THE NORTHWARD MARCH
The great Wyandot chief inclined his head slightly, and received the
pistol, hatchet, and knife which Henry drew from his belt. Then he said
in the grave Wyandot tongue:
"It is the second time that Ware has become my prisoner, and I am proud.
He is truly a great warrior. Never have I seen such a fight as that
which he has just made, the strength of one against six, and the one was
triumphant."
A murmur of approval from the warriors followed his words. Like the old
Greeks, the Indians admired size, symmetry and strength, qualities so
necessary to them in their daily lives, and Henry, as he stood there,
wet with perspiration and breathing heavily, exemplified all that they
considered best in man. Few of these savage warriors had any intention
of sparing him. They would have burned him at the stake with delight,
and, with equal delight, they would have praised him had he never
uttered a groan--it would only be another proof of his greatness.
Braxton Wyatt pressed nearer. There was joy in his evil heart over the
capture of his enemy, but it was not unalloyed. He knew the friendship
that Timmendiquas bore for Henry, and he feared that through it the
prisoner might escape the usual fate of captives. It was his part to
prevent any such disaster and he had thought already of a method. He
dreaded the power of Timmendiquas, but he was bold and he proposed to
dare it nevertheless.
"Will you take the prisoner South with you," he said to Colonel Bird.
"I have surrendered to Timmendiquas," said Henry.
"This is the camp of Colonel Bird," said Wyatt in as mild a tone as he
could assume, "and of course anyone taken here is his prisoner."
"That is true," said Simon Girty, whose influence was great among the
Indians, particularly the Shawnees.
Timmendiquas said not a word, nor did Henry. Both saw the appeal to the
pride of Bird who pulled his mustache, while his ugly face grew uglier.
"Yes, it is so," he said at last. "The prisoner is mine, since he was
taken in my camp."
Then Timmendiquas spoke very quietly, but, underlying every word, was a
menace, which Wyatt, Girty and Bird alike felt and heeded.
"The prisoner surrendered to me," he said. "The Wyandot warriors helped
in his capture--their bruises prove it. Colonel Bird even now marches
south against Kaintuckee, and he has no need of prisoners. The words of
Wyatt are nothing. Girty has become one of our chiefs, but it is not for
him to judge in this case. When the council is finished and Timmendiquas
resumes his march to Detroit, Ware goes with him as a captive, the prize
of his warriors."
His fierce eyes roamed around the circle, challenging one by one those
who opposed him. Braxton Wyatt's own eyes dropped, and fear was in his
soul. He, a renegade, an enemy to his own people could not afford to
lose the favor of the Indians. Girty, also, evaded. Full of craft, it
was no part of his policy to quarrel with Timmendiquas. Bird alone was
disposed to accept the gage. It was intolerable that he, a colonel in
the British army, should be spoken to in such a manner by an Indian. He
wrinkled his ugly hare lip and said stubbornly:
"The prisoner was taken in my camp, and he is mine."
But Girty said low in his ear:
"Let Timmendiquas have him. It is not well to alienate the Wyandots. We
need them in our attack on Kentucky, and already they are dissatisfied
with their heavy losses there. We can do nothing for the king without
the Indians."
Bird was not without suppleness. He spoke to Timmendiquas, as if he were
continuing his former words:
"But I give up my claim to you, White Lightning of the Wyandots. Take
the prisoner and do with him as you choose."
Timmendiquas smiled slightly. He understood perfectly. Braxton Wyatt
retired, almost sick with rage. Timmendiquas motioned to two of his
warriors who bound Henry's arms securely, though not painfully, and led
him away to one of the smaller fires. Here he sat down between his
guards who adjusted his torn attire, but did not annoy him, and waited
while the council went on.
After the glow of physical triumph had passed, Henry felt a deep
depression. It seemed to him that he could never forgive himself when so
much depended upon him. He had full knowledge that this expedition was
marching southward, and now he could send no warning. Had he returned to
his comrades with the news, they might have solved the problem by
dividing their force. Two could have hurried to Kentucky ahead of Bird's
army, and three might have gone to Detroit to watch what preparations
were made there. He condemned himself over and over again, and it is
only just to say that he did not think then of his personal danger. He
thought instead of those whom he might have saved, but who now would
probably fall beneath the Indian tomahawk, with no one to warn them.
But he permitted none of his chagrin and grief to show in his face. He
would not allow any Indian or renegade to see him in despair or in
anything bordering upon it. He merely sat motionless, staring into the
fire, his face without expression. Henry had escaped once from the
Wyandots. Perhaps it was a feat that could not be repeated a second
time--indeed all the chances were against it--but in spite of everything
his courage came back. He had far too much strength, vitality and youth
to remain in despair, and gradually new resolutions formed almost
unconsciously in his mind. Under all circumstances, fate would present
at least a bare chance to do what one wished, and courage gradually
became confidence.
Then Henry, remembering that there was nothing he could do at present,
lay down on his side before the fire. It was not altogether an assumed
manner to impress his guard, because he was really very tired, and, now
that his nerves were relaxing, he believed he could go to sleep.
He closed his eyes, and, although he opened them now and then, the lids
were heavier at every successive opening. He saw the camp dimly, the
dark figures of the warriors becoming shadowy now, the murmur of voices
sinking to a whisper that could scarcely be heard, and then, in spite of
his bound arms and precarious future, he slept.
Henry's two guards, both Wyandots, regarded him with admiration, as he
slept peacefully with the low firelight flickering across his tanned
face. Great in body, he was also great in mind, and whatever torture the
chief, Timmendiquas, intended for him he would endure it magnificently.
Braxton Wyatt and Simon Girty also came to look at him, and whispered to
each other.
"It would have been better if they had made an end of him in the fight
for his capture," said Wyatt.
"That is true," said Girty thoughtfully. "As long as he's alive, he's
dangerous. Timmendiquas cannot tie him so tight that there is no
possibility of escape, and there are these friends of his whom you have
such cause to remember, Braxton."
"I wish they were all tied up as he is," said Wyatt venomously.
Girty laughed softly.
"You show the right spirit, Braxton," he said. "To live among the
Indians and fight against one's own white race one must hate well. You
need not flush, man. I have found it so myself, and I am older in this
business and more experienced than you."
Wyatt choked down words that were leaping to his lips, and presently he
and Girty rejoined the white men, who were camped around Bird, their
commander. But neither of them felt like sleeping and after a little
while there, they went to look at the cannon, six fine guns in a row,
constituting together the most formidable weapon that had ever been
brought into the western forest. When they looked at them, the spirit of
Wyatt and Girty sprang high. They exulted in the prospect of victory.
The Kentucky sharpshooters behind their light palisades had been able
hitherto to defeat any number of Indians. But what about the big guns?
Twelve pound cannon balls would sweep down the palisades like a
hurricane among saplings. As there is no zeal like that of the convert,
so there is no hate like that of the renegade and they foresaw the easy
capture of settlement after settlement by Bird's numerous and
irresistible army.
Henry, meanwhile, slept without dreams. It was a splendid tribute to his
nerves that he could do so. When he awoke the sun was an hour above the
horizon and the camp was active with the preparations of Bird's army to
resume its march southward. Timmendiquas stood beside him, and, at his
order, one of the Wyandot guards cut the thongs that bound his arms.
Henry stretched out his wrists and rubbed them, one after the other,
until the impeded circulation was restored. Then he uttered his thanks
to the chief.
"I am grateful to you, Timmendiquas," he said, "for insisting last night
that I was your prisoner, and should go with you to Detroit. As you have
seen, the renegades, Girty and Wyatt do not love me, and whatever I may
receive at your hands, it is not as bad as that which they would have
incited the warriors to do, had I remained in the power of Bird."
"Neither do I care for Girty or Wyatt," said Timmendiquas, as he smiled
slightly, "but they help us and we need all the allies we can get. So we
permit them in our lodges. I may tell you now that they debated last
night whether to go South with Bird, or to continue to Detroit with me.
They go to Detroit."
"I do not care for their company," said Henry, "but I am glad that they
are not going to Kentucky."
"I have also to tell you now, Ware," continued Timmendiquas, "that
parties were sent out last night to search for your comrades, the four
who are always with you."
Henry moved a little and then looked inquiringly at Timmendiquas. The
chief's face expressed nothing.
"They did not find them?" he said.
"No," he replied. "The friends of Ware were wary, but we are proud to
have taken the leader. Here is food; you can eat, and then we march."
They brought him an abundance of good food, and fresh water in a gourd,
and he ate and drank heartily. The morning had become clear and crisp
again, and with it came all the freshness and courage that belong to
youth. Time was everything, and certainly nothing would be done to him
until they reached Detroit. Moreover, his four comrades would discover
why he did not return and they would follow. Even if one were helpless
himself, he must never despair with such friends free and near at hand.
After he had eaten, his hands were bound again. He made no resistance,
knowing that under the Indian code he had no right to ask anything
further of Timmendiquas, and he began the march northward in the center
of the Wyandot force. At the same time, Bird and his army resumed their
southern advance. Henry heard twigs and dead boughs cracking under the
wheels of the cannon, and the sound was a menacing one that he did not
forget for a long time. He looked back, but the savage army disappeared
with amazing quickness in the forest.
They marched all day without interruption, eating their food as they
marched. Timmendiquas was at the head of the column, and he did not
speak again with Henry. The renegades, probably fearing the wrath of the
chief, also kept away. The country, hilly hitherto, now became level and
frequently swampy. Here the travelling was difficult. Often their feet
sank in the soft mud above the ankles, Briars reached out and scratched
them, and, in these damp solitudes, the air was dark and heavy. Yet the
Indians went on without complaint, and Henry, despite his bound arms,
could keep his balance and pace with the rest, stride for stride.
They marched several days and nights without interruption through a
comparatively level country, still swampy at times, thickly grown with
forest, and with many streams and little lakes. Most of the lakes were
dotted with wild fowl, and often they saw deer in the shallow portions.
Two or three of the deer were shot, but the Indians devoted little time
to the hunting of game, as they were well provided with food.
Henry, who understood both Wyandot and Shawnee, gathered from the talk
of those about him that they were at last drawing near to Detroit, the
great Northwestern fort of the British and Indians. They would arrive
there to-morrow, and they spent that last night by camp fires, the
Indians relaxing greatly from their usual taciturnity and caution, and
eating as if at a banquet.
Henry sat on a log in the middle of the camp. His arms were unbound and
he could eat with the others as much as he chose. Since they were not to
burn him or torture him otherwise, they would treat him well for the
present. But warriors, Shawnees, Miamis and Wyandots, were all about
him. They took good care that such a prisoner should not have a chance
to escape. He might overthrow two or three, even four or five, but a
score more would be on him at once. Henry knew this well and bore
himself more as if he were a member of the band than a captive. It was a
part of his policy to appear cheerful and contented. No Indian should
surpass him in careless and apparent indifference, but to-night he felt
gloomier than at any time since the moments that immediately followed
his capture. He had relied upon the faithful four, but days had passed
without a sign from them. There had been no chance, of course, for them
to rescue him. He had not expected that, but what he had expected was a
sign. They were skillful, masters of wilderness knowledge, but accidents
might happen--one had happened to him--and they might have fallen into
the hands of some other band.
Waiting is a hard test, and Henry's mind, despite his will, began to
imagine dire things. Suppose he should never see his comrades again. A
thousand mischances could befall, and the neighborhood of Detroit was
the most dangerous part of all the Indian country. Besides the villages
pitched near, bands were continually passing, either coming to the fort
for supplies, or going away, equipped for a fresh raid upon the
settlements.
The laughter and talk among the Indians went on for a long time, but
Henry, having eaten all that he wanted, sat in silence. Besides the
noise of the camp, he heard the usual murmur of the night wind among the
trees. He listened to it as one would to a soft low monotone that
called and soothed. He had an uncommonly acute ear and his power of
singleness and concentration enabled him to listen to the sound that he
wished to hear, to the exclusion of all others. The noises in the camp,
although they were as great as ever, seemed to die. Instead, he heard
the rustling of the young leaves far away, and then another sound
came--a faint, whining cry, the far howl of a wolf, so far that it was
no more than a whisper, a mere under-note to the wind. It stopped, but,
in a moment or two, was repeated. Henry's heart leaped, but his figure
never moved; nor was there any change in the expression of his face,
which had been dreamy and sad.
But he knew. Just when he wished to hear a voice out of the dark, that
voice came. It was the first part of a signal that he and his comrades
often used, and as he listened, the second part was completed. He longed
to send back a reply, but it was impossible and he knew that it would
not be expected. Joy was under the mask of his sad and dreaming face. He
rejoiced, not only for himself, but for two other things; because they
were safe and because they were near, following zealously and seeking
every chance. He looked around at the Indians. None of them had heard
the cry of the wolf, and he knew if it had reached them, they would not
have taken it for a signal. They were going on with their feasting, but
while Henry sat, still silent, Timmendiquas came to him and said:
"To-morrow we reach Detroit, the great post of the soldiers of the king.
We go there to confer with the commander, de Peyster, and to receive
many rifles and much ammunition. It is likely, as you already know, that
we shall march against your people."
"I know it, Timmendiquas," said Henry, "but I would that it were not so.
Why could we not dwell in peace in Kentucky, while the Wyandots, the
Shawnees, the Miamis and others ranged their vast hunting grounds in
the same peace on this side of the Ohio?"
A spark of fire shot from the dark eyes of Timmendiquas.
"Ware," he said, "I like you and I do not believe that your heart
contains hatred towards me. Yet, there cannot be any peace between our
races. Peace means that you will push us back, always push us back. Have
I not been in the East, where the white men are many and where the
mighty confederation of the Six Nations, with their great chief,
Thayendanegea, at their head, fight against them in vain? Have I not
seen the rich villages of the Indians go up in smoke? The Indians
themselves still fight. They strike down many of the Yengees and
sometimes they burn a village of the white people, but unless the king
prevails in the great war, they will surely lose. Their Aieroski, who is
the Manitou of the Wyandots, and your God, merely looks on, and permits
the stronger to be the victor."
"Then," said Henry, "why not make peace with us here in the West, lest
your tribes meet the same fate?"
The nostrils of Timmendiquas dilated.
"Because in the end we should be eaten up in the same way. Here in the
West you are few and your villages are tiny. The seed is not planted so
deep that it cannot be uprooted."
Henry sighed.
"I can see the question from your side as well as from mine, White
Lightning," he replied. "It seems as you say, that the white men and the
red men cannot dwell together. Yet I could wish that we were friends in
the field as well as at heart."
Timmendiquas shook his head and replied in a tone tinged with a certain
sadness:
"I, too, could wish it, but you were born of one race and I of another.
It is our destiny to fight to the end."
He strode away through the camp. Henry watched the tall and splendid
figure, with the single small scarlet feather set in the waving scalp
lock, and once more he readily acknowledged that he was a forest king, a
lofty and mighty spirit, born to rule in the wilderness. Then he took
the two blankets which had been left him, enfolded himself between them,
and, despite the noises around him, slept soundly all through the night.
Early the next morning they began the last stretch of the march to
Detroit.
It was with a deep and peculiar interest that they approached Detroit,
then a famous British and Indian post, now a great American city.
Founded by the French, who lost it to the British, who, in turn, were
destined to lose it to the Americans, it has probably sent forth more
scalping parties of Indians than any other place on the North American
continent. Here the warlike tribes constantly came for rifles,
ammunition, blankets and other supplies, and here the agents of the king
incited them with every means in their power to fresh raids on the young
settlements in the South. Here the renegades, Girty, Blackstaffe and
their kind came to confer, and here Boone, Kenton and other famous
borderers had been brought as prisoners.
The Indians in the party of Timmendiquas already showed great
jubilation. In return for the war that they had made and should make,
they expected large gifts from the king, and with such great chiefs as
White Lightning, Red Eagle and Yellow Panther at their head, it was not
likely that they would be disappointed.
As they drew near, they passed several Indian camps, containing parties
from the Northwest, Sacs, Winnebagoes and others, including even some
Chippewas from the far shores of the greatest of all lakes. Many of
these looked admiringly at the prisoner whom Timmendiquas had brought,
and were sorry that they had not secured such a trophy. At the last of
these camps, where they stopped for a little while, a short, thick man
approached Henry and regarded him with great curiosity.
The man was as dark as an Indian, but he had a fierce black mustache
that curled up at the ends. His hair was black and long and his eyes,
too, were black. His dress differed but little from that of a warrior,
but his features were unmistakably Caucasian.
"Another renegade," thought Henry, and his detestation was so thorough
that he scorned to take further notice of the fellow. But he was
conscious that the stranger was eyeing him from head to foot in the most
scrutinizing manner, just as one looks at an interesting picture. Henry
felt his anger rise, but he still simulated the most profound
indifference.
"You are the prisoner of Timmendiquas, _mon petit garcon, mais oui_?"
Henry looked up at the French words and the French accent that he did
not understand. But the tone was friendly, and the man, although he
might be an enemy, was no renegade.
"Yes," he replied. "I am the prisoner of Timmendiquas, and I am going
with him and his men to Detroit. Do you belong in Detroit?"
The man grinned, showing two magnificent rows of strong white teeth.
"I belong to Detroit?" he replied. "Nevaire! I belong to no place. I am
ze Frenchman; le Canadien; voyageur, coureur du bois, l'homme of ze wind
ovair ze mountains an' ze plain. I am Pierre Louis Lajeunais, who was
born at Trois Rivieres in ze Province of Quebec, which is a long way
from here."
The twinkle in his eye was infectious. Henry knew that he was a man of
good heart and he liked him. Perhaps also he might find here a friend.
"Since you have given me your name," he replied, "I will give you mine.
I am Henry Ware, and I am from Kentucky. I was captured by Timmendiquas
and his warriors a few days ago. They're taking me to Detroit, but I do
not know what they intend to do with me there. I suppose that you, of
course, are among our enemies."
No Indian was within hearing then, and Lajeunais replied:
"W'y should I wish you harm? I go to Detroit. I sell furs to ze
commandaire for powder and bullets. I travel an' hunt wit' mes amis, ze
Indians, but I do not love ze Anglais. When I was a boy, I fight wit' ze
great Montcalm at Quebec against Wolfe an' les Anglais. We lose an' ze
Bourbon lilies are gone; ze rouge flag of les Anglais take its place.
Why should I fight for him who conquers me? I love better ze woods an'
ze riviere an' ze lakes where I hunt and fish."
"I am glad that you are no enemy of ours, Mr. Lajeunais," said Henry,
"and I am certain that my people are no enemies of the French in Canada.
Perhaps we shall meet in Detroit."
"Eet ees likely, mon brav," said Lajeunais, "I come into the town in
four days an' I inquire for ze great boy named Ware."
Timmendiquas gave the signal and in another hour they were in Detroit.