Fear in the Forest

by Cateau De Leeuw

  “How far is it to Fort Hamilton?” Daniel asked Amos.

  “About twenty-five mile,” Amos answered. “Usually we make it from fort to fort in a day’s travel, but too many things went wrong this morning, and we didn’t get started as early as we should’ve.”

  Daniel’s heart shook, but he managed to keep his voice steady as he asked, “Then we’ll—have to camp out tonight?”

  “I reckon. But I wouldn’t wonder Pa has it in mind to stop at our farm.”

  “Do you live on this road?”

  “Not far off’n it. Not far from Fort Hamilton, neither. Pretty close to where Dunlap’s Station was. You ever hear of Dunlap’s Station?”

  “Yes....I’ve heard of it.” He got the words out, but they almost stuck in his throat. He could remember the winter night when a trader—one of the few visitors he and his father had ever had—sat comfortably before their cabin fire and told about it.

  “Only twenty-eight men in the station,” the trader had said, “and pretty near five hunnerd Indians! A regular siege it was. But they stuck it out, and chased the critters away afore help came from Fort Washington. I heard tell the women melted down all their pewter plates to make bullets afore the men scared off the varmints.”

  His father had said, “Who led them? It’s not like Indians to attack in such force. They must have had a leader.”

  The trader was thoughtful. “Folks say it was Girty, and I wouldn’t be surprised but it was, though the white man—for it was a white man led ‘em—stood too far away to be recognized. Worse’n an Indian he was. They tortured one poor fellow they captured, though he begged his friends to surrender so’s he’d be saved, and they done it right in full view of the station. They say Girty put ‘em up to it.”

  Daniel remembered that he had ventured in a small voice, “But why didn’t they surrender to save the man?”

  The trader had laughed a little, and his father had smiled at him. “And what would have happened to the twenty-eight men in the fort when they surrendered?” the trader asked. He answered his own question. “They’d have been tortured, too, every last one of ‘em, or carried off as prisoners to run the gantlet. I’m glad to say they had more sense than to listen to poor Abner Hunt, though it must have been hard to close their ears to his screams.”

  Daniel shivered now as he had shivered that night. Cruelty like that was something impossible to understand. Perhaps he had had a sort of premonition, too. It was that very same year—but in the fall season—that his father had been killed, and he had become homeless.

  Suddenly he shouted, and the column of horses came slowly to a halt. Amos turned back to him as Ben, the second in command, ran up from the rear. “What’s up?”

  But they did not need an answer, for Daniel stood alongside one of the pack-horses, his shoulder braced against the pack which threatened to slip off to one side in a moment.

  Ben grunted in annoyance, and while he and Amos and Daniel worked to right the load and tighten the hitch, he said, “Who loaded this pony? Timothy, wasn’t it?”

  Timothy, a little to the rear, heard him. “Not me! Simon, I’ll bet. He don’t know his hand from his foot most of the time.”

  But Daniel distinctly remembered that it was Timothy who had loaded this particular horse. He remembered because the horse had a notched right ear, and Timothy’s right ear was lacking most of the lobe. He had even commented on it to Amos, and Amos had said, with a laugh, “Lost it in a fight, most likely. Timothy, I mean, not the hoss! Some of the fights on the water front at Cincinnati can be mighty rough.”

  Daniel wondered if he should speak out. It was not right that slow, good-natured Simon should take the blame for Timothy’s careless work, but he was still so new to the troop, and still so much on trial that he didn’t dare. But he tucked away the knowledge that Timothy was not only careless, but would lie about it.

  When they were on the move again, he resumed his shouted conversation with Amos. “You folks got a big farm?”

  “Too big, when I’m home and have chores to do!” Amos called back. “But Pa isn’t workin’ only a piece of it yet. The family can take care of what’s growin’, and the stock, too, while he and I go out to earn a little. We want to buy some more cows, and we need more sheep—the wolves got most of ‘em last winter—and things like salt and gunpowder and lead are so high we figured we’d better get us some real buyin’ money.”

  There was silence between them for a while, as Daniel digested this information. The Greggs must have several cows, and if the wolves had killed off a lot of their sheep in the winter they must have had a number of those, too. Mr. Gregg, Daniel decided, was pretty near a rich man to have so much livestock. He must have a big family, too, if they could take care of his farm while he captained a pack-horse train with his son.

  It was late afternoon when the troop made a slight detour to the right of the road. A narrow rutted path led through deep woods to a clearing in the center of which stood a four-square cabin with well-chinked walls and a stout chimney. A young child, playing in front of the house, saw them first, and shouted with glee. The dogs came running, and at once the rest of the family appeared in the doorway: two half-grown boys, as alike as two peas, a tawny-haired girl, and a plump, motherly-looking woman.

  They all ran forward and threw themselves upon Mr. Gregg, laughing and hugging, and all talking at once. Amos, watching them with a smile, said to Daniel proudly, “That’s my folks! Just my luck to git here in time for chores, wasn’t it?” But Daniel could see he was happy to be home.

  The men made camp, as they would have if they were settling down for the night beside one of Anthony Wayne’s string of forts instead of in the house-clearing of a farm. Josiah, after that first warm greeting from his family, was all business. He and Ben were everywhere at once, instructing, helping, staking out the area where the animals were to be grazed, where the packs were to lie, where the men were to bivouac, and where the campfire was to be built.

  “There’ll be no need to cook tonight,” Simon said happily. “We been here afore, and Mrs. Gregg sets a mighty fine table. I hope she’s been expectin’ us.”

  As it turned out, the visit was a surprise, and Mrs. Gregg and Polly, the tawny-haired girl, who looked to be just about Daniel’s age, began cooking and baking at once. Amos turned the work of unloading his horses over to Simon so that he could help the twins, Ethan and Judah, with the chores, and Daniel ran to help, too, as soon as he could.

  The cows had already been rounded up, and Polly had milked some of them, but now there was not time for her to finish the job. “I reckon we’ll have to do it,” Amos said mournfully as he and Daniel led the animals behind the cabin where they wouldn’t be seen. Milking was woman’s work, and boys and men did not want to be seen doing it when it was necessary to take over the chore.

  “You hold her and I’ll milk her,” Amos said, approaching the first cow warily, a stool in one hand and a wooden bucket in the other. “She likes to wait till you’re most done, and then kick the bucket over. Got a mean temper, this one has.” So Daniel held the cow while Amos milked, and then Amos held the next cow while Daniel milked. He was awkward at it, for there had been enough girls in the Worder household so that he had seldom done it before.

  With the milking over, they raced to the woodpile to bring in logs. And after that there was fodder to fetch for the horses, and water from the spring. By the time they had finished, Mrs. Gregg and Polly had supper ready, and it was beginning to get dark.

  They all ate out-of-doors, sitting in a circle around the men’s campfire. The food was simple but tasty, and Daniel decided that Mrs. Gregg was a handy cook. The johnnycake was hot and had a delicious flavor, and the mush-and-milk was sweetened with maple sugar. There was boiled salt pork and sweet potatoes and garden greens. Altogether, it was no supper but a feast!

  The men ate greedily, yet Timothy outdid them all. No wonder he’s so fat, Daniel thought, watching him stuff food into his wide mouth. But the
re was enough to go around, and some left over.

  Ethan and Judah tumbled over each other like two half-grown puppies, and little Sabrina, the baby, crept over the men’s legs and dipped her fingers into every plate. Polly caught her up several times and returned her to her mother, but Mrs. Gregg was too busy to hold her, and in no time at all Sabrina was back again, crawling from one to another.

  Finally Josiah took her on his lap, where she curled up and promptly fell asleep. The dogs circled hungrily, asking for scraps, and as the men’s hunger was satisfied and the fire began to die down, talk grew louder and more continuous.

  Daniel was fascinated by the different faces. The strong planes of Josiah Gregg’s face were emphasized by the firelight, so that it had the look of being carved from some glowing metal. Mrs. Gregg, on the other hand, seemed years younger now and prettier, with the rosy appearance of a girl. Henry, who sat on Josiah’s right hand, had a dreamy air and his eyes showed deeply sunk in their sockets. Simon’s usually dull face took on new life and the flicker of light seemed to create expressions which came and vanished within split seconds.

  Timothy’s jowls threw dark shadows when the flames shot high, and his small eyes were half-closed against the light, making him look more like a pig than ever. Ben, short and stocky and tough, might have been a young lad, with all the strong lines of his face softened in the glare.

  Daniel turned to look at Polly who sat on his right, and found her watching him. “What were you thinkin’ about?” she asked suddenly, as direct in approach as any boy.

  It surprised him, for she had not said two words to him as yet. Of course, she had been busy helping her mother prepare the quantities of food the men had consumed. But there had been time enough for laughing remarks to her brothers, to her father and to Ben and Henry, both of whom she seemed to know well. With Daniel she had been tongue-tied, yet he had sensed that it was not because of shyness, but only because she did not yet know him.

  He realized that he had not answered her, and smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know what I was thinkin’, exactly,” he confessed. “It was more like watchin’ and feelin’. I was watchin’ people’s faces, and how they looked in the firelight. Some it changes, and others it—it just makes them look more like what they are.”

  She seemed to understand what he meant, and nodded agreement. “Mebbe people show what they are really like around a fire because they know they’re partly in the dark, and they don’t expect they show as much as they do.”

  He was pleased. That was just what he had had in mind, but it had been difficult to express. “You said you were feelin’, too,” she prodded him. “Feelin’ what?”

  This was even harder to say, but he made a try at it. “Feelin’ what it was like here—at your place. It’s like it was when we lived in Pennsylvania. When my ma was still livin’, and we were all together.”

  “Sort of a family feelin’?” she asked, after a moment’s pondering.

  “That’s it—a family feelin’. And it’s funny,” he added, “that I never had it when I lived with the Worders. They were a family—a big one—but it wasn’t the same. Leastways, not for me it wasn’t.”

  He had not realized how silent the others had become as he talked, and it was only with the last words he spoke that he sensed how loud they sounded. He glanced about, embarrassed, but he found the Greggs all smiling at him, and Ben and Henry, too. Even dull Simon’s face wore a sheepish grin. Timothy was still eating, and did not look up.

  “Tell Ma your story, son,” Josiah Gregg commanded. And when Daniel did not speak at once, he said to his wife, “The lad was born in Pennsylvania, and when his ma died there, his pa sold out and came west to take up land along the Little Miami. Now, you go on from there, Dan’l.”

  Daniel swallowed hard. Could he make these people understand what had hung over him like a cloud since that terrible October day? He said slowly, “We had neighbors in Pennsylvania, but where Pa settled, above Columbia, we were as good as alone. The Worders lived next us, but they were a couple miles farther down the river and off to the west. Pa cleared a place for our cabin, and put it up all by himself. I helped him some, but I was only eight then.

  “We had a horse and a cow, and Pa had bought some pigs so’s we’d have a start, and wouldn’t have to eat game all the time. He worked hard, but of course he couldn’t clear much, bein’ all alone that way. The woods were—awful close....”

  He swallowed again. “We had a good harvest that first year, and Pa said he’d got a prime piece of land. He was diggin’ a pit for some of the root vegetables we’d raised, and he sent me out to the woods to do some berryin’. He’d traded a pig for some sweetenin’ and said he’d a mind to have somethin’ besides meat when winter came. I was out there—in the woods—when I heard them.”

  The silence was broken by Timothy. “Heard who?” he asked, his mouth full.

  “The Indians. I heard them yellin’ first, and then I heard shots. I hadn’t anythin’ but the wooden bucket in my hand. I ran back towards the cabin, but by the time I got there it was burnin’ fierce. I couldn’t see Pa nowheres, and I figured he’d mebbe got away. The Indians were quiet then, but I didn’t know whether they were waitin’ in the woods for me to come out, or whether they were really gone. So I crept back a ways, and waited. I waited till it got dark, and I waited all night. It was—cold. And I was scairt.”

  He stopped then. This was the hardest part to tell, or almost the hardest part. But Mrs. Gregg’s face was alive with sympathy, and he could feel the eyes of Polly and Amos full upon him, waiting for the rest of the story. His fingers reached up to touch the pewter button hidden inside his shirt.

  “I found Pa in the half-dug pit,” he said at last. “He’d been shot, and scalped, and pretty well hacked up. They’d ripped most of his clothes off. They’d kilt the cow and some of the pigs. They’d druv off the others, and the horse, too. They took everything they could lay their hands to.”

  “You poor lad! What did you do then?” Mrs. Gregg asked.

  Polly seized his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, as if to say by touch what she could not put into words.

  “I ran to the Worders. Mr. Worder wouldn’t go back with me, but he sent around to some other folks that didn’t live too far away, and the men went back together and buried Pa. After that, I hadn’t nowheres to go, so I lived with the Worders. But they had six children—it’s seven now—and there wasn’t rightly room for me, I guess.”

  Polly said fiercely, “I should think there’d always be room for somebody like you!”

  And Amos said, “Sure. It’s not as if you weren’t willin’ to do your share. You can come and live with us, Dan’l, any time you want.”

  It was said lightly, as if to ease the feeling of tragedy which Daniel’s story had brought to the circle around the fire. Daniel didn’t think Amos really meant it, but it cheered him, just the same, and make him feel wanted, the way Polly’s indignant speech had. He hugged their words to him and found them comforting.

  But there was still the hardest part to come. He took a deep breath. “I was afeared the day Pa was kilt,” he said bravely, “and I’ve been afeared ever since. I’m afeared of the woods. Sometimes I think I hear an Indian behind every tree. And there’s an awful lot of trees!” His laugh was a little hollow.

  “I should think you would be scairt,” Mrs. Gregg said simply. “Shows you’ve got feelin’s.”

  Polly was thoughtful. “I reckon most folks that live like we do get scairt plenty of times. Because there’s plenty to be scairt of! But there’s lots of other things, too—work, and growin’ crops where there was only woods before, and makin’ a home, and huntin’, and—and all kinds of things. You can’t enjoy any of ‘em if you let yourself be scairt all the time. So you have to keep the scairt feelin’ for when there’s something to be scairt of!” She turned eagerly to Daniel. “Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I woul
d like workin’ the land, and I would like huntin’, if it wasn’t for the Indians. So mebbe I’d just better stop bein’ afeared.” He smiled at her, a new resolve forming from this moment of understanding.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The pack-horse train was on its way early the next morning. Josiah Gregg said a fond farewell to his wife, and Amos turned to wave to the family as long as he could see them. Then the forest swallowed them up again. It was not long before there were glimpses of the Miami River.

  They came to an immense meadow, or prairie, covered with high grass, and Daniel was surprised to see men scything the grass. They wore the uniform of the Legion.

  “Cuttin’ hay for the hosses at the fort,” Amos said. “Now we’ll be seein’ the fort soon. It’s only a mile from here.”

  They passed a wagon train on its way south. The wagons creaked and groaned, lurching over the rough road, and the slow oxen turned patient eyes toward the group. There was a convoy of soldiers who called out and exchanged greetings with them.

  Fort Hamilton lay lengthwise along the river, its double row of stout pickets and four blockhouses offering a feeling of protection against the wilderness and the dangers of Indian attack. Josiah stopped briefly to go within the stockade and speak to the officer in charge of the commissary, but Daniel knew, from the talk he had heard at Cincinnati, that they had nothing for Fort Hamilton this trip. All their supplies were for Fort Greeneville.

  He cast many backward glances as they moved northward, crossing the river well above the fort and continuing upon General Wayne’s military road along Seven Mile Creek. Here the country was prairielike again, with only low hills on their right at some distance. On the other side of the creek the hills rose steeply.

  Amos called back to Daniel, “See all those wild-pea vines? Pa says we could pasture a whole herd of cattle here without turnin’ a hand! He says if he’d known about this afore he settled on our farm, he’d have chosen this place. Good sandy soil, too! It’ll grow most anything, I reckon. I tell him I’m goin’ to take up land here when I’m grown. By that time Gen’l Wayne should ha’ knocked some sense into the Indians.”