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Transcriber Note
Text emphasis denoted by _Italics_.
WHEN WILDERNESS WAS KING
[Illustration: "'Toinette!' I whispered, 'I would call you by a dearer
name than that!'" [Page 386]]
[Illustration]
WHEN WILDERNESS WAS KING
A Tale of the Illinois Country
By RANDALL PARRISH
_With six pictures in full color and other decorations by Troy and
Margaret West Kinney_
[Illustration]
Third Edition
Chicago
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
[Illustration]
Copyright
By A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published March 36, 1904
Second Edition, April 20, 1904
Third Edition, July 2, 1904
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London All Rights Reserved
University Press John Wilson and Son Cambridge. U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Message from the West 1
II. The Call of Duty 9
III. A New Acquaintance 19
IV. Captain Wells of Fort Wayne 33
V. Through the Heart of the Forest 41
VI. From: the Jaws of Death 54
VII. A Circle in the Sand 66
VIII. Two Men and a Maid 77
IX. In Sight of the Flag 86
X. A Lane of Peril 95
XI. Old Fort Dearborn 105
XII. The Heart of a Woman 119
XIII. A Wager of Fools 133
XIV. Darkness and Surprise 141
XV. An Adventure Underground 150
XVI. "France wins, Monsieur!" 161
XVII. A Contest of Wits 171
XVIII. Glimpses of Danger 182
XIX. A Conference and a Resolve 191
XX. In the Indian Camp 201
XXI. A Council of Chiefs 212
XXII. The Last Night at Dearborn 224
XXIII. The Death-Shadow of the Miamis 236
XXIV. The Day of Doom 248
XXV. In the Jaws of the Tiger 261
XXVI. The Field of the Dead 269
XXVII. A Ghostly Vision 278
XXVIII. An Angel in the Wilderness 292
XXIX. A Soldier of France 306
XXX. The Rescue at the Stake 314
XXXI. A Search, and its Reward 325
XXXII. The Pledge of a Wyandot 337
XXXIII. An Intervention of Fate 347
XXXIV. A Stumble in the Dark 358
XXXV. The Battle on the Shore 368
XXXVI. In the New Gray Dawn 378
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Toinette!' I whispered, 'I would call you by a
dearer name than that!'" Frontispiece
"The obsequious darkey was deliberately combing
out his long hair" Facing page 56
"There was a rustle of paper, and Heald read
slowly: 'Evacuate the post if practicable'" 192
"She had reined her horse back against a wheel
of the halted wagon" 268
"'You shall not torture this man--he is a soldier
of France!'" 313
"'Don't, John! The savage has a gun hidden
beneath his robe'" 338
"I saw a dot upon the map, and a housefly's filmy wing--
They said 'twas Dearborn's picket-flag, when Wilderness was King.
* * * * *
I heard the block-house gates unbar, the column's solemn tread,
I saw the Tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage shed
To wave awhile that August morn above the column's head;
I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman's wail of fife,
The Dead March played for Dearborn's men just marching out of life;
The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon the rank
And struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and in flank,
The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles' whistling rain,--
The sandhills drift round hope forlorn that never marched again."
--_Benjamin F. Taylor._
When Wilderness Was King
CHAPTER I
A MESSAGE FROM THE WEST
Surely it was no longer ago than yesterday. I had left the scythe
lying at the edge of the long grass, and gone up through the rows of
nodding Indian corn to the house, seeking a draught of cool water from
the spring. It was hot in the July sunshine; the thick forest on every
side intercepted the breeze, and I had been at work for some hours. How
pleasant and inviting the little river looked in the shade of the great
trees, while, as I paused a moment bending over the high bank, I could
see a lazy pike nosing about among the twisted roots below.
My mother, her sleeves rolled high over her round white arms, was
in the dark interior of the milk-house as I passed, and spoke to
me laughingly; and I could perceive my father sitting in his great
splint-bottomed chair just within the front doorway, and I marked how
the slight current of air toyed with his long gray beard. The old Bible
lay wide open upon his knee; yet his eyes were resting upon the dark
green of the woods that skirted our clearing. I wondered, as I quaffed
the cool sweet water at the spring, if he was dreaming again of those
old days when he had been a man among men. How distinct in each detail
the memory of it remains! The blue sky held but one fleecy white cloud
in all its wide arch; it seemed as if the curling film of smoke rising
from our chimney had but gathered there and hung suspended to render
the azure more pronounced. A robin peeked impudently at me from an oak
limb, and a roguish gray squirrel chattered along the low ridge-pole,
with seeming willingness to make friends, until Rover, suddenly spying
me, sprang hastily around the corner of the house to lick my hand,
with glad barkings and a frantic effort to wave the stub of his poor
old tail. It was such a homely, quiet scene, there in the heart of the
backwoods, one I had known unchanged so long, that I little dreamed it
was soon to witness the turning over of a page of destiny in my life,
that almost from that hour I was to sever every relation of the past,
and be sent forth to buffet with the rough world alone.
There were no roads, in those days, along that valley of the upper
Maumee,--merely faint bridle-paths, following ancient Indian trails
through dense woods or across narrow strips of prairie-land; yet as I
hung the gourd back on its wooden peg, and lifted my eyes carelessly to
the northward, I saw a horseman riding slowly toward the house along
the river bank. There were flying rumors of coming Indian outbreaks
along the fringe of border settlements; but my young eyes were keen,
and after the first quick thrill of suspicion I knew the approaching
stranger to be of white blood, although his apparel was scarcely less
uncivilized than that of the savage. Yet so unusual were visitors, that
I grasped a gun from its pegs in the kitchen, and called warningly to
my mother as I passed on to meet the new-comer.
He was a very large and powerful man, with a matted black beard and an
extremely prominent nose. A long rifle was slung at his back, and the
heavy bay horse he bestrode bore unmistakable signs of hard travelling.
As he approached, Rover, spying him, sprang out savagely; but I caught
and held him with firm grip, for to strangers he was ever a surly brute.
"Is this yere Major Wayland's place?" the man questioned, in a deep,
gruff voice, reining in his tired horse, and carelessly flinging one
booted foot across the animal's neck as he faced me.
"Yes," I responded with caution, for we were somewhat suspicious
of stray travellers in those days, and the man's features were not
pleasing. "The Major lives here, and I am his son."
He looked at me intently, some curiosity apparent in his eyes, as he
deliberately drew a folded paper from his belt.
"No? Be ye the lad what downed Bud Eberly at the meetin' over on the
Cow-skin las' spring?" he questioned, with faintly aroused interest.
I blushed like a school-girl, for this unexpected reference was not
wholly to my liking, though the man's intentions were evidently most
kind.
"He bullied me until I could take no more," I answered, doubtfully;
"yet I hurt him more seriously than I meant."
He laughed at the trace of apology in my words.
"Lord!" he ejaculated, "don't ever let that worry ye, boy. The hull
settlement is mighty glad 'twas done. Old Hawkins bin on the p'int o'
doin' it himself a dozen o' times. Told me so. Ye're quite a lad, ain't
ye? Weigh all o' hundred an' seventy, I'll bet; an' strong as an ox.
How old be ye, anyhow?"
"Twenty," I answered, not a little mollified by his manner. "You must
live near here, then?"
"Wal, no, but been sorter neighbor o' yourn fer a month er so back;
stoppin' up at Hawkins's shebang, at the ford, on the Military Road,
visitin'; but guess I never met up with none o' your folks afore. My
name's Burns, Ol' Tom Burns, late o' Connecticut. A sojer from out West
left this yere letter fer yer father at Hawkins's place more nor a week
ago. Said as how it was mighty important; but blamed if this wasn't the
fust chance he's hed to git it over yere sence. I told him I'd fetch
it, as it wasn't more nor a dozen miles er so outer my way."
He held out a square paper packet; and while I turned it over curiously
in my hand,--the first letter I had ever seen,--he took some loose
tobacco from an outside pocket and proceeded leisurely to fill his pipe.
My mother rolled my father's chair forward into the open doorway, and
stood close behind him, as was her custom, one arm resting lightly upon
the quaintly carved chair-back.
"What is it, John?" she questioned gently. Instantly aroused by her
voice, I crossed quickly over and placed the packet in my father's thin
hands. He turned it over twice before he opened it, looking at the odd
seal, and reading the superscription carefully aloud, as if fearful
there might be some mistake:
"Major David Wayland,
Along the Upper Maumee.
Leave at Hawkins Ford
"Important. on Military Road."
I can see him yet as he read it, slowly feeling his way through the
rude, uneven writing, with my mother leaning over his shoulder and
helping him, her rosy cheeks and dark tresses making strange contrast
beside his pain-racked features and iron-gray hair.
"Read it aloud, Mary," he said at last. "I shall understand it better.
'Tis from Roger Matherson, of whom you have heard me speak."
My mother was a good scholar, and she read clearly, only hesitating now
and then over some ill-written or misspelled word.
At Fort Dearborn, near the head of the
Great Lake. Twelfth June, 1812.
My Dear Old Friend:
I have come to the end of life; they tell me it will be all over by
the morrow, and there remains but one thing that greatly troubles
me--my little girl, my Elsa. You know I have never much feared death,
nor do I in this hour when I face it once more; for I have ever tried
to honor God and do my duty as both man and soldier. David, I can
scarcely write, for my mind wanders strangely, and my fingers will
but barely grasp the pen. 'Tis not the grip of the old sword-hand
you knew so well, for I am already very weak, and dying. But do you
yet remember the day I drew you out of the rout at Saratoga, and
bore you away safely, though the Hessians shot me twice? God knows,
old friend, I never thought to remind you of the act,--'twas no more
than any comrade would have done,--yet I am here among strangers, and
there is no one else living to whom I may turn in my need. David, in
memory of it, will you not give my little orphan child a home? Your
old comrade, upon his death-bed, begs this of you with his final
breath. She is all alone here, save for me, and there is no blood kin
in all the world to whom I may appeal. I shall leave some property,
but not much. As you love your own, I pray you be merciful in this
hour to my little girl.
Your old comrade,
Roger Matherson.
This had been endorsed by another and bolder hand:
Captain Roger Matherson, late of the Massachusetts Continental Line,
died at this fort, of fever, fourteenth June, 1812. His daughter is
being cared for by the ladies of the garrison.
Nathan Heald,
Capt. First Regt. Inf., Commanding.
The tears were clinging to my mother's long lashes as she finished the
reading; she was ever tender of heart and sympathetic with sorrow. My
father sat in silence, looking far off at the green woods. Presently
he took the paper again into his hands, folded it carefully in the old
creases, and placed it safely away between the Bible leaves. I saw my
mother's fingers steal along the arm of the chair until they closed
softly over his.
"The poor little lamb!" she said gently.
My father's old sword hung over the fireplace, and I saw his glance
wander toward it, as something seemed to rise choking in his throat. He
was always a man who felt deeply, yet said but little; and we both knew
he was thinking about the old days and the strong ties of comradeship.
The stranger struck flint and steel to light his pipe; the act
instantly recalled my father to the demands of hospitality.
"Friend," he said, speaking firmly, "hitch to the stump yonder, and
come in. You have brought me sad news enough, yet are no less welcome,
and must break bread at our board. John," and he turned toward me, "see
to friend Burns's horse, and help your mother to prepare the dinner."
Out in the rude shed, which answered as a kitchen during summer
weather, I ventured to ask:
"Mother, do you suppose he will take the little girl?"
"I hope so, John," she answered, soberly; "but your father must decide
himself. He will not tell us until he has thought it all out alone."