Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVIII.--NO. 888. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration: ONE PORTRAIT BEFORE WHICH MY MOTHER USED TO STAND AND
WEEP.]
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
Memories of John Hurdiss, of Stonington, Connecticut, written by
himself, in order to ease his mind and, incidentally, to interest
any one who might enjoy an unembellished narrative, told by a pen
untried but truthful. It represents the labor of spare moments
taken from a busy life, and is dedicated to those who may bear the
writer's name. He therefore craves a kind indulgence.--J. H.
EDITOR'S NOTE.--The manuscript from which the following
auto-biographical story is printed was found in an old desk that
had been hidden away in the garret of a shipping-office in the town
of Stonington, Connecticut. It narrowly escaped being destroyed at
the time of discovery. Parts of it required a great deal of care in
the putting together, as the mice had unfortunately commenced their
work of destruction. However, it has been deciphered without loss
of a paragraph, and, it is to be hoped, contains sufficient that
will interest the reader. John Hurdiss is well remembered by one or
two of Stonington's oldest inhabitants, although he moved from that
town to the West some time in the forties. His grandchildren (for
whom he probably wrote the story) are now given a chance to read of
the strange adventures of their ancestor under three flags. The
mystery which is referred to, and which has little to do with the
story itself, perhaps, we leave for their unravelling. Thus,
without further preamble, it is presented as it came from his pen
and in his words. The main title is taken from one of Captain
Hurdiss's own expressions; the titles to some of the chapters had
to be supplied, as the original author left them in blank.
Chapter I.
AB INITIO.
In sitting down to write a tale in which I myself am the central figure
and most prominent actor, I cannot help at first feeling a fear that any
one who perchance shall read all that is to follow (if I ever succeed in
the finishing of it) will judge me a person whose opinion of himself is
high in the extreme.
While possessing the proper self-respect, without which no man is ever
truthful or successful, I do not claim to have accomplished anything
for the reason that I am gifted beyond the ordinary. I am not. But
circumstances of my early youth gave to me chances for adventure, and
fate probably led me, under the guiding hand of Providence, through much
that is outside of the usual walks of life.
Although, as I write, I am only in late middle age and hale and hearty,
all that I intend to record seems long ago indeed. Yet truthfully, and
in such ways as memory recalls it, do I intend to put it down. If I am
discursive, it is because I am led away by the vividness with which my
eye puts the scenes again before me; that is all there is to it.
In going over many events of the past in the half-waking hours at
night--a habit I have long been prone to--I have felt, often, my
heart-beats quicken, and more than once I have scarce restrained an
inclination to speak or to cry aloud in accordance with my feelings.
Perhaps the placing of all this upon paper may reduce the intensity with
which I relive a life that is gone. And thus, to begin:
My earliest childhood's recollection is of a warm summer's day. I know
it was warm, because the sand in which I was playing sparkled and shone
as it ran through my fingers, and the long stretch of beach, whose
whiteness dazzled my eyes, was hot to the touch of my bare feet. A great
brown curly dog playing up and down the water's edge makes part of the
picture, and an old colored mammy, crooning softly to herself, was
shading my head with the green branch of a tree. Then a tall man with
gray hair came and lifted me on his shoulder and carried me through a
wood whose trees seemed to touch the clouds; then out of the shadows, by
a path through a meadow (in which were some great fierce hogs that
frightened me most dreadfully), up to a large house, where a beautiful
woman took me in her arms and kissed me and called me pet names that I
was glad to hear. This, I say, is the first day of all my life that I
can remember--which is beginning at the beginning, and no mistake.
Gradually it came to me, so that I can remember it, that I began to love
things. I loved my beautiful mother, who spoke to me in a language very
different from that of the three old colored people whom I saw every
day, namely, Aunt Sheba, Ann Martha, and Ol' Peter; and I loved them
also, and I loved the dog.
I seemed to understand the two kinds of speaking very well (my mother's
and the rest of the world's, I mean), although I did not know that one
was French and the other darky English pure and simple.
The tall man, whom I sometimes called "_père_," and at others "daddy,"
was not always with us. Very often it was long months between his
visits, and he generally remarked how I had grown and how much heavier I
had become since last he had lifted me up on his shoulder.
Then came the time when I began to think--strange thoughts that were
never answered, because for the most part I confided them to no one
except, maybe, to the brown curly dog, who was called "Maréchal" by my
mother, and "Maa'shal" by the colored people. Like myself, he seemed to
understand either language perfectly, and replied to each in his own
fashion.
I well remember the day I first began to wonder at the vastness of the
world. It was upon an occasion when my father and Ol' Peter took me for
a sail in a _tremendous_ boat that they afterwards hauled up on the
beach out at the mouth of the river--this is very clear in my mind--and
the next morning after this excursion I went down with my mother to the
end of the little wharf, and lo and behold! a great ship was lying at
anchor in the broad stretch of water beyond the reedy point of land. My
mother was crying softly, and my father kissed her, and me, too, over
and over again. Then he stepped in a boat rowed by dark men with beards
on their faces, and put off to the ship, spread her sails like a great
bird and swept out into the bay.
When she had gone beyond the point, and we could no longer see a tall
figure standing on the after-deck waving his hat, my mother burst out
crying harder than ever, and we went back to the house. I never saw my
father again.
I call him "my father," in thus looking back at the great spring-time,
because I always think of him as such, and because I bear his name. Long
years afterwards I learned much that this story will tell, if it goes on
to the end, but it is now too early to indulge in explanations--I must
relate things as they come to me.
Well, when I was six or seven years of age--when these first days I have
touched on were even then but a memory--I began to enjoy life in new
ways. I had never a play-mate but the dog, who had grown too old for
romping; but my mother would read long and wonderful stories to me in
her beautiful low voice, in French, of course, and I, listening,
pictured the outside world as something strange and beautiful, and just
waiting and yearning for _my_ coming to see it and enjoy it.
The ships that sailed up and down the bay, long distances off, were all
bound somewhere that only _I_ knew, and my thoughts would follow them to
enchanted islands where fairies and beautiful creatures lived, and where
wonderful birds sang from the branches of wonderful trees. I had begun
to study with my mother about this period. Dull work it often appeared
to be, and I dare say many a rebellion had to be put down and many an
outbreak silenced, although I can recollect no chastisements. But at
last, before I was ten years old, I would take a book, and followed by
the sedately plodding Maréchal, seek a shady spot down at the point,
where I read myself to sleep often enough.
Of course now, by this time, I knew that the name of the river on which
our plantation bordered was the Gunpowder, that the blue waters were the
waters of Chesapeake Bay, that I lived on the shores of Maryland, and
that the ships were bound not to fairy islands (except now and then when
I _wanted_ them to be), but to Baltimore and Annapolis and Havre de
Grace, and to a dozen other places whose inhabitants sought their living
by trading and sailing on the sea.
I had also heard from Ol' Peter that there had been a war between our
country and another, named England, and that a great man named
Washington had once stopped at this very house in which we lived. Ol'
Peter described to me the surrender of Cornwallis (at which he had been
present, according to accounts); but my mother's talk and all she read
about was of France, that I gradually came to believe must have been the
most beautiful country in the world. Yet my mother always spoke as if
France were dead, which puzzled me not a little. Of a truth, there were
many things that puzzled me in those days. I had so many times received
the answer, "You will learn all some day--_On vous dira tout ça un de
ces jours, mon petit_," that at last I learned to hold back my
curiosity, or to answer with my own imagination.
Our neighbors, who were not very neighborly, lived at long distances
from us. They had no children, and up to my tenth year I had never
exchanged a thought with any one of my own age. To tell the truth I am
afraid my mother did not encourage the people near us to be very
friendly, and I suppose that they talked much, and perhaps said spiteful
things about her. I can remember how I began to notice that she seldom
walked farther than the rose-bush at the end of the garden path, and
that she was growing thinner and thinner, yet more beautiful every day.
We led a very simple existence, living mostly on what we raised in the
garden and what Ol' Peter brought back from the "cross-roads"--a
collection of three houses five or six miles distant from our
plantation.
But I was growing big and strong for my age--so strong, indeed, that I
could handle the heavy oars when Peter and I went out on the river to
tend the nets; and never shall I forget the first time I was allowed to
fire the old fowling-piece that occasionally brought a fat canvas-back
duck, lusciously reeking of wild celery, to grace our table.
The furnishings of the big house we lived in I can recall in detail;
they were very rich, although there were no carpets in any of the rooms
except in the room my mother slept in. But there were great nail-studded
chairs, and two carved oak sideboards, and a wonderful clock, upon
which, by-the-way, I took my first lesson in geography; it was shaped
like a golden earth, with the hours marked upon its circumference, and a
hand that pointed them out as each came around in turn.
The rooms upstairs were empty, except for some packing-cases and
rubbish--all but one small chamber, to which my mother alone had the
key, and which contained a great iron-bound chest that I stood much in
awe of. In the wide hallway downstairs were three portraits; one before
which my mother often used to stand and weep (I knew it to be he who had
sailed away in the ship and used to carry me on his shoulder). The
second was a handsome pale-faced man whose hair fell in long ringlets
over his steel armor, and who looked forth, very proud and haughty, from
his piercing gray eyes that would follow one even out of the door on to
the piazza. (I have often peered around the corners to see if they would
discover me, and they never failed in it.) The third was a beautiful one
of a woman whom I thought to be my mother. One day she told me, however,
that it was not--that it was her twin sister, at which I marvelled.
A score or so of books were in a great case in one of the bare front
rooms, some of them bound in handsome leather bindings and filled with
fine engravings. What would I not give to possess them now!
One day was so much like another that, were it not for the seasons that
flew by quickly, the world would have apparently been standing still;
but that the oars were becoming less heavy and the distances not so
great. Very soon I tended the nets alone or wandered along the shore
with the old flintlock fowling-piece over my shoulder; ducks, or perhaps
a wild goose or a swan, during the spring and fall, were always ready to
be cooked, hanging in the spring-house at the end of the garden.
I began to roam farther and farther in my lonely excursions. Poor old
Maréchal would follow me no longer than reached the shadow of the house.
I suppose that many people who travelled by the coach that passed the
cross-roads every day wondered who the boy was that used to stand with a
tall gun beside him at a fence corner, silently watching the lumbering
vehicle go down the highway in a cloud of dust. I must have presented a
quaint sight, no doubt, for my clothes were of home manufacture and I
kept growing out of them. But the buttons, I recollect, on the rough
cloth, were very beautiful, and inscribed with the same crest that was
painted on one corner of the portrait with the flowing brown hair; these
buttons played an important part in subsequent adventures, and I would
give a finger to possess one at the present writing. But I am forging
ahead of my story. To get back to it in quick order:
One day my mother and I and Ol' Peter mounted the rickety wagon to which
our one lone mule was harnessed, and drove to the cross-roads. It was
the first time that I could remember my mother leaving the plantation. I
did not know then that it was on my account that she was making this
departure, but I can see it plainly enough in looking over the time. A
question that I had asked of her some days before had more than probably
decided her upon doing so.
"Mamma," I had inquired, "are we always going to live here?"
I remember that she had looked at me strangely, and the next day the
preparations were made for the great change. It is little things that
occasion them usually in life, I notice.
When the coach stopped at the cross-roads tavern, the passengers gazed
at us most curiously. The guard nudged his companion and whispered
something, and a tall man in an officer's uniform politely handed my
mother to a seat inside. Then the horn blew, the driver touched up the
horses, and away we went.
I began to feel frightened. We passed houses and plantations with
hundreds of colored people working in the fields, and at last, a little
past noonday, we entered the town of Baltimore, and drove to an inn. The
sight of so many people and of boys of my own age playing in the
streets, the near-by glimpses of the shipping at the wharfs, thrilled
and excited me; and as we descended from the coach, I held fast to my
mother's skirt and would have hidden. The landlord of the inn hastened
out and received us with the greatest consideration. After some bowing
and scraping, and many orders to the negro servants, he turned from my
mother, and poking out his finger in my direction, addressed a question
to me, to which I falteringly replied in a manner that was evidently
unintelligible, from the look on his face. I must have spoken French in
my embarrassment.
We did not stay long at the inn--two or three days at the most; then we
went to live in a little house that my mother had rented at the corner
of the street. Aunt Sheba and the two other servants joined us. It was
my mother's intention to go back to the plantation for the rest of the
property she had left behind her; but she put off the expedition time
after time, although she often spoke of doing so as if it were a duty
neglected.
Now I went to school at a Mr. Thompson's, a cross-faced, snuffy
individual, who wondered at my knowledge of Latin and marvelled at my
simplicity. But it did not take me long to adapt myself to
circumstances. After I had fought two or three battles with the lads of
my own age, they decided that I was better as a friend than as an enemy,
and I grew, more than likely, to think and behave as any one of them.
And so two years went by--two years like those of any boy's
life--playing along the wharfs, climbing into orchards, talking with the
fishermen, swimming, racing, fighting, and all. But my poor mother could
now hardly leave her room; she passed most of her time in a chair by the
window waiting for me, I take it. The people were very kind to her, and
the doctor who lived near the inn used to come and see her frequently.
Major Taliaferro (pronounced "Tolliver") was a devoted attendant; he was
Captain of the county train-band. He and I grew very friendly;
by-the-way, he was the officer who was so polite to us on the
stage-coach. One afternoon when I returned from school I found my mother
sitting talking to a gentleman whom I recognized as a Mr. Edgerton, a
well-known lawyer of the neighborhood (he afterwards went to the
Legislature, I might record, and became well known).
Upon my entrance the gentleman regarded me most curiously, and when he
left bowed low at the door. The next week was to be the saddest and
perhaps the most misfortunate of all my life.
I was seated on the hard little bench in Mr. Thompson's school-room,
longing to be back once more with my old gun and my boat paddling along
the marshy shore of the Gunpowder, when a shadow fell across the
threshold. I looked up; it was the doctor. I cannot recollect his name,
which is a pity, as I would like to set it down; but he was a kind man,
and I am grateful to him. He stepped quickly to Mr. Thompson's side and
whispered a few words in his ear. The latter coughed and looked at me
over the great bows of his spectacles; then he called my name.
The doctor caught me by the hand, and I followed him out into the sunny
street.
"Be a brave lad; be a brave lad, John," he repeated.
He almost dragged me up the road, so fast he walked, and a nameless fear
coming into my heart, I began to sob aloud. There were two or three
people gathered in front of our little house. Back in the garden I saw a
strange sight. It was Ol' Peter leaning across the picket-fence; his
head was bowed on his arms, and his shoulders were moving up and down.
The people spoke in whispers as we went up the little path. Once inside
the door the doctor bent down and kissed me on the forehead.
"Be a brave lad, my son," he said. "Your mother has left us"-- He turned
away without finishing something he was going to say.
It did not require the sight of Aunt Sheba's tearful face beside me to
tell what had happened. I knew it with a chill all through me; boy that
I was, I fainted dead away. After a while, when I came to myself, they
brought me to the room and left me there.
The second day afterwards was the funeral. It seemed to me that all of
the town was present--from curiosity, mayhap, the largest part; yet,
since she had come to the town, my mother's gentle manner had made her
many friends. The doctor said she had long suffered from trouble of the
heart.
But I could scarcely realize what had happened. What it meant to me of
course I did not know.
It was the fall of the year. The blackbirds were chattering in the
hedges, and off in the fields a bob-white had begun to pipe his cheery
whistle. It was all the same, but there was a great blank somewhere. I
could not even cry. My heart and senses were deadened by my sorrow, and
yet I felt angry, as if I had been robbed.
When we returned to the house after the funeral, Mr. Edgerton, the
lawyer, was waiting.
"I have here Madam Hurdiss's warrant to examine her effects, and the key
to a certain strong-box which she has directed me to open and take care
of," he said. "We will start for the Gunpowder to-morrow morning. You
will go with us, doctor?"
My kind friend nodded. "The young gentleman will accompany us," he
replied, with a hand on my head. "He is the party most interested."
"Of course," returned the lawyer. "And we will start early."
Then he said something about its being "a most interesting case," and
the two gentlemen left the room. That night, for the third time, I
sobbed myself to sleep, Aunt Sheba holding my hand and crooning the old
Congo song that had lulled me many times on her wide bosom.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration: ADVENTURES WITH FRIEND PAUL]
Friend Paul has crossed the Atlantic in a small vessel with all the
things he has bought, and you and he will explore the country together.
It is very important that the explorer be exceedingly careful at first,
and that he watch the treacherous climate. Many white men in Africa have
lost their lives by their own rashness. They go in the sun all day long
after flowers, butterflies, insects, birds, or animals, and they perish
in a few days, victims of the tropical climate. In the next place, one
must not drink spirits. Many lives along the coast have also been lost
on that account. The buoyant spirit of youth is quite enough to carry
you through all kinds of hardships. It is very nice for every young
fellow to rough it, to go through hardships, to have plenty of walking,
to eat all kinds of food, to paddle or row. If he does these, he will
have plenty of health for the future and no dyspepsia.
The explorer in a wild country should be always on the alert, and think
that there is danger lurking everywhere--that an enemy in the shape of a
man, or of a wild beast, or of a snake is hiding behind every tree; he
must look inside of his hat, on the ground upon which he treads, and in
scores of other places, for venomous reptiles or insects.
One has to be patient among savage tribes. One must be very slow to
anger, must use great forbearance, and adapt himself to their ways of
thinking, remembering always that their ways are not his ways,
especially in regard to time, for they seem to think that what can be
done one day will be better done the next. In a word, they have no idea
whatever of the value of time. Be kind and sympathetic with them. Never
do an unjust thing. Act in such a way that they will believe implicitly
in your word. Nevertheless, use great firmness, never show any sign of
fear; otherwise you are doomed. Use force only in the last extremity.
Pay in beads or with other trinkets for everything you get. Never take
food by force, for in no country, including our own, would farmers
tolerate a band of strangers plundering their fields and killing cattle
to feed themselves. They would rise in a body to drive those thieves or
marauders away. So we must not find fault with the poor natives when
they rise in arms against the travellers and their followers who come to
plunder their fields and forage their country.
As I have told you, the explorer has to be wary, to look out for danger
everywhere. So Friend Paul thought a great deal of his rifles and guns
and revolvers--they were his friends. A brace of revolvers always lay
under my head, and were used as pillows. When I suspected danger, I
slept with them in the belt round my waist. A couple of rifles were
always lying by my side or within my arms during my sleep. I slept with
my boots on, so as to be ready at once in case of emergency or sudden
attack. During the daytime I never went anywhere without carrying my
revolvers, and then I had a rifle or shot-gun in my hand--just as a man
carries his umbrella.
No matter how friendly a people appeared, I thought a sudden attack
might be made at any time. In my pouch or bag were at least fifty
cartridges for rifles, and the same number for my revolvers.
I had a breech-loading rifle which I loved better than all my other
rifles, for it was a most powerful weapon. I could use it with either
steel-pointed bullets or shells. I named the rifle "Bull-dog." The only
fault I found with Bull-dog was that it was very heavy to carry, for it
weighed sixteen pounds.
When I carried Bull-dog I had a feeling that I was with my best friend,
one upon which I could rely in case of great danger, no matter how huge
or fierce the wild animal might be. That feeling always gave me
confidence, and I aimed with great steadiness, for my faith in the power
of Bull-dog was unbounded, and I knew I had a shot to spare in case of
wounding the animal.
Bull-dog was well known among my hunters. They looked at it with wonder,
and were always glad when Bull-dog was going with us. They used to say:
"Bull-dog never misses, but brings death in its path. The elephants,
leopards, gorillas, and hippopotami fall dead when hit by its bullets."
My men knew Bull-dog among all my rifles, and there was always rejoicing
among them when I said to one of them, "Go and fetch Bull-dog from my
hut, and carry it for me until we reach the hunting-ground," or when I
started with it.
Bull-dog was so heavy that by the end of the day my shoulders,
especially the left one, felt sore. In the course of time that left
shoulder had become quite black from the effects of carrying it or other
guns. A gun that is quite light the first hour becomes heavier every
hour afterwards, and very heavy by the end of the day.
* * * * *
Now that we have become acclimatized, and have learned the language, we
must bid good-by to the sea-shore King.
After many wanderings I came to a very wild tribe who knew the use of
fire-arms. The natives were kind-hearted toward me. I had been left
there by the people of another tribe, who immediately afterwards
returned to their country. The King loved me, and after I had remained
with him for a while and hunted, and thought it was time to leave, he
called a great council, and after a whole day of deliberation it was
agreed that Mienjai--a man of great bravery--and other men should take
me and my outfit to another tribe further inland.
We left. The path had been much neglected on account of war; in many
places it could be seen but indistinctly, and in other places we had to
guess our way through a dense jungle before we found it again.
The third day we lost our way, and after wandering through the forest
for quite a while Mienjai saw a path, and said: "Let us follow it. I
think it is a hunting-path, and that it leads to one of the villages of
the tribe to which we are going." So we took the path, and soon we came
to another, which was much used by people. When Mienjai saw this he
smiled, and his big mouth seemed to open from ear to ear, and at the
same time showed two rows of teeth, the upper and lower incisors, or
front teeth, being filed to a point.
[Illustration: FRIEND PAUL ENTERS THE NATIVE VILLAGE.]
After walking in the path for about two hours we came to a village,
which barred the way. The village was fenced all round with high poles,
upon many of which were skulls of wild beasts. The gate was closed, and
we could hear the sound of many voices inside. Mienjai shouted to the
people that he was Mienjai, the nephew of Rabolo, that we were friendly,
and that they must let us in. Two men came to the gate, and after
holding a conversation with Mienjai and my men they let us in.
How strange and wild-looking these two men appeared! Each carried an
old-fashioned flint-gun. Their faces and bodies were painted with
different colors. Each had round his waist a leopard-skin belt. They
looked at me with amazement. I had long black hair, which fell on my
shoulders, and this filled them with wonder. The houses of the village
were built of the bark of trees; they had no windows and only one door.
At the end of the street, which was not very long, there was a great
crowd of people, and every man had one of those trade flint-guns. I did
not like the looks of the people with those guns, for I would rather see
natives armed with spears, even with poisoned arrows, than with guns.
Then we passed by the idol-house, and I saw a big idol, of the size of a
human being and representing a woman. How ugly she looked! One of her
cheeks was painted yellow, the other white; she held in her hand a
stick.
Not far from the idol was a big veranda, under which my men put down
their loads and, leaving me alone, went toward the crowd. Soon after,
three bunches of plantains, a goat, two fowls, and six eggs were put at
my feet.
The King sent word that he could not see me that day. The next day he
came and asked me why I came to his country. I replied: "King, I heard
your village was filled with great hunters. I want to go into the forest
with them, for I wish to kill all the wild beasts I can and stuff them.
I want to kill all the birds I can and stuff them. Then I want to catch
all the butterflies and insects I can and keep them." The King looked at
me with wonder, and spoke to Mienjai, saying, "Does the spirit mean what
he says?" After a little while he said, "Yes, I will give to the Moguizi
the best hunters of our tribe."
[Illustration: "HE WILL BE ONE OF YOUR HUNTERS," SAID THE KING.]
The following morning he called his people and said, "We must provide
hunters for the Moguizi who has come to live among us." Then he shouted:
"Men who are brave and who are not afraid of wild beasts, come forward.
Where is Okili?" shouted the King. Okili then came forward. A fine
fellow Okili, I thought, as I surveyed him from head to foot. He was
tall and slender. His limbs were strong, he had a keen eye, his body was
tattooed all over. Then the King shouted, "Where is Mbango?" Then Mbango
came forward. He was quite the opposite of Okili, short of stature and
stout. I looked at him and saw that his eyes were full of daring, and
that he appeared to be gifted with great determination. He was just the
right kind of man I would choose to go with me. "He will be one of your
hunters," shouted the King. Then Mbango went by the side of Okili.
"Macondai, where are you?" cried the King. Macondai came forward. His
body was covered with scars. He was a great warrior who had seen many
fights and had many times been wounded. After I took a look at him he
went to where Mbango and Okili were. Then I heard the King call for
Niamkala. Niamkala was a gray-headed warrior who had seen many fights.
He was a great elephant-hunter, and wore a belt upon which were hung
the tails of twenty-three elephants which he had killed. He was a
grim-looking warrior and hunter who did not seem to be afraid of
anything. After I had eyed him he went to where the other hunters who
had preceded him stood. "I do not see Fasiko," said the King. "Where is
he?" "Here he comes," shouted the people. Fasiko came forward. He was
covered with fetiches and charms. He was a man celebrated for
leopard-hunting. He wore a necklace of the teeth of the leopards he had
killed. I liked his looks. I said to myself this fellow is cool-headed.
After I looked at him he joined the other hunters. "Ogoola!" shouted the
King. "Why do you keep in the background? Come forward; be not bashful."
Ogoola looked every inch a hunter. He wore a belt adorned with trophies
of the wild animals he had killed. "I do not see Obindji," said the
King, inquiringly, to his people. They answered: "He will arrive this
evening. He was not at the plantation when you sent word." Then suddenly
they all shouted, "Here he comes!" Obindji was a favorite slave of the
King, a mighty hunter, and he looked like it. His front teeth were filed
sharp to a point. Obindji was somewhat lame, for he had been badly
wounded years before by a leopard he had shot, but which had strength
enough to spring upon him, fortunately falling dead as its claws
fastened in his legs.
"Where is Makooga?" shouted the King. "Here I am," responded a small man
in the crowd. After pushing his way through, he stood before the King.
He was very short, not over five feet three inches in height. "Moguizi,"
said the King to me, "never mind his size; his heart knows no fear; he
is a good shot; he is daring, and one of the best hunters we have. No
one can come nearer game than he does. He is like a snake." Makooga went
where the other hunters were.
"A fine set of fellows they are," I said to myself as I looked at them
all. Then the King said, "Okili must always be by the side of the
Moguizi."
Then I said to them: "Men with brave hearts, be not afraid of me. I am
your friend. We are going to live in the forest and hunt wild beasts
together. You are men; I can see it by your faces. Come to my house. I
have something for you--beads for your wives and brass rods for you, and
powder also." They all shouted! "You are a good Moguizi. We will go with
you wherever you say, and we will kill big game. You will see if we are
men or not."
Then the King said: "These men will follow you wherever you go, Moguizi.
They know every tree, every path of the forest. They know where the game
is to be found." Then, addressing them, he said: "Go make your guns
ready; see that their flints are right so that they do not miss fire,
and cook food enough for three or four days. Be here in two days." They
followed me to my house, and I gave to each what I promised. At night I
called the King, gave him a brand-new flint-gun, two brass kettles, ten
brass rods, and several bunches of beads. He was delighted, and took
hold of my foot as a token of submission, which meant that he would obey
me.
PAUL DU CHAILLU.
HAROLD WHITE'S PERIL.
BY G. T. FERRIS.
"I tell you, Captain Heald, this is an awful responsibility you're
shouldering. Not one, but two hundred lives hang on it. General Hull
could never have meant his orders to be absolute. At such times
something must be left to the commanding officer. He must know better
than a superior two hundred miles away."
The swarthy brows of Kinzie, the Indian trader, who knew redskin nature
better than any other man at Fort Dearborn, were puckered with anger and
contempt. It was the hour for a quick-witted and resolute soldier, not
for a timid martinet, the slave of the letter and not of the spirit of
his orders. The commander of that little garrison of fifty, many of whom
were non-effectives, was "a round peg in a square hole"--and a hole,
too, that yawned big and deep for human life.
"You're not a military man," was the peevish answer. "My business is to
obey orders and not reason on them. The General has determined to
withdraw all garrisons from outlying posts, and I must do my duty at any
risk."
"At risk to yourself, yes! but not to helpless women and children and a
lot of sick soldiers not able to pull a trigger or stagger five miles in
a broiling sun," John Kinzie retorted, quickly. And pointing through the
gate of the palisade, he continued: "Look at those savages on the beach
watching like vultures. A thousand lie within call of a war-whoop. How
many scalps would remain at the end of an hour if you put yourself in
their hands? D'ye think Black Partridge would have said those words last
night if there had been a ray of hope?[1] You have ample stores and
ammunition, and can hold out for a month or more behind these timber
walls. Anything else is madness. As for me," said the trader, with an
air of noble pride, "the danger is less. So I don't speak for myself or
mine. I have dealt with every tribe for two hundred miles about. I have
never tricked a savage in trade. They have eaten of my dish and drunk of
my cup, and found shelter under my roof. My wife has been a guardian
angel to their sick and needy. But be sure of one thing: friendship for
the Kinzies will never save the life of any other pale-face at the hands
of a redskin."
[1] Captain Heald, commanding Fort Dearborn, had received despatches by
an Indian runner from General Hull, commanding the Americans at Detroit
in the war of 1812, directing him to destroy his surplus ammunition,
divide his stores among the Indians as a peace-offering, evacuate the
post, and, trusting his safety to a savage escort, fall back within the
American lines. On the day after the council where he had, in opposition
to the remonstrances of his junior officers, announced his purpose of
prompt obedience, Black Partridge, a Pottawattamie chief who had always
been a friend of the Americans, stalked into his quarters, and threw the
medal he had received from Congress on the table with these words:
"Father, I come to give you back the medal I wear. It was given me by
the Americans in token of our friendship. But our young men are resolved
to bathe their hands in the blood of the whites. I cannot hold them
back, and I will not wear a token of peace while I am compelled to act
as an enemy."
"Mr. Kinzie must decide for himself whether he will accompany the troops
or not if he is so sure of his Indian friends," said the Captain, stung
by the words of the other. "We march at nine to-morrow morning," and he
turned on his heel into the parade-ground. As he passed through the
groups of settlers who had sought shelter in the fort, and noticed the
look of foreboding stamped on every face, he was almost inclined to
change his purpose, though the soldiers were even then dismantling the
arsenal and knocking in the heads of the spirit-barrels.
John Kinzie walked rapidly to the head of a sand knoll which gave him a
wide view of the scene. Groups of dark figures were scattered over the
shining beach as if they were statues of copper, or they waded in the
ripples of the beautiful blue lake, throwing water at one another with
loud laughter. One could scarcely have fancied that close to the edge of
this sportive mood the spirit of murder hid in ambush with cocked rifle
and sharp hatchet. A mile away lay the Indian camp, which had grown five
times bigger within as many days, like an assemblage of huge ant-hills,
with the ants thickly swarming about. But it must be time for Harold
White to return, and he passed to the rear of the palisades, where the
men, rolling the casks through the underground sally-port, were emptying
the powder and whiskey into the river. Just across the stream opposite
the fort, set in the midst of green trees and fields, were his home and
warehouses. He had sent his young clerk, a lad of fifteen, with a
message to Mrs. Kinzie, for he had preferred to have his family stay in
their own house till the last moment.
"Did ye ever hear tell of such a 'fool' business as this, Bill?" he
heard one soldier say to another, shaking his fist in the direction of
the fort. "I guess mighty few of us will hev as much hair on our heads
this time to-morrer."
"I don't keer for myself," said the other, gloomily; "a soldier's got to
buck agin the wuss thing as comes without sayin' a word. But I'm
a-thinkin' of the old 'oman and the little gals."
Mr. Kinzie saw the canoe shoot from under a clump of bushes and skim
swiftly across the narrow river, to-day a black and unattractive body of
muddy water, but at that time a pellucid stream where fish leaped to the
angler's bait.
"To-pee-nee-be's messenger has come," said Harold, "and brings word that
the two big canoes will cross to-night from St. Joseph to take off the
family at sunrise."
"Thank God!" cried the trader, fervently, for sure as he felt for
himself of the comparatively friendly feeling of the savage horde
gathered there, he knew Indian nature too well to trust it when mad with
the thirst for blood-shed. The chief of the St. Joseph band had a few
days before warned him of treachery, and offered to convey his wife and
children across the lake to his own village. "Harold, you must stay with
Mrs. Kinzie in the canoes," said he. "I shall march with the troops, and
do what I can. Perhaps I may have some influence till if comes to the
worst. I depend on you. I know what your wish is, but you must forego it
now. You've had your taste of Indians already. Remember, you only
escaped by the skin of your teeth last spring."
"Yes," was Harold's reply; "and I shall never be happy till I've--" He
bit the words off short, but the boy's smooth face was a man's in its
stamp of passion and resolve, for the frontier lads often got old in
will and courage before their chins grew beards. Some of the legends of
boys' doings in the annals of Indian warfare are as stirring as the
stories of Homer's heroes. Harold had had righteous cause for his
feelings. Four mouths before, on a bright spring day, a score of
Pottawattomies had entered the house of his uncle, about two miles up
the river from the fort, and asked for food. Their tongues were
friendly, but their eyes sullen.
"Harold," said his uncle Lee, "go over the river with Beaubien and feed
the horses," but his look said, "Paddle as fast as you can to the fort
for help." The Frenchman and he had scarcely gotten well into the stream
before there came the spit of bullets, and then came a continuous
crackle, with the shrieking of women and children, and then silence.
Harold, left friendless, found a protector in Mr. Kinzie; but his heart
flamed always hot with that memory. The Kinzie family would be as safe
without him, and he was swept by his rash fancies as if his will were a
soap-bubble.
The sun hung in the sky, on the fatal August morning, a burnished copper
ball. Scarcely a breath heaved the dark surface of the lake, and no
laughter of light danced in the sparkle of a crest. A pallor lay on the
sandy levels and ridges of the beach similar to the upturned face of
some one dead. Nature had set the stage for the tragedy of man. The
little column left the fort at nine o'clock, a small company of friendly
Indians in the van, then the caravan of transport wagons, loaded with
rations and with women, children, and sick soldiers, then a few armed
settlers, then a meagre uniformed platoon of less than two-score
fighting-men. A double column of Pottawattomies formed on either side.
As they began to move, the soldiers presented arms to the flag
fluttering down from its staff. They might have spoken the words of the
gladiators when they trooped into the arena in olden time, "_Ave, Cæsar!
morituri te salutamus_" (Hail, Cæsar! we, the death-doomed, salute you).
It is even a historical fact that the band played the Dead March when
that funeral procession tramped out on the road of destiny between walls
of living bronze.
Harold, armed with a double-barrelled rifle, had hidden behind a big
sand knoll near the gate. When John Kinzie helped his family into their
frail barks of safety he had marked the absence of the lad, but there
was no time to think further or search, for there was much business
afoot. Harold saw his guardian now expostulating with Indian chiefs, now
urging some special course on Captain Heald, who marched with his
detachment, now encouraging the trembling women in the wagons. And so
the column wended its slow course over the burning sand away from the
fort.
Suddenly came other sounds than the distant drone of trumpet and tuba.
Surely that was gun-firing. There could be no mistake, indeed, for
punctuating the muffled roar was heard the long-drawn "wow-wow-wow" of
the whooping savages. The hour had come. A mile and a half from the
fort, where now stands a memorial tablet under an old cottonwood-tree in
the thick of the princeliest residences of a great city, the cloud had
burst. From behind the sand ridge which divided the prairie from the
beach five hundred warriors had sprung suddenly to their feet, like
arrows drawn to the head, and poured in a hail-storm of bullets, to
which the treacherous escort added their quota. Harold had stood for
some time spellbound by his own thoughts and fears, but the trance was
now broken. He ran hot-foot toward the scene of the struggle. Each step
brought the sights and sounds of the massacre clearer. Shrieks, yells,
the rumble of the firing, dark forms leaping like madmen with uplifted
arms, or bending like wild-beasts over objects on the sand. It was a
tumult of horror beyond words. After a little the confusion lessened,
and there was a pause, followed by the howl of triumph which is the
Indian's pæan of victory. Harold, primped out by his wild run, had
hidden behind a sand hill for breath, within a stone's-throw of the
scene, for the savages, absorbed in their work of death, had not noticed
his advancing figure. One wagon, from which now came the wail of a sick
child, had escaped their fierce handiwork, and three warriors with bare
tomahawks bounded toward it. The boy, taking steady aim, discharged both
barrels of his rifle, and one of the red men fell. Every nerve tense
with excitement, Harold sprang forward with his clubbed gun, and,
catching a tomahawk cut on the barrel, dashed the butt into the head of
the nearest savage. As the latter fell with closing eyes, it was with a
thrill of satisfaction, strangely blended with awe, as if some higher
power had struck by his hand, that the boy recognized the face of the
leader of the savages who had slain his uncle and his family. The next
moment he was half throttled by a clutch about his throat.
"Boy my prisoner; make no noise," he heard as the iron grip loosened. It
was the voice of Black Partridge, who, an unwilling actor in the
tragedy, had by his craft, as afterwards turned out, saved several lives
on this occasion. Mr. Kinzie, Captain Heald, and another officer, with
their wives and a few others, had escaped the slaughter, and were
captives. As for the rest, their mutilated bodies lay dead on the sands
down to the very water's brink, where their road had been.
"Perhaps not able to save Harold, for boy kill warriors," continued the
friendly chief. "Better crawl through grass like Indian back to fort,
and hide in cellar till dark; then swim cross to Kinzie's." So he led
his charge to the edge of the rank prairie-grass with, "See Black
Partridge bym-by."
Bending in his covert, Harold retreated stealthily as a coyote to the
empty fort. As he passed through the gate into the dismal solitude, with
all its suggestions of recent life and cheer, his heart quivered afresh
with the sense of what it all meant. He knew the subterranean secrets of
the fort well; and knew, too, that some of the Indians were likely to
stray back at any time. Both block-houses of the post had deep stoned
cellars, from which were exits into the underground sally-port opening
on the river bank. He could easily hide himself here among the rubbish
and lumber, and perhaps find something to eat. He did indeed discover
some scraps of bread and bacon, and, better yet, a retreat to elude the
keenest eye down in that dusky cavern. As the day waxed the heat grew
stifling, but there was a well in the cellar which relieved his thirst.
In fumbling about the place for the pump-handle, he found several
barrels apparently undisturbed. He marvelled what they could be, and by
some blind instinct did not make his hiding-place here, but selected a
spot protected by a mound of empty boxes close to a little timber gate
which opened into the sally-port.
He heard the yells and shouts of the Indians outside and above as they
roamed about everywhere, searching for the "fire-water," which they
loved so well. They had indeed been doubly infuriated because the
commandant had ordered the destruction of the whiskey and the powder.
They fancied that some might have escaped, and were hunting for it like
hounds on the scent. Harold could now and then construe an Indian word,
and he thought of the barrels so near at hand. He had felt a broken
candle in one of the boxes where he hid, and this he now lit from his
flint and steel. As he groped his way, peering at the cellar bottom, he
perceived several black trails converging toward the heap of casks. He
blew out his light with a gasp, and a breath of ice stirred the roots of
his hair and chilled his marrow as the truth flashed on him. Some of the
soldiers had left full powder-barrels and a train to destroy the
careless savages, if possible, should they go down with lighted candle
or torch. Harold crawled back to his ambush, and tugged with all his
might at the little timber gate; but the bolts were rusty with damp and
disuse.
While he struggled he heard the outcries of the Indians nearer and
nearer, and their thick tongues showed they had already found whiskey, a
beginning which promised the ransacking of every rat-hole in the fort
for more. With the strength of despair he struggled with the obstinate
bolts, and, just as they began to creak a little in their rusty sockets,
a dozen savages, doubly intoxicated with liquor and with the slaughter
of the inhabitants of the fort, tumbled down the stone stairs at the
other end of the cellar. With candles flaming in their hands, with faces
and bodies hideously painted, and with eyes glowing in the flare of the
lights like live coals, they looked like nothing less than the demons
which Harold remembered to have seen in some of the Bible picture-books
of that period.
[Illustration: HAROLD'S ESCAPE INTO THE TUNNEL.]