Randall Parrish - When Wilderness Was King

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WHEN WILDERNESS WAS KING

A Tale of the Illinois Country

by

RANDALL PARRISH

Author of "My Lady of the North"

A. L. Burt Company, Publishers
New York
Copyright by A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published March 26, 1904
Second Edition, April 20, 1904
Third Edition, July 2, 1904
Fourth Edition, September 20, 1904
Fifth Edition, October 20, 1904
Sixth Edition, January 2, 1905
Seventh Edition, December, 1905
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A Message from the West
II. The Call of Duty
III. A New Acquaintance
IV. Captain Wells of Fort Wayne
V. Through the Heart of the Forest
VI. From the Jaws of Death
VII. A Circle in the Sand
VIII. Two Men and a Maid
IX. In Sight of the Flag
X. A Lane of Peril
XI. Old Fort Dearborn
XII. The Heart of a Woman
XIII. A Wager of Fools
XIV. Darkness and Surprise
XV. An Adventure Underground
XVI. "Prance wins, Monsieur!"
XVII. A Contest of Wits
XVIII. Glimpses of Danger
XIX. A Conference and a Resolve
XX. In the Indian Camp
XXI. A Council of Chiefs
XXII. The Last Night at Dearborn
XXIII. The Death-Shadow of the Miamis
XXIV. The Day of Doom
XXV. In the Jaws of the Tiger
XXVI. The Field of the Dead
XXVII. A Ghostly Vision
XXVIII. An Angel in the Wilderness
XXIX. A Soldier of France
XXX. The Rescue at the Stake
XXXI. A Search, and its Reward
XXXII. The Pledge of a Wyandot
XXXIII. An Intervention of Fate
XXXIV. A Stumble in the Dark
XXXV. The Battle on the Shore
XXXVI. In the New Gray Dawn

"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 comer 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 was
n't the fust chance he 's hed to git it over yere sence. I told him I
'd fetch it, as it was n'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
on Military Road."
"Important."

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.
'T is 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. 'T is 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."

CHAPTER II

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. "'T is 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, 't is 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? 'T is 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.

CHAPTER III

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

I drew rein upon the upper river bank, before we finally plunged into
the dark woods beyond, and glanced back. I had to brush the gathering
tears from my eyes before I could see clearly; and when I finally rode
away, the picture of that dear old home was fixed in my memory forever.
Our house stood near the centre of an oak opening,--a little patch of
native prairie-land, with a narrow stream skirting it on one side, and
a dense fringe of forest all about. The small story-and-a-half cabin
of hewn logs, with its lean-to of rough hand-riven planks, fronted to
the southward; and the northern expanse of roof was green with moss.
My father sat in the open doorway, his uplifted hand shading his eyes
as he gazed after us; while my mother stood by his side, one arm
resting upon the back of his chair, the other extended, waving a white
cloth in farewell. Rover was without, where I had bidden him remain,
eagerly watching for some signal of relenting upon my part. Beyond
stood the rude out-buildings, silhouetted against the deep green. It
was a homely, simple scene,--yet till now it had been all the world to
me.

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