Peace and quiet reigned once more at Ft. Henry. Before the glorious
autumn days had waned, the settlers had repaired the damage done to
their cabins, and many of them were now occupied with the fall
plowing. Never had the Fort experienced such busy days. Many new
faces were seen in the little meeting-house. Pioneers from Virginia,
from Ft. Pitt, and eastward had learned that Fort Henry had repulsed
the biggest force of Indians and soldiers that Governor Hamilton and
his minions could muster. Settlers from all points along the river
were flocking to Col. Zane's settlement. New cabins dotted the
hillside; cabins and barns in all stages of construction could be
seen. The sounds of hammers, the ringing stroke of the axe, and the
crashing down of mighty pines or poplars were heard all day long.
Col. Zane sat oftener and longer than ever before in his favorite
seat on his doorstep. On this evening he had just returned from a
hard day in the fields, and sat down to rest a moment before going
to supper. A few days previous Isaac Zane and Myeerah had come to
the settlement. Myeerah brought a treaty of peace signed by Tarhe
and the other Wyandot chieftains. The once implacable Huron was now
ready to be friendly with the white people. Col. Zane and his
brothers signed the treaty, and Betty, by dint of much persuasion,
prevailed on Wetzel to bury the hatchet with the Hurons. So
Myeerah's love, like the love of many other women, accomplished more
than years of war and bloodshed.
The genial and happy smile never left Col. Zane's face, and as he
saw the well-laden rafts coming down the river, and the air of
liveliness and animation about the growing settlement, his smile
broadened into one of pride and satisfaction. The prophecy that he
had made twelve years before was fulfilled. His dream was realized.
The wild, beautiful spot where he had once built a bark shack and
camped half a year without seeing a white man was now the scene of a
bustling settlement; and he believed he would live to see that
settlement grow into a prosperous city. He did not think of the
thousands of acres which would one day make him a wealthy man. He
was a pioneer at heart; he had opened up that rich new country; he
had conquered all obstacles, and that was enough to make him
content.
"Papa, when shall I be big enough to fight bars and bufflers and
Injuns?" asked Noah, stopping in his play and straddling his
father's knee.
"My boy, did you not have Indians enough a short time ago?"
"But, papa, I did not get to see any. I heard the shooting and
yelling. Sammy was afraid, but I wasn't. I wanted to look out of the
little holes, but they locked us up in the dark room."
"If that boy ever grows up to be like Jonathan or Wetzel it will be
the death of me," said the Colonel's wife, who had heard the lad's
chatter.
"Don't worry, Bessie. When Noah grows to be a man the Indians will
be gone."
Col. Zane heard the galloping of a horse and looking up saw Clarke
coming down the road on his black thoroughbred. The Colonel rose and
walked out to the hitching-block, where Clarke had reined in his
fiery steed.
"Ah, Alfred. Been out for a ride?"
"Yes, I have been giving Roger a little exercise."
"That's a magnificent animal. I never get tired watching him move.
He's the best bit of horseflesh on the river. By the way, we have
not seen much of you since the siege. Of course you have been busy.
Getting ready to put on the harness, eh? Well, that's what we want
the young men to do. Come over and see us."
"I have been trying to come. You know how it is with me--about
Betty, I mean. Col. Zane, I--I love her. That's all."
"Yes, I know, Alfred, and I don't wonder at your fears. But I have
always liked you, and now I guess it's about time for me to put a
spoke in your wheel of fortune. If Betty cares for you--and I have a
sneaking idea she does--I will give her to you."
"I have nothing. I gave up everything when I left home."
"My lad, never mind about that," said the Colonel, laying his hand
on Clarke's knee. "We don't need riches. I have so often said that
we need nothing out here on the border but honest hearts and strong,
willing hands. These you have. That is enough for me and for my
people, and as for land, why, I have enough for an army of young
men. I got my land cheap. That whole island there I bought from
Cornplanter. You can have that island or any tract of land along the
river. Some day I shall put you at the head of my men. It will take
you years to cut that road through to Maysville. Oh, I have plenty
of work for you."
"Col. Zane, I cannot thank you," answered Alfred, with emotion. "I
shall try to merit your friendship and esteem. Will you please tell
your sister I shall come over in the morning and beg to see her
alone."
"That I will, Alfred. Goodnight."
Col. Zane strode across his threshold with a happy smile on his
face. He loved to joke and tease, and never lost an opportunity.
"Things seem to be working out all right. Now for some fun with Her
Highness," he said to himself.
As the Colonel surveyed the pleasant home scene he felt he had
nothing more to wish for. The youngsters were playing with a shaggy
little pup which had already taken Tige's place in their fickle
affections. His wife was crooning a lullaby as she gently rocked the
cradle to and fro. A wonderful mite of humanity peacefully slumbered
in that old cradle. Annie was beginning to set the table for the
evening meal. Isaac lay with a contented smile on his face, fast
asleep on the couch, where, only a short time before, he had been
laid bleeding and almost dead. Betty was reading to Myeerah, whose
eyes were rapturously bright as she leaned her head against her
sister and listened to the low voice.
"Well, Betty, what do you think?" said Col. Zane, stopping before
the girls.
"What do I think?" retorted Betty. "Why, I think you are very rude
to interrupt me. I am reading to Myeerah her first novel."
"I have a very important message for you."
"For me? What! From whom?"
"Guess."
Betty ran through a list of most of her acquaintances, but after
each name her brother shook his head.
"Oh, well, I don't care," she finally said. The color in her cheeks
had heightened noticeably.
"Very well. If you do not care, I will say nothing more," said Col.
Zane.
At this juncture Annie called them to supper. Later, when Col. Zane
sat on the doorstep smoking, Betty came and sat beside him with her
head resting against his shoulder. The Colonel smoked on in silence.
Presently the dusky head moved restlessly.
"Eb, tell me the message," whispered Betty.
"Message? What message?" asked Col. Zone. "What are you talking
about?"
"Do not tease--not now. Tell me." There was an undercurrent of
wistfulness in Betty's voice which touched the kindhearted brother.
"Well, to-day a certain young man asked me if he could relieve me of
the responsibility of looking after a certain young lady."
"Oh----"
"Wait a moment. I told him I would be delighted."
"Eb, that was unkind."
"Then he asked me to tell her he was coming over to-morrow morning
to fix it up with her."
"Oh, horrible!" cried Betty. "Were those the words he used?"
"Betts, to tell the honest truth, he did not say much of anything.
He just said: 'I love her,' and his eyes blazed."
Betty uttered a half articulate cry and ran to her room. Her heart
was throbbing. What could she do? She felt that if she looked once
into her lover's eyes she would have no strength. How dared she
allow herself to be so weak! Yet she knew this was the end. She
could deceive him no longer. For she felt a stir in her heart,
stronger than all, beyond all resistance, an exquisite agony, the
sweet, blind, tumultuous exultation of the woman who loves and is
loved.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Bess, what do you think?" said Col. Zane, going into the kitchen
next morning, after he had returned from the pasture. "Clarke just
came over and asked for Betty. I called her. She came down looking
as sweet and cool as one of the lilies out by the spring. She said:
'Why, Mr. Clarke, you are almost a stranger. I am pleased to see
you. Indeed, we are all very glad to know you have recovered from
your severe burns.' She went on talking like that for all the world
like a girl who didn't care a snap for him. And she knows as well as
I do. Not only that, she has been actually breaking her heart over
him all these months. How did she do it? Oh, you women beat me all
hollow!"
"Would you expect Betty to fall into his arms?" asked the Colonel's
worthy spouse, indignantly.
"Not exactly. But she was too cool, too friendly. Poor Alfred looked
as if he hadn't slept. He was nervous and scared to death. When
Betty ran up stairs I put a bug in Alfred's ear. He'll be all right
now, if he follows my advice."
"Humph! What did Colonel Ebenezer Zane tell him?" asked Bessie, in
disgust.
"Oh, not much. I simply told him not to lose his nerve; that a woman
never meant 'no'; that she often says it only to be made say 'yes.'
And I ended up with telling him if she got a little skittish, as
thoroughbreds do sometimes, to try a strong arm. That was my way."
"Col. Zane, if my memory does not fail me, you were as humble and
beseeching as the proudest girl could desire."
"I beseeching? Never!"
"I hope Alfred's wooing may go well. I like him very much. But I'm
afraid. Betty has such a spirit that it is quite likely she will
refuse him for no other reason than that he built his cabin before
he asked her."
"Nonsense. He asked her long ago. Never fear, Bess, my sister will
come back as meek as a lamb."
Meanwhile Betty and Alfred were strolling down the familiar path
toward the river. The October air was fresh with a suspicion of
frost. The clear notes of a hunter's horn came floating down from
the hills. A flock of wild geese had alighted on the marshy ground
at the end of the island where they kept up a continual honk! honk!
The brown hills, the red forest, and the yellow fields were now at
the height of their autumnal beauty. Soon the November north wind
would thrash the trees bare, and bow the proud heads of the daisies
and the goldenrod; but just now they flashed in the sun, and swayed
back and forth in all their glory.
"I see you limp. Are you not entirely well?" Betty was saying.
"Oh, I am getting along famously, thank you," said Alfred. "This one
foot was quite severely burned and is still tender."
"You have had your share of injuries. I heard my brother say you had
been wounded three times within a year."
"Four times."
"Jonathan told of the axe wound; then the wound Miller gave you, and
finally the burns. These make three, do they not?"
"Yes, but you see, all three could not be compared to the one you
forgot to mention."
"Let us hurry past here," said Betty, hastening to change the
subject. "This is where you had the dreadful fight with Miller."
"As Miller did go to meet Girty, and as he did not return to the
Fort with the renegade, we must believe he is dead. Of course, we do
not know this to be actually a fact. But something makes me think
so. Jonathan and Wetzel have not said anything; I can't get any
satisfaction on that score from either; but I am sure neither of
them would rest until Miller was dead."
"I think you are right. But we may never know. All I can tell you is
that Wetzel and Jack trailed Miller to the river, and then they both
came back. I was the last to see Lewis that night before he left on
Miller's trail. It isn't likely I shall forget what Lewis said and
how he looked. Miller was a wicked man; yes, a traitor."
"He was a bad man, and he nearly succeeded in every one of his
plans. I have not the slightest doubt that had he refrained from
taking part in the shooting match he would have succeeded in
abducting you, in killing me, and in leading Girty here long before
he was expected."
"There are many things that may never be explained, but one thing
Miller did always mystify us. How did he succeed in binding Tige?"
"To my way of thinking that was not so difficult as climbing into my
room and almost killing me, or stealing the powder from Capt. Boggs'
room."
"The last, at least, gave me a chance to help," said Betty, with a
touch of her odd roguishness.
"That was the grandest thing a woman ever did," said Alfred, in a
low tone.
"Oh, no, I only ran fast."
"I would have given the world to have seen you, but I was lying on
the bench wishing I were dead. I did not have strength to look out
of a porthole. Oh! that horrible time! I can never forget it. I lie
awake at night and hear the yelling and shooting. Then I dream of
running over the burning roofs and it all comes back so vividly I
can almost feel the flames and smell the burnt wood. Then I wake up
and think of that awful moment when you were carried into the
blockhouse white, and, as I thought, dead."
"But I wasn't. And I think it best for us to forget that horrible
siege. It is past. It is a miracle that any one was spared. Ebenezer
says we should not grieve for those who are gone; they were heroic;
they saved the Fort. He says too, that we shall never again be
troubled by Indians. Therefore let us forget and be happy. I have
forgotten Miller. You can afford to do the same."
"Yes, I forgive him." Then, after a long silence, Alfred continued,
"Will you go down to the old sycamore?"
Down the winding path they went. Coming to a steep place in the
rocky bank Alfred jumped down and then turned to help Betty. But she
avoided his gaze, pretended to not see his outstretched hands, and
leaped lightly down beside him. He looked at her with perplexity and
anxiety in his eyes. Before he could speak she ran on ahead of him
and climbed down the bank to the pool. He followed slowly,
thoughtfully. The supreme moment had come. He knew it, and somehow
he did not feel the confidence the Colonel had inspired in him. It
had been easy for him to think of subduing this imperious young
lady; but when the time came to assert his will he found he could
not remember what he had intended to say, and his feelings were
divided between his love for her and the horrible fear that he
should lose her.
When he reached the sycamore tree he found her sitting behind it
with a cluster of yellow daisies in her lap. Alfred gazed at her,
conscious that all his hopes of happiness were dependent on the next
few words that would issue from her smiling lips. The little brown
hands, which were now rather nervously arranging the flowers, held
more than his life.
"Are they not sweet?" asked Betty, giving him a fleeting glance. "We
call them 'black-eyed Susans.' Could anything be lovelier than that
soft, dark brown?"
"Yes," answered Alfred, looking into her eyes.
"But--but you are not looking at my daisies at all," said Betty,
lowering her eyes.
"No, I am not," said Alfred. Then suddenly: "A year ago this very
day we were here."
"Here? Oh, yes, I believe I do remember. It was the day we came in
my canoe and had such fine fishing."
"Is that all you remember?"
"I can recollect nothing in particular. It was so long ago."
"I suppose you will say you had no idea why I wanted you to come to
this spot in particular."
"I supposed you simply wanted to take a walk, and it is very
pleasant here."
"Then Col. Zane did not tell you?" demanded Alfred. Receiving no
reply he went on.
"Did you read my letter?"
"What letter?"
"The letter old Sam should have given you last fall. Did you read
it?"
"Yes," answered Betty, faintly.
"Did your brother tell you I wanted to see you this morning?"
"Yes, he told me, and it made me very angry," said Betty, raising
her head. There was a bright red spot in each cheek. "You--you
seemed to think you--that I--well--I did not like it."
"I think I understand; but you are entirely wrong. I have never
thought you cared for me. My wildest dreams never left me any
confidence. Col. Zane and Wetzel both had some deluded notion that
you cared--"
"But they had no right to say that or to think it," said Betty,
passionately. She sprang to her feet, scattering the daisies over
the grass. "For them to presume that I cared for you is absurd. I
never gave them any reason to think so, for--for I--I don't."
"Very well, then, there is nothing more to be said," answered
Alfred, in a voice that was calm and slightly cold. "I'm sorry if
you have been annoyed. I have been mad, of course, but I promise you
that you need fear no further annoyance from me. Come, I think we
should return to the house."
And he turned and walked slowly up the path. He had taken perhaps a
dozen steps when she called him.
"Mr. Clarke, come back."
Alfred retraced his steps and stood before her again. Then he saw a
different Betty. The haughty poise had disappeared. Her head was
bowed. Her little hands were tightly pressed over a throbbing bosom.
"Well," said Alfred, after a moment.
"Why--why are you in such a hurry to go?"
"I have learned what I wanted to know. And after that I do not
imagine I would be very agreeable. I am going back. Are you coming?"
"I did not mean quite what I said," whispered Betty.
"Then what did you mean?" asked Alfred, in a stern voice.
"I don't know. Please don't speak so."
"Betty, forgive my harshness. Can you expect a man to feel as I do
and remain calm? You know I love you. You must not trifle any
longer. You must not fight any longer."
"But I can't help fighting."
"Look at me," said Alfred, taking her hands. "Let me see your eyes.
I believe you care a little for me, or else you wouldn't have called
me back. I love you. Can you understand that?"
"Yes, I can; and I think you should love me a great deal to make up
for what you made me suffer."
"Betty, look at me."
Slowly she raised her head and lifted the downcast eyes. Those
telltale traitors no longer hid her secret. With a glad cry Alfred
caught her in his arms. She tried to hide her face, but he got his
hand under her chin and held it firmly so that the sweet crimson
lips were very near his own. Then he slowly bent his head.
Betty saw his intention, closed her eyes and whispered.
"Alfred, please don't--it's not fair--I beg of you--Oh!"
That kiss was Betty's undoing. She uttered a strange little cry.
Then her dark head found a hiding place over his heart, and her
slender form, which a moment before had resisted so fiercely, sank
yielding into his embrace.
"Betty, do you dare tell me now that you do not care for me?" Alfred
whispered into the dusky hair which rippled over his breast.
Betty was brave even in her surrender. Her hands moved slowly upward
along his arms, slipped over his shoulders, and clasped round his
neck. Then she lifted a flushed and tearstained face with tremulous
lips and wonderful shining eyes.
"Alfred, I do love you--with my whole heart I love you. I never knew
until now."
The hours flew apace. The prolonged ringing of the dinner bell
brought the lovers back to earth, and to the realization that the
world held others than themselves. Slowly they climbed the familiar
path, but this time as never before. They walked hand in hand. From
the bluff they looked back. They wanted to make sure they were not
dreaming. The water rushed over the fall more musically than ever
before; the white patches of foam floated round and round the shady
pool; the leaves of the sycamore rustled cheerily in the breeze. On
a dead branch a wood-pecker hammered industriously.
"Before we get out of sight of that dear old tree I want to make a
confession," said Betty, as she stood before Alfred. She was pulling
at the fringe on his hunting-coat.
"You need not make confessions to me."
"But this was dreadful; it preys on my conscience."
"Very well, I will be your judge. Your punishment shall be slight."
"One day when you were lying unconscious from your wound, Bessie
sent me to watch you. I nursed you for hours; and--and--do not think
badly of me--I--I kissed you."
"My darling," cried the enraptured young man.
When they at last reached the house they found Col. Zane on the
doorstep.
"Where on earth have you been?" he said. "Wetzel was here. He said
he would not wait to see you. There he goes up the hill. He is
behind that laurel."
They looked and presently saw the tall figure of the hunter emerge
from the bushes. He stopped and leaned on his rifle. For a minute he
remained motionless. Then he waved his hand and plunged into the
thicket. Betty sighed and Alfred said:
"Poor Wetzel! ever restless, ever roaming."
"Hello, there!" exclaimed a gay voice. The lovers turned to see the
smiling face of Isaac, and over his shoulder Myeerah's happy face
beaming on them. "Alfred, you are a lucky dog. You can thank Myeerah
and me for this; because if I had not taken to the river and nearly
drowned myself to give you that opportunity you would not wear that
happy face to-day. Blush away, Betts, it becomes you mightily."
"Bessie, here they are!" cried Col. Zane, in his hearty voice. "She
is tamed at last. No excuses, Alfred, in to dinner you go."
Col. Zane pushed the young people up the steps before him, and
stopping on the threshold while he knocked the ashes from his pipe,
he smiled contentedly.
AFTERWORD.
Betty lived all her after life on the scene of her famous exploit.
She became a happy wife and mother. When she grew to be an old lady,
with her grandchildren about her knee, she delighted to tell them
that when a girl she had run the gauntlet of the Indians.
Col. Zane became the friend of all redmen. He maintained a
trading-post for many years, and his dealings were ever kind and
honorable. After the country got settled he received from time to
time various marks of distinction from the State, Colonial, and
National governments. His most noted achievement was completed about
1796. President Washington, desiring to open a National road from
Fort Henry to Maysville, Kentucky, paid a great tribute to Col.
Zane's ability by employing him to undertake the arduous task. His
brother Jonathan and the Indian guide, Tomepomehala, rendered
valuable aid in blazing out the path through the wilderness. This
road, famous for many years as Zane's Trace, opened the beautiful
Ohio valley to the ambitious pioneer. For this service Congress
granted Col. Zane the privilege of locating military warrants upon
three sections of land, each a square mile in extent, which property
the government eventually presented to him. Col. Zane was the
founder of Wheeling, Zanesville, Martin's Ferry, and Bridgeport. He
died in 1811.
Isaac Zane received from the government a patent of ten thousand
acres of land on Mad river. He established his home in the center of
this tract, where he lived with the Wyandot until his death. A white
settlement sprang up, prospered, and grew, and today it is the
thriving city of Zanesfield.
Jonathan Zane settled down after peace was declared with the
Indians, found himself a wife, and eventually became an influential
citizen. However, he never lost his love for the wild woods. At
times he would take down the old rifle and disappear for two or
three days. He always returned cheerful and happy from these lonely
hunts.
Wetzel alone did not take kindly to the march of civilization; but
then he was a hunter, not a pioneer. He kept his word of peace with
his old enemies, the Hurons, though he never abandoned his wandering
and vengeful quests after the Delawares.
As the years passed Wetzel grew more silent and taciturn. From time
to time he visited Ft. Henry, and on these visits he spent hours
playing with Betty's children. But he was restless in the
settlement, and his sojourns grew briefer and more infrequent as
time rolled on. True to his conviction that no wife existed on earth
for him, he never married. His home was the trackless wilds, where
he was true to his calling--a foe to the redman.
Wonderful to relate his long, black hair never adorned the walls of
an Indian's lodge, where a warrior might point with grim pride and
say: "No more does the Deathwind blow over the hills and vales." We
could tell of how his keen eye once again saw Wingenund over the
sights of his fatal rifle, and how he was once again a prisoner in
the camp of that lifelong foe, but that's another story, which,
perhaps, we may tell some day.
To-day the beautiful city of Wheeling rises on the banks of the
Ohio, where the yells of the Indians once blanched the cheeks of the
pioneers. The broad, winding river rolls on as of yore; it alone
remains unchanged. What were Indians and pioneers, forts and cities
to it? Eons of time before human beings lived it flowed slowly
toward the sea, and ages after men and their works are dust, it will
roll on placidly with its eternal scheme of nature.
Upon the island still stand noble beeches, oaks, and
chestnuts--trees that long ago have covered up their bullet-scars,
but they could tell, had they the power to speak, many a wild
thrilling tale. Beautiful parks and stately mansions grace the
island; and polished equipages roll over the ground that once knew
naught save the soft tread of the deer and the moccasin.
McColloch's Rock still juts boldly out over the river as deep and
rugged as when the brave Major leaped to everlasting fame. Wetzel's
Cave, so named to this day, remains on the side of the bluff
overlooking the creek. The grapevines and wild rose-bushes still
cluster round the cavern-entrance, where, long ago, the wily savage
was wont to lie in wait for the settler, lured there by the false
turkey-call. The boys visit the cave on Saturday afternoons and play
"Injuns."
Not long since the writer spent a quiet afternoon there, listening
to the musical flow of the brook, and dreaming of those who had
lived and loved, fought and died by that stream one hundred and
twenty years ago. The city with its long blocks of buildings, its
spires and bridges, faded away, leaving the scene as it was in the
days of Fort Henry--unobscured by smoke, the river undotted by
pulling boats, and everywhere the green and verdant forest.
Nothing was wanting in that dream picture: Betty tearing along on
her pony; the pioneer plowing in the field; the stealthy approach of
the savage; Wetzel and Jonathan watching the river; the deer
browsing with the cows in the pasture, and the old fort, grim and
menacing on the bluff--all were there as natural as in those times
which tried men's souls.
And as the writer awoke to the realities of life, that his dreams
were of long ago, he was saddened by the thought that the labor of
the pioneer is ended; his faithful, heroic wife's work is done. That
beautiful country, which their sacrifices made ours, will ever be a
monument to them.
Sad, too, is the thought that the poor Indian is unmourned. He is
almost forgotten; he is in the shadow; his songs are sung; no more
will he sing to his dusky bride: his deeds are done; no more will he
boast of his all-conquering arm or of his speed like the Northwind;
no more will his heart bound at the whistle of the stag, for he
sleeps in the shade of the oaks, under the moss and the ferns.