended her body."
"I can tell you that."
"What was it?"
"She was thrown overboard with the others."
"You did not see that done, Jim, and cannot be sure of it."
The ranger was about to contradict him, and tell that he had followed
the murderers and seen that they bore no body with them; but he did not,
and Abbot continued.
"It is this doubt--this uncertainty that still troubles me. When that
has been cleared up I shall never speak of the subject again. Russel has
told me that you and Dingle are going to seek revenge upon McGable?"
"We are not going to seek it; we are going to _get_ it."
"I profess to be a Christian, and the Bible teaches me that vengeance is
not for us, but for One alone. And, Jim, I can really say that I have no
desire that McGable should suffer at your hands. God knows that he has
broken two hearts, but the time will come when he will have to answer
for it."
"That's my idee, exactly, and I reckon as how 'twill be a little sooner
than he expects."
"He knows, if any human being does, the fate of Marian. Obtain, if
possible, first of all, the truth from him."
"I can't see just now, Abbot, how that's gwine to be done."
"Take him captive and bring him in, and we will make him answer. Do you
not think you and your companion may succeed in capturing him?"
"P'r'aps so--bein' it's your wish we'll do our best to do it, and,"
added Peterson to himself, "O Lordy! won't we skemer the old devil when
we git him. We'll toast him afore a slow fire, I'll bet my life."
"Get him, if you can, Jim, and you will confer a favor that I shall
never be able to repay."
"Never mind about that, _the thing will be done_!"
Shortly after this, Peterson took his departure.