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[Illustration: "An arrow sang past her, then another just missed her,
and she leaned forward, close to the horse."
(_page 374_)]
THE SHADOW OF VICTORY
A Romance of Fort Dearborn
by
MYRTLE REED
[Illustration]
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1903
Copyright, 1903
By
Myrtle Reed
Published, September, 1903
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE PROPHECY 1
II.--NEW ACQUAINTANCES 21
III.--THE SECOND IN COMMAND 37
IV.--RONALD'S VIEWS OF MARRIAGE 54
V.--THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING 69
VI.--COUSINS 85
VII.--THE ALARM 102
VIII.--THOROUGHBREDS 118
IX.--ON THE FORT WAYNE TRAIL 134
X.--A GLEAM AFAR 150
XI.--A JUNE DAY 165
XII.--IN THE NORTH WOODS 182
XIII.--GIFTS 198
XIV.--HEART'S DESIRE 216
XV.--RIVALS 234
XVI.--THE WORM TURNS 251
XVII.--A COUNCIL OF WAR 268
XVIII.--"IF I WERE IN COMMAND" 285
XIX.--SAVED FROM HIMSELF 300
XX.--RECONCILIATION 318
XXI.--THE LAST DAY IN THE FORT 336
XXII.--THE RED DEATH 359
XXIII.--RESCUE 380
XXIV.--THE REPRIEVE 397
THE SHADOW OF VICTORY
CHAPTER I
THE PROPHECY
It was a long, low room, with a fireplace, roughly built of limestone,
at one end of it. The blazing logs illuminated one corner and sent
strange shadows into the others, while the winter wind moaned drearily
outside. At the right and left of the fireplace were rude counters,
hewn from logs, resting on stumps of unequal height, and behind
them were shelves, packed with the sordid miscellany of a frontier
trading-post. A closed door on either side seemingly led to other
apartments, but there was no sound save the wind and the crackle of
the flames.
A candle, thrust into the broken neck of a bottle, gave a feeble light
to a little space around one end of the counter on which it stood.
The rafters were low--so low that a tall man, standing on tiptoe,
might easily unhook the smoked hams and sides of bacon that hung
there, swaying back and forth when the wind shook the house.
Walls, ceiling, and floor were of logs, cut into a semblance of
smoothness. The chinks were plastered with a bluish clay, and the
crevices in the floor were filled with a mixture of clay and small
chips. At the left of the chimney was a rude ladder which led to the
loft through an opening in the ceiling. Fingers of sleet tapped at the
glass, swirling phantoms of snow drifted by, pausing for a moment at
the windows, as if to look within, and one of the men moved his chair
closer to the fire.
"You fed the cattle, didn't you, Chan?" The half-breed grunted assent.
It was the eldest of the three who had spoken. His crouching position
in his chair partially concealed his great height, but the firelight
shone full upon his iron-grey hair and the deep lines seamed upon his
kindly face. His hands were rough and knotted, his fingers straight
and square at the tips--hands without beauty, but full of strength.
The hand which rested on the arm of the chair next to him was
entirely different. It was fair and smooth and slender, with tapering
fingers, and with the outer line of the palm delicately curved;
instinct with strength of another sort, yet gentle almost to the point
of femininity. The hand accorded ill with the deep, melodious voice of
the man, when he said:
"Uncle, you don't know how glad I am to be here with you and Aunt
Eleanor. I feel as if I had come home at last, after many wanderings."
"You're welcome, my boy," was the hearty answer. "I'm glad you got
through before this storm came, 'cause travellin' 'cross country isn't
good in February, as a rule. Things will be closed up now till Spring."
"And then--what?" asked the young man.
"Trains of pack-horses from Rock River and the Illinois. Canoes and
a bateau from Milwaukee, in charge of Canadian _engagés_. Then the
vessel from Fort Mackinac with goods for the trade, and Indians from
all over creation. The busy season begins in the Spring."
Chandonnais, the half-breed, was audibly asleep in his warm corner,
and the guest arose to walk nervously about the room. He was clad in
rusty black broadcloth, which had seen all of its best days and some
of its worst, and clung closely to his tall, lank figure, as though
in fear of the ultimate separation. His hair was black and straight,
his eyes deep brown and strangely luminous, his mouth sensitive, and
his face very pale. He was not more than twenty-five or six, and
looked even younger.
John Mackenzie quietly watched him in his uneasy march back and forth.
At last he came to the fire, stopped short, and put a questioning
finger upon the limestone. "Here's some initials," he said. "J. B. P.
D. S.--what does that stand for?"
"Jean Baptiste Pointe de Saible, I reckon," replied Mackenzie. "He
built this cabin. The Indians say that the first white man here was a
negro."
"P. L. M."--continued the young man. "Who was he?"
"Pierre Le Mai, I guess--the French trader I bought the place from."
"You should put yours here, too, Uncle."
"Not I, my boy. I have come to stay--and my children after me."
"That reminds me of my young charge. Shall we begin to-morrow?"
"As you like. The sooner the better, I suppose. You brought books,
didn't you?"
"All that I have; not many, I regret to say."
"Johnny has a spelling-book that came from Mackinac in a chest of
green tea, when the vessel touched here last year. He was very anxious
then to know what was inside of it, but I don't know how he feels now."
"Have you any special instructions for me?"
"No," answered Mackenzie, rising. He put his hand on the young
man's shoulder and looked down into his face. "I never had much
book-learning," he said, "'cause I ran away from school, but I want
that my son should have it. Teach him everything you know that he can
learn; it won't hurt him none. Teach him to tell the truth, to be
afraid of nothing but dishonour, and to be kind to women. You look
like your mother, boy."
The door opened suddenly, and the gust of wind that came in with it
put out the candle and filled the room with the odour of burning
tallow. "How!" grunted a stalwart Indian, in general salutation.
"How!" responded Mackenzie. "What is it to-night?"
The savage was more than six feet in height, and looked like the chief
that he was. He was dressed from head to foot in buckskin, cunningly
embroidered and beaded by a squaw. He wore nothing on his head, but a
brilliant blanket was draped over one shoulder. A powder-horn hung at
his side and a hunting-knife gleamed in his belt.
The squaw came in behind her lord and master, and shut the door, three
grey wolf skins falling to the floor as she did so. "Shaw-ne-aw-kee,"
commanded the Indian, pointing to Mackenzie.
The woman obediently laid the skins upon the counter, and Black
Partridge began to bargain for flour and bacon, speaking his own
tongue. An animated conversation ensued, with many gestures on
the part of the Indian. Mackenzie answered quietly, in the harsh
Pottawattomie dialect, and stood his ground. The chief finally
yielded, with a good grace which might or might not have been genuine,
and the transfer was accomplished.
The Indian picked up one of the skins and pointed to a blood stain
near the top of it, then began to talk rapidly. Mackenzie listened
till he had finished speaking, then turned to his nephew.
"Look here, Rob," he said, "this will interest you. He says he had no
trap, so he took his last piece of bacon and his hunting-knife and
went up into the north woods. He sat down under a tree and waited,
with the bacon in his left hand and his knife in his right. Presently
the hungry wolf appeared, and, after due investigation, came near
enough to stab. He says he waited from midnight till almost sunrise. A
white man never could do that."
"Hardly," returned the young man, fingering the skin curiously. "What
monumental patience!"
This speech, with a little additional compliment, was translated
for the benefit of Black Partridge, whose stolid features gleamed
momentarily, then relapsed into impassive bronze.
A cheery whistle was heard outside, then a stamp upon the piazza, a
merry and prolonged tapping, reinforced by a kick, at which the door
burst open, and a young soldier entered.
"Evening!" he shouted to Mackenzie. He pounded the Indian familiarly
on the back, saying, "Hello, Birdie," tweaked the squaw's ear and
tickled her under the chin, and reached the fire before any one else
had time to speak.
"Ronald," said Mackenzie, "this is my nephew, Robert Forsyth, from
Detroit. Mr. Forsyth, Ensign George Ronald, of Fort Dearborn."
Ronald drew his heels together, saluted with mock solemnity, then
wrung Forsyth's slender hand in a grip that made him wince. "Proud to
know you, sir. Third in command, at your service, sir. Have you come
to enlist?"
Chandonnais awoke, muttered an oath, and ran to the door, shutting it
noisily. "Your pardon, sir," continued Ronald. "Wind's from the south
this evening. Thought I'd let a little warm air in. Never appreciated
in this world. Hope I may be in the next. Do I speak to a soldier,
sir?"
"No," laughed Forsyth.
"Who's the lady you have with you, Birdie?" asked the Ensign, turning
to the Indian. "Am I mistaken in supposing it to be Mrs. B. Partridge?"
"Me no spik Ingleesh," answered the chief, with great dignity.
"Neither do I, Birdie, neither do I," continued the soldier, genially.
"Devilish language with all kinds of corners in it to hurt yourself
on. I was pitched into it headlong the day of my arrival, and have
been at sea ever since. Don't fool with it, Birdie. You're getting
on all right with signs and pictures and grunts, and if Mrs. B. P.
doesn't speak it, why, so much the better. Vast resources in the
language known to women only. What, going? Bye-bye!"
Another breeze from the south entered the room as Black Partridge and
the squaw made a stately exit, the woman carrying the provisions for
which the wolf skins had been bartered.
"Ronald," began Mackenzie, drawing another chair from behind the
counter, "I'd advise you to be more careful with the Indians. They're
a treacherous crowd."
"I am careful," answered the Ensign, hurling a very shabby overcoat
across the room, and sinking comfortably into Mackenzie's chair.
"That's why I asked about Mrs. B. P. You see, I was skating on the
river this morning, before this little snow flurry struck us, and I
met this lady. She seemed to want to go, so I took her with me. She
slid along on her moccasins, hanging on behind, and had a fine time
till we struck a snowdrift, just around the bend. The woman tempted
me, and I did throw her into it. Lord, how she squalled! It may have
been ungallant, but it was fun."
Mackenzie laughed, in spite of his well-meant efforts to keep his
face straight, and Forsyth's eyes were bright with new interest.
Chandonnais was asleep again.
"It was quite natural to make inquiries, wasn't it?" resumed Ronald.
"I wouldn't want to throw another man's wife into a snowdrift,
especially when the gentleman in question is a six-foot savage with a
tomahawk, and peculiar ideas about fair play."
"Your manner of speech is not suited to the Indians," said Mackenzie,
soberly.
"There you go again--always criticising, always finding fault.
Criticism irks me. That's why I left the Fort this evening. Fussy lot,
over there."
"What was the matter?" asked Forsyth.
"Nothing at all. Captain and his wife reading last month's papers, and
taking no notice of visitors. Lieutenant and his wife writing letters,
likewise oblivious of visitors. All inhospitable--nobody asked me to
sit down. Barracks asleep. Doc and I played solitaire, because it's
the only game he knows--to see who could get through first, and he
kicked up a devil of a row because I cheated. Hasn't a man a right to
cheat when he's playing solitaire? No law against cheating yourself,
is there?"
"That's a mooted question," Forsyth answered.
"Maybe so, maybe so. I mooted it awhile with the Doc, and then quit.
Coming over, I managed to get into the hole I broke in the river for
this morning's bath, but it was all slush and ice--no harm done."
His garments were steaming in the generous warmth of the fire, and
perspiration beaded his forehead. He stood a little over six feet in
his stockings, and his superb muscle was evident in every line of his
body. His thick, yellow hair was so long that he occasionally shook it
back, like a mane. He had the face of a Viking--blue eyes, straight
nose, red and white complexion, and a mouth and chin that in some way
suggested steel. One felt the dynamic force of the man, his power of
instant and permanent decision, and the ability to put that decision
into immediate action.
"Sorry you're not going to be a soldier, Mr. Forsyth," he continued.
"I knew you weren't, as soon as I saw you--you're altogether too
young. The barracks are full of old ladies with the rheumatism. The
parade ground is bloody with red flannel when the troops limp out,
which is seldom, by the way, the Captain having a tender heart. Me and
the other officers are the only ones under the age limit, if there is
any age limit. When a man gets too old to be of use in the army, the
President says: 'Don't discharge the poor cuss--send him out to Fort
Dearborn, where all his old friends are. He'll be well taken care of,
and won't have anything to do.' When you see an old man in a tattered
uniform, bent and wrinkled and gummy-eyed, who puts his hand up to his
ear and says, 'Hey!' when you speak to him, don't step on him--he's a
soldier, stationed at the Fort.
"Had a wrestling match with one of the most sprightly, this very
morning, and took the skin off the poor, tender old devil in several
places. Doc made a surpassingly fine seam at one of the places
afterward--Doc's pretty good with a needle and thread. The patient
is in his bunk now, being rubbed with hot things by one of the
rheumatics. I've tried to get the Doc to prescribe a plunge in the
river every morning for the barracks, and I've urged the Captain to
order it, but it's no use."
"Peculiar treatment for rheumatism," smiled Mackenzie.
"It's the only thing they haven't tried, and I'm inclined to think it
would work a change."
There was a brief silence, during which Forsyth studied the young
officer attentively, but Ronald was never still very long.
"What are you going to be, if not a soldier?" he asked, curiously.
"You're--you're not a missionary, are you?"
"Do I look like one?"
"Can't say--missionaries are deceiving; but I hope not. The
Pottawattomies tomahawked the last one and fried the remains. They're
not yet ready for the soothing influences of religion."
"I have come to teach my young cousins," said Forsyth, slowly, "and
to help my uncle as I can. I graduated from college last year, and
went to Detroit to teach, but I--I didn't do very well." His pale face
reddened as he made his confession. "Uncle John and Aunt Eleanor have
kindly offered me a home with them," he went on. "They're the only
relatives I have."
"They are relatives enough," remarked the Ensign. "Mrs. Mackenzie is
the kindest woman and the best cook that ever lived, isn't she, Chan?"
The sleeper made no reply, so Ronald strode over to him and shook him
roughly. "Wake up!" he bellowed. "Is Mrs. Mackenzie a good cook, or
isn't she? Answer!"
The half-breed was frightened for a moment, but quickly realised the
situation. "What?" he asked.
The question was repeated, with sundry shakes for emphasis. "Yes,"
grunted Chandonnais, sheepishly, "she good cook."
"Sit up straight, then, and look your prettiest. You can't sleep all
day and all night, too." The restless visitor made a rapid tour around
the counters, carefully examining the goods upon the shelves. "Nothing
here I can use," he announced, returning to the fire.
"What was that silver thing the Indian had on?" asked Forsyth. "It
looked like a coin of some kind."
"That was his precious medal. Captain Wells gave it to him, and he
prizes it more than he does the hair of his lordly top piece. When
Birdie dies, you'll find that sacred medal nailed to him, and if it
doesn't accompany him to the happy hunting-grounds, his ghost will
haunt the miserable mortal who has it. Don't mind a plain ghost
myself, but a ghost with a tomahawk might be pretty bad."
"I make silver things for the Indians, sometimes," Mackenzie said.
"They call me 'Shaw-ne-aw-kee,' meaning 'The Silver Man.'"
A face appeared at the window for an instant, and peered furtively
within. It was so silent and so white, in the midst of the swirling
snow, that it might have been a phantom of the storm. Then the door
opened slowly, creaking ever so little on its hinges, and was softly
closed. They felt, rather than heard, a presence in the room.
Forsyth, turning, saw a wisp of a woman, bent and old, in a faded blue
calico dress which came scarcely to her ankles. Her shoes were much
too large for her, and badly worn. A ragged shawl, of uncertain colour
and pattern, was her only protection from the cold.
It slipped off as she came toward the fire, moving noiselessly, and
Forsyth saw that her hair was snow white and her face finely traced
with wrinkles. Mackenzie looked also.
"Mad Margaret," he whispered to Forsyth, in a swift aside. "Don't say
anything."
The half-breed's eyes had a wolfish glitter which no one saw. Forsyth
rose, bowed politely, and offered her his chair.
If she saw him, she made no sign. Coming closer to the fire she
crouched on her knees before it and stretched her frail, delicate
hands toward the grateful warmth. Ronald's flood of high spirits
instantly receded.
For a long time they sat there in silence. Mackenzie and the Ensign
were looking into the fire, thinking, perhaps, of things a thousand
miles away, while Forsyth and Chandonnais narrowly watched the woman.
Unmistakable madness, of the dumb, pathetic kind, was written on her
face. Her unseeing eyes were faded blue, her cheeks were sunken, and
her chin delicately pointed. Solitude went with her always. She might
have been alone, in the primeval forest, before a fire some unknown
hand had kindled, among wild beasts of whom she was not afraid.
Some eerie influence was upon her, for, after a little, she moved
nervously, and peered into the flames, muttering to herself.
"Oh, Lord," groaned Mackenzie, "she's goin' to have one of her spells!"
How often the poor, crazed creature had sought him, when the tempests
swept her soul, only he could tell. He leaned forward and took hold of
her hand. "Margaret," he said; "Margaret."
The touch and the voice seemed to quiet her, but she still looked
searchingly into the flames. Chandonnais rose, reached up to the
chimney-shelf, and took down a violin. With the first touch of the bow
upon the strings, she left Mackenzie and went to him, kneeling at his
feet, with her eyes fixed hungrily upon his face.
Strains of wild music filled the room--music which no man had ever
heard before. A tender, half-hushed whisper, the tinkle of a brook, a
twilight subtleness of shadow, then a low, crooning note, as if the
brook had gone to sleep. Strange sounds of swaying branches came from
the violin, with murmurs of a mighty wind, then, of a sudden, there
seemed to be dawn. The tinkle of the brook began again, with a bird
note here and there, at the beginning of a great crescendo which swept
on and on, as the music of the river was woven in. Question, prayer,
and mating call, from a thousand silvery throats, rioted through
the tapestry of sound, then merged into a deep, passionate tone of
infinite sweetness, as if the river had found the sea, or a man's
tortured soul had come face to face with its ultimate peace.
"Play," said Mad Margaret, brokenly, "play more."
Once again the bow swept the strings, bringing forth a melody which
breathed rest. It was quiet and hushed, like the woods at twilight,
or the shore of a sea that knows no storm. Through it ran a haunting
cadence, with the rhythm of a lullaby, and Margaret rocked her frail
body back and forth, unconsciously keeping time. When it was finished,
she sat quite still, but on her face was the rapt look of the seer.
"I see blood," she said, very distinctly. "Much blood, then fire, and
afterward peace."
It was the old, old prophecy, which she had made a thousand times.
"Much blood," she repeated, shaking her head sadly.
"Where, Peggy?" asked Ronald, suddenly.
"Here," she answered, making a wide circle with her arms.
"What else do you see?" he asked again, looking at her intently.
She drew her hand wearily across her forehead and closed her eyes for
an instant, then went to him, and put her hands on his knees.
"I see you," she said, meaningly.
"Where, Peggy?" His voice was low and very gentle, as if he were
speaking to a child.
"Here, with the blood. You shall have many sorrows, but never your
heart's desire."
"Never my heart's desire?"
"No. Many sorrows, at the time of the blood, but not that."
"What is my heart's desire?"
"It has not come, but you will know it soon." She looked at him keenly
for an instant, then laughed mockingly, and almost before they knew
it, she had darted out into the night like the wild thing that she was.
No one spoke until after Chandonnais had put the violin in its place
on the chimney-shelf and clambered up the ladder which led to the
loft.
"Who is she, Uncle?"
"Nobody knows," sighed Mackenzie. "She appeared, unexpectedly, the
very day we came here. Sometimes months go by without a glimpse of
her, then, for a time, she will come every day."
"How does she live?"
Mackenzie shrugged his shoulders. "We give her things," he said, "and
so do the Indians and the people at the Fort. Black Partridge says he
has seen her catch a gull on the lake shore, strangle it, and eat it
raw. At the full of the moon, when her rages come on her, she speaks
very good English. At other times, she mutters something no one can
understand, or else she does not speak at all. She is harmless, I
believe. She is only one of the strange things one finds in a new
country."
"How did you come to settle here, Uncle?"
"I hardly know. It's a good place for trading, and the Fort is near
by. I like the new places, where a few make their own laws, and I like
the prairie. I can breathe here, but the hills choke me."
"Never my heart's desire," mused the Ensign. He was sitting with his
elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing into the fire.
He did not know that he had spoken aloud.
"Do any of us ever find it?" asked Forsyth.
"Not often, I guess," answered Mackenzie. "When we do, we are
disappointed and begin to seek for something else."
From across the river, muffled by the storm, came the deep, sonorous
notes of a bell. "Taps," said Ronald. He hurried into his overcoat,
without a word of farewell, and bolted.
Forsyth followed, to close the door after him, and then went to the
window to look at the dark, floundering figure silhouetted dimly
against the snow.
"Breezy young man," commented Mackenzie.
"Yes," answered Forsyth, after a moment's silence, "I like him."