CHAPTER XVIII
"IF I WERE IN COMMAND"
Long before the word had been given, the Indians were coming in. Winnebagoes, Ottawas, Chippewas, and Pottawattomies, from north, south, and west, were gathering in the woods around Fort Dearborn. Like the rattlesnake coiled to strike, like vultures drawn to a battlefield, silent, sinister, and deadly, the lines were closing in.
Noon was the hour appointed for the council, and at that time Black Partridge, through Mackenzie, made known to Captain Franklin that it would be another day before all the Pottawattomies could be assembled. "Till noon of to-morrow's sun," said the Captain, sternly; "not one moment more."
Beatrice, from the window of the trading station, saw innumerable Indians, dressed and painted in the manner of other tribes, carefully inspecting the house and barn as if appraising their value. The Agency building was haunted by others, who peered in furtively at the windows, hoping for an early look at the goods which were to be distributed among the tribes.
Mrs. Mackenzie had recovered from the first shock and went about the house as usual, quiet yet cheerful, and patient with the children and her manifold household tasks. To Beatrice only she admitted her fear.
"Don't talk about it, Aunt Eleanor—we must all try to think about something else."
"Yes," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie, "we must not fret away the strength we will need for the journey. Your uncle has slept scarcely an hour since the news came."
"I know, Aunt Eleanor, I know."
"You must help me be brave, dear. Someway, of late, I have felt myself a coward, and it has made me ashamed. Not for myself alone, but for the children——"
The sweet voice quivered, then broke; and for the moment Beatrice's eyes were dim, but she swiftly put the weakness from her.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Aunt Eleanor. The British haven't come, and as for the Indians, why, they wouldn't dare to attack the soldiers. We'll get to Fort Wayne, safe and sound, and perhaps the whole army will go on to Detroit with us. I wonder what my aunt and uncle will say when they see me riding Queen into Fort Wayne at the head of the troops!"
Mrs. Mackenzie laughed in spite of herself. "I hope you're right, Bee."
Forsyth and Ronald were walking back and forth in front of the Fort, talking earnestly. A little apart stood Mackenzie and Captain Franklin, while Indians went in and out of the stockade, apparently at pleasure.
"Aunt Eleanor," said Beatrice, thoughtfully, "I read a story once about a girl. There were two men who—who—well, they liked her, you know. They were both good, but there was a difference. One always teased her and tormented her and made her feel at odds with herself, even though she knew he was just in fun.
"The other always rested her. No matter how tired she was, or how much out of sorts she happened to be, it always made her feel better to be with him. He was quiet and his ways were gentle, and he knew more about—about books and things, you know. The other one was a soldier, and this one was a student, but he—he wasn't brave. He couldn't help it, but he was afraid."
"A woman never could love a man who wasn't brave," said Mrs. Mackenzie.
"No, of course she couldn't."
"And if a man always teased and tormented a woman, and made her feel irritable, she would never be happy with him."
"No; she couldn't expect to be."
"Perhaps she had made a mistake about the other one—perhaps he really was brave."
"No; because she saw him twice when she knew he was afraid."
"Then she shouldn't marry either one."
"That's what I thought," said Beatrice.
"Which one did she marry?"
"Who, Aunt Eleanor?"
"Why, the girl in the story?"
"Oh," answered Beatrice, colouring; "why, I—I've forgotten. It's queer, isn't it, how people forget things?"
"What book was it in?"
"I—I don't remember. My memory is poor, Aunt Eleanor. I'm going to my room, now, if you don't want me, and pack up some of my things."
Red and white clover blossomed in the yard, where the children were playing, and a butterfly winged its way through the open window, then flew swiftly out again. Mrs. Mackenzie sat by the table with her face hidden in her hands, while childish voices came to her ears in laughing cadence and filled her heart with fear and pain. Then there was a touch upon her shoulder.
"Eleanor!"
"Why," she said, looking up, "I didn't hear you, John."
Her clear eyes revealed a sadness beyond tears. "Eleanor," said her husband, with the muscles working about his mouth, "I can't bear for you to feel so."
"I—I'm all right, John. Don't fret about me."
"No, you ain't all right—don't you think I know? I've brought you into danger, Eleanor—I see it now, and that's the thing that hurts me most of all. It's nothing to lose all I've got, for that's happened to me before, and I'm only fifty—I can get it all back again, but I can't ever change the fact that I've brought you into danger. I promised before God that I'd protect you, and I haven't done it. I've taken you to a place where it ain't safe."
The man's distress was pitiful. His gigantic frame was bent like an oak in the path of a furious storm and every line on his haggard face was distinct, as if it had been cut. His dark eyes, under their bushy brows, were utterly despairing; he was like one whose hope is dead and buried past the power of resurrection.
"John, dear——" she began, with her hand on his bowed head.
"I've brought you into danger," he said helplessly, "I've brought you into danger, you and—" A lump in his throat put an end to speech, and with his hand he indicated the children.
"John, dear, don't talk so. I—I can't help feeling anxious, but I'm not afraid. In all the nine years we've lived here, the Indians have been our friends. There isn't one who would lift his hand against you or yours."
"They ain't all our friends, Eleanor. There's hundreds and hundreds of them coming in, even from as far away as the Wabash. How should they know that we are their friends? I've brought you into danger," he repeated. "I can't ever forget that."
"My husband," she said, and the tone was a caress, "we promised each other for better or for worse. 'Where thou goest, I will go, thy people shall be my people, and—' I forget the rest.
"If we've come to danger, we'll meet it together, side by side. When I promised to marry you, I didn't mean it just for the smooth places, I meant it for all. In all these twelve years you've shielded me—whatever you could do to make things easier for me, you've done, and all that love and care has been in vain if I am not strong enough to do my part now.
"There's never been a harsh word between us, John; we've never fussed and quarrelled as some married people do, and we never will. The road has been long, and sometimes it's been dusty and hot, but we've never walked on thorns, and whatever we've come to, you've always helped me through it.
"If this is the end, why, there's nothing to look back on to make either of us ashamed, nothing to regret, not a word to be sorry for, not a single thing for which either of us should say 'Forgive me.' If this is death, we'll face it as I have dreamed we should, if God were good to us; we'll face it as I've prayed we might—hand in hand!"
"Eleanor!" he cried, clasping her in his arms. "Brave heart, you give me faith! True soul, you make me strong!" His trembling lips sought hers, then on her face she felt his tears.
"Well, upon my word!" said Beatrice, from the doorway. "I hope I don't interrupt?"
Blushing like a schoolgirl, Mrs. Mackenzie released herself and the trader laughed mirthlessly. "You're a saucy minx, Bee," he said, with a little catch in his voice. Then the primitive masculine impulse asserted itself and he went out, covered with confusion.
"What have you been doing, Bee?"
"Nothing much. How pretty you are, Aunt Eleanor! I haven't seen your cheeks so pink for many a day."
The deep colour mantled Mrs. Mackenzie's fair face. "Where's Robert?" she asked hastily.
"Don't know," murmured Beatrice, instantly beating a retreat. "See, Aunt Eleanor."
Out of the mysterious recesses of her pocket, she drew a bag, made of gay calico, with a long string attached to it.
"Very pretty—what is it for, dear?"
"It's for cartridges," laughed Beatrice. "If I ride with the soldiers, I have to bear arms. I've got my pistol—the one Mr. Ronald gave me the day after I came here, and I'm going over to the Fort now, after ammunition."
She seemed to be in high spirits as she pirouetted around the room, but there was an undertone of sadness, even in her laugh. She was half-way to the door when she turned, moved by a sudden tenderness, and came back.
"Dear, sweet Aunt Eleanor," she said, rubbing her cheek against Mrs. Mackenzie's, "you've always been so good to me. Perhaps you've thought me ungrateful, but truly I'm not, and I want to thank you now."
"You've been like a second daughter to me, dear," said the other, a little unsteadily, "you've done more for me than I ever could do for you."
Ronald was waiting for Beatrice on the other side of the river while she was pulling across, and she waved her bright coloured bag at him in gay fashion. "You gave me a gun," she said, "but you didn't give me anything to put in it. I want cartridges."
"How many?" he asked, smiling.
"As many as the bag will hold."
"Foolish child, you never can carry all those."
"Oh, but I can—you don't know how strong I am! I'm going to tie it around my waist, you know."
"Happy bag," said Ronald, as he took it from her. "I'll get them for you," he continued, seriously.
"One thing more," she said, with lowered voice. "If—if—well, the Indians will never get me. And they shall not have Queen. Where shall I shoot?"
"Fire at the exact centre of the line between Queen's eyes."
In spite of herself the girl shuddered. "And—and—?" she asked, looking up into his face.
"The right temple," answered Ronald, huskily. "Heart's Desire, you are a mate for a king!"
Forsyth passed them on his way to the entrance of the Fort, and Beatrice put out a restraining hand. "Where are you going, Cousin Rob?"
"Home—to open school."
"I thought this was vacation?"
"It is, but it is better for the children, under the circumstances, to have their minds occupied."
The oars splashed in the water, and Ronald turned to her again. "Darling—"
"Look," interrupted Beatrice, "there's the Lieutenant." She hailed him merrily. "Cousin Ralph, is Katherine at home?"
"I believe so," he answered, coming toward them; "if not, she's at Mrs. Franklin's."
"I'm going to find her." She made an elaborate courtesy to each of them, and departed.
"Ronald," said the Lieutenant, "this is absolute foolishness, and something has got to be done. How many hundred Indians do you suppose have already gathered here—and Black Partridge postponing the council till the rest get in—any fool can see what it means!"
"Yes, any fool but the Captain," said the Ensign, bitterly.
The parade-ground was deserted, for the August heats beat fiercely upon the land. Stray Indians went in and out, and the sentinel, with his musket over his shoulder, paced round and round the Fort. Lieutenant Howard cleared his throat.
"The lives of the women and children are in our hands," he said, in a low tone. "I'm not speaking for ourselves, now. If Franklin is still set on this mad course, there's only one thing to do." His face and voice were eloquent with sinister meaning.
The flag hung like a limp rag at the masthead and the long droning notes of the locusts sounded loudly in the tense stillness. "Murder," whispered Ronald, with his face white.
"Yes, murder, if you will have so. It's a harsh word, but I don't quibble at the term. 'Cæsar had his Brutus, King Charles his Cromwell, and——'"
Ronald's head was bowed and his hands were tightly clenched. Sharp, hissing breaths came and went between his set teeth and the Lieutenant put his hand upon his shoulder.
"Boy," he said, in a softer tone, "I'm a soldier, like you. So far, I've marched as you have, true to my colours, but of late, I've been wondering if it wasn't time to turn. Since the first soldiers marched against the enemy, there has been a false worship of orders—we have regarded the dictum of a commander as equivalent to a fiat of God.
"Good men and true have gone to a needless death, because the commander was a fool. You know what we're coming to. You can see it, plain as day. Do you remember, up at Lee's that night, you felt the mutilated bodies of those two men, and came back, with your hands stained with their blood? Our boys will be treated worse than that, if the Captain has his way."
"If you were in command—" said Ronald, thickly.
"If I were in command, that order should be torn to bits and scattered to the four winds. Every ounce of food in the Agency storehouse, every pound of powder and shot, every musket, every rifle, and every pistol, should be brought into the Fort.
"I would drive the cattle inside the enclosure, keep a few in the stables, kill the rest, salt down the meat, and preserve it. A cellar should be prepared for the women and children, a hospital corps drilled, the cannon in the blockhouses manned, and the gates of the Fort closed.
"If I were in command there should be no needless slaughter, no torture of women and children, no disembowelling of our soldiers, no cutting our hearts out while we are still alive. No! We'd fight like soldiers, die like men; we'd hold the Fort till the flag was shot to pieces and not a man stood among its ashes to defend it, if I were in command!"
"If you were in command—" muttered Ronald.
"If I were in command, Fort Dearborn should go down to history with honour, not shame. Water and food are assured. What if the British with all their forces were hammering at our gates, allied with the red devils as they are! We have the Fort at our backs—they have the river and the open prairie. We could hold it for six months, if necessary. The War Department says: 'No post shall be surrendered without battle having been given,' and, by the Lord, we'd give a battle that would fill hell with our enemies. One stroke will do it—one bullet from our precious store of ammunition—one man brave enough to strike; but it must be done to-night—now!"
The Ensign's face was ghastly. "Think what it means to you," whispered the Lieutenant. "Think of the woman you love! Oh, I know—I have not been blind. Would you see her put to the torture, stripped, violated, torn limb from limb by those fiends that even now are watching the Fort?
"Think of their bloody, cruel hands upon her soft flesh—think of the torture—eyes burned out with charred sticks—finger-nails split off backward—things that there are no words to name, while Beatrice cries to you!
"Boy, think of the woman you love, with her big childish eyes,—shall the savages burn them out? Her dimpled hands—shall her fingers be torn out, one by one? Her sweet voice—shall it cry to you in vain? Think of her fair white body, at the mercy of two thousand fiends! Think what she means to you—her beauty and her laughter—her tenderness and her thorns—then think of this! One man—one bullet—one moment—to-night—now!"
His voice died into a hoarse whisper and Ronald writhed in anguish. For an instant, only, the scales hung in the balance, then he turned and faced him.
"No!" he roared, "by God, no! I'll protect the woman I love while a drop of blood is left in my body—as long as this sword has a hand behind it to fight. If I am powerless to save her, she shall die at my hands, but I'll be no beast!
"I'll not commit murder like a Brutus or a Cromwell. I'll not strike down my Captain like a thief in the night! I'll stab no man in the back—I'll meet him face to face in fair and open fight, and may the best man win!
"Ralph, you're beside yourself—you don't know what you're saying. You're a soldier, man, you're not a brute! Stand fast to your soldier's honour, and let God do as He will!
"We're all against him—officers and men. Perhaps there's not a man in barracks who would hesitate at what you ask—mutiny and insurrection stalk abroad in our midst, but, by the Lord, I'll obey my orders! Strike the blow if you will—go like a coward and a thief to take the life of a brave man, who is doing what seems to him his duty—hire your contemptible assassin if you choose, but remember this—the man who touches one hair of my Captain's head, answers for it—to me!"
CHAPTER XIX
SAVED FROM HIMSELF
The morning of August twelfth dawned with burning heat. The lake lay as smooth as a sea of glass and from the south-west came the dreaded wind of the prairies, hot as a blast from a furnace and laden with dust. The sun blazed pitilessly in a cloudless sky and countless Indians patrolled the Fort, the Agency House, and the trading station.
The newcomers were alive with curiosity. Many of them had never seen the Fort before, and they swarmed in and out unceasingly. Through the wicket gate and the main entrance, past the soldiers' barracks, guard-house, hospital, storehouse, magazine, and contractor's store, back and forth between the officers' barracks, the Indians continually passed. They lay down on their faces to smell of the drain, muttered unintelligibly when they came to the subterranean passage, and wondered at the flag, with its fifteen stripes and fifteen stars, that hung limply at the staff.
They openly defied the sentinels at the gate, climbed into the blockhouses, where they surreptitiously felt of the cannon and peered furtively into the muzzles, and even went into the officers' quarters. It was the kind of a visit that one makes to an occupied house, on the eve of taking possession.
"Wallace," said Mrs. Franklin, "isn't there any way to keep these people out of the Fort?"
"Why, I hadn't thought about it," returned the Captain, absently. "They're not doing any harm, are they?"
"They haven't as yet," retorted Mrs. Franklin, with spirit, "but they're likely to at any moment. I don't want them in my house, and I won't have them here!"
"Tell them so," laughed the Captain. "I have no doubt of the effectiveness of your request."
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not making fun of you, dear, but it is of the utmost importance that we do nothing to excite the Indians. If they think we are unfriendly, mischief may easily result. I suppose our houses and the Fort have the same interest for them that their wigwams and blankets had for us, when we first saw Indians. Personally, I have no objection whatever to their examining our weapons of offence and defence."
Mrs. Franklin sighed. "When do we go?" she asked.
"As soon as possible after the council, which will be held this afternoon. It takes time, however, to prepare sixty or seventy people for a long overland journey."
"I wish we had boats."
"So do I, but we haven't. Still, I don't know that we'd be any better off, at the mouth of the St. Joseph River, without guides, than we are here. There may be a trail from the river across to Detroit, but I don't know anything about it. Lieutenant Swearingen marched his company around by land, when the Fort was built. When we get to Fort Wayne, we'll either stay there, or go on to Detroit with a larger force. It depends upon the movements of the British."
"Some way, Wallace, I'm afraid of trouble—I don't know why."
"I don't think there'll be any trouble, dear, but the idea that it would be right and proper to disobey the order appears to be spreading. Mackenzie is at the bottom of it, of course, and I don't know that we should blame him, for it means heavy financial loss to him. Yet he never could have established himself here if it had not been for the Fort, and it is his place to uphold the military, rather than to work against it; but there's no accounting for the vagaries of the human mind. All of his work here has been contingent upon the protection of the Fort; when that is withdrawn, he has no right to complain. Civilians seem to think that an order doesn't mean anything in particular—it's to be obeyed or not, as suits their erratic fancy. A soldier is a man who obeys orders—when he is no longer willing to do that he should get a discharge."
"Do you think the Indians will destroy this house, after we leave?"
"Probably, and the Fort also. Quarrels are bound to occur among the different tribes before long, and while they are settling their disputes in their own way, we'll get well on to Fort Wayne."
"I've thought," said Mrs. Franklin, slowly, "that Lieutenant Howard was inclined to make trouble. I haven't had any reason to think so, but I can't get it out of my head."
"It's quite possible," returned the Captain, with a significant shrug of his shoulders, "for he is one of the men who are always against everything they do not originate. He's been chafing at his bit all along because he isn't in command. If he were Captain, he'd want to be a step higher—I suppose he thinks himself capable of handling the whole army. But don't bother yourself about it, dear—we'll get through some way. I must go, now—I've got things to see to."
In and out of the stockade, parties of Indians were still passing, braves and squaws, who took great interest in their new surroundings. Mrs. Franklin locked her door, but savage faces continually appeared at the windows and at last she determined to go out upon the parade-ground and find a soldier or two to protect her.
When she opened the door, she started violently, and put her hand upon her heart.
"I'm sorry I frightened you," said Katherine. "I'm frightened myself. I don't like to have those Indians running in and out. Four squaws just came into my house and began to look around, just as if I had something that belonged to them. I don't know what they're doing now—they're still there. Can't we get some of the boys to drive them out and shut the gates?"
Before there was time for an answer, three braves and two squaws entered the Captain's house and began to inspect the furnishings of the room. Katherine was stiff with terror, but Mrs. Franklin was angry. She held her peace, however, until one of the warriors took down a musket from the wall, aimed it at the ceiling, and fired.
In an instant the Captain's wife was on her feet. Her husband's rifle was on the table behind her, and quick as a flash, she levelled it at the intruders. "Out of my house, you dogs!" she cried, and the Indians retreated, pausing outside just long enough to make savage grimaces at the women.
The report of the musket brought Ronald and some soldiers to the rescue. "What's up?" he asked, looking from one to the other.
It was Katherine who explained, for Mrs. Franklin's courage had deserted her, and she was trembling so she could not speak. "Cheer up, Mamie," said the Ensign—"I'll see to it."
Upon his own responsibility, he cleared the Fort of the intruders, closed the south gate, and put a double line of armed sentinels at the north entrance.
No sooner was it accomplished than Captain Franklin came out of the offices. "May I ask," he sarcastically inquired of Ronald, "by whose authority you have done this?"
The Ensign saluted. "By the authority of a Second Lieutenant who sees the wife of his Captain in danger," he answered stiffly, then turned on his heel and walked away.
The two women were sitting on the piazza and the Captain did not share Ronald's fears for their safety. Mackenzie and Black Partridge passed through the line of sentinels and he went to meet them.
"He says," began the trader, indicating the chief, "that noon of the sun is too early for the council, but that at the second hour after noon, he and his people will be assembled upon the esplanade, to await the pleasure of the White Father."
"Very well," said the Captain, carelessly.
Black Partridge went out and the Indians at once began to rally around him. At least a thousand, including the squaws, came out of the woods and were assigned to different stations, according to their rank. The chiefs of the several branches of the Pottawattomies and the chiefs of allied tribes, had places of honour in the front ranks. The braves and young warriors came next, and the squaws were grouped a little way off, by themselves.
For fully an hour before the appointed time, the solid phalanx waited in the broiling sun. Some of the squaws sat upon the hot ground, but the braves stood, silent and statuesque, with grim fortitude. The Ensign went to the gate of the Fort and took a long look at the assembly, frankly admitting to himself that he did not like the appearance of it.
When he had turned back and had passed the sentinels, Doctor Norton stopped him. "Ronald," he said, in a low tone, "the boys are talking mutiny."
The Ensign considered a moment. "How do you know?"
"Well, I've overheard two or three significant remarks that seemed to point in the same direction."
"Who began it?"
"It seems to have started in about fifty places at once."
"Do you know the names of the men?"
"No, I do not." Ronald knew that the Doctor lied, and respected him for it.
"Do you think the boys thought of it by themselves?"
"I should judge so—I didn't hear any references to the officers."
Ronald looked at him quickly but he appeared unconscious. "I just thought I'd tell you," he continued. "Of course, it's none of my affair."
"All right—much obliged to you."
The Doctor went away and Ronald went immediately to his superior officer. "Lieutenant Howard," he demanded sternly, "have you been talking mutiny to the men?"
Howard's eyes met his squarely. "No," he said sharply, "have you?"
Ronald retreated, shamefaced and ill at ease. "I—I beg your pardon."
"The boys aren't fools," laughed the Lieutenant. "They can see farther than some. I've spoken to no one but you, but if mutiny arises, I'll let it take its rightful course."
"Well, I won't. Remember what I said."
"I can't remember all your valuable utterances. Don't cast your pearls before swine, but reserve them for—for a more appreciative audience."
Stung to the quick by the insult, Ronald instinctively put his hand on his sword. Then both saw the Captain coming swiftly toward them, and waited.
"It is time for the council," he said.
"Well?" queried the Lieutenant, after an awkward pause.
"Are you going with me?"
Silence.
"Lieutenant Howard and Ensign Ronald, it is time for the council I have appointed with the Indians. Are you going with me?"
"An order, Captain?" inquired Ronald.
"Neither an order nor a request—not even a suggestion. It is an opportunity, to be taken or not, as you choose."
"Speaking for myself," said Ronald, "I do not see what we could accomplish by going. You are the army and the officers of it."
"As you pay no attention to our suggestions," remarked the Lieutenant, "I prefer to remain here."
"Very well." The Captain and Mackenzie went out alone.
"Better go to the blockhouse, hadn't we?" asked Ronald. "There may be trouble."
"I hope there will be," answered Howard. "Let Franklin fight it out alone with his precious Indians. Providence may yet intervene and give me the command."
Ronald went to the blockhouse alone, trained the cannon at the port-holes, and watched the Indians. After the first formal greetings were exchanged, the business of the afternoon began. Franklin spoke to Mackenzie, who translated for the benefit of Black Partridge, and he, in turn, conveyed the message to the assembly.
"We come for the last time," said Captain Franklin, "to speak with our brothers, the red men. Your Great Chief has told you how our Great Chief has bidden us to assemble at another place and how, though our hearts are torn with sorrow, we must obey the command. We have sent swift messengers a day's journey and more on every side, that we might say farewell to those with whom we have so long dwelt in peace. The goods in yonder storehouse, by the mandate of the Great White Father, are to be given to our brothers as a parting gift, that they may long hold us in kindly remembrance, as we shall them.
"We ask, however, a favour in return. We ask that some of our noble brothers, such as it may please, shall escort us to Fort Wayne, the place of our first assembly, and long known to the red men, who have many friends there. We ask that our brothers shall aid us in protecting our women and children from the dangers of the trail. If any are graciously inclined to do this kindness for us, we shall press upon them still other gifts when we reach our destination."
Black Partridge, in a loud voice, repeated the speech in the Indian tongue. Each of the chiefs in the front rank then expressed an opinion upon the subject, as he was asked by the spokesman. Then Black Partridge spoke apart with Mackenzie.
"They say," said the interpreter, "that it is well. They will joyously receive the goods in the storehouse as a parting gift from their white brothers, beside whom they have so long dwelt in peace. The plains will be lonely and the river sad without the palefaces. The houses of the Great White Father will be desolate when the friends of the red men are gone, but as it is written, so must it be. The bravest of the warriors will attend on the trail to Fort Wayne and safely shield the friends of the red men from savages and wild beasts. From all that stalks abroad with intent to slay, the friends of the palefaces will guard them. Let the children of the Great White Father have no fear. All shall be well. Side by side shall they journey with their brothers, the Pottawattomies and the allied tribes. In three moons, or perhaps two, if the Great Spirit is kind, the palefaces will return to dwell with their brothers once more, when their assembly is over and the Great White Father has made known unto them his commands."
"Tell them," said Captain Franklin, "that at the same hour of to-morrow's sun, the presents shall be given them. They shall have blankets, prints, calicoes, broadcloths, and adornments for their women and their papooses. For the Great Chiefs there will be tobacco, war paints, cunning contrivances for the sharpening of weapons, and provisions against the long cold Winter when the hunting grounds are barren, which is but four moons away. Say that the Great White Father will be pleased when he learns how the Great Chiefs, with their fearless braves and warriors, have safely guided his children unto the place of assembly."
"They say it is well," said Mackenzie, after the speech and its answer had been duly made, "and that at the same hour of to-morrow's sun they will assemble here, to receive the parting tokens of the Great White Father."
With much ceremony, the council was concluded and the Indians dispersed. Black Partridge lingered to express his pleasure because all had gone well, then he, too, went along the river bank to the woods where the Indians were gathered.
"Captain," said Mackenzie, "I want to talk to you a bit."
"All right—let's go back to the Fort, where it's cooler."
Ronald came down from the blockhouse as they entered the stockade and went across the river, where Beatrice was visible at a shaded window.
"How about the ammunition and liquor?" asked the trader. "Are you going to include that in the distribution?"
"I hadn't thought about it—why?"
"It's risky," said Mackenzie. "We don't want to furnish them with weapons to use against us. Arm those seven hundred Indians with muskets, give them powder and shot, fill them up with liquor, and where would we be?"
"It might amuse them," replied the Captain, thoughtfully. "If there was whiskey enough in the storehouse to get every man of them dead drunk, except our guides, it might be the best thing to do."
"Unfortunately, we can't force the proper quantity down the throat of each one. Some are wiser than the rest and they wouldn't drink."
"Well, suppose they had the muskets—wouldn't they use them against each other?"
"No," said the trader, conclusively, "they wouldn't. They'd turn against us."
"I hardly think that any of them will go with us, except Black Partridge and a few of his friends. By to-morrow, numerous fights will have started, and they'll be too busy to notice our departure. Besides, they have promised."
"Captain Franklin, the promise of an Indian is absolutely worthless, as you must know by this time. Since the troubles on the Wabash, the general trend of feeling toward us has been hostile. Their tomahawks are bad enough—they don't need our own weapons. When I got as far as De Charme's, last Fall, on my way to Detroit, and heard of the battle of Tippecanoe, I turned back immediately to Fort Dearborn and sent messengers to the outer trading posts with positive orders to furnish neither ammunition nor liquor to the Indians. Do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember. Perhaps it would be as well to keep back the liquor and ammunition, but in that case, they must not know we have them. How can we manage?"
"Bring everything into the Fort secretly, by night, and destroy it."
"Very well," said the Captain, after a silence; "you have had better opportunities than I have had to gain an intimate knowledge of the Indians. To-night and to-morrow night, as secretly as may be, I will have the goods brought in and destroyed."
After Mackenzie went home, the Captain went out to walk back and forth on the prairie near the Fort. His head was bowed and his arms were folded. In spite of General Hull's order and the friendly professions of the Indians, he felt the situation keenly. His responsibility sat heavily upon him, for he knew his officers were opposed to him and had begun to suspect that the men were disaffected. He would not have been surprised at a mutiny, feeling, as he did, that it was a case of one man against the world.
From a window, Katherine saw him walking to and fro, and at first she thought it was her husband, but a second look convinced her of her mistake. She was about to turn away when something arrested her attention.
On the Captain's right, and at some little distance from him, an Indian was moving stealthily toward the Fort. On his left, and still farther away from him, another was doing the same thing.
The Captain turned to the right, and instantly the Indian on that side dropped full length on the grass, while the other moved more quickly toward the Fort. When the Captain turned to the left the manoeuvre was repeated, but it was some time before she grasped the horrid significance of their actions.
When she perceived that both Indians were endeavouring to get between the Captain and the Fort, the blood froze in her veins. The parade-ground was deserted, and the long, droning notes of the locusts were the only sound she heard. She screamed, but the Captain did not turn, and no one seemed to hear. At the gate the sentinel leaned on his musket, unconscious of danger. She screamed again, but could not hear her own voice.
Then the springs of action threw off their lethargy. She dashed out of the house and flew over the parade-ground, with the taste of hot blood in her mouth and a heavy weight upon her breast. Trembling in every nerve, she climbed the ladder that led to the blockhouse, and entered, flushed and gasping. She was dimly conscious that she was not alone, but there was no time to waste.
Praying that she might not be too late, she seized a loaded musket, aimed through the porthole, and fired. It seemed an age before she saw the Captain through the smoke, running back to the Fort, and the two Indians making for the woods.
"Thank God!" she breathed, "thank God!" Then she turned—and faced her husband, his face so ghastly that she scarcely knew him.
"Ralph!" she whispered, hoarsely. "Ralph!"
His eyes refused to meet hers, and a tumult surged in her brain. Detached pictures of her childhood, confused and unrelated memories, and a thousand trivial things passed swiftly before her mental vision. Then, as if by magic, there was a clearing—all things gave way to the horrible knowledge that he had seen—and had failed to warn.
"Ralph! Ralph! My husband!"
The blood beat hard in her pulses and her lips curled in scorn. Then her unspeakable contempt melted to pity, as she saw how the man was suffering. Like an avenging angel she stood before him, confronting him mutely with his sin.
Captain Franklin came into the Fort. As the Lieutenant saw him safe and sound, he groaned deeply, like one whose suspense is ended. Then he raised his eyes to the face of his wife.
"I thank you, Katherine," he said, gravely; "you have saved me from myself."
CHAPTER XX
RECONCILIATION
That night, while the sentries kept guard, Lieutenant Howard paced to and fro, as sleepless and as vigilant as they. Now and then parties of soldiers came through the gates with ammunition or liquor from the Agency, and piled it in front of the storehouse to await the Captain's orders. Throughout the night the contraband goods were transported, as quietly as possible, in order that the suspicions of the Indians might not be aroused.
The Second in Command was in the midst of that battle with self which every man fights at least once in his life. The events of the past few days and his own part in them confronted him with persistent accusation. The prairie beyond the Fort and the figure of the Captain were etched upon his mental vision with the acid of relentless memory.
The scales fell from his eyes at last, and he saw himself clearly—mutinous, insubordinate, unworthy of his office; distrusting his wife and alienating his friends. Conscience, too long asleep, awoke to demand such reparation as lay in his power to make.
Ten minutes more and it would have been too late. Ten minutes more and the deadly tomahawk of an unseen foe would have been buried in the Captain's brain. That little space of time was all that stood between him and the command of Fort Dearborn—a command which he had planned to use in open rebellion against the orders of his superior officer.
Cold sweat stood out upon his forehead, and his clenched hands trembled. Ten minutes more and he would have been a murderer in deed as well as in thought, though his hands would not have been stained and there would have been no proof of his guilt. The pine knots blazed fitfully in the crevices of the stockade, turning to a ghastly glare as daylight came on. "A murderer!" he said to himself over and over again; "a murderer!" He was like one who wakes from some horrible nightmare with the spell of it still upon him, and wondering yet if it is not true.
Behind it all was a new emotion,—a new feeling for Katherine. Her hand had saved him. She had drawn him back from the brink of the abyss even as the ground was crumbling beneath his feet—Katherine, his wife, whom he had sworn to love and to cherish, and whom he had made miserable instead. To-morrow, or at most the day after, would see the end of it all. Two days remained in which to make atonement—two days, snatched from the past, to fulfil the promise of the future that once had seemed so fair.
"All in, sir," said a soldier. "Not a box nor a barrel is left at the Agency. It's all there." He pointed to a pyramid in front of the storehouse, which was almost as high as the building itself.
"No one saw you?" queried the Lieutenant.
"No, sir; no one saw. One of the pickets has just come in, and he says, sir, that every blamed Injun is up in the north woods. There's been a dance going on all night."
"Very well," answered the Lieutenant, carelessly; but his heart sank within him.
"Mad Margaret was there, too, sir—she was havin' one of her spells."
"Well," said the Lieutenant, sharply, "what of it?"
"Nothing, sir—excuse me, sir." The soldier saluted and went away.
The night wind died down and the sun rose in a fury of heat. No clouds softened the hard, metallic sky—it was like a concave mirror on which the sun beat pitilessly.
The guard was changed, and presently Doctor Norton came out on the parade-ground. When he saw who was there, he turned to go back, then waited, for the Lieutenant was coming swiftly toward him.
They faced each other for a moment, like adversaries measuring the opposing strength, then Norton smiled. "Well?" he asked calmly.
"I have not come to you," said the Lieutenant, thickly, "as you have doubtless expected me to. We have no time to cherish any sort of a grudge when, in two days at least, we start for Fort Wayne. You know what awaits us on the way, and if worst comes to worst, and I can no longer protect her, I ask you to make Mrs. Howard your especial care."
Schooled as he was in self-control, the Doctor started, and the expression of his face changed as he looked keenly at the Lieutenant.
"What!" cried the other, scornfully, "are you not willing to do that much for her?"
"Lieutenant Howard, as you say, it is no time to cherish a grudge. What you have asked of me would be an honour at any time, but I will not accept the trust until you know from me how I stand. I love your wife with all my heart and soul."
"Have you told her so?" asked Howard, quickly.
"In words, no—but I think she understands—in fact, I hope and believe that she understands."
The silence was tense, and Lieutenant Howard gnawed his mustache nervously. His hand went to his belt instinctively, then dropped to his side.
"I fear you have misjudged her," the Doctor continued. "A purer, truer woman never drew the breath of life. In word or act or thought she has never been disloyal to you. I said a moment ago that I loved her, but it is more than that—it is the worship that a man gives to a woman as far above him as the stars."
"In that case," said Howard, in a hoarse whisper, "you are well fitted to protect her."
"You still offer me that trust?" asked the other, eagerly.
The answer was scarcely audible. "I do."
Their eyes met in a long look of keen scrutiny on one side, and of fearless honesty upon the other. Then Norton extended his hand. The Lieutenant grasped it, caught his breath quickly, then turned away, for once the master of himself.
Beatrice came out of the Captain's house and smiled at him as he stood there with his head bowed. "You're—you're out early," he said, with an effort.
"I couldn't sleep. It was hot, and—Cousin Ralph, you must tell me. I am not a child, to be kept in the dark. What is this horrible thing that seems to be hovering over us? Uncle John does not speak to any one; twice yesterday I found Aunt Eleanor crying; Cousin Rob and Mr. Ronald are not in the least like themselves; Kit and Mrs. Franklin are as pale as ghosts, and you—I saw you walking here all night. What does it mean? Tell me!"
"We fear attack," he answered sharply.
"Indians or British?"
"Indians—under British orders."
For a moment the girl stared at him as if she did not believe what he said. "Would they—would they—" she gasped, "turn those fiends upon us?"
"Yes," he cried, "they would! They have done so in times past and they will do so again! They—I beg your pardon—I have forgotten myself—I—I—"
"Cousin Ralph, you are not well. You have walked all night, and you need rest. I understand your anxiety, your fears for us, but you need not be alarmed. We are women, but we are weak only in body—at heart we are soldiers like you, and, like you, we will obey orders. Cousin Ralph! You are ill! Come!"
He staggered, but did not fall. Beatrice put her arm around him and helped him home. "Don't be frightened, Kit," she said, when the door was opened; "he's just tired. He's been up all night and sleep will bring him to himself again."
"Can I help?" asked Forsyth, anxiously. He had come to ask Beatrice if she would not breakfast at home.
"Yes, please," said Mrs. Howard, quietly. "Help me get him into bed. He has been under a great nervous strain."
Beatrice sat on the piazza and waited. She had said she was not weak, but she was suffering keenly, none the less. After a little Robert came back. "He went to sleep immediately," he said; "but Mrs. Howard prefers to stay with him."
"Then we'll go home," she sighed. Together they went out of the stockade into the merciless heat that already had set shimmering waves to vibrating in the air. She drooped like a broken lily—her strength was gone.
Robert's heart went out to her in pity, and something more. When they reached the piazza he put his hand upon her arm. "Beatrice, dear," he said, softly, "lean on me. I cannot bear to see you so—my darling, let me help you!"
His voice shook, but she did not seem to hear. "I'm tired," she answered dully; "I—I didn't sleep." She put him away from her very gently. "I—I'm so tired," she repeated, with an hysterical laugh that sounded like a sob. "I don't want any breakfast—I just want to lie down and rest. Don't let Aunt Eleanor worry."
She went down the passage unsteadily, and he watched her until she was safely within her own room. He quieted Mrs. Mackenzie's fears as best he could, and managed to eat a part of his breakfast, though it was as dust and ashes in his mouth.
"Rob," said the trader, "can you help me to-day?"
"Certainly, Uncle."
"We've got to get all the goods out of here and out of the Agency, and divide them into lots of equal value. Black Partridge says seven hundred of his people are entitled to the gifts. The Captain and I decided last night to put the things out behind the Fort, send the Indians by in single file, and let each one choose as he will. Black Partridge agreed to the plan. He will form the line himself, so there's no chance for trouble."
The bateau was put into service, and Chandonnais was instructed to carry all the stores from the trading station to the esplanade, where two of the soldiers kept guard. Mackenzie and Forsyth, with the aid of a number of soldiers, carried out nearly all the stores from the Agency House, reserving only the provisions needed for the march.
Mackenzie had made out lists the night before from his inventory, so the task was not as difficult as it first appeared. As the men brought out the goods, articles of a kind were grouped together, so, with the aid of his note-book, the lots were quickly formed.
Had it not been for the heat, the task would have been finished by noon; but two o'clock found the tired men still at work and the long line of Indians waiting impatiently, kept back by the pickets on guard and the commands of their chief.
"Why," said Mackenzie, in surprise, "the things aren't all here. Three blankets are missing, two hams, a side of bacon, some calico, and I don't know what all."
"Haven't you made a mistake, Uncle?"
"No, I'm sure I haven't. Somebody must have stolen them, but I don't know how nor when it could have happened. Go up to the Fort, Rob, and get all the blankets they can spare—I can even up while you're gone."
The Indians were waiting with ill-concealed eagerness, and in half an hour more the word was given. Each went in turn to the wide stretch of prairie where the piles of merchandise were placed, and where sentinels were stationed to prevent stealing. When one started back with his goods, another went, and so on, until late in the afternoon.
On account of the great number of Indians and the reservation of provisions for the march, as well as four months' depletion of the stores, the portion of each one was small; but there were no signs of discontent until the distribution was over and the last Indian gathered up the single pile that was left and went back to his place at the foot of the line.
Then Black Partridge called Mackenzie and said he wished to speak to Captain Franklin.
"The goods of the White Father have been given to his children, the red men," translated Mackenzie. "We have received the blankets, calicoes, prints, paints, broadcloths, and the tobacco that the White Father promised us at the second hour after noon of yesterday's sun. All is as it was written. But where is the powder and shot of the Great White Father? Where are the muskets that were in the storehouse? Why can we not have weapons for our hunting during the long Winter that is but four moons away?
"The feet of the palefaces have a strange tread. They have frightened away the deer, the wolves, and the foxes that the Great Spirit has placed in the forest for his children to slay. Where is the firewater that strengthens the arm and the heart of the red man—the firewater which is the best gift of the Great White Father? Much of it was in the storehouse—we have seen it with our own eyes, but now it is gone."
"Say to him," said the Captain, "that when the strange tread of the palefaces has died away on the trail, the forest will once more fill with the wolves and the deer and the foxes that the Great Spirit has given for his children to kill. In the meantime, we leave our cattle for our brothers, the Pottawattomies, beside whom we have so long dwelt in peace. The grass is green upon the plains and there is water for all. When the long Winter night comes upon them, the hay that we have stacked in the fields will sustain the cattle until the Great Spirit once more sends the sun. There are roots in our storehouses with which they may do as they please, and they will not miss the deer and the wolves and the foxes that the palefaces have frightened away.
"The firewater which our brothers think they have seen in our storehouses was not firewater, but only empty casks. The red man is brave, and it has been written by the Great White Father that he needs no firewater to strengthen his arm and his heart. It is for women and for children and for men who are not strong, as the medicine man of the Pottawattomies has told them many times. It would be displeasing to the Great White Father should we take away the firewater from the palefaces who need it, for the sake of the red men who need it not.
"We have given to our brothers freely all that we have to give. It is a sorrow in our hearts that there is not more, but our storehouses are empty, as they must see, and other gifts are promised at the place of our assembly.
"When other moons have waxed and waned, and when the Great White Father has made known unto us his commands, we shall return once more to the river and the plains to dwell by the Great Blue Water with our brothers, the Pottawattomies, whose kindness and whose wise counsels are forever written in our hearts."
"They say it is well," said Mackenzie, when the long speech and its brief answer had been translated; "and that they will pray unceasingly to the Great Spirit that the moons may be few ere the friends of the red men return."
Forsyth and Mackenzie went home thoroughly exhausted. Night brought no relief from the intense heat, and the guards paced listlessly to and fro. Under cover of the darkness a small company of soldiers, under Ronald's orders, broke up the muskets and flint-locks, wet down the powder, put the shot into the well in the sally-port, and knocked in the heads of the barrels containing liquor.
Careful as they were, noise was inevitable. Barrel after barrel was rolled to the river bank and its contents poured into the stream. A cask of alcohol shared the same fate, and the peculiar, pungent odour filled the air.
"It's too late, sir," said a soldier, when he came in, rolling the last empty barrel before him.
"What do you mean?" demanded Ronald.
"The Indians, sir. Three of them are lying in the grass downstream, drinking the river water for the sake of the grog."
"Where are the rest?"
"In the woods, sir, dancing, same as last night. The northern pickets told me, sir."
A long, low whistle came from the Ensign's lips. "If I might be so bold, sir," continued the man, in a low tone, "some of the boys have thought as how you weren't falling in with this order of the Cap'n's. Orders is orders—we know that—but the boys are with you, to a man. We'll do whatever you say, sir."
In spite of the threat which the words veiled, Ronald was deeply touched by the devotion of the barracks. He laid his hand on the man's shoulders before speaking.
"To be with me is to be with the Captain," he said. "It is one and the same. Trying times must come to all of us, and for a soldier there can be no nobler end than to die fighting for his country. Captain Franklin will ask no one of us to go where he would not go himself. Tell the boys that, and that to stand by the Captain is to stand by me."
"All right, sir. And the barrels isn't all emptied. There's a cask over in the barracks. The boys thought it might hearten 'em up a bit, and they said, sir, that you wouldn't care."
"You are welcome to it," answered Ronald, absently, "but make a good use of it. We'll need a steady hand, each and every man of us, when we start out on the march."
The night sentinels came on and the soldier went on to the barracks, where his comrades were making merry with the wine. "I wonder," said Ronald to himself, "what would have happened if he had said that to—to another?"
Even in his thought he did not name the Lieutenant, but, as he passed the house, he saw Katherine moving back and forth before the open window. "Poor girl," he said aloud. "Poor girl!"
Katherine had had a hard day, even though her husband had slept without a break since Forsyth helped her get him into bed. At first she thought he had been drinking, though she knew he was not in the habit of it. Mrs. Franklin had been over and had been told indifferently that the Lieutenant was tired out and was resting.
It was late when he awoke, rubbed his eyes, and sat up in bed. Katherine went to him and put her cool hand upon his hot face. "Are you better, dear?" she asked.
"Yes," he sighed; "I'm all right. It's hot, isn't it?"
She sat down on the bed beside him and talked to him soothingly, as if he were a tired child. She told him everything that had occurred during the day, and said she was glad he could rest. She got him a glass of water, then bathed his flushed face with a soft cloth and stroked his hands gently with her cool fingers.
For a long time he watched her as she ministered to him with unfailing gentleness. Her straight shoulders were bent a little and there were lines upon her face; but the ashen gold of her hair and the deep blue of her eyes were the same as when he first loved her—so long ago. He remembered the mad joy that possessed him when his lips first touched hers, and the crushing sorrow of their bereavement, which should have drawn them closer together, but instead had driven them apart. He knew that another man loved her and that she knew it also, yet she had been loyal.
As she went out, he wondered whether another woman in her place would have been true to him. With a swift searching of self he tried to remember some tender word that he had said to her, but it was all blotted out, as if darkness had come between them. For the first time he looked at their life together from her point of view, and shuddered as he saw how she might think of him. Her silence and her patience were evident to him, as they had not been before. Many a time he had seen the blue eyes fill and the sweet mouth tremble at some careless word of his, and often, too, he had seen her shut her teeth together hard when some shaft was meant to sting.
Two days were left—no, only one—for it was night now. One day in which to atone for the countless hurts of the past four years. The dominant self melted into unwonted tenderness as she came back into the room.
"I was gone too long," she said quickly; "but I didn't mean to be."
"Katherine!" he said in a new voice.
"Yes, dear; what is it?" She sat down beside him once more and looked anxiously into his face, fearing that he was ill.
"What is it, dear?" she asked again.
"Nothing," he said huskily; "only that I love you and I want you to forgive me."
"Ralph! Ralph!" she cried, sinking into his arms, "there's nothing to forgive; but I've prayed so long that I might hear you say it!"
"Will you?" he pleaded, with his face hidden against her breast.
"Yes," she cried, "a thousand times, yes! I've wanted you to love me as I've never wanted anything else in the world!"
"I love you with all my soul," he said simply. "I——" A catch in his throat put an end to speech, for her love-lit face, wet with tears, was very near to his. His arms closed hungrily around her, and the lips that but a moment before were quivering with sobs, were crushed in eternal pardon against his own.