The Sun Maid: A Story of Fort Dearborn

by Evelyn Raymond

  CHAPTER V.

  HORSES: WHITE AND BLACK.

  On the morning of the 15th of August, 1812, the sun rose in uncloudedsplendor, and transformed the great Lake Michigan into a sheet ofgold.

  "It is a good omen," said one of the women at Fort Dearborn, as shelooked out over the shining water.

  But only the merry children responded to her attempted cheerfulness.

  "We shall have a grand ride. I wish nobody need make the journey onfoot; and I'm glad, for once, I'm just a boy, and not a grown-up man."

  "Even a boy may have to do a man's work, this day, Gaspar Keith. Iwish that you were strong enough to hold a gun; but you have beentaught how to use an arrow. Is your quiver well supplied?"

  That his captain should speak to him, a child, so seriously, impressedthe lad profoundly. His ruddy cheek paled, and a fit of tremblingseized him. A sombre memory rose to frighten him, and he caught hisbreath as he asked:

  "Do you think there will be any trouble, Captain Heald? I thought Iheard the soldiers saying that the Pottawatomies would take care ofus."

  "Who trusts to an Indian's care leans on a broken reed. You know thatfrom your own experience. Surely, you must remember your earlierchildhood, even though you have been forbidden to talk of it here."

  "Oh! I do, I do! Not often in the daytime, but in the long, longnights. The other children sleep. They have never seen what I did, orheard the dreadful yells that come in my dreams and wake me up. Then Iseem to see the flames, the blood, the dead white faces. Oh, sir,don't tell me that must come again: don't, don't! I cannot bear it. Iwould rather die right now and here--safe in our Fort."

  Instantly the soldier regretted his own words. But the lad was one ofthe larger children at the garrison and should be incited, he thought,to take some share in the matter of defence, should defence benecessary. He had not known that under Gaspar's quiet, almost sullendemeanor, had lain such hidden experiences. Else he would have talkedthem over with the boy, and have tried to make him forget instead ofremember his early wrongs.

  For Gaspar Keith was the son of an Indian trader, and had been born inan isolated cabin far to the northwest of his present home. The littlecabin had been overflowing with young life and gayety, even in thatwilderness. His mother was a Frenchwoman of the happiest possibletemperament and, because no other society was available, had madecomrades of her children. "What we did in Montreal" was the type ofwhat she attempted to do under her more restricted conditions. So, fora long season of peace, the Keiths sang and made merry over everytrifling incident. Did the father bring home an extra load of game, atonce there was a feast prepared and all the friendly Indians, the onlyneighbors, were invited to come and partake.

  On one such occasion, when a red-skinned guest had brought with him abottle of the forbidden "fire-water," a quarrel ensued. The trader wasof sterner sort than his light-hearted wife, and of violent temper. Inhis own house his word was law, and he remonstrated with the Indianfor his action. To little Gaspar, in his memories, it seemed but amoment's transition from a laughing group about a well-spread table toa scene of horror. He saw--but he could never afterward speak in anydefinite way of what he saw. Only he knew that almost before he hadpushed back from his place he had been caught up on the shoulder ofthe chief Winnemeg, also a guest; and in another moment was ridingbehind that warrior at breakneck speed toward the little garrison, inpursuit of shelter for himself and aid for his defenceless family.

  The shelter was speedily found, but the aid came too late; and for atime the women of the Fort had a difficult task in comforting thefright-crazed boy. However, they were used to such incidents. Theircourage and generosity were unlimited, and they persevered in theircare till he recovered and repaid them by his faithful devotion andservice.

  The manner of his arrival among them was never discussed in hispresence, and as he gradually came to act like other, happierchildren, they hoped he had outgrown his troubles. He had now been atthe Fort for two years, during all which time he had gone but shortdistances from it. Yet even in his restricted outings he had picked upmuch knowledge of useful things from the settlers near, and of thingsapparently not so useful from his red-faced friends. So it happenedthat there was not, probably, even any Indian boy who could string abow or aim an arrow better than Gaspar.

  The Sauganash himself had presented the little fellow with a bow offinest workmanship, and had taught him the rare trick of shooting atfixed paces. It had been the delight of the garrison to watch him, intheir hours of recreation, accomplish this feat. Sighting some birdflying high overhead, the lad would take swift aim and discharge eacharrow from his quiver at a certain count. There never seemed anyvariation in the distances between the discharged arrows as they madethe arc--upward with unerring aim, and downward in the body of thebird; hitting it, one by one, at proportionate intervals of time andspace.

  The women thought it a cruel sport, and would have prevented it ifthey could; but the men knew that it was a wonderful achievement, andthat many fine archers among the surrounding tribes would fail inaccomplishing it. Therefore, it was natural that the Fort's commandantshould be anxious to know if his ward's equipment were in order, on amorning so full of possible dangers as this.

  "There is no talk of dying, Gaspar. You are a man, child, if not fullgrown. You are brave and skilful. You have a clear head, too; solisten closely to what I say. In our garrison are not more than fortymen able to fight. There are a dozen women and twenty children, ofwhich none have been trained to use a bow as you can. Besides thesehelpless ones, there are many sick soldiers to occupy the wagons. Iknow you expected to be with your mates, but I have another plan foryou. I want you to ride Tempest, and to sling your bow on your saddlehorn."

  "Ride--Tempest! Why, Captain Heald! Nobody--that is, nobody butyou--can ride him. I was never on his back----"

  "It's time you were. Lad, do you know how many Indians are in campnear us, or have broken camp this morning to join us?"

  "Oh! quite a lot, I guess."

  "Just so. A whole 'lot.' About five hundred, or a few less."

  The two were busily at work, packing the last of the few possessionsthat the commandant must convey to Fort Wayne, and which he couldentrust to no other hands than his own and those of this deft-fingeredlad, and they made no pause while they talked. Indeed, Gaspar'smovements were even swifter now, as if he were eager to be through andoff.

  "Five hundred, sir? They are friendly Indians, though. Black Partridgeand Winnemeg----"

  "Are but as straws against the current. Gaspar, I shall need a boy whocan be trusted. These red neighbors of ours are not so 'friendly' asthey seem. They are dissatisfied. They mean mischief, I fear, thoughGod forbid! Well, we are soldiers, and we cannot shrink. You must rideTempest. You must tell nobody why. You can keep at a short distancefrom our main band, and act as scout. Captain Wells will march infront with his Miamis, upon whose assistance--the Miamis', I mean--Ido not greatly count. They are cowards. They fear the 'canoe men.'Well, what do you say, my son?"

  Gaspar caught his breath. His own fear of an Indian had been nearlyovercome by the friendship of those chiefs who were so constantly atthe Fort; but the night before had brought him a recurrence of theterrifying visions which were as much memories as dreams. After such anight he was scarcely himself in courage, greatly as he desired toplease the captain. Then he reflected how high was the honor designedhim. He, a little boy, just past ten and going on eleven for a wholefortnight now, and--of course he'd do it!

  "Well, I'll ride him. That is, I'll try. Like as not, he'll shake meoff first try."

  "Make the second try, then. You know the copy in your writing-book?"

  "Yes, sir. I wrote the whole page of it, yesterday, and the chaplainsaid it was well done. Shall I get him now? Are you almost ready?"

  The commandant looked at the waiting wagons, the assembled company,the women and little ones who were so dear and in such a perilouscase. For a moment his heart sank, stout soldier though he was, and itwas no detriment
to his manhood that a fervent if silent prayerescaped him.

  "Yes, fetch him if you can. If not, I'll come."

  Tempest was a gelding of fine Kentucky breed. There were others of hisline at the garrison, and upon them some of the women even were toride. But Tempest was the king of the stables. He was the master'shalf-broken pet and recreation. For sterner uses, as for thatmorning's work, there was a better trained animal, and on this thecommandant would make his own journey.

  A smile curled the officer's lips despite his anxiety as, presently,out from the stables galloped a bareheaded lad, clinging desperatelyto Tempest's back, who tried as desperately to shake off his unusualburden. But the saddle girth was well secured, and the rider clunglike a burr. His bow was slung crosswise before him and his fullquiver hung at his back.

  A cheer went up. The sight was as helpful to the soldiers as it wasamusing, and they fell into line with a ready step as the band struckup--what was that tune? _The Dead March?_ By whose ill-judgment this?

  Well, there was no time to question. Any music helps to keep a line ofmen in step, and there was the determined Gaspar cavorting andwheeling before and around the soldiers in a way to provoke a mirththat no dismal strain could dispel. So the gates were flung open, andin orderly procession, each man in his place, each heart set upon itsduty, the little garrison marched through them for the last time.

  Of what took place within the next dread hours, of the Indians'treachery and the white men's courage, there is no need to give thedetails. It is history. But of brave Gaspar Keith on the wild gelding,Tempest, history makes no mention. There is many a hero whose nameis unknown, and the lad was a hero that day. He did what he could,and his empty quiver, his broken bow, told their own story to aPottawatomie warrior who came upon the boy just as the sun crossedthe meridian on that memorable day.

  Gaspar was lying unconscious beneath a clump of forest trees, andTempest grazing quietly beside him. There was no wound upon the lad,and whether he had been thrown to the ground by the animal, or hadslipped from his saddle out of sheer weariness, even he could nevertell.

  The Indian who found him was none other than the Man-Who-Kills; and,from a perfectly safe distance for himself, he had watched the youngpale-face with admiration and covetousness.

  "By and by, when the fight is over, I will get him. He shall be myprisoner. The black gelding is finer than any horse ever galloped intoMuck-otey-pokee. They shall both be mine. I will tell a big tale atthe council fires of my brothers, and they shall account me brave.Talking is easier than fighting, any time, and why should I peril mylife, following this mad war-path of theirs to that far-away FortWayne? Enough is a plenty. I have hidden lots of plunder while the menof my tribe did their killing, and the Man-Who-Kills will always bewise, as he is always brave. I could shoot as fast and as far asanybody if--if I wished. But I do not wish. It is too much trouble. SoI will tie the boy on the gelding's back and lead them home intriumph. Will my squaw, Sorah, flout me now? No. No, indeed! And thereis no need to say that I dared not mount the beast myself. But I canlead him all right, and when the Woman-Who-Mourns, that haughty sisterof my chief, sees me coming she will say: 'Behold! how merciful isthis mighty warrior!'"

  These reflections of the astute Indian, as he rested upon the shadedsward, afforded him such satisfaction that he did, indeed, handle poorGaspar with more gentleness than might have been expected; becausesuch a person commonly mistakes brutality for bravery.

  Oddly enough, Tempest offered no resistance to the red man's plan, andallowed himself to be burdened by the helpless Gaspar and led slowlyto the Indian village. There the party aroused less interest than theMan-Who-Kills had anticipated, for other prisoners had already beenbrought in and, besides this, something had occurred that seemed tothe women far more important.

  This was the fresh grief of Wahneenah as she roamed from wigwam towigwam, searching for her adopted daughter and imploring help to findher. For again the Sun Maid had disappeared, as suddenly and morecompletely than on the previous day though after much the same manner.

  The child had been attending her injured squirrel and giving her bowlsof orchids fresh drinks, upon the threshold mat of her new home, andher indulgent foster-mother had gone to fetch from the stream thewater needed for the latter purpose. At the brook's edge she hadstopped, "just for a moment," to discuss with the other squaws thenews of the massacre that was fast coming to them by the stragglingbands of returning braves.

  But the brief absence was long enough to have worked the mischief. Thesmall runaway had left her posies and her squirrel and departed,nobody could guess whither.

  Till at last again came Osceolo, the mischievous, and remarked,indifferently:

  "The Woman-Who-Mourns may save her steps. The White Papoose and theSnowbird are far over the prairie while the women search."

  "Osceolo! You are the son of the evil spirit! You bring distress inyour hand as a gift! But take care what you say now. You know, as Iknow, that nobody can mount the White Snowbird and live. Or if onecould succeed and pass beyond the village borders, it would be a rideto some far land whence there is no return. What is the mare,Snowbird, but a creature bewitched? or the home of the soul of a deadmaiden, who would rather live thus with her people than without themas a spirit in the Great Beyond? You know all this, and yet you tellme----"

  "That the Sun Maid is flying now on the Snowbird's back toward thesetting sun, who is her father."

  "How do you know this?"

  "I saw it."

  "Who took her to the Snowbird's corral? Who? Osceolo, torment of ourtribe, it was you! It was you! Boy, do you know what you have done? Doyou know that out there, on the prairie where you have sent her, thespirit of murder is abroad? Not a pale-face shall escape. She was safehere, where your own chief, the Black Partridge, placed her. Hear me.If harm befalls her, if by moonrise she is not restored to me, youshall bear the punishment. You----"

  By a gesture he stopped her. Now thoroughly frightened, themischievous boy put up his arms as if to ward off the coming threat.Half credulous, and half doubtful that the Sun Maid was more thanmortal, he had made a test for himself. He had remembered theSnowbird, fretting its high spirit out within the closed paddock, anda daring notion had seized him. It was this:

  "While the Woman-Who-Mourns gossips with her neighbors, I'll catch upthe papoose and carry her there. She'll come fast enough. She ran awayyesterday, and she played with me before the Spotted Adder's hut. Shetrusts everybody. I'll have some fun, even if my father didn't let mego with him to the camp yonder."

  Among all nations boyhood is the same--plays the same wild pranks,with equal disregard of consequences; and Osceolo would far ratherhave had a good time than a good supper. He thought he was having aperfectly fascinating good time when he bound a long blanket over theSnowbird's back and then fastened Kitty Briscoe in the folds of theblanket. He had laughed gayly as he clapped his hands and set the marefree, and the little one riding her had laughed and clapped also. Hehad watched them out of sight over the prairie, and had felt quiteproud of himself.

  "If she is a spirit she'll come back safe; and if she's nothing but awhite man's baby--why, that's all she is. Only a squaw child at that,though the silly women have made such ado. I wonder--will I ever seeher again? Well, I'll go around by Wahneenah's tepee, after a while,and enjoy the worry. It's the smartest thing I've done yet; and shedid look cunning, too. She wasn't a bit afraid--she isn't afraid ofanything--which makes her better than most girl papooses, and she waslaughing as hard as I was when she went away."

  With these thoughts, Osceolo had come back to the spot where Wahneenahmet him and demanded if he knew aught of her charge; and there was nohilarity in his face now as he watched her enter her wigwam and dropits curtains behind her. He suddenly remembered--many things; and atthought of the Black Partridge's wrath he turned faint and sick.

  But the test had been made and no regret could recall it.

  Meanwhile, there came into his mind the fact: a black horse had just
entered the village and a white one had gone out of it. The narrowsuperstition in which he had been reared taught him that the onebrought misfortune and the other carried away happiness; and, in aredoubled terror at his own act and its consequences, Osceolo turnedand fled.