THE LETTER OF THE FOUR
The building into which Henry was taken was built of brick and rough
stone, two stories in height, massive and very strong. The door which
closed the entrance was of thick oak, with heavy crosspieces, and the
two rows of small windows, one above the other, were fortified with iron
bars, so close together that a man could not pass between. Henry's quick
eye noticed it all, as they entered between the British guards at the
door. The house inside was divided into several rooms, none containing
more than a rude pallet bed, a small pine table, a tin pitcher, a cup of
water, and a pine stool.
Henry followed Holderness into one of these rooms, and promptly sat on
the pine stool by the window. Holderness looked at him with a mixture of
admiration and pity.
"I'm sorry, old chap," he said, "that I have to lock you up here. Come
now, do be reasonable. These rebels are bound to lose, and, if you can't
join us, take a parole and go somewhere into Canada until all the
trouble is over."
Henry laughed lightly, but his heart warmed again toward young
Holderness who had come from some easy and sheltered spot in England,
and who knew nothing of the wilderness and its hardships and terrors.
"Don't you be sorry for me," he said. "As for this room, it's better
than anything that I've been used to for years. And so far as giving a
parole and going into Canada, I wouldn't dream of such a thing. It would
interfere with my plans. I'm going back into the South to fight against
your people and the Indians."
"But you're a prisoner!"
"For the present, yes, but I shall not remain so."
"You can't escape."
"I always escape. It's true I was never before in so strong a prison,
but I shall go. I am willing to tell you, Lieutenant Holderness, because
others will tell you anyhow, that I have outside four very faithful and
skillful friends. Nothing would induce them to desert me, and among us
we will secure my escape."
Into the look of mingled admiration and pity with which Holderness had
regarded Henry crept a touch of defiance.
"You're deucedly confident, old chap," he said. "You don't seem to think
that we amount to much here, and yet Colonel de Peyster has undoubtedly
saved you from the Indians. You should be grateful to him for that
much."
Henry laughed. This ingenuous youth now amused him.
"What makes you think it was Colonel de Peyster or any other English or
Tory officer who saved me from the Indians? Well, it wasn't. If Colonel
Bird and your other white friends had had their way when I was taken I
should have been burned at the stake long before this. It was the
Wyandot chief, Timmendiquas, known in our language as White Lightning,
who saved me."
The young officer's red face flushed deeper red.
"I knew that we had been charged with such cruelties," he said, "but I
had hoped that they were not true. Now, I must leave you here, and, upon
my soul, I do not wish you any harm."
He went out and Henry felt a heavy key turn in the lock. A minute or two
after he had gone the prisoner tried the door, and found that it was
made of heavy oak, with strong crosspieces of the same material. He
exerted all his great strength, and, as he expected, he could not shake
it. Then he went back to the pine stool, which he drew up near a barred
window, and sitting there watched as well as he could what was passing
in the great court.
Henry had too much natural wisdom and experience to beat his head
uselessly against bars. He would remain quiet, preserving the strength
of both body and mind, until the time for action came. Meanwhile he was
using his eyes. He saw some of the chiefs pass, always accompanied by
white officers. But he saw officers alone, and now and then women, both
red and white. He also saw the swarthy faces of woods runners, and among
them, one whose face and figure were familiar, that same Pierre Louis
Lajeunais, whom he had met outside the fort.
Lajeunais carried his rifle on one shoulder and a pack of furs on the
other. It was a heavy pack, probably beaver skins, but he moved easily,
and Henry saw that he was very strong. Henry regarded him thoughtfully.
This man had been friendly, he had access to the fort, and he might be
induced to give him aid. He did not see just then how Lajeunais could be
of help to him, but he stored the idea in the back of his head, ready
for use if there should be occasion.
He presently saw Timmendiquas go by with Colonel de Peyster on one side
of him and Colonel Caldwell on the other. Henry smiled. Evidently they
were paying assiduous court to the Wyandot, and well they might. Without
the aid of the powerful Indian tribes the British at Detroit could do
nothing. In a few moments they were gone and then the twilight began to
come over the great western post. From his window Henry caught a view of
a distant reach of the broad river, glittering gold in the western sun.
It came ultimately from one great lake and would empty into another.
Paul's words returned to him. Those mysterious and mighty great lakes!
would he live to see them with his comrades? Once in his early
captivity with the Indians he had wandered to the shores of the farthest
and greatest of them all, and he remembered the awe with which he had
looked upon the vast expanse of waters like the sea itself. He wished to
go there again. Hundreds of stories and legends about the mighty chain
had come from the Indians and this view of the river that flowed from
the upper group stirred again all his old curiosity. Then he remembered
his position and with a low laugh resumed his seat on the pine stool.
Yet he watched the advance of the night. It seemed that the vast
wilderness was coming down on Detroit and would blot it out completely,
fortress, soldiers, village and all. In a little while the darkness
covered everything save a few flickering lights here and there. Henry
sat at the window a while, gazing absently at the lights. But his mind
was away with his comrades, Paul, Shif'less Sol, Long Jim and Silent
Tom, the faithful four with whom he had passed through a world of
dangers. Where were they now? He had no doubt that they were near
Detroit. It was no idle boast that he made to Colonel de Peyster when he
said they would help rescue him. He awaited the result with absolute
confidence. He was in truth so lacking in nervous apprehension that when
he lay down on the rude pallet he was asleep in two minutes.
He was awakened the next morning by Lieutenant Holderness who informed
him that in the daytime, for the present at least, he would be allowed
the liberty of the court. He could also eat outside.
"I'm grateful," said Henry. "I wish to thank Colonel de Peyster, or
whoever the man may be who has given me this much liberty."
"It is Colonel de Peyster, of course," said the ruddy one.
But Henry shrewdly suspected that his modicum of liberty was due to
Timmendiquas, or rather the fear of de Peyster that he would offend
Timmendiquas, and weaken the league, if he ill treated the prisoner.
Henry went outside and bathed his face at a water barrel. Then at the
invitation of Holderness he joined some soldiers and Canadian Frenchmen
who were cooking breakfast together beside a great fire. They made room
readily at the lieutenant's request and Henry began to eat. He noticed
across the fire the brown face of Lajeunais, and he nodded in a friendly
manner. Lajeunais nodded in return and his black eyes twinkled. Henry
thought that he saw some significance in the twinkle, but when he looked
again Lajeunais was busy with his own breakfast. Then the incident
passed out of his mind and he quickly found himself on good terms with
both soldiers and woods runners.
"You give your parole," said Lajeunais, "an' go North wiz me on the
great huntin' an' trappin'. We will go North, North, North, beyon' the
Great Lakes, an' to other lakes almost as great, a thousan', two
thousan' miles beyon' the home of white men to trap the silver fox, the
pine marten an' the other furs which bring much gold. Ah, le bon Dieu,
but it is gran'! an' you have ze great figure an' ze great strength to
stan' ze great cold. Then come wiz me. Ze great lakes an' woods of ze
far North is better zan to fret your life out here in ze prison. You
come?"
He spoke entreatingly, but Henry smiled and replied in a tone full of
good humor:
"It's a tempting offer, and it's very kind of you, Monsieur Lajeunais,
but I cannot accept it. Neither am I going to fret my life out within
these walls. I'm going to escape."
All the soldiers and woods runners laughed together except Lajeunais.
Henry's calm assurance seemed a great joke to them, but the Frenchman
watched him shrewdly. He was familiar with men of the woods, and it
seemed to him that the great youth was not boasting, merely stating a
fact.
"Confidence is ze gran' thing," he said, "but these walls are high an'
the ears are many."
While Henry sat there with the men, Colonel de Peyster passed. The
commander was in an especially good humor that morning. He was convinced
that his negotiations with the Indian were going well. He had sworn to
Timmendiquas again that if the Western tribes would fight for the King,
the King would help them in return should their villages be attacked.
More presents had been distributed judiciously among the chiefs. The
renegades also were at work. All of Girty's influence, and it was large,
had been brought to bear in favor of the invasion, and it seemed to de
Peyster that everything was now settled. He saw Henry sitting by the
fire, gave him an ironical look, and, as he passed, sang clearly enough
for the captive to hear a song of his own composition. He called it "The
Drill Sergeant," written to the tune of "The Happy Beggars," and the
first verse ran:
Come, stand well to your order,
Make not the least false motion;
Eyes to the right,
Thumb, muzzle height;
Lads, you have the true notion.
Here and there,
Everywhere
That the King's boys may be found,
Fight and die,
Be the cry,
'Ere in battle to give ground.
De Peyster was not only a soldier, but being born in New York and having
grown up there he prided himself upon being a man of the world with
accomplishments literary and otherwise. The privilege of humming one's
own poetry is great and exalting, and the commander's spirits, already
high, rose yet higher. The destruction of Kentucky was not only going to
be accomplished, it was in fact accomplished already. He would extirpate
the impudent settlers west of the mountains, and, when the King's
authority was reestablished everywhere and the time came for rewards, he
would ask and receive a great one.
As Colonel de Peyster walked toward the western gate a Tory soldier,
with bruises and excitement upon his face, and a torn uniform upon his
body, hurried toward him, accompanied by Lieutenant Holderness.
"This is Private Doran, sir," said Holderness, "and he has an important
letter for you."
Colonel de Peyster looked critically at Private Doran.
"You seem to have been manhandled," he said.
"I was set upon by a band of cutthroats," said Private Doran, the memory
of his wrongs becoming very bitter, "and they commanded me upon pain of
death to deliver this letter to you."
He held out a dirty sheet of folded paper.
Colonel de Peyster felt instinctively that it was something that was
going to be of great interest, and, before he opened it, he tapped it
with a thoughtful forefinger.
"Where did you get this?"
"About five o'clock this morning," replied Private Doran with hesitation
and in an apologetic tone, "I was on guard on the western side of the
village, near the woods. I was watching as well as I could with my eyes
open, and listening too, but I neither heard nor saw anything when four
men suddenly threw themselves upon me. I fought, but how could I
overcome four? I suffered many bruises, as you can see. I thought they
were going to kill me, but they bound me, and then the youngest of 'em
wrote this note which they told me to give to you, saying that they
would send a rifle bullet through my head some dark night, if I
disobeyed 'em, and I believe, sir, they would do it."
"Report to your sergeant," said de Peyster, and Private Doran gladly
went away. Then the commander opened the letter and as he read it his
face turned a deep red with anger. He read it over again to see that he
made no mistake, but the deep red of anger remained.
"What do you think of such impertinence as this, Holderness?" he
exclaimed, and then he read:
"To Colonel Arent Schuyler de Peyster, Commander of the King's
forces at Detroit:
"_Sir_:
"You have a prisoner in your fort, one Henry Ware, our comrade. We
warn you that if he is subjected to any ill-treatment whatever, you
and your men shall suffer punishment. This is not an idle threat. We
are able to make good our promises.
"SOLOMON HYDE.
"PAUL COTTER.
"THOMAS ROSS.
"JAMES HART."
"It's impertinence and mummery," repeated de Peyster, "I'll have that
man Doran tied to a cannon and lashed on his bare back!"
But Lieutenant Holderness was young and impressionable.
"It's impertinent, of course, Colonel," he said, "and it sounds wild,
too, but I believe the signers of this paper mean what they say.
Wouldn't it be a good idea to treat this prisoner well, and set such a
good watch that we can capture his friends, too? They'll be hanging
about."
"I don't know," said de Peyster. "No, I think I have a better plan.
Suppose we answer the letter of these fellows. I have had no intention
of treating Ware badly. I expected to exchange him or use him profitably
as a hostage, but I'll tell his friends that we are going to subject him
to severe punishment, and then we'll draw them into our net, too."
"I've heard from Girty and Wyatt that they do wonderful things," said
Holderness. "Suppose they should rescue Ware after all?"
De Peyster laughed incredulously.
"Take him away from us!" he said. "Why, he's as safely caged here as if
he were in a stone prison in England. Just to show him what I think of
their threat I'll let him read this letter."
He approached Henry, who was still sitting by the fire and handed him
the sheet of paper.
"A letter from some friends of yours; the four most delightful humorists
that these woods can furnish, I take it."
Henry thrilled with delight when he read the paper, but he did not
permit his face to show his joy. Like de Peyster he read it over twice,
and then he handed it back to the Colonel.
"Well," said de Peyster, "what do you think of it?"
"It speaks for itself," replied Henry. "They mean exactly what they
say."
De Peyster chose to adopt a light, ironical tone.
"Do you mean to tell me, my good fellow," he asked, "that four beggarly
rebels, hiding for their lives in the wilderness, can punish me for
anything that I may do to you?"
"I do not merely tell you so, I know it."
"Very well; it is a game, a play and we shall see what comes of it. I am
going to send an answer to their letter, but I shall not tell you the
nature of that answer, or what comes of it."
"I've no doubt that I'll learn in time," said Henry quietly.
The boy's calmness annoyed de Peyster, and he left him abruptly,
followed by Holderness. While his temper was still warm, he wrote a
letter to the four stating that Henry Ware would be delivered to the
savages for them to do with as they chose,--the implication being
torture and death--and that unless the four gave Detroit a very wide
berth they would soon be treated in the same way. Then he called the
miserable Doran before him, and told him, when he took the late watch
again the next night, to hook the letter on the twig of a tree near
where he had been attacked before, and then watch and see what would
occur. Doran promised strictly to obey, and, since he was not called
upon to fight the terrific four, some of his apprehension disappeared.
Henry meanwhile had left the fire beside which he had eaten breakfast,
and--though closely guarded--strolled about the great enclosure. He felt
an uncommon lightness of heart. It was almost as if he were the jailer
and not the jailed. That letter from his four comrades was a message to
him as well as to de Peyster. He knew that the soldiers of de Peyster
and the Indians would make every effort to take them, but the woods
about Detroit were dense and they would be on guard every second. There
was no certainty, either, that all the French-Canadians were warmly
attached to the King's cause. Why should they be? Why should they fight
so zealously for the country that had conquered them not many years
before? He saw once more in the afternoon the square, strong figure of
Lajeunais, crossing the court. When the Frenchman noticed him he stopped
and came back, smiling and showing his great white teeth.
"Ah, mon brav," he said, "doesn't the great North yet call to you?"
"No," replied Henry, with an answering smile. "As I told you, I am going
to escape."
"You may," said Lajeunais, suddenly lowering his voice. "I met one of
your friends in the forest. I cannot help, but I will not hinder. C'est
une pitie that a garcon so gran' an' magnificent as you should pine an'
die within prison walls."
Then he was gone before Henry could thank him. Toward nightfall he was
notified that he must return to his prison and now he felt the full
weight of confinement when the heavy walls closed about him. But
Holderness came with the soldier who brought his supper and remained to
talk. Henry saw that Holderness, not long from England, was lonesome and
did not like his work. It was true also that the young Englishman was
appalled by the wilderness, not in the sense of physical fear, but the
endless dark forest filled him with the feeling of desolation as it has
many another man. He had found in Henry, prisoner though he was, the
most congenial soul, that he had yet met in the woods. As he lingered
while Henry ate the hard-tack and coffee, it was evident that he wanted
to talk.
"These friends of yours," he said. "They promise wonderful things. Do
you really think they will rescue you, or did you merely say so to
impress Colonel de Peyster? I ask, as man to man, and forgetting for the
time that we are on opposing sides."
Henry liked him. Here, undoubtedly, was an honest and truthful heart. He
was sorry that they were official enemies, but he was glad that it did
not keep them from being real friends.
"I meant it just as I said it," he replied. "My friends will keep their
words. If I am harmed some of your people here at Detroit will suffer.
This no doubt sounds amazing to you, but strange things occur out here
in the woods."
"I'm very curious to see," said Holderness. "Colonel de Peyster has sent
them a message, telling them in effect that no attention will be paid to
their warning, and that he will do with you as he chooses."
"I am curious about it too," said Henry, "and if there is nothing in
your duty forbidding it, I ask you to let me know the result."
"I think it's likely that I can tell if there is anything to be told.
Well, good night to you, Mr. Ware. I wish you a pleasant sleep."
"Thank you. I always sleep well."
The night was no exception to Henry's statement, but he was awake early
the next morning. Colonel de Peyster also rose early, because he wished
to hear quickly from Private Doran. But Private Doran did not come at
the usual hour of reporting from duty, nor did he return the next hour,
nor at any hour. De Peyster, furious with anger, sent a detachment which
found his letter gone and another there. It said that as proof of their
power they had taken his sentinel and they warned him again not to harm
the prisoner.
De Peyster raged for several reasons. It hurt his personal pride, and it
injured his prestige with the Indians. Timmendiquas was still
troublesome. He was demanding further guarantees that the King's
officers help the Indians with many men and with cannon, in case a
return attack should be delivered against their villages, and the White
Lightning of the Wyandots was not a chief with whom one could trifle.
Timmendiquas had returned to the camp of his warriors outside the walls
and de Peyster at once visited him there. He found the chief in a fine
lodge of buffalo skin that the Wyandots had erected for him, polishing
the beautiful new rifle that had been presented to him as coming from
the King. He looked up when he saw de Peyster enter, and his smile
showed the faintest trace of irony. But he laid aside the rifle and
arose with the courtesy befitting a red chief who was about to receive a
white one.
"Be seated, Timmendiquas," said de Peyster with as gracious a manner as
he could summon. "I have come to consult with you about a matter of
importance. It seems to me that you alone are of sufficient judgment and
experience to give me advice in this case."
Timmendiquas bowed gravely.
De Peyster then told him of the threatening letter from the four, and of
the disappearance of Private Doran. The nostrils of Timmendiquas
dilated.
"They are great warriors," he said, "but the white youth, Ware, whom you
hold, is the greatest of them all. It was well done."
De Peyster frowned. In his praise of the woodsmen Timmendiquas seemed to
reflect upon the skill of his own troops. But he persisted in his plan
to flatter and to appeal to the pride of Timmendiquas.
"White Lightning," he said, "you know the forest as the bird knows its
nest. What would you advise me to do?"
The soothing words appealed to Timmendiquas and he replied:
"I will send some of my warriors to trail them from the spot where your
man was taken, and do you send soldiers also to take them when they are
found. It is my business to make war upon these rangers from Kentucky,
and I will help you all I can."
De Peyster, who felt that his honor was involved, left the lodge much
more hopeful. It was intolerable that he, a soldier and a poet, should
be insulted in such a manner by four wild woodsmen, and he selected ten
good men who, following two Wyandot trailers, would certainly avenge
him.
Henry heard the details of Private Doran's misadventure from Lieutenant
Holderness, who did not fail to do it full justice.
"I should not have believed it," said the young Englishman, "if the
facts were not so clear. Private Doran is not a small man. He must weigh
at least one hundred and eighty, but he is gone as completely as if the
earth had opened and swallowed him up."
Henry smiled and pretended to take it lightly. At heart he was hugely
delighted at this new proof of the prowess of his friends.
"I told you what they were," he said. "They are keeping their promises,
are they not?"
"So far they have, but they will reach the end very soon. The Chief
Timmendiquas, the tall one, who thinks he is as good as the King of
England, has furnished two Wyandot trailers--they say the beggars can
come pretty near following the trail left by the flight of a bird
through the air--and they will take a detachment of ten good men against
these four friends of yours."
The prisoner's eyes sparkled. It did not seem to Holderness that he was
at all cast down as he should be.
"Shif'less Sol will lead them a glorious chase," said Henry. "The
Wyandots are fine trailers, but they are no better than he, maybe not as
good, and no detachment of heavy-footed soldiers can surprise him in the
woods."
"But if overtaken they will certainly be defeated. All of them will be
slain or captured," said Holderness. "There can be no doubt of it."
"It is to be seen," said Henry, "and we must wait patiently for the
result."
Henry was allowed to go in the court again that day. He knew that strong
influences were working for his good treatment, and with the
impossibility of escape in broad daylight under scores of watchful eyes
there was no reason why he should be confined in the big jail. He hoped
to see Timmendiquas there, but the chief still stayed outside with his
Wyandot warriors. Instead he met another who was not so welcome. As he
turned a corner of a large log building he came face to face with
Braxton Wyatt. Henry turned abruptly away, indicating that he would
avoid the young renegade as he would a snake. But Wyatt called to him:
"Henry, I've got a few words to say to you. You know that you and I were
boys together down there in Wareville, and if I've done you any harm it
seems that the score is about even between us. I've helped to make war
on the rebels in the East. I had gathered together a fine band there. I
was leader of it and a man of importance, but that band was destroyed
and you were the chief instrument of its destruction."
"Why do you say all this?" asked Henry shortly.
"To show you that I am in the right, and that I am now a Loyalist not
for profit, but in face of the fact that I suffer for it."
Henry looked at him in amazement. Why should Braxton Wyatt say these
things to him whom he hated most? Then he suddenly knew the reason. Deep
down in the heart of everyone, no matter how perverted he may become, is
some desire for the good opinion of others. The renegade was seeking to
justify himself in the eyes of the youth who had been for a while a
childhood comrade. He felt a sort of pity, but he knew that nothing good
could come of any further talk between Braxton Wyatt and himself.
"Of course you are entitled to your opinion, Braxton," he said, "but it
can never be mine. Your hands are red with the blood of your people, our
people, and there can never be any friendship between us."
He saw the angry light coming into Wyatt's eyes, and he turned away. He
felt that under the circumstances he could not quarrel with him, and he
knew that if they were in the forest again they would be as bitter
enemies as ever. It was a relief to him to meet Holderness and another
young officer, Desmond, also a recent arrival from England, and quite as
ignorant as Holderness of wilderness ways and warfare. He found them
fair and generous opponents and, in his heart, he absolved them from
blame for the terrible consequences following upon the British alliance
with the Indians.
They took Henry on the entire inside circuit of the walls, and he, as
well as they, was specially interested in the outlook over the river. A
platform four feet wide was built against the palisade the same distance
from the top. It was reached at intervals by flights of narrow steps,
and here in case of attack the riflemen would crouch and fire from their
hidden breastwork. Close by and under the high bank flowed the river, a
broad, deep stream, bearing the discharge from those mighty inland seas,
the upper chain of the Great Lakes. The current of the river, deep, blue
and placid and the forests beyond, massive, dark, and green, made Henry
realize how bitter it was to be a prisoner. Here separated from him by
only a few feet was freedom, the great forest with its sparkling waters
that he loved. In spite of himself, he sighed, and both Holderness and
Desmond, understanding, were silent.
Near them was a sort of trestle work that ran out toward the river,
although it did not reach it by many feet.
"What is that?" asked Henry, as he looked at it curiously.
"It was intended to be a pier or wharf for loading or unloading boats,"
replied Holderness. "They tell me that Colonel Hamilton started it, in
the belief that it would be useful in an emergency, but when Colonel de
Peyster succeeded to the command he stopped the work there, thinking
that it might be of as much service to an enemy as to a friend."
Henry took little more notice of the unfinished pier, and they descended
from the platform to the ground, their attention being attracted by a
noise at the most distant gate. When they took a second look at the
cause of the tumult, they hurried forward.