Kitabı oku: «The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn», sayfa 16
"Dear Heart, you must – there is no other way. When you are gone – I – I – "
He looked her full in the face for a moment before she understood. "No!" she cried in anguish; "you shall not!"
"It is best," he said. "I am hurt – even past your healing – it is better than – the torture – and – and – if you are followed, you must do the same. Promise me you will!"
"I promise," she answered, but she hardly knew her own voice.
"They were – in the north," he went on. "To the southward – all is clear. If it were not for me – you would go."
He fumbled around in the sand until he found the pistol and loaded it once more, though his hands shook. Beatrice tried to take it from him, but very gently he put her away.
"It is time," he breathed. "Taps have sounded for me. I said I would not – not speak of it again – but you – you will grant me pardon – I love you – so much that death will make – no difference – I love you – with all – my soul!" With a trembling hand he put the muzzle against his right temple, and looked up into her face with the ghost of a smile. His eyes asked mutely for something more.
Then Beatrice bent over him, and the kiss for which he had vainly pleaded was laid full upon his lips. He caught his breath quickly, with a gasp of pain. "God is very good to me," he said unsteadily. "It was in my dream – but I did not dare – and now – Heart's Desire – good-bye!"
He closed his eyes. There was a sharp crack, a puff of smoke, and the boy was dead; but the supreme exaltation of a man's soul was frozen in his face.
For a long time Beatrice sat there, sobbing helplessly, with his cold hand in hers. It was nine o'clock when they started, and now the sun blazed at the zenith. Mrs. Mackenzie and the children were nowhere in sight – the boat was gone. Beatrice was as absolutely alone as if she had been in a desert. "Oh, if it were dark!" she thought, and then she prayed, in a shrill whisper: "Dear God, make it dark now!"
She felt her reason slipping from her and knew that she must get away. Blinded by her tears, she climbed to the top of the sand hill once more, and saw, dimly, that the coast was clear. A few Indians still moved about among the dead, but there was no firing, and the garrison horses, riderless and blood-spattered, stood quietly here and there, apparently heedless of the burning heat.
With the start she had, she was sure she could get away safely. Once on the trail, and then —
She saw that saddle and bridle were right in every detail, and mounted. "For life," she whispered to the horse; "for your life and mine!" She cautiously guided Queen in and out among the sand hills until she came to the open prairie. Before her lay the trail and hovering beyond it in her distorted vision, like a mirage glimmering in the desert, she saw the flag flying from the ramparts of Fort Wayne.
"Now then, Beauty – fly!"
Like an arrow shot from a bow, Queen sped across the plain, but there was a war-whoop just behind them and Beatrice knew she had been seen. The cry came nearer and she looked back. Fifteen or twenty Indians were in full pursuit and others, mounted, were following them.
The girl's heart rose in her throat. "On!" she breathed – "on!"
The unintelligible cries of the savages echoed and re-echoed in her ears, becoming perceptibly fainter as she rode on. Then there was an exultant yell and she turned quickly in her saddle. The mounted Indians had overtaken the others and seemed to be gaining upon her, but with a sudden spurt, Queen left them far in the rear.
Beatrice laughed hysterically and the sickening taste of hot blood was in her mouth. Those on foot had given up the chase and one of the horses had fallen, but well in the lead, with his sides bleeding cruelly, Ronald's big bay charger thundered down the trail.
An arrow sang past her, then another just missed her, and she leaned forward, close to the horse. Queen plunged on, then suddenly snorted and reared as an arrow struck her flank.
Beatrice managed to loosen the barb and pull it out, hurting the horse badly as she did so, and in the meantime the enemy gained upon her. Another arrow, shot from the right, pierced Queen's quivering side, and Beatrice, hopeless and despairing, reined in long enough to tear it out. She was sick at the sight of Queen's blood-stained body and the savage who rode Ronald's horse was almost within range.
She turned, held her pistol steadily, and waited. Queen was almost exhausted and breathed heavily. Spurred on to new effort, the other Indians emerged from a cloud of dust and galloped toward their leader.
A tomahawk whizzed past her and sank into the sand. Then she fired, and with a cry of pain, the Indian dropped from his horse.
Without waiting for the word, Queen started on at a furious pace, but in spite of it, Beatrice managed to load her pistol again. She looked back only once, for she could hear the hoof-beats behind her. Ronald's horse, with a new rider, was again in the lead, and the rest were close upon his heels.
Inch by inch they gained upon her and mutterings of hideous portent reached her ears. Queen's strength was rapidly failing, and when an arrow struck her in the leg, the gallant little horse stumbled and fell. A tomahawk gleamed just beyond them and at the same instant an arrow grazed the girl's left arm.
Blind with pain, she staggered to her feet, put the muzzle between Queen's pleading, agonized eyes, and fired. The horse rolled over, dead, and Beatrice loaded once more, thinking grimly, as she did so, that there was just time.
She raised the pistol, felt the burning circle of the muzzle against her temple, and turned for one last look at the world that once had seemed so fair. The Indians were almost upon her, but far out on the plain was a man with neither hat nor coat, riding furiously, and the pistol fell from her nerveless hand.
"Robert!" she cried, as if he could hear. "Go back!"
All at once she saw what he meant to do. Already he had turned a little toward the lake, hoping to cut them off.
"Oh God!" breathed Beatrice. "And I called him a coward!"
The Indians now were not more than three hundred feet away, but when they saw him coming they swerved away from Beatrice and rode toward him. Robert turned straight east at a plunging gallop, then there was a sharp report from his musket and a savage fell dead.
Then he threw away the musket, pulled out his pistol, fired and wounded another. A tomahawk grazed his head and the blood dyed his face, but he kept on.
From where she stood, she saw it all. Hand to hand, almost – yes, they were upon him now, but there was a gleam of silver in the sun and two of them fell back, wounded.
"Lexington!" she cried. "His grandfather's sword!"
All but four retreated, though his horse was hurt and well-nigh spent. His next shot missed fire and his pistol was snatched out of his hand, but the keen blade shone once more and another was dismounted.
The blood streamed from his wound as he dashed toward her, gaining upon the two who were pursuing him. All at once he stopped in his mad pace, turned, and with a single swift cut struck down the one nearest him. With a wild war-whoop the second Indian signalled to another who stood beside his dead horse, far out on the plain, but there was no answer. Quick as a flash Beatrice ran toward them, aimed steadily, fired, and the last Indian fell, mortally wounded.
"Thank God!" cried Robert, as he fell from his horse. "You are safe!"
They stood alone upon the desolate plain, looking into each other's eyes. Robert's clothes were torn and cut, and his face was black with blood and dust, but he seemed like a god to her.
"You saved me," she murmured, with parched lips. "How did you save me?"
"You were like another Beatrice," he whispered, – "you led me through hell!"
Face to face at last, after all the misunderstandings, Beatrice saw him as he was. The terrors of the day were temporarily forgotten, as when one wakes from a horrible dream to a new joy. Something stirred in the girl's heart and sprang, full-fledged, into exultant being. The light in her eyes confused him, and he turned his face away.
"It was nothing," he said diffidently, – "only a running fight – that's all. When the history of to-day is written, it will be a single paragraph – no more. Two officers and thirty-six regulars killed in action, two women and twelve children – a mere handful. No one will know that a civilian was so fortunate as to save the woman he loved. It is a common thing – not worth the writing."
Beatrice, still transfigured, put her hands upon his shoulders; but, though he trembled at her touch, he kept his face turned away.
"Don't thank me," he said unsteadily. "I can't bear it. It is nothing. Perhaps I've proved that I'm not – "
The girl put her fingers on his lips. "You shall not say it!" she cried. "With all my heart I ask you to forgive me – you have covered me with shame."
He turned and looked down into her eyes. "Shame," he repeated; "no, not you. Forget it, Bee; it is nothing. A single paragraph, that is all – which has to do with the soldiers, not with me."
"My soldier!" she said in a new voice, "my captain – my king – listen! No better, braver fight was ever made. The thirty-six who were killed in action have done no more than you; and some day, when they write it all, they will say a civilian fought like a soldier to save the life of the woman who loved him!"
CHAPTER XXIII
RESCUE
After the first part of the battle was over, the bateau in which Mrs. Mackenzie and the children sat was brought near the shore at the mouth of the river. When Mrs. Franklin was taken from her horse, an Indian carried her to the boat, laid her in the bottom of it, signed to her to keep quiet, and covered her with a blanket. She was badly wounded, and her position was well-nigh intolerable, but she was afraid to move.
Two warriors soon approached and demanded the prisoners which they said were concealed under the luggage, but the Indian at the oars assured them that the bateau contained only the family of Shaw-ne-aw-kee, and they went away apparently satisfied.
Katherine had fainted when she found herself in the arms of a painted savage. When she came to her senses she was in the deep water, and the Indian still held her in a firm grasp. She struggled until her strength was almost gone, but then perceived that her captor did not intend to drown her. Long and earnestly she looked into his face, and at length, in spite of the hideous disguise of his war-paint, she recognised Black Partridge.
Another brave joined him, and after a long conversation between them she was left to the care of the second Indian. Black Partridge went back to the battlefield, received Captain Franklin's surrender, through an interpreter, and then returned to Mrs. Howard.
When the firing had ceased, she was lifted out of the water and carried to the shore. Black Partridge took her by the arm and led her northward along the beach. She was drenched through, and her clothes were heavy with water. A squaw had stolen her shoes, and the long march upon the burning sand was exceedingly painful; but when they came near the Fort and she saw her mother upon the piazza at the trading station, she went on with new courage.
In the dismantled home the survivors were gathered. Captain and Mrs. Franklin, both wounded; Lieutenant Howard, also wounded; the Mackenzies, their children, and a few of the soldiers were all that remained of the company that had fared forth so gallantly only a few hours before.
When Katherine staggered in, her husband caught her in his arms, and his hot tears fell upon her face when he stooped to kiss her. "I thought you were dead!" he cried. "I never knew till now how much I love you!"
A radiant smile illumined her white face. "I thought you were dead, too," she whispered, "and I did not care to live. I wanted to be with you, wherever you might be."
One after another described what he had seen, and the melancholy details of the battle were soon told. It was stipulated in the terms of the surrender that the lives of the prisoners should be spared; but the Indians considered the wounded exempt from that provision, and horrible things were done upon the field.
Doctor Norton's heroic efforts to save Katherine, the valiant death of Captain Wells, Mad Margaret's fearless dash against the enemy, the half-breed's gallant fight, and the courage of the soldier's wife, who let herself be literally hacked to pieces rather than be taken prisoner – these things and many others were sadly recounted.
Captain Franklin assured them that Ensign Ronald was dead, and they were glad to believe him; but no one knew what had become of Robert and Beatrice. "Forsyth fought beside me for a while," said the Captain.
"And with me, also," added the Lieutenant, "on another part of the field."
"Where is my Tuzzin Bee?" asked Maria Indiana, plaintively. "I want my Tuzzin Bee!"
At this they all broke down, and even the men were not ashamed of their tears. Beatrice, the merry-hearted, whose birdlike laughter still seemed to linger in the desolate home – where was she? "Oh, God," sobbed Mrs. Mackenzie, "if we only knew that she was dead!"
"We'll hope she is," said the trader, brokenly. "She must be, or she'd be here!" He tried to speak as if he were sure, but his face belied his words.
Outside, groups of Indians moved about restlessly. From sheer savage wantonness they had killed the cattle that were left to them, as the troops turned away from the Fort. The houses had all been plundered, and incongruous articles were strewn all over the plain. The finery of the women had been divided, and the savage who had Captain Wells's scalp at his belt wore Katherine's bonnet upon his head.
Mackenzie, with his penknife, had removed two bullets from Mrs. Franklin's arm, and had improvised a bandage from some old linen he found in the house. Katherine was badly wounded in the shoulder, where the tomahawk meant for her had struck when Black Partridge snatched her away. Lieutenant Howard had several cuts upon his body and Captain Franklin and Mackenzie were each wounded in the thigh.
As some of them had suspected from the first, they were British prisoners, and were to be taken to Fort Mackinac or Detroit very soon. "To-morrow," answered the Indian chief whom Mackenzie asked, "or perhaps the next day. No stay here long."
Black Partridge had vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up. The Mackenzies looked for him anxiously among the Indians who patrolled the Fort and the river bank. In spite of the surrender, his presence was the only assurance of safety they had.
An animated discussion was going on in front of the house, for a party of Indians, evidently from the Wabash, had just arrived. There was much loud talking and many gestures, and the bleeding scalps were fingered with admiring curiosity. Mrs. Mackenzie sat near the window, sheltered by a curtain, hoping and yet fearing to see Beatrice's beautiful hair ornamenting the belt of some savage.
The mutterings outside grew louder, and hostile glances were turned upon the trading station. "Mackenzie," said the Captain, "have we any means of defence?"
"Not even a musket," answered the trader, bitterly; "and that door wouldn't hold more than two minutes."
Even as he spoke a company of Indians came up the path. "Quick, Katherine," commanded Mrs. Mackenzie – "here!" She pushed her on to the bed in the next room and covered her with the feather-bed, fearing that her light hair and fair skin would betray her as a newcomer to the more remote Indians.
With supreme self-command Mrs. Mackenzie sat on the bed beside her and sorted out a bag of patchwork pieces, humming as she did so, in a voice she scarcely knew.
The intruders entered and went through the house, peering into every nook and corner. When they were in the next room, Katherine whispered to her mother: "Oh, let me go! This is unbearable, and I can die but once – let them have me!"
"Hush," sang Mrs. Mackenzie, to a faltering tune. "Don't move and they will go away. If you stir it means the death of us all!" She went on with her work, scattering the gay pieces all over the bed and the floor, but the Indians did not go.
They grouped themselves about the doors and windows, effectually cutting off escape. Every one of them was heavily armed, and their faces were sullen and revengeful. They began to mutter to each other and exchange significant glances. All hope was lost, when the door was pushed open and Black Partridge came into the room.
"How now, my friends," he said. "A good day to you. I was told that there were enemies here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your faces? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in battle? Or is it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend here and he will give you to eat. He is the Indians' friend, and never yet refused them what they had need of."
Thus shamed, the spokesman of the party explained that they had come for some white cotton cloth in which to wrap their dead. This was given them and they went away peaceably.
Then Mackenzie had a long talk with the chief and told him of their anxiety for Robert and Beatrice. The others, guessing at the subject, pressed close around them. "What does he say?" asked Katherine, anxiously; but the trader made no answer until the Indian had gone.
"He says he will put a strong guard of his own people all around the house and that we will be safe here, but we must strike no lights and make no noise, because some of the Indians from the far country do not know that we are their friends. He says the big soldier is dead, from a tomahawk that struck him in the breast, and that the little black horse is also dead on the plains far south of here; but neither the scalp of the paleface nor that of her lover are among those his braves have taken. He bids us to be quiet and to wait for news."
"To wait," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie – "to wait for news! It is the hardest thing in the world!"
The heat of the afternoon was sickening, so the curtains were closely drawn, and the little company huddled together, scarcely daring to speak above a whisper, but gathering human comfort and new courage from the mere sight of each other, wounded though they were.
Maria Indiana and the baby were put to bed for their regular afternoon nap, and some of the comforts of life were still left in the house. So the day passed on, with a double line of Indians around the house, and the hum and whir of midsummer coming to their ears from the fields beyond them, as if there had been no massacre and there was no such thing as death.
Robert and Beatrice were in the shade of a sand hill, nearly five miles south of the Fort. When his horse had rested a little, he assisted her to mount, and walked by her side until they reached the only shelter that was available. The sun was approaching the west, and the mound kept off the direct rays, as well as the south-west wind. They were faint from hunger, and both were slightly wounded, but otherwise they were quite comfortable. In front of them lay the lake, serene and smooth, with not a ripple upon its glassy surface, and no reflection of the conflict that had just been waged was mirrored upon its waters.
Robert was one who recovered his strength quickly, and as the afternoon wore on he began to feel like himself. After reaching the sand hill, his first act had been to cut open the sleeve of the girl's dress and apply his lips to her wound.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you do that?"
"Because the arrow may have been poisoned, dear."
"Then you'll be poisoned, too," she said, drawing away from him.
"No, I won't."
In spite of her protests, he drew the blood until no more came, then bathed the wound with water from the lake, and bandaged it with a clean handkerchief he happened to have in his pocket. Afterward, lover-like, he kissed the fair, smooth arm from shoulder to wrist, with an exquisite sense of possession.
"What are we going to do?" asked Beatrice, after a little.
"We can do nothing until night. Then I'll cover you with sand – all but your head, and go back to the waggons for food and ammunition. I'll get another horse, too, if I can find one, and then we'll go to Fort Wayne."
"And if you can't find another horse?"
"You'll ride this one, and I'll lead him. I'll get your saddle if I can."
"We'll never make it," she said sadly.
"Yes, we will – I'm sure of it. Life means too much to us, darling, to give it up without a fight."
The deep crimson dyed her white face. "I – I had to tell you," she whispered, "or you never would have known."
A long shadow appeared upon the sand, and Robert saw the unmistakable outlines of a feather head-dress. Beatrice was nestled in his arms, with her face against his breast. His pistol was at his belt, loaded, and his sword lay near him. "Is your pistol loaded, dear?" he asked, very softly.
She started away from him in terror. "Yes," she cried; "but why?"
"Hush!" He pointed to the shadow on the sand, which stealthily approached.
"Oh!" she moaned; "after all this!"
Robert rose to his feet and went noiselessly toward the southern side of the sand hill. Beatrice stood just behind him, white as death. Then Black Partridge appeared before them, with something very like a smile upon his face. "How!" he grunted cordially.
The conversation which followed was a veritable "confusion of tongues." Robert knew about as much of the Indian language as the other did of English; but, after some little time, he was made to understand that they were British prisoners, and that, for the present, they were safe.
"Ask him about Aunt Eleanor and the others," said Beatrice.
There was another long colloquy. "They are all safe," Robert explained, finally; "the White Father and his wife, the other White Father and his fair-skinned wife, and the family of Shaw-nee-aw-kee. They have been anxious about us, and when he goes back he will tell them that we are all right."
By signs and broken speech Black Partridge made it evident that they could not stay where they were, and ordered them to follow him. Robert demurred, but the chief frowned upon him so fiercely that he dared not disobey. From a voluble speech in the Indian tongue, Robert gathered that Black Partridge had not forgotten his promise – that the memory of the picture was still warm in his heart, and that he was the faithful friend of the paleface and her lover.
Beatrice smiled when Robert told her what he had said. "He knew, didn't he?" she asked shyly.
They began their long march northward upon the sand. Beatrice was mounted, and Robert walked beside her. Straight as an arrow and as tireless as an eagle, the Indian went swiftly in front of them, looking back, now and then, to see if they were following.
It was a hard journey for Beatrice, since the dead lay all around her. Even the Indians Robert had killed seemed to distress her, and when she passed the spot where Queen lay she could not keep back her tears. Vultures, with slow-beating wings, were silhouetted now and then against the setting sun, as they went from one grewsome feast to another.
"What are those birds?" asked the girl. "I never saw them before."
"I do not know," lied Robert. "I have never seen them, either."
The wind had covered Ronald's body with drifted sand, and she was spared the bitterness of that; but the plain of death, with its burden of mangled bodies, would have touched a harder heart than hers.
"Don't look, darling," he pleaded, and, obediently, she turned her face away, but the tears fell fast, none the less, and she could not repress her sobs.
"Sweetheart," said Forsyth, coming closer to her side, "I can bear anything but that. Your tears make me weak – your grief unmans me."
She hid her face in her hands and struggled hard for self-control. Then he went around to the other side of the horse. "Look at the lake, dear," he said; "or look at me and forget what lies beyond."
So they marched, in the full glare of the afternoon sun. The pitiless heat burned into the sand and was thrown back into their faces. But Beatrice did not once turn her head to the left, and Robert, looking past her, was thankful that she did not. Chandonnais and his mother were side by side, locked in each other's arms. Their bodies had not been touched, but others near them had been stripped and mutilated beyond all recognition.
When they came to the bank of the river, they looked anxiously toward the Fort and the trading station, but saw only Indians. A young warrior met Black Partridge here, and Beatrice was told to dismount. She did so, thinking that in a few minutes more she would be at home again, but when she saw that they were not going up the river she could not keep back a cry of pain.
The chief turned upon her fiercely, and muttered angrily to Robert. "Hush, dear!" he said to Beatrice, but his face was very pale.
They stood there for some time, and at length a large canoe was brought down-stream. "Oh, where are we going!" she moaned.
"I don't know, dearest," answered Robert, in a low tone; "but wherever it is, we're going together." His fingers tightened upon his sword, that still hung at his side.
They got into the canoe, Beatrice at the bow and Robert at the stern. Black Partridge took the paddle, and with swift, sure strokes they shot out into the lake and then turned north. After some time Robert ventured to ask a question, but received no answer except a meaningless grunt.
The last light lay upon the water and touched it to exceeding beauty. The lake seemed like a great turquoise, deepening slowly to sapphire. Sunset colours flamed upon the clouds near the horizon, but their hearts were heavy, and they did not see.
As twilight approached, the canoe moved even more swiftly and Black Partridge never faltered at his task. Robert began to wonder if they were going to Fort Mackinac, and laughed at himself for the thought.
Now and then, after a sudden spurt ahead, the Indian anxiously scanned the shore, as if he were looking for a landmark. At last they turned in. With a grating of the keel the canoe grounded on the beach, and they got out, still wondering, still afraid, and completely at the Indian's mercy.
He signed to them to follow him, and they went up the steep bank as best they could, catching at saplings and undergrowth to keep their footing sure.
Once on the bluff they turned northward again, and Beatrice, utterly weary and hopeless, leaned heavily upon Robert's arm. Some way, the ground was familiar to him, but he could not have told where they were.
It was almost dusk when Black Partridge stopped and waited for them. They followed him down a little incline, which was smooth and well worn. "Why!" said Beatrice, in astonishment.
They were at the door of the little house in the woods that they had discovered so long ago; and over the doorway the silver cross still hung, its gleam hidden in the darkness.
The Indian spoke to Robert, repeating each sentence slowly, until he understood. Then Robert shook hands with him, and the Indian plunged down the bluff, ran along the beach to his canoe, and went south.
With a soft, rhythmic sound the splash of the paddle died into a murmur, then into silence. "What was it?" asked the girl, still afraid.
"We are to stay here to-night and perhaps longer – we are to wait until he comes for us. He says this is Mad Margaret's cabin, and that no one will dare to molest us here. The Great Spirit is already displeased, because by an accident she was killed. It is not good to touch her nor anything that belongs to her."
"Are we safe?" asked Beatrice, in low, moved tones. "Can it be that we are safe at last?"
Robert took her into his arms and kissed her twice. "My sweetheart," he said, "my own brave girl, we are safe at last, and we are together for always. Nothing but death can part us now!"
