Indian troubles along the border were perhaps never worse in the history
of the Northwest territory than in this year (1792) when Return Kingdom
and John Jerome daily lived surrounded by dangers, the true, awful
extent of which they little realized.
The scalping knife was never sharper, seldom bloodier. The torch was put
to cabin after cabin. At mid-day and at midnight the flames which
consumed the scattered evidences of civilization west of the Ohio river
leaped skyward. The fierce war-whoop rang defiantly from Detroit south
to the settlements in Kentucky and no white man was safe. Harmless
traders, and peaceable hunters as well as settlers were murdered and
their scalps hung high on the lodges of the Delawares, Shawnees,
Chippewas, Wyandots, and all the tribes between the Wabash river and the
Allegheny mountains.
And all the while the British at Detroit were urging the Indians on, and
all the while the authorities of the American government were urging
moderation on Wayne's part and trying hopelessly to bring about peace.
Some peace commissioners who were sent to treat with the Indians were at
first received kindly, but without warning, a few days later, slain.
News traveled far less rapidly in those days than now. A family might at
midnight hear the redskins' dreadful yells and die fleeing from the
fierce savages, even while flames devoured their home. But neighbors
only a few miles distant would continue to dwell in supposed security,
knowing nothing of the outrage, and so only the more readily fall
victims of the same ferocious Indian band a little later.
Indeed, it is not remarkable that Return and John had felt little fear
among the Indians, while living so far from the frontier that news of
the terrible tragedies along the border did not reach them. Their entire
plan for the future had been from the first to make the redskins their
friends. They had, with some rather serious exceptions, in which they
were not at fault, succeeded admirably until Lone-Elk incited Captain
Pipe's people to hostility. But now, even had both the boys been at
their cabin, and seemingly at peace with every tribe, as they had once
been, they could not have failed to discover evidence of the warlike
activity about them. They would not only have seen but, very likely,
have felt, the increasing hostility of every redman the vast wilds
contained.
No longer did the head men, such as Chief Hopocon or Captain Pipe, seek
to restrain the bloodthirsty young warriors. They were allowed full
sway. Treaties still fresh in their minds, such as that fixing the
Cuyahoga and the portage trail as a definite boundary between the white
men and their red brethren, were forgotten or no more regarded than the
leaves which drifted before the autumn winds.
The arrival of John Jerome; bound hand and foot, at the Delaware town on
the lake was the signal for an outburst of ferocious savage hilarity, by
no means comforting to that young gentleman.
Twice had John attempted to escape from the five young bucks--Indians
scarcely older than himself--and each time had he failed. First he had
tried to buy his liberty and exerted every effort to prevail upon the
youthful braves to give him his freedom, to give him at least a chance
for it, a start of three yards, then the use of his hands and feet and
no start at all. His endeavors and his pleading were all fruitless.
Determined to escape, then, John made a bold-dash while the little party
was on the march; but the strap which held him was strong, and he was
stopped in a moment. His second attempt to get away was scarcely more
successful. The Indians had paused to rest and refresh themselves beside
a little lake which lay but a few miles from the Delaware town. One of
the fellows, the one who held the long strip of rawhide tied to the
captive's neck, lay down on the beach to drink. For a moment he released
his hold on the strap and instantly John took advantage of it. But he
ran only a few rods before two of the braves caught him, and the
punishment they and the others administered was severe. Then it was that
the prisoner's feet as well as his hands were bound and so was he
dragged into the village at last.
In vain did John look about for Fishing Bird, for Gentle Maiden or some
of the other Delawares who had been especially friendly in the past.
Fishing Bird, of course, was not there, and Gentle Maiden remained out
of sight. That she felt sympathy for the prisoner, however, is certain.
She saw to it that proper food was carried to him, and exerted all her
influence to prevent harm from coming to him. Especially did she urge
that the sentence of death for witchcraft should not be executed until
the return of Captain Pipe, who was gone to the Delaware town on the
Muskingum.
As Lone-Elk, also, was away, and as he had a strong personal interest in
the infliction of the punishment the Little Paleface must suffer, no
more was done to end the captive's life at once. But one by one the
Delawares informed John of what he must expect. Some told him his fate
would be death at the stake. Others said that Lone-Elk would end
everything with one mighty blow with the same hatchet that had caused
Big Buffalo's death.
Even these gloomy assurances, however, did not alarm poor John so much
as the wild hostility he saw everywhere about him--nearly all the
Indians in war paint, their war-whoops ringing out at every hour of the
day and night, as they contemplated the extinction of both the settlers
and later the whole Paleface army, gathering as they knew, to march
against them. Much of the threatening demonstration was due to the keen
zest of the younger savages. In the absence of their chief they were
under no restraint and the ferocious delight with which they scented
from afar the expected fighting was but a part of their nature.
Day after day slipped by and Captain Pipe did not return. Confined in a
rude hut, without fire and without comforts of any kind, excepting
sufficient food, such as it was, John Jerome suffered both in body and
in spirit. But he was to suffer more later. Indeed, each day brought its
additional burdens of grief and pain.
Constantly watched as he was, the sorrowful boy found not one reason to
believe that a chance to escape might come to him, and now was anxiety
for his own safety more than doubled by the conviction forced upon him
that Return Kingdom was gone forever--murdered, tortured, shot from
ambush. He knew not how his life had been taken, but the certain
evidence that Ree was dead was presented to him in the course of a night
of savage barbarity the like of which few white men ever had equal
opportunities of seeing.
It was late in the afternoon of an ideal Indian summer day that Lone-Elk
returned to the Delaware town. He brought bullets and this time powder
also. Only a shrug of his bare shoulders marked his interest in the news
when told that the "witch" was captured; that Little Paleface was even
at the moment safely held captive beyond all possibility of escape.
He did not so much as go to see and gloat over the unhappy prisoner; but
a murderous gleam came in his eyes and he told Neohaw and several others
that the stake and the fire would be the "witch's" portion when Captain
Pipe came. He would not execute the death sentence before the chief's
return, for then they would have a celebration which would be a lesson
to all the Palefaces for many days to come, just as the burning of the
"White Chief," Crawford, had been.
Nevertheless Lone-Elk quickly laid his plans to torture and torment the
young captive, and to instill in the minds of all the Delawares a hatred
of every Paleface, and a belief in the certain ease with which their
country might be rid of them. He arranged a war dance. Every warrior,
every buck and brave in the village answered his summons. Gentle Maiden
guessed at once the meaning of it all, as in the early twilight the
fighting men of her father's people began to gather. It was useless for
her to remonstrate, and as the fierce, sharp cries that accompanied the
horrid dance swelled in volume and in number, John himself was scarcely
more apprehensive of the outcome than was she.
Bound and round the campfire the savages danced. Their contortions of
face and body, their violent shrieks and awful fervor were terrible to
look upon. Fiercest of all was Lone-Elk. Louder than all the others was
the war-whoop of the Seneca, and at midnight he had wrought to the
highest pitch of bloodthirsty ardor every Delaware participating in the
horrible revelry.
"Come!" called the outcast loudly at last, "Come! Will the Delawares
close their eyes in sleep when so near them is a house of the Palefaces?
A house that will draw others to it till the forests of the Indians are
all cut down and they themselves driven away and killed? Come! Who will
come with Lone-Elk!"
A fierce chorus of war cries greeted his words. Drunk with excitement,
the Delawares paused not to consider. With terrible yells they surged
after the Seneca and like a shrieking band of fiends hurried rapidly
through the moonlit forest.
"Hold! Let the Delawares bring the Paleface witch!" cried Lone-Elk. "Let
the murderer of the brave Big Buffalo see the nest where birds of his
kind are hatched go up in fire!"
No sooner said than done. A dozen of the fiercest of the band, mad with
the passions that had been aroused within them, rushed back and in five
minutes came dragging John Jerome after them. By a rope around his body,
and by another about his neck, they both drove and pulled him. Their
awful yells could have been heard for miles.
Following the portage trail to its end and crossing the river, the
savages broke into the clearing about the cabin a little further on at a
run. Up the hill they went and with whooping and yelling of impassioned
fury they attacked the cabin, so humble, so quiet and so home-like and
unoffending in its appearance that its destruction seemed the foulest
crime in all of border warfare's awful annals.
With tomahawks the door was beaten in, though but to have pulled the
string would have raised the latch, and the mad race of pillage and
plunder began. Everything breakable was thrown down and destroyed.
Table, stools, bedding and all the little conveniences that Ree and John
had been at such pains to plan and construct were thrown
indiscriminately about.
"Let the witch burn his own foul nest," the Seneca yelled in his native
tongue, but the captive, trembling with anger and sickened by the awful
scenes he was compelled to witness, understood and drew back. In vain
two Delawares who held him sought to force him to take and apply the
torch that a third held out. They burned his bare hands, set fire to his
clothing and his hair, but to no purpose. He could not fight, but he
could resist if it killed him, and resist John did, let the consequences
be what they might.
"Ugh! Ugh!" loudly ejaculated one of the older Indians impatiently, at
last, and grabbing the burning hickory bark from the one who tried
vainly to make the prisoner take it, he carried it quickly into the
lean-to stable.
In an instant the dry hay and fodder were in flames. In another minute
the fire had reached the cabin. Soon the terrible glare filled all the
clearing and while the home the boy pioneers had held so dear, and all
the things within it which long association made them fondly cherish,
turned black, then red and yielded at last to the crackling, roaring
destroyer, the Indians danced about in savage celebration, brandishing
tomahawks and scalping knives, yelling and shrieking like the untamed
demons that they were.