E-text prepared by Al Haines
WHEN WILDERNESS WAS KING
A Tale of the Illinois Country
by
RANDALL PARRISH
Author of "My Lady of the North"
A. L. Burt Company, Publishers
New York
Copyright by A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published March 26, 1904
Second Edition, April 20, 1904
Third Edition, July 2, 1904
Fourth Edition, September 20, 1904
Fifth Edition, October 20, 1904
Sixth Edition, January 2, 1905
Seventh Edition, December, 1905
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
All Rights Reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A Message from the West
II. The Call of Duty
III. A New Acquaintance
IV. Captain Wells of Fort Wayne
V. Through the Heart of the Forest
VI. From the Jaws of Death
VII. A Circle in the Sand
VIII. Two Men and a Maid
IX. In Sight of the Flag
X. A Lane of Peril
XI. Old Fort Dearborn
XII. The Heart of a Woman
XIII. A Wager of Fools
XIV. Darkness and Surprise
XV. An Adventure Underground
XVI. "Prance wins, Monsieur!"
XVII. A Contest of Wits
XVIII. Glimpses of Danger
XIX. A Conference and a Resolve
XX. In the Indian Camp
XXI. A Council of Chiefs
XXII. The Last Night at Dearborn
XXIII. The Death-Shadow of the Miamis
XXIV. The Day of Doom
XXV. In the Jaws of the Tiger
XXVI. The Field of the Dead
XXVII. A Ghostly Vision
XXVIII. An Angel in the Wilderness
XXIX. A Soldier of France
XXX. The Rescue at the Stake
XXXI. A Search, and its Reward
XXXII. The Pledge of a Wyandot
XXXIII. An Intervention of Fate
XXXIV. A Stumble in the Dark
XXXV. The Battle on the Shore
XXXVI. In the New Gray Dawn
"I saw a dot upon the map, and a housefly's filmy wing--
They said 'twas Dearborn's picket-flag, when Wilderness was King.
* * * * * *
I heard the block-house gates unbar, the column's solemn tread,
I saw the Tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage shed
To wave awhile that August morn above the column's head;
I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman's wail of fife,
The Dead March played for Dearborn's men just marching out of life;
The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon the rank
And struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and in flank,
The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles' whistling rain,--
The sandhills drift round hope forlorn that never marched again."
--_Benjamin F. Taylor_.
When Wilderness Was King
CHAPTER I
A MESSAGE FROM THE WEST
Surely it was no longer ago than yesterday. I had left the scythe
lying at the edge of the long grass, and gone up through the rows of
nodding Indian corn to the house, seeking a draught of cool water from
the spring. It was hot in the July sunshine; the thick forest on every
side intercepted the breeze, and I had been at work for some hours.
How pleasant and inviting the little river looked in the shade of the
great trees, while, as I paused a moment bending over the high bank, I
could see a lazy pike nosing about among the twisted roots below.
My mother, her sleeves rolled high over her round white arms, was in
the dark interior of the milk-house as I passed, and spoke to me
laughingly; and I could perceive my father sitting in his great
splint-bottomed chair just within the front doorway, and I marked how
the slight current of air toyed with his long gray beard. The old
Bible lay wide open upon his knee; yet his eyes were resting upon the
dark green of the woods that skirted our clearing. I wondered, as I
quaffed the cool sweet water at the spring, if he was dreaming again of
those old days when he had been a man among men. How distinct in each
detail the memory of it remains! The blue sky held but one fleecy
white cloud in all its wide arch; it seemed as if the curling film of
smoke rising from our chimney had but gathered there and hung suspended
to render the azure more pronounced. A robin peeked impudently at me
from an oak limb, and a roguish gray squirrel chattered along the low
ridge-pole, with seeming willingness to make friends, until Rover,
suddenly spying me, sprang hastily around the comer of the house to
lick my hand, with glad barkings and a frantic effort to wave the stub
of his poor old tail. It was such a homely, quiet scene, there in the
heart of the backwoods, one I had known unchanged so long, that I
little dreamed it was soon to witness the turning over of a page of
destiny in my life, that almost from that hour I was to sever every
relation of the past, and be sent forth to buffet with the rough world
alone.
There were no roads, in those days, along that valley of the upper
Maumee,--merely faint bridle-paths, following ancient Indian trails
through dense woods or across narrow strips of prairie land; yet as I
hung the gourd back on its wooden peg, and lifted my eyes carelessly to
the northward, I saw a horseman riding slowly toward the house along
the river bank. There were flying rumors of coming Indian outbreaks
along the fringe of border settlements; but my young eyes were keen,
and after the first quick thrill of suspicion I knew the approaching
stranger to be of white blood, although his apparel was scarcely less
uncivilized than that of the savage. Yet so unusual were visitors,
that I grasped a gun from its pegs in the kitchen, and called warningly
to my mother as I passed on to meet the new-comer.
He was a very large and powerful man, with a matted black beard and an
extremely prominent nose. A long rifle was slung at his back, and the
heavy bay horse he bestrode bore unmistakable signs of hard travelling.
As he approached, Rover, spying him, sprang out savagely; but I caught
and held him with firm grip, for to strangers he was ever a surly brute.
"Is this yere Major Wayland's place?" the man questioned, in a deep,
gruff voice, reining in his tired horse, and carelessly flinging one
booted foot across the animal's neck as he faced me.
"Yes," I responded with caution, for we were somewhat suspicious of
stray travellers in those days, and the man's features were not
pleasing. "The Major lives here, and I am his son."
He looked at me intently, some curiosity apparent in his eyes, as he
deliberately drew a folded paper from his belt.
"No? Be ye the lad what downed Bud Eberly at the meetin' over on the
Cow-skin las' spring?" he questioned, with faintly aroused interest.
I blushed like a school-girl, for this unexpected reference was not
wholly to my liking, though the man's intentions were evidently most
kind.
"He bullied me until I could take no more," I answered, doubtfully;
"yet I hurt him more seriously than I meant."
He laughed at the trace of apology in my words.
"Lord!" he ejaculated, "don't ever let that worry ye, boy. The hull
settlement is mighty glad 'twas done. Old Hawkins bin on the p'int o'
doin' it himself a dozen o' times. Told me so. Ye 're quite a lad,
ain't ye? Weigh all o' hundred an' seventy, I 'll bet; an' strong as
an ox. How old be ye, anyhow?"
"Twenty," I answered, not a little mollified by his manner. "You must
live near here, then?"
"Wal, no, but been sorter neighbor o' yourn fer a month er so back;
stoppin' up at Hawkins's shebang, at the ford, on the Military Road,
visitin'; but guess I never met up with none o' your folks afore. My
name 's Burns, Ol' Tom Burns, late o' Connecticut. A sojer from out
West left this yere letter fer yer father at Hawkins's place more nor a
week ago. Said as how it was mighty important; but blamed if this was
n't the fust chance he 's hed to git it over yere sence. I told him I
'd fetch it, as it was n't more nor a dozen miles er so outer my way."
He held out a square paper packet; and while I turned it over curiously
in my hand,--the first letter I had ever seen,--he took some loose
tobacco from an outside pocket and proceeded leisurely to fill his pipe.
My mother rolled my father's chair forward into the open doorway, and
stood close behind him, as was her custom, one arm resting lightly upon
the quaintly carved chair-back.
"What is it, John?" she questioned gently. Instantly aroused by her
voice, I crossed quickly over and placed the packet in my father's thin
hands. He turned it over twice before he opened it, looking at the odd
seal, and reading the superscription carefully aloud, as if fearful
there might be some mistake:
"Major David Wayland,
Along the Upper Maumee.
Leave at Hawkins Ford
on Military Road."
"Important."
I can see him yet as he read it, slowly feeling his way through the
rude, uneven writing, with my mother leaning over his shoulder and
helping him, her rosy cheeks and dark tresses making strange contrast
beside his pain-racked features and iron-gray hair.
"Read it aloud, Mary," he said at last. "I shall understand it better.
'T is from Roger Matherson, of whom you have heard me speak."
My mother was a good scholar, and she read clearly, only hesitating now
and, then over some ill-written or misspelled word.
At FORT DEARBORN, near the head of the
Great Lake. Twelfth June, 1812.
My DEAR OLD FRIEND:
I have come to the end of life; they tell me it will be all over by the
morrow, and there remains but one thing that greatly troubles me--my
little girl, my Elsa. You know I have never much feared death, nor do
I in this hour when I face it once more; for I have ever tried to honor
God and do my duty as both man and soldier. David, I can scarcely
write, for my mind wanders strangely, and my fingers will but barely
grasp the pen. 'T is not the grip of the old sword-hand you knew so
well, for I am already very weak, and dying. But do you yet remember
the day I drew you out of the rout at Saratoga, and bore you away
safely, though the Hessians shot me twice? God knows, old friend, I
never thought to remind you of the act,--'twas no more than any comrade
would have done,--yet I am here among strangers, and there is no one
else living to whom I may turn in my need. David, in memory of it,
will you not give my little orphan child a home? Your old comrade,
upon his death-bed, begs this of you with his final breath. She is all
alone here, save for me, and there is no blood kin in all the world to
whom I may appeal. I shall leave some property, but not much. As you
love your own, I pray you be merciful in this hour to my little girl.
Your old comrade,
ROGER MATHERSON.
This had been endorsed by another and bolder hand:
Captain Roger Matherson, late of the Massachusetts Continental Line,
died at this fort, of fever, fourteenth June, 1812. His daughter is
being cared for by the ladies of the garrison.
NATHAN HEALD,
Capt. First Regt. Inf., Commanding.
The tears were clinging to my mother's long lashes as she finished the
reading; she was ever tender of heart and sympathetic with sorrow. My
father sat in silence, looking far off at the green woods. Presently
he took the paper again into his hands, folded it carefully in the old
creases, and placed it safely away between the Bible leaves. I saw my
mother's fingers steal along the arm of the chair until they closed
softly over his.
"The poor little lamb!" she said gently.
My father's old sword hung over the fireplace, and I saw his glance
wander toward it, as something seemed to rise choking in his throat.
He was always a man who felt deeply, yet said but little; and we both
knew he was thinking about the old days and the strong ties of
comradeship.
The stranger struck flint and steel to light his pipe; the act
instantly recalled my father to the demands of hospitality.
"Friend," he said, speaking firmly, "hitch to the stump yonder, and
come in. You have brought me sad news enough, yet are no less welcome,
and must break bread at our board. John," and he turned toward me,
"see to friend Burns's horse, and help your mother to prepare the
dinner."
Out in the rude shed, which, answered as a kitchen during summer
weather, I ventured to ask:
"Mother, do you suppose he will take the little girl?"
"I hope so, John," she answered, soberly; "but your father must decide
himself. He will not tell us until he has thought it all out alone."