2 The Cry for Revenge

We had in Danville the next day one of those public meetings which we call a convention. Kentucky was to become a State in the following year, and her leaders would take measures for that important event. Moreover, they were to send men to St. Clair, for, as I have said, it was a heroic vanguard which bled and suffered much and never gave back; but that terrible cloud of Indian war in the North had long hung upon it, and the air was growing too heavy to breathe. They must have relief, and it was St. Clair who should bring it. Therefore they, the men of the border, in their absolute freedom, hating military leaders and military discipline, would give to St. Clair all the help that they could, hoping to find relief through him. So they came, and, whether it was for peace or war, every one brought a rifle. The time was not yet, when a man in the West could afford to ride without a weapon in his hand.

It was a serious and solemn race that gathered there, bearing already upon its face the stamp of its trials, and the prevailing note that day in the voice of all these men was the cry for revenge. When you study their case you will not blame them. I do not find in history a record of any people who endured more cruel sufferings than they. It is an honour to be the vanguard of a mighty movement, but you pay a price. In all that crowd there was scarcely one who knew what it was to have an untroubled night’s sleep. At any moment he might hear the blow of his cruel enemy at the door. When he came from his work in the field he would hasten his footsteps to see if his house had been burned and his wife and children slain in his absence. As he passed through the forest he looked about him with wary eyes, for behind any tree his ambushed foe might be lurking; and in winter, when the work was over and he sat before the red coals, he always listened amid the chatter of the children for something else. His intent ear dreaded to hear outside the soft crunch of moccasined feet on the snow, and his eye often turned to the rifle lying on its hooks on the wall. It was no wonder that he prized this weapon next to wife and children, insisted that it always be of the finest make, and that it should be, too, his chosen comrade, cleaving to him even closer than a wife; there was safety, what safety was to be had, in its long barrel—not for himself alone, but for the others who clung to him and looked to him for protection.

Even a stranger would have noted the effect of such a life upon these men. In the town itself they were wary and suspicious, keeping their rifles in their hands, examining everybody with care, looking about for enemies, eyes keen and shifting like those of a tiger, since danger might come from any point of the compass. The faces were thin and seamed. Long years of watching had left deep lines there. They had been forced to adopt the tactics of their elusive foe, to acquire the skill of the wild animal, in sight, scent, and sound, and in following his customs they had borrowed some of the nature of that foe. They, too, were fierce and relentless toward their enemies, but very generous to their friends.

To-day they called for revenge. There was nothing said about the right cheek. Had one among them preached such a doctrine, the others would have turned upon him in amazement and equal anger. There was no man who had not suffered from the red enemy. From nearly every house a wife or son or daughter had been taken, never to come back again. So those who were left remembered only their griefs, and did not pause to consider the claims of their enemies. That was to them sheer nonsense, a waste of time. What they wanted was blood for blood. I repeat that a wild life among wild foes does not teach softness, and their cry was natural. Moreover, they wished their revenge to be sweeping and final. They were sorry that St. Clair’s army was not to be three or four times larger. They wanted nothing to be left of the tribes. They would exterminate them, because there is no peace with poisonous snakes; they would destroy the villages to the last lodge, and make the dark woods across the Ohio, which looked so threatening, and kept their threats, as safe as the open fields in the East. They were impatient, too, with that East which seemed so far away and so indifferent. Men there, who knew nothing about the savages, shilly-shallied with them, they said, and talked about treaties and mutual rights, while they of the West lay under the tomahawk and saw their wives and children scalped and slain. So their anger against the East increased, and many thought that they should not join St. Clair and submit to the noxious military rule of those whom they considered so much less skilful than themselves; an independent force would be better, and then they might do what seemed most fit. But the advice of others prevailed; the soldiers and the Westerners should be united, and when the blow was struck it could be struck with all the greater force.

These men met, amid surroundings of absolute democracy, in the open air under the shade of mighty oaks and beeches, and each said the thing that was in his mind. One was as good as another. There were to be no officers until they were chosen by the crowd, and then the others would obey them—if they saw fit.

The setting of this scene appealed to me, even with all my experience of the West, because I knew that from this little centre the men of my race, so long held to the seashore by the ridge of mountains behind us, would spread over a continent.

It was early autumn. The leaves bore the first delicate tints of red and yellow, and afar the forest glowed. The air, pure and clear, was a joy to breathe, and the glorious foliage hid the newness of the little town beside us. Danville was an island of civilization in a wilderness, but here were the men who would make good their kingdom.

Miss Carew was among those who looked on, and I soon found myself near her. The scene impressed her imagination too; she saw its poetry, and her deepest feelings were stirred. But she paled a little as she listened to the fiery speeches.

“How dark and fierce they look!” she said.

“You can understand what they feel only when you become one of their kind,” I replied.

“I am beginning to understand,” she continued. “But I wish, Mr. Lee, that they would not regard themselves as separate from the rest of us. The East is not hard and insensible; it simply does not know, or rather it does not know all.”

“They are a valiant race,” said Mr. Carew.

“They have need to be,” I added.

Mr. Carew presently left us, taking with him Jasper, who had made himself one of our company, and began to talk with the Kentuckians. I saw readily his design, a plan in which he wished Jasper to help. He had a great stake in the West, and meant to become one of its people; he would please them and grow popular among them, thus opening the road to high advancement. So thinking, he exercised all his arts, which were not a few. He also offered much material help; he would equip a company out of his own pocket, and the success of his efforts showed in his exultant face. In addition to the help of Jasper he had that of Knowlton, a man of persuasive voice and insidious ways, and I began to wonder just what particular object Mr. Carew had in view. I saw his daughter presently watching him too, and there was a cloud upon her face, as if she would check his ambition did she but know the way.

The meeting broke up, all things being agreed to, and Mr. Carew rejoined us, followed soon by Jasper.

“Walk with us a little, will you, Mr. Lee?” he said.

“I have somewhat to say to you.”

I complied willingly, and he spoke of his pleasure in meeting so many people and the friendships he was making. He trusted that their impression of him would be as good as his of them. Evidently he was all for personal glory and gain, and I judged that I had a part in his calculations. What he would say to me concerned my probable use to him. But he did not announce it then, merely asking me to come to his house again in the evening, when we should discuss the affairs that he had in mind. I agreed to his request, curious to know of what he would talk, and yet willing to wait for knowledge until the event should disclose itself. In a way he attracted me strongly with his ambition and his great schemes. I do not blame ambition when it travels the right path, and there had been a time when I had much of it myself. I knew, too, that if the past were changed it could blossom anew in my mind, and it was therefore with a certain sadness that I turned away from his house. But I walked only a few yards, stopping there and watching the lights in the building. Then I saw Rose Carew pass before the window, and I was sufficient judge of myself to know that it was not Mr. Carew alone who drew me.

“You were ever a fool, John Lee,” I said to myself, “and time can not cure you.”

I turned away again and met Knowlton. I disliked the man. We are open and free in our dealings with each other in the wilderness, with but little taste for the law and its chicane. Moreover, Knowlton was an unpleasing specimen of his class. I would have passed him, but he clung to me.

“A great man!” he said, nodding toward Mr. Carew’s house.

“By which I take it that you mean Mr. Carew.”

“Even so,” he replied.

“I do not know,” I said; “but if he does not possess greatness he craves it.”

But Knowlton would have it that Mr. Carew was already the most promising figure in the West; he was rich—richer than any other this side of the mountains—his influence was bound to extend in the Western country wherever white men lived, and there was no honour which might not be his for the winning. Nor would his friends be forgotten. This last clause I suspected was of the utmost importance to Mr. Knowlton. But he skimmed lightly over it, and talked of the opportunities sure to come when St. Clair should have crushed the Northwestern Confederation. Then all would recognise the importance of Mr. Carew in furthering this expedition.

“Perhaps the first governorship of the State will not be too great a reward for him,” said Knowlton.

“I think he is not to have it,” I replied. “The people are more likely to choose a man who has shared their dangers. Like likes like. The bravest fighter is yet the most valuable citizen here, and some one of those whom you saw in that group under the trees is almost sure to be the first ruler of this new State.”

He received my words with a discontented air, but did not return directly to the subject of Mr. Carew’s promotion. I would have left him then perforce, but I stopped to listen to many hoof-beats. It was those who had gathered that day riding home, either to prepare for the war or to stand guard while the others fought. These I knew were the makers of the West, and not such as Knowlton or Mr. Carew; a race of men in the depths of the wilderness who had forgotten how to laugh. They came in the morning in silence, and now they were going back at night in the same silence, sombre but resolute.

I suppose that thoughts of this kind were passing through Knowlton’s mind, too, as he stopped with me and listened without a word until the sound of the last hoof-beat died. Then he left me, saying, “You shall see me again very soon, Mr. Lee.”

I returned at the appointed time, and when I knocked upon the Carew door it was Rose Carew who received me, holding a candle high above her head, and peering into the darkness to see who came. I noticed then how tall and straight she was, the deep blue of her eyes, and the yellow gold of her hair. With her easy grace and frank ways she was a new type in the West, where woman, like man, under the shadow of countless dangers, was yet shy and difficult. She had shown me friendship from the first—blended, so I thought, with a certain restrained curiosity as to what I was. Her uncertainty about me, I was reader enough of women’s hearts to know, was not my loss.

“You come with so light a step that I heard only your knock,” she said. “Do you know that this is what has impressed me most in the West—the footfalls of men and women make no sound.”

“The first children in Kentucky learned early to be soundless as they passed,” I replied. “It was always better—at least far safer—to hear than to be heard.”

“What a life!”

“And yet many have lived it.”

“They are waiting for you in the next room,” she continued. “I suppose that you are to plan some great campaign, while I stay here and read a book. But I am not sure that I shall not be the better employed.”

I went into the apartment she designated and found Mr. Carew, Knowlton, and Jasper there—Mr. Carew expansive and smiling, Knowlton furtive and watchful, and Jasper silent. Mr. Carew welcomed me with great warmth. But his cordiality always seemed to me too inclusive; it was elastic enough to embrace all who might be of use. He gave me a glass of wine, the first that had passed my lips in ten years, but I drank it and put the glass back upon the table without comment.

“Are you an expert in wines?” asked Jasper, with his usual covert sneer.

“Why do you ask?” I replied.

“I thought that you might be,” he said.

Mr. Carew did not notice, but Knowlton gave me a quick, inquiring look. However, he remained silent, and Jasper, too, said nothing more just then.

“I want to talk to you again about the Northwest,” began Mr. Carew, in smooth, persuasive tones. “You rove at random through the wilderness, and, as you have told me, you know this country well. It is fertile, and its value must be great when these pestilent tribes shall have been cleared away.”

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“The grants of myself and my associates cover a large part of this wilderness,” he continued, “and as soon as St. Clair finishes his task we shall want to turn it to account. We shall need some one who knows the country well to guide us in our surveys, and we think that we have found such a man.”

His intent was now clear to me, and I quickly ran the matter over in my mind.

“In brief,” he said, with the air of one who does an important favour, “it is you of whom we are thinking. I am the head of this affair, Captain Lee is my lieutenant, Mr. Knowlton keeps us informed about the law which goes into the very marrow of the case, and you are to be our guide through the woods.”

Had any one told me a week earlier that I was to accept such an offer, I should have laughed at him. Even Jasper saw the oddity of the situation, for when I caught his eyes there was in them a flicker of amusement. His look decided any lingering doubts that I may have felt. I did not wish Jasper to be amused at my expense.

“You make no movement until after St. Clair wins his victory?” I asked Mr. Carew. “Because I go with him, as I told you, and my service there precludes my work with you until the former shall have been finished.”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “’Twould indeed be premature for us to go into the Northwest now. Moreover, Captain Lee also marches with St. Clair. As you see, all our movements wait upon those of the general.”

“Then, with this proviso—not until after St. Clair’s victory—I shall enlist in your employ,” I said.

Mr. Carew seemed pleased, though Jasper looked black; but at that moment my thoughts were in the next room.

I shall admit that I felt compunctions when I entered into this agreement, though I was drawn on by something foreign to the matter in hand, and thinking, too, perhaps, that it was a vague affair which could never come to a head. But Mr. Carew did not consider it such. He talked very freely now of great opportunities. The white wave was soon to roll on and submerge all that opposed it, and those who came close behind should reap great profits. I listened to him awhile, and then I told him that I must go, as I was to depart in a day or so for the Northwest.

“Do not forget your promise,” he said, giving me his hand.

“I shall not,” I replied, and I left them. Jasper rose to follow me, but Mr. Carew called him, and again I found Rose Carew alone. I stopped a moment, though feeling that I should not do so.

“Is the great campaign launched?” she asked, looking up from her book.

“It is,” I replied, “and I am to enter your father’s service after St. Clair shall have defeated the Indians.”

“And he will defeat them, will he not?” she asked. “I have heard so much of those cruel tribes, Mr. Lee, that I begin now to share your Western feelings. St. Clair is sure to crush them, is he not?”

“No one knows,” I replied, “but I am certain that the hopes of all the West go with St. Clair.”

I lingered yet a little longer, and she showed me a mind that could grasp the affairs of a statesman—perhaps not so uncommon a quality in woman as we think. She was the most zealous of patriots, and all the country back to the Pacific she wished to be ours.

“We must not let the powers of Europe forestall us,” she said.

“The Romans won the world by shortening their swords,” I replied, “and what we have here under our hands no nation across the sea can prevent us from holding.”

She spoke again of her father’s plan. She seemed to know somewhat of its nature, and not wholly to favour it. She, like myself, believed, apparently, that the country should belong to those who were shedding their blood for it.

When I took my leave she came again to the door with her candle.

“May I light you on your way, Mr. Lee?” she said, holding it above her head as before.

And this to me, a man who had travelled night after night through the wilderness, with no light at all! But I accepted it with alacrity, and when I looked back she was still holding the candle at arm’s length, and after the young face under it faded in the darkness it beamed, until it too went out.

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