PELEG'S NEW PLACE
Not a word escaped Daniel Boone's lips at the gruesome discovery of the
body of his oldest son. He ran quickly forward, turned the body so that
the face could be seen, and in this manner instantly realized the
terrible fate which had overtaken James.
Peleg Barnes, who was close behind him, never was able to forget the
sound of the one long, dry sob to which Daniel Boone gave utterance.
Then, almost as if he still was unaware of the presence of any one
except the dead boy, he lifted the body tenderly, and with exceeding
care placed it across his shoulders. Then, turning about, the great
scout started back toward the camp.
For a moment the other members of the party stood silent as they watched
their suffering leader. There was not one of the men who would not have
been glad to express his sympathy in words, but they were all aware of
Daniel Boone's prejudices against giving full expression to one's
feelings; and they had not yet recovered from the staggering surprise
which the discovery of the body of James had created.
When Daniel Boone disappeared in the brush, Sam Oliver ran to the spot
where this discovery had been made and, picking up the gun of James,
turned to his companions and said: "We must follow him. We must keep
close to him. The redskins might almost scalp him and he would not
understand what they are doing, the way he feels now."
Acting upon this suggestion, the men all turned to follow the direction
in which their leader had disappeared. Peleg had run in advance of the
other members of the band, eager to help the scout in his task. Quietly
the leader shook his head, but did not speak in response to the young
hunter's offer to aid. Apparently he was hardly aware that his friends
were so near him.
Without delay the party soon gained the open space in front of the camp.
There Daniel Boone stopped, and, turning to his friends, whose presence
apparently neither surprised nor startled him, said: "I shall take my
boy to the place where the other bodies are lying. I desire you to say
nothing of what has befallen him until first I shall break the news to
my wife."
No reply was given to the request of the hunter, nor was any expected.
There was no protest by the scout, however, when Sam Oliver and Peleg
followed him as he bore his burden to the place where the bodies of the
men who had fallen in the sudden attack by the Indians were lying,
covered by blankets. There, still quiet, and as tender in his manner as
a woman, Daniel Boone lifted the body of his boy from his shoulders and
laid it beside those who were his fellow victims.
Peleg, whose eyes were watching every movement of the man for whom his
feeling was little less than adoration, in spite of his grief, marvelled
at the wonderful strength the scout displayed. There was no evidence of
struggle on his part, and as soon as he had deposited the body, Daniel
Boone turned away, and the two hunters required no word from him to
inform them that he had gone to tell his wife of the great sorrow which
had come into their lives. Peleg's eager look followed him even when he
saw him beckon her to one side of the company, and then both withdrew
from the sight of the entire band. The bearing of the scout was still
unchanged. So great was his self-control that no one in the party, who
did not know of the calamity, suspected that anything had befallen the
leader beyond the common feeling of sorrow for the loss of the five men.
What was said by Daniel Boone to his wife in that heartbreaking
interview no one ever knew. When the scout rejoined the band, which now
had assembled behind the protecting barricade, he said simply: "We must
prepare for a hasty burial. These bodies must not be left for the wolves
to maltreat." The leader spoke as quietly as if he were referring to one
of the ordinary experiences of life, instead of one that would have
wrung the heart of the strongest man.
On the hillside, near the place where the camp had been pitched, the
bodies of the fallen men were hastily buried. There were cries and sobs
from many of those who had been bereaved, and the unutterable fear and
horror which more or less possessed all the emigrant band were apparent
in the glances of terror which were frequently cast toward the forest.
Even some of the men gave way to their sorrow and anxiety. Not a trace
of either emotion, however, was to be seen in the face of Daniel Boone
when at last the leader turned away from the place of burial.
Later in the day Peleg chanced upon the scout when the latter believed
himself to be alone. Seated upon a log looking steadily upon the ground,
still without a cry, the man's frame was shaken in his agony of grief.
Abashed by the discovery, Peleg, whose sorrow at the loss of his friend
also had been keen, stealthily withdrew from the place and did not refer
to his discovery when later he joined his companions. Before the scout
returned, the boy had decided that at his first opportunity he would
explain to him how strong had been the friendship between himself and
James. Peleg was too modest to believe that the great man had ever been
aware of the friendship between the two boys. Such matters were of too
minor importance for him even to recognize, much less to remember,
thought the lad.
Great then was the young hunter's surprise, and greater still his
pleasure, when the scout stopped by his side the next day and, looking
into his face, said calmly, "Peleg, you and James were great friends."
"Yes, sir."
"Hereafter I shall have a special love for you, Peleg, because you loved
my boy."
Tears, which the young hunter was unable to control, sprang into his
eyes at the words which were evidence not only of the keen observation
of Daniel Boone but also of his regard for one who had been the friend
of his son. Still the scout's voice was quiet and calm. Peleg was
convinced that he was not unaware of his inability to reply. "It is one
of the things, Peleg, which cannot be changed," continued Daniel Boone.
"James was a good son and I looked forward to a useful life for him, but
he is not to be here. It does no one any good to rebel uselessly, and
only children and savages complain when everything they desire is not
arranged as they wish."
"Yes, sir," assented Peleg. At first he suspected that the words of the
leader were intended as a rebuke to him for the display of his feelings.
Perhaps it was a weakness, he thought, and yet, somehow, the young
soldier was convinced that the father of his friend perhaps did not
think any the less of him because he had been deeply moved by the tragic
death of James Boone.
"It is not the first time," continued the scout, "that I have been
compelled to face sorrow. Somehow I feel that one is like a leaf carried
on the stream. It may whirl about and turn and twist, but it is always
carried forward." As he spoke, the leader stooped, and taking a tiny
branch which had fallen to the ground tossed it into the noisy little
stream which went tumbling down the side of Cumberland Mountain on its
way to the great river and the sea beyond. "It is somewhat like that, my
lad," continued Daniel Boone, running his fingers through his hair as he
spoke. "Man is borne onward by a Power which he does not understand, and
yet which he must recognize as greater than his own. It is so that one
is carried by the years. One is helpless to stop them in their course,
as helpless as that little branch which I threw into the water. It does
no one any good to rebel or complain. Every man must accept the facts of
his life, believing that there is a Power that guides and controls far
better than he knows how to do."
The scout spoke musingly, almost as if he thought himself to be alone. A
brief silence followed his words, and then Daniel Boone turned once more
to Peleg. "My lad," he said, "all I say is that one cannot turn back.
However much I may sorrow over the loss of my boy, I cannot go back to
him. The only direction in which I can move is forward. If one can only
find the right way, that is not so bad."
"Yes, sir," said Peleg, hardly aware of the full meaning of Boone's
words.
"You were a friend of my boy."
"Yes, sir," again responded Peleg, his voice breaking once more in spite
of his efforts at self-control.
"You shall be _my_ friend from this time forward. You cannot take the
place of James, but because you were his friend you shall have a share,
if you so desire, such as he might have had, in my life and my plans.
Your father is not living?"
"He has been dead three years."
"And your mother?"
"She died when I was a baby."
"Then there is no one to whom you can turn?"
"I have lived with my uncle, but I have no desire to go back to him."
Boone looked keenly into the face of the boy by his side and was silent
a moment. "Peleg," he resumed, "I meant what I said just now. If you so
desire, you shall be my friend."
"I do desire it," said Peleg impulsively. "There Is nothing I want so
much as I do to be with you. It is good of you to think of me----"
"Say no more," interrupted Boone. "I shall not forget, though I may not
speak to you soon of this matter again. When the time comes, I shall not
fail to let you know."
When night fell the guards of the camp were doubled, for with the coming
of darkness the terror of some of the emigrants increased. There were
frequent cries heard from the little children, cries which the mothers
were unable to quiet and in which some of them even joined. A feeling of
terror had settled over the whole camp.
To Peleg was assigned a post of danger, as his position as guard was to
be near the gulch. Steep as this was, it would have been possible for a
warrior to climb its rocky sides if he were familiar with the spot.
Before Peleg departed for his station he was joined by Israel Boone, a
younger brother of James, who insisted upon sharing the vigil. In the
light of the campfire Peleg saw the face of the scout change colour
when the suggestion was made by his son, but he did not offer any
objection, and in spite of Sam Oliver's declaration that "One boy was a
boy and two boys was half a boy," the leader quietly gave his consent.
When the silence of the outer night became more marked in the deepening
darkness, the occasional cries of the children did not cease. They were
cries not of suffering, but of terror. There were times when even the
two young guards shared in the prevailing fear. The darkness that
surrounded them might conceal painted warriors who were watchful of
their every act. At any moment a bullet from some unseen enemy might
find its way to the heart of a watching sentinel. Such a condition was
not long to be endured. As the hours passed, both boys grew more eager
for the coming of the morning, when, whatever plan might be formed, at
least relief from the depressing silence would come.
To Peleg no thought of any change in the plans of the emigrants had
occurred, and he was therefore the more astonished the following morning
when, after he had been relieved from duty and had obtained a few hours
of sleep, he was informed before breakfast that the men were assembling
for a council. Even his feeling of hunger was ignored in the exciting
announcement which soon was made by Boone.