THE CALL OF DUTY
It was upon my mind all through that long afternoon, as I swung the
scythe in the meadow grass. I saw Burns ride away up the river trail
soon after I returned to work, and wondered if he bore with him any
message from my father. It was like a romance to me, to whom so few
important things had ever happened. In some way, the coming of this
letter out of the great unknown had lifted me above the narrow life
of the clearing. My world had always been so small, such a petty and
restricted circle, that this new interest coming within its horizon had
widened it wonderfully.
I had grown up on the border, isolated from what men term civilization;
and I could justly claim to know chiefly those secrets which the
frontier teaches its children. My only remembrance of a different
mode of life centred about the ragged streets of a small New England
village, where I had lived in earlier childhood. Ever since, we had
been in the depths of the backwoods; and after my father's accident
I became the one upon whom the heavier part of the work fell. I had
truly thrived upon it. In my hunting-trips, during the dull seasons,
I learned many a trick of the forest, and had already borne rifle
twice when the widely scattered settlements were called to arms by
Indian forays. There were no schools in that country; indeed, our
nearest neighbor was ten miles distant as the crow flies. But my mother
had taught me, with much love and patience, from her old treasured
school-books; and this, with other lore from the few choice volumes
my father clung to through his wanderings, gave me much to ponder
over. I still remember the evenings when he read to us gravely out of
his old Shakespeare, dwelling tenderly upon passages he loved. And he
instructed me in other things,--in honor and manliness, in woodcraft,
and many a pretty thing at arms, until no lad in the settlements
around could outdo me in rough border sport. I loved to hear him, of a
boisterous winter night,--he spoke of such matters but seldom,--tell
about his army life, the men he had fought beside and loved, the daring
deeds born of his younger blood. In that way he had sometimes mentioned
this Roger Matherson; and it was like a blow to me now to hear of his
death. I wondered what the little girl would be like; and my heart
went out to her in her loneliness. Scarcely realizing it, I was lonely
also.
"Has he spoken yet?" I questioned anxiously of my mother, as I came up
to the open kitchen door when the evening chores were done.
"No, John," she answered, "he has been sitting there silently looking
out at the woods ever since the man left. He is thinking, dear, and we
must not worry him."
The supper-table had been cleared away, and Seth, the hired man, had
crept up the creaking ladder to his bed under the eaves, before my
father spoke. We were all three together in the room, and I had drawn
his chair forward, as was my custom, where the candle-light flickered
upon his face. I knew by the look of calm resolve in his gray eyes that
a decision had been reached.
"Mary," he began gravely, "and you, John, we must talk together of this
new duty which has just come to us. I hardly know what to decide, for
we are so poor and I am now so helpless; yet I have prayed earnestly
for guidance, and can but think it must be God's will that we care for
this poor orphan child of my old friend."
My mother crossed the room to him, and bent down until her soft cheek
touched his lips.
"I knew you would, David," she whispered, in the tender way she had,
her hand pressing back his short gray hair. "She shall ever be unto us
as our own little girl,--the one we lost come back to us again."
My father bent his head wearily upon one hand, his eyes upon the candle
flame, his other hand patting her fingers.
"It must be all of ten years," he said slowly, "since last I had word
of Roger Matherson. He was in Canada then, yet has never since been
long out of my mind. He saved my life, not once alone, as he would
seem to remember, but three separate times in battle. We were children
together in the blue Berkshire hills, and during all our younger
manhood were more than brothers. His little one shall henceforth be as
my own child. God hath given her unto us, Mary, as truly as if she had
been born of our love. I knew that Roger had married, yet heard nothing
of the birth of the child or the loss of his wife. However, from this
hour the orphan is to be our own; and we must now decide upon some safe
means of bringing her here without delay."
He paused. No one of us spoke. His glance slowly wandered from the
candle flame, until it settled gravely upon my face as I sat resting on
a rude bench fitted into the chimney corner. He looked so intently at
me that my mother seemed instantly to interpret his thought.
"Oh, surely not that, David?" she exclaimed, pleadingly. "Not John?"
"I know of no other fit messenger, little woman," he answered soberly.
"It has indeed troubled me far more than all the rest, to decide on
this; yet there is no one else whom I think equal to the task. John is
a good boy, mother, and has sufficient experience in woodcraft to make
the journey."
"But the savages!" she insisted. "'Tis said we are upon the verge of
a fresh outbreak, stirred up by this new war with England, that may
involve the settlements at any time. You know Burns told you just
now,--and he is an old scout, familiar with the West,--that British
agents were active along the whole border, and there was great
uneasiness among the Indian tribes."
"There is serious promise of danger, 'tis true," he admitted, a flash
of the old fire in his eyes. "Yet that is scarce likely to halt David
Wayland's son. Indeed, it is the greater reason why this helpless
orphan child should be early brought to our protection. Think of the
defenceless little girl exposed alone to such danger! Nor have we means
of judging, Mary, of the real seriousness of the situation to the north
and west. War between the nations may very likely arouse the spirit
of the savages, yet rumors of Indian outbreak are always on the lips
of the settlers. Burns himself was upon his return westward, and did
not seem greatly troubled lest he fail to get through. He claimed to
live at Chicagou Portage, wherever that may be. I only know it is the
extreme frontier."
My mother did not answer; and now I spoke, my cheeks aflame with
eagerness.
"Do you truly mean, sir, that I am to go in search of the little girl?"
I asked, barely trusting my own ears.
"Yes, John," my father replied gravely, motioning me to draw closer to
his chair. "This is a duty which has fallen to you as well as to your
mother and me. We can, indeed, but poorly spare you from the work at
this season; yet Seth will be able to look after the more urgent needs
of the farm while you are absent, while he would prove quite useless
on such a mission as this. Do not worry, Mary. Friend Burns is well
acquainted with all that western country, and he tells me there is
scarcely a week that parties of soldiers, or friendly Indians, do not
pass along the trail, and that by waiting at Hawkins's place for a few
days John will be sure to find some one with whom he may companion on
the long journey westward. He would himself have accompanied him, but
must first bear a message to friends at Vincennes. It is now some weeks
since Roger Matherson died, and we shall prove unworthy of our trust if
we delay longer in sending for his daughter."
Though my mother was a western woman, patient and long habituated to
sacrifice and peril, still her eyes, fixed upon my face, were filled
with tears, and the color had deserted her cheeks.
"I know not why it should be so, David," she urged softly; "but in my
heart I greatly fear this trip for John. Yet you have ever found me
ready to yield wherever it seemed best, and I doubt not you are right
in your decision."
At any other time I should have gone to her with words of comfort
and good cheer; but now my ambition was so aroused by this impending
adventure as to permit me to think of nothing else.
"Is it so very far, father, to where I must go?" I questioned, eagerly.
"Where is this Fort Dearborn, and how am I to journey in reaching
there? 'Tis no garrison of which I have ever heard."
"Bring me the map your mother made of this country, and the regions to
the westward," he said. "I am not over clear in regard to the matter
myself, although friend Burns, who claims to know all that country,
gave me some brief description; but I found him most chary of speech."
I got the map out of the great square cupboard in the corner, and
spread the paper flat upon the table, placing knives at each corner
to hold it open. I rolled his chair up before it, and the three of us
bent our heads over the map together, our faces glowing in the candle
flame. It was a copy made by a quill from a great government map my
mother had seen somewhere in her journeying westward; and, though only
a rude design, it was not badly done, and was sufficiently accurate
for our purpose. Much of it was still blank; yet the main open trails
had been traced with care, the principal fords over the larger streams
were marked, and the various government posts and trading settlements
distinctly located and named. Searching for the head of the Great
Lake, we were not long in discovering the position of the fort called
Dearborn, which seemingly was posted upon the western shore, nearly
opposite another garrison point at the mouth of the St. Joseph river.
We were able to trace with clearness the military road that had been
constructed northward from Fort Wayne, our nearest government post; but
the map failed to exhibit evidence of any beaten track, or used trail,
leading westward and around the head of the lake. There were numerous
irregular lines which denoted unnamed streams, but by far the larger
portion of the territory extending to the west beyond Fort Wayne had
been simply designated as "forest land" and "unexplored." "Friend Burns
tells me there is a trail used by both troops and savages, which he
has traversed several times," my father explained, as he lifted his
eyes from the map; "but it is not over plain, nor easily followed,
as communication with the Fort is mostly maintained by means of the
waterways to the northward. The overland journey, however, will prove
speedier, besides being less liable to disaster for one unaccustomed to
boats. How soon can John be ready, mother?"
Her voice trembled, and I felt the pressure of her hand upon my sleeve.
"It will take all of the morrow, David, to prepare his clothing
properly," she replied, with the patient resignation of the frontier.
"There is much that will need seeing after."
"Then John will start the next dawn. You had best ride the brown colt,
my son; he is of good breed, and speedy. Seth shall accompany you
until you find suitable companionship at Hawkins's. He will bring back
word of how you started, and that knowledge will greatly comfort your
mother."
He paused, and held out his thin hands.
"You go upon this strange journey willingly, my son?"
"Yes, father."
"You will be both kind and thoughtful with Roger Matherson's little
girl?"
"She shall be to me as my own sister."
I felt the confiding clasp of his fingers, and realized how much to him
would be a successful termination of my journey.
"Kiss your mother, John," he said, a trustful look coming into his
kindly eyes. "We must all be astir early on the morrow."
Beneath the rived shingles of my little room, under the sloping roof,
how I turned and tossed through those long night hours! What visions,
both asleep and awake, came to me, thronging fast upon my heated
brain, each more marvellous than its fellow, and all alike pointing
toward that strange country which I was now destined by fate to travel!
Vague tales of wonder and mystery had come floating to me out of that
unknown West, and now I was to behold it all with my own eyes. But
marvellous as were my dreams, the reality was to be even more amazing
than these pictures of boyish imagination. Had I known the truth that
night, I doubt greatly whether I should have had the courage to face it.
At last the gray dawn came, stealing in at the only window, and found
me eager for the trial.