HORSES: WHITE AND BLACK.
On the morning of the 15th of August, 1812, the sun rose in unclouded
splendor, and transformed the great Lake Michigan into a sheet of
gold.
"It is a good omen," said one of the women at Fort Dearborn, as she
looked out over the shining water.
But only the merry children responded to her attempted cheerfulness.
"We shall have a grand ride. I wish nobody need make the journey on
foot; and I'm glad, for once, I'm just a boy, and not a grown-up man."
"Even a boy may have to do a man's work, this day, Gaspar Keith. I
wish that you were strong enough to hold a gun; but you have been
taught how to use an arrow. Is your quiver well supplied?"
That his captain should speak to him, a child, so seriously, impressed
the lad profoundly. His ruddy cheek paled, and a fit of trembling
seized him. A sombre memory rose to frighten him, and he caught his
breath as he asked:
"Do you think there will be any trouble, Captain Heald? I thought I
heard the soldiers saying that the Pottawatomies would take care of
us."
"Who trusts to an Indian's care leans on a broken reed. You know that
from your own experience. Surely, you must remember your earlier
childhood, even though you have been forbidden to talk of it here."
"Oh! I do, I do! Not often in the daytime, but in the long, long
nights. The other children sleep. They have never seen what I did, or
heard the dreadful yells that come in my dreams and wake me up. Then I
seem to see the flames, the blood, the dead white faces. Oh, sir,
don't tell me that must come again: don't, don't! I cannot bear it. I
would rather die right now and here--safe in our Fort."
Instantly the soldier regretted his own words. But the lad was one of
the larger children at the garrison and should be incited, he thought,
to take some share in the matter of defence, should defence be
necessary. He had not known that under Gaspar's quiet, almost sullen
demeanor, had lain such hidden experiences. Else he would have talked
them over with the boy, and have tried to make him forget instead of
remember his early wrongs.
For Gaspar Keith was the son of an Indian trader, and had been born in
an isolated cabin far to the northwest of his present home. The little
cabin had been overflowing with young life and gayety, even in that
wilderness. His mother was a Frenchwoman of the happiest possible
temperament and, because no other society was available, had made
comrades of her children. "What we did in Montreal" was the type of
what she attempted to do under her more restricted conditions. So, for
a long season of peace, the Keiths sang and made merry over every
trifling incident. Did the father bring home an extra load of game, at
once there was a feast prepared and all the friendly Indians, the only
neighbors, were invited to come and partake.
On one such occasion, when a red-skinned guest had brought with him a
bottle of the forbidden "fire-water," a quarrel ensued. The trader was
of sterner sort than his light-hearted wife, and of violent temper. In
his own house his word was law, and he remonstrated with the Indian
for his action. To little Gaspar, in his memories, it seemed but a
moment's transition from a laughing group about a well-spread table to
a scene of horror. He saw--but he could never afterward speak in any
definite way of what he saw. Only he knew that almost before he had
pushed back from his place he had been caught up on the shoulder of
the chief Winnemeg, also a guest; and in another moment was riding
behind that warrior at breakneck speed toward the little garrison, in
pursuit of shelter for himself and aid for his defenceless family.
The shelter was speedily found, but the aid came too late; and for a
time the women of the Fort had a difficult task in comforting the
fright-crazed boy. However, they were used to such incidents. Their
courage and generosity were unlimited, and they persevered in their
care till he recovered and repaid them by his faithful devotion and
service.
The manner of his arrival among them was never discussed in his
presence, and as he gradually came to act like other, happier
children, they hoped he had outgrown his troubles. He had now been at
the Fort for two years, during all which time he had gone but short
distances from it. Yet even in his restricted outings he had picked up
much knowledge of useful things from the settlers near, and of things
apparently not so useful from his red-faced friends. So it happened
that there was not, probably, even any Indian boy who could string a
bow or aim an arrow better than Gaspar.
The Sauganash himself had presented the little fellow with a bow of
finest workmanship, and had taught him the rare trick of shooting at
fixed paces. It had been the delight of the garrison to watch him, in
their hours of recreation, accomplish this feat. Sighting some bird
flying high overhead, the lad would take swift aim and discharge each
arrow from his quiver at a certain count. There never seemed any
variation in the distances between the discharged arrows as they made
the arc--upward with unerring aim, and downward in the body of the
bird; hitting it, one by one, at proportionate intervals of time and
space.
The women thought it a cruel sport, and would have prevented it if
they could; but the men knew that it was a wonderful achievement, and
that many fine archers among the surrounding tribes would fail in
accomplishing it. Therefore, it was natural that the Fort's commandant
should be anxious to know if his ward's equipment were in order, on a
morning so full of possible dangers as this.
"There is no talk of dying, Gaspar. You are a man, child, if not full
grown. You are brave and skilful. You have a clear head, too; so
listen closely to what I say. In our garrison are not more than forty
men able to fight. There are a dozen women and twenty children, of
which none have been trained to use a bow as you can. Besides these
helpless ones, there are many sick soldiers to occupy the wagons. I
know you expected to be with your mates, but I have another plan for
you. I want you to ride Tempest, and to sling your bow on your saddle
horn."
"Ride--Tempest! Why, Captain Heald! Nobody--that is, nobody but
you--can ride him. I was never on his back----"
"It's time you were. Lad, do you know how many Indians are in camp
near us, or have broken camp this morning to join us?"
"Oh! quite a lot, I guess."
"Just so. A whole 'lot.' About five hundred, or a few less."
The two were busily at work, packing the last of the few possessions
that the commandant must convey to Fort Wayne, and which he could
entrust to no other hands than his own and those of this deft-fingered
lad, and they made no pause while they talked. Indeed, Gaspar's
movements were even swifter now, as if he were eager to be through and
off.
"Five hundred, sir? They are friendly Indians, though. Black Partridge
and Winnemeg----"
"Are but as straws against the current. Gaspar, I shall need a boy who
can be trusted. These red neighbors of ours are not so 'friendly' as
they seem. They are dissatisfied. They mean mischief, I fear, though
God forbid! Well, we are soldiers, and we cannot shrink. You must ride
Tempest. You must tell nobody why. You can keep at a short distance
from our main band, and act as scout. Captain Wells will march in
front with his Miamis, upon whose assistance--the Miamis', I mean--I
do not greatly count. They are cowards. They fear the 'canoe men.'
Well, what do you say, my son?"
Gaspar caught his breath. His own fear of an Indian had been nearly
overcome by the friendship of those chiefs who were so constantly at
the Fort; but the night before had brought him a recurrence of the
terrifying visions which were as much memories as dreams. After such a
night he was scarcely himself in courage, greatly as he desired to
please the captain. Then he reflected how high was the honor designed
him. He, a little boy, just past ten and going on eleven for a whole
fortnight now, and--of course he'd do it!
"Well, I'll ride him. That is, I'll try. Like as not, he'll shake me
off first try."
"Make the second try, then. You know the copy in your writing-book?"
"Yes, sir. I wrote the whole page of it, yesterday, and the chaplain
said it was well done. Shall I get him now? Are you almost ready?"
The commandant looked at the waiting wagons, the assembled company,
the women and little ones who were so dear and in such a perilous
case. For a moment his heart sank, stout soldier though he was, and it
was no detriment to his manhood that a fervent if silent prayer
escaped him.
"Yes, fetch him if you can. If not, I'll come."
Tempest was a gelding of fine Kentucky breed. There were others of his
line at the garrison, and upon them some of the women even were to
ride. But Tempest was the king of the stables. He was the master's
half-broken pet and recreation. For sterner uses, as for that
morning's work, there was a better trained animal, and on this the
commandant would make his own journey.
A smile curled the officer's lips despite his anxiety as, presently,
out from the stables galloped a bareheaded lad, clinging desperately
to Tempest's back, who tried as desperately to shake off his unusual
burden. But the saddle girth was well secured, and the rider clung
like a burr. His bow was slung crosswise before him and his full
quiver hung at his back.
A cheer went up. The sight was as helpful to the soldiers as it was
amusing, and they fell into line with a ready step as the band struck
up--what was that tune? _The Dead March?_ By whose ill-judgment this?
Well, there was no time to question. Any music helps to keep a line of
men in step, and there was the determined Gaspar cavorting and
wheeling before and around the soldiers in a way to provoke a mirth
that no dismal strain could dispel. So the gates were flung open, and
in orderly procession, each man in his place, each heart set upon its
duty, the little garrison marched through them for the last time.
Of what took place within the next dread hours, of the Indians'
treachery and the white men's courage, there is no need to give the
details. It is history. But of brave Gaspar Keith on the wild gelding,
Tempest, history makes no mention. There is many a hero whose name
is unknown, and the lad was a hero that day. He did what he could,
and his empty quiver, his broken bow, told their own story to a
Pottawatomie warrior who came upon the boy just as the sun crossed
the meridian on that memorable day.
Gaspar was lying unconscious beneath a clump of forest trees, and
Tempest grazing quietly beside him. There was no wound upon the lad,
and whether he had been thrown to the ground by the animal, or had
slipped from his saddle out of sheer weariness, even he could never
tell.
The Indian who found him was none other than the Man-Who-Kills; and,
from a perfectly safe distance for himself, he had watched the young
pale-face with admiration and covetousness.
"By and by, when the fight is over, I will get him. He shall be my
prisoner. The black gelding is finer than any horse ever galloped into
Muck-otey-pokee. They shall both be mine. I will tell a big tale at
the council fires of my brothers, and they shall account me brave.
Talking is easier than fighting, any time, and why should I peril my
life, following this mad war-path of theirs to that far-away Fort
Wayne? Enough is a plenty. I have hidden lots of plunder while the men
of my tribe did their killing, and the Man-Who-Kills will always be
wise, as he is always brave. I could shoot as fast and as far as
anybody if--if I wished. But I do not wish. It is too much trouble. So
I will tie the boy on the gelding's back and lead them home in
triumph. Will my squaw, Sorah, flout me now? No. No, indeed! And there
is no need to say that I dared not mount the beast myself. But I can
lead him all right, and when the Woman-Who-Mourns, that haughty sister
of my chief, sees me coming she will say: 'Behold! how merciful is
this mighty warrior!'"
These reflections of the astute Indian, as he rested upon the shaded
sward, afforded him such satisfaction that he did, indeed, handle poor
Gaspar with more gentleness than might have been expected; because
such a person commonly mistakes brutality for bravery.
Oddly enough, Tempest offered no resistance to the red man's plan, and
allowed himself to be burdened by the helpless Gaspar and led slowly
to the Indian village. There the party aroused less interest than the
Man-Who-Kills had anticipated, for other prisoners had already been
brought in and, besides this, something had occurred that seemed to
the women far more important.
This was the fresh grief of Wahneenah as she roamed from wigwam to
wigwam, searching for her adopted daughter and imploring help to find
her. For again the Sun Maid had disappeared, as suddenly and more
completely than on the previous day though after much the same manner.
The child had been attending her injured squirrel and giving her bowls
of orchids fresh drinks, upon the threshold mat of her new home, and
her indulgent foster-mother had gone to fetch from the stream the
water needed for the latter purpose. At the brook's edge she had
stopped, "just for a moment," to discuss with the other squaws the
news of the massacre that was fast coming to them by the straggling
bands of returning braves.
But the brief absence was long enough to have worked the mischief. The
small runaway had left her posies and her squirrel and departed,
nobody could guess whither.
Till at last again came Osceolo, the mischievous, and remarked,
indifferently:
"The Woman-Who-Mourns may save her steps. The White Papoose and the
Snowbird are far over the prairie while the women search."
"Osceolo! You are the son of the evil spirit! You bring distress in
your hand as a gift! But take care what you say now. You know, as I
know, that nobody can mount the White Snowbird and live. Or if one
could succeed and pass beyond the village borders, it would be a ride
to some far land whence there is no return. What is the mare,
Snowbird, but a creature bewitched? or the home of the soul of a dead
maiden, who would rather live thus with her people than without them
as a spirit in the Great Beyond? You know all this, and yet you tell
me----"
"That the Sun Maid is flying now on the Snowbird's back toward the
setting sun, who is her father."
"How do you know this?"
"I saw it."
"Who took her to the Snowbird's corral? Who? Osceolo, torment of our
tribe, it was you! It was you! Boy, do you know what you have done? Do
you know that out there, on the prairie where you have sent her, the
spirit of murder is abroad? Not a pale-face shall escape. She was safe
here, where your own chief, the Black Partridge, placed her. Hear me.
If harm befalls her, if by moonrise she is not restored to me, you
shall bear the punishment. You----"
By a gesture he stopped her. Now thoroughly frightened, the
mischievous boy put up his arms as if to ward off the coming threat.
Half credulous, and half doubtful that the Sun Maid was more than
mortal, he had made a test for himself. He had remembered the
Snowbird, fretting its high spirit out within the closed paddock, and
a daring notion had seized him. It was this:
"While the Woman-Who-Mourns gossips with her neighbors, I'll catch up
the papoose and carry her there. She'll come fast enough. She ran away
yesterday, and she played with me before the Spotted Adder's hut. She
trusts everybody. I'll have some fun, even if my father didn't let me
go with him to the camp yonder."
Among all nations boyhood is the same--plays the same wild pranks,
with equal disregard of consequences; and Osceolo would far rather
have had a good time than a good supper. He thought he was having a
perfectly fascinating good time when he bound a long blanket over the
Snowbird's back and then fastened Kitty Briscoe in the folds of the
blanket. He had laughed gayly as he clapped his hands and set the mare
free, and the little one riding her had laughed and clapped also. He
had watched them out of sight over the prairie, and had felt quite
proud of himself.
"If she is a spirit she'll come back safe; and if she's nothing but a
white man's baby--why, that's all she is. Only a squaw child at that,
though the silly women have made such ado. I wonder--will I ever see
her again? Well, I'll go around by Wahneenah's tepee, after a while,
and enjoy the worry. It's the smartest thing I've done yet; and she
did look cunning, too. She wasn't a bit afraid--she isn't afraid of
anything--which makes her better than most girl papooses, and she was
laughing as hard as I was when she went away."
With these thoughts, Osceolo had come back to the spot where Wahneenah
met him and demanded if he knew aught of her charge; and there was no
hilarity in his face now as he watched her enter her wigwam and drop
its curtains behind her. He suddenly remembered--many things; and at
thought of the Black Partridge's wrath he turned faint and sick.
But the test had been made and no regret could recall it.
Meanwhile, there came into his mind the fact: a black horse had just
entered the village and a white one had gone out of it. The narrow
superstition in which he had been reared taught him that the one
brought misfortune and the other carried away happiness; and, in a
redoubled terror at his own act and its consequences, Osceolo turned
and fled.