4 The General-Who-Never-Walks

Five days and nights we travelled through the forest, and while I still thought of Rose Carew I also thought of what awaited me in the camp of St. Clair. Jasper’s threats had scarcely been veiled, and I knew, too, that I had aroused in him a feeling of jealousy—I laughed to myself, though it was a bitter laugh, to think how little was the cause. I was the last man in the world of whom he should feel jealous. But Osseo spoke words of comfort. The maid, beyond a doubt, had been taken to the Miami town on the Wabash, and there the army was marching. I reflected upon what he said, and saw new reasons why I should stay with St. Clair. Perhaps we were advancing to certain rescue.

Osseo, as we neared our destination, led the way. Once I turned to him and asked:

“Are you sure that you are taking the right path?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I lead you straight toward the General-who-never-walks.”

“To the General-who-never-walks?” I said, mystified.

“Yes,” repeated Osseo, “the old, sick, white chief, who comes on the shoulders of his men; the one who builds his fires in the forest that all his enemies may see where he goes.”

Such was his term for General St. Clair, who led our army against the great confederation of the Northwestern tribes. Now that he was so near, I thrilled with strong emotion. Yet I refused to turn back. I felt a strange, stubborn pride, and it would not permit me.

Early on the morning of the sixth day Osseo pointed toward the sunrise. A thin dark line dividing the heavens showed there distinctly against the red and gold.

“The smoke from a camp fire; it must be the army of General St. Clair,” I said.

He nodded.

We hastened on now, and soon reached the outposts, finding that, in truth, it was St. Clair’s army which lay before us.

A soldier levelled his gun at Osseo and was about to pull the trigger, but I knocked his hand away in time.

“Don’t you see that it’s a friend?” I cried. “’Tis Osseo, the smartest Indian in all the Northwestern Territory.”

Then I introduced myself to the captain of the pickets, a self-contained man of middle age.

“Lee! John Lee?” he said; “I have heard the name. You volunteered to serve us as a scout?”

“So I did,” I said, “and I have information.”

He asked us to sit by one of the camp fires, where breakfast would be given to us, and he would report meanwhile our arrival to St. Clair. We obeyed, and while we were there Winchester came to us, giving my hand the warm grip of friendship, and telling us that his business as a trader had kept him with the army. But the captain—Hardy was his name—returned in an hour, saying that General St. Clair wished to see me.

Then he led the way. I liked his manner and his trim appearance, and I knew at once that he was an old Continental Officer. He had the military walk and rigidity of figure never cultivated by our Western people. I could not speak so well of his men. The scouts, in truth, were fitted for their work, being alert fellows without pretence. Some of them I knew, such as Ben Strong, Dick Bates, and old Joe Grimes, the guide, a short, thick, bandy-legged man of immense strength and endurance, who considered all soldiers fools, and despised all governments as a useless tyranny.

I shook hands with my friends and looked again at the soldiers. It was certain that these were not men who knew the wilderness road; the ways of the forest were strange to them. I remembered the type. Their faces showed a lack of healthy colour; they were white in the cheeks and black under the eyes, and their muscles were loose and flabby, being, in fact, but sodden lumps, drawn from the vilest drinking taverns and brothels of our great Eastern towns and sent into this far wilderness to fight the wariest and most enduring of all foes, the Northwestern Indians. In truth, our President could then find no other, as we were rebuilding a country exhausted by the long years of the Revolutionary struggle. I felt both pity and contempt for these men as I looked upon them, some even trembling for the want of that rum with which they used to soak themselves in the cities.

Captain Hardy saw my attentive look and smiled in a deprecatory way.

“They will be fit in time,” he said. “We are training them.”

Osseo, whose watchful eyes followed mine, said in a low voice, “Rotten like a tree that has lost its roots.” The savage’s look expressed contempt only, and with this contrast before me, I could not deny a favourite contention of his, that the red was the superior race. Beside me stood the Indian, a perfect specimen of manhood, the bronze of his skin without a splotch, his eyes as clear as the waters of a brook, his muscles as elastic and hard as hickory, all the strength and all the virtues of the primitive man in his brain and heart; and before me this rum-sodden lot, whose rotting flesh was ready to fall from their bones, and whose dim eyes gazed only in a vague wonder and distrust at the mighty forest in which they were lost. Most truly the breath of the wilderness is sometimes the breath of God.

“The camp is near to good water, I hope,” I replied, speaking on the impulse of the moment, “and suitable for defence too. The general has thrown out scouts, has he not?”

Captain Hardy turned a keen look upon me.

“General St. Clair might resent such questions,” he responded, “and so might I, one of his officers; but I do not, knowing that they are suggested by a good motive. The precautions of which you speak have been taken—at least part of them.”

A look of depression appeared upon his face, and he was silent as we approached the main camp. I did not see, despite his assertion, the evidence of a vigilant watch, needed in such a country. Some sentinels were about, and the borderers, more of their own volition than by order, maintained a constant search through the woods for a foe, but that was all; otherwise the army felt itself secure in its numbers and strength. But the camp, it should be admitted, was selected with good judgment, lying on both sides of a clear creek, in an open space, where the forest was at least a quarter of a mile from any of the tents.

“That is General St. Clair’s marquee,” said Captain Hardy, pointing to the largest of them all. “He is not an altogether well man, and I ask you to be patient.”

I made no promise, reserving to myself my birthright of independence. We approached the general’s tent slowly, Osseo and I meanwhile still examining the army to the best of our opportunity. I judged that it numbered seventeen or eighteen hundred men, wholly from the East, except some companies of sunburned Kentuckians—the border contribution—who in their deerskins or home-made jeans formed a contrast to the pallid Easterners in faded uniforms. Numbers of the soldiers were playing cards on fallen logs, and others slouched about without aim or purpose, which I take to be the mark of an idle mind. I saw also at least a dozen buxom women, strapping wenches, evidently the wives of corporals or sergeants, and probably better men than their husbands.

A sentinel, musket on shoulder, watched at the entrance to the general’s marquee, but he stepped aside when Captain Hardy told who we were, and we entered.

It was a large tent, and on a litter in the corner lay a man of near sixty, with high-coloured, smooth-shaven face. He wore a fine American uniform, with a great puff of orange ribbon at the throat. His hair was drawn in a knot behind and tied with ribbon. An attendant was replacing the bandages upon a much-swollen foot.

It was the face of a brave, choleric, and headstrong man, with both the virtues and the vices of the race from which he sprang. General St. Clair was not an American, either by birth or breeding—only by adoption—although it must be said that he was an honourable soldier who had done us good service in the Revolutionary War, though always the cocksureness of his race clung to him, inherited like the gout from which he was now suffering.

I gave him the proper military salute, and he looked me slowly over, as if he would estimate my temper and worth.

“Are you the scout Lee?” he asked.

“I am a hunter primarily, and a scout secondarily,” I replied.

“Your salute and your attitude are both military; these things are the result of training.”

“It may be that I have served, sir.”

“Where and when, pray?”

“That, General St. Clair, you must permit me to keep as my secret.”

Additional colour flushed into his red face, but he retained control of himself and said:

“You are not a member of my immediate command, sir; if you were, I might compel another tone; but the matter may pass, and we will to the business in hand. Your name is not unknown to me, Mr. Lee, but I have no acquaintance with the savage who accompanies you.”

“This, General St. Clair,” I said, “is Osseo, an Indian, the loyal friend of the whites, and the best woodsman on the face of the earth.”

The general nodded slightly. Osseo’s salute was full of pride and haughtiness. His bearing was that of a man who acknowledged no superior and few equals, but he spoke no word, waiting in silence for me to say all that was needed.

“What do you know of the Indians whom we are sent against, Mr. Lee?” asked the general.

“They are gathering in great force on the Wabash and Miami Rivers,” I replied. “All the Northwestern tribes are coming—Wyandots, Miamis, Shawnees, Ottawas, Sacs, Foxes, Pottawatomies, and some even from the shores of Superior, armed with bows and arrows. Little Turtle, Blue Jacket, Black Eagle, and the renegades Girty and Blackstaffe lead them.”

“Be it so,” said the general. “Let them gather and form one band. It will be easier to strike off one head than many.”

“But, general,” I could not refrain from saying, “these savages are bold and most dangerous. Caution is needed.”

“Yes, caution is needed,” he replied with satirical emphasis, “more perhaps than advice. Let it suffice you, Mr. Lee, that I am already taking all the necessary measures.”

I bowed, and he added in a kindlier tone:

“I am glad that you stay with us, Mr. Lee, and glad to have the Indian too. This is a difficult business, I will admit, and we need men who know this accursed wilderness. I prefer war in the more open country of the East; but that is neither here nor there. How far over yonder does this forest extend?”

He waved his hand toward the Northwest.

“To my knowledge no man has ever reached the end of it yet,” I replied.

He uttered an oath, but it was not due to impatience at my answer; merely to an extra twinge in his gouty foot.

“I suppose you think, Mr. Lee,” he said, and he smiled as he said it, “that gout is the last thing a true forester ought to have.”

“I never heard of one who had it,” I replied.

“Which is only another way of saying that I am no forester.”

I was silent, but he did not seem to be offended, and, if I may be pardoned for saying it, I did not care greatly about his state of mind. There was in truth something most startlingly incongruous in the spectacle of a gouty old general, carried on a litter through an unbroken forest, to fight Indians. But on the whole, though testy when the gout was lively, he was a gentleman, and I gave him willingly all the information at my command, describing the various tribes in the league against us, their characteristics, their probable numbers, and the quality, of their leaders. Osseo supplemented my story with other details, but never for a moment relaxed his dignity. Then the general thanked us both with much courtesy, and bidding him good-day, we went from his tent into the camp. The first man whom we met was Captain Hardy.

“Mr. Lee,” he said, “there is an officer of your name in our army who has heard of your arrival and wishes to see you. I inferred from what he said that he was some kind of a relation of yours.”

These words, so lightly uttered by this unsuspecting and good-hearted captain, sent all the blood in a rush to my head. I did not doubt that Jasper, since he had spoken openly of our kinship, meant to betray me. The strange feeling of jealousy that he seemed to harbour—and again I said with so slight a cause—was urging him on. Well, let him do it, if he chose. It was an emergency that I must face sooner or later, and I hardened my heart. Behold, he was here now with his lank figure, thin face, and saturnine smile, ready to keep the threat made in Danville. Some people thought that the ways of my cousin, Jasper Lee, were of the best mode and fashion, but others did not like them, and among such was I.

“We meet again, Cousin John,” he said, “and I warned you not to come.”

“The nature of a warning depends upon the one who warns,” I replied.

“You will find that I keep my promises.”

I said nothing.

“And perhaps they ought to hear about you,” he added, with his malicious smile.

Whether he felt deep grief for Rose Carew, and surely he must have felt it, and when or how he had heard of her capture I knew not, but he did not speak of it then nor until long afterward.

I turned my back upon him. Captain Hardy was regarding us with a look of surprise. This most certainly was not an affectionate greeting by cousins, but he was too well bred to say anything. I told him that Osseo and I would sit again by one of the fires and rest, and he made no opposition.

As we sat there and refreshed ourselves I noticed again the situation of the camp, the flabby and sullen soldiers, and the forest. It seemed to me that the autumn had advanced greatly in the last few days. The foliage blazed with intense colours in the sunshine. Afar a fine haze hung in the air, which was so pure that the lightest wind was instinct with strength and life. But the soldiers lounging near me found no beauty in it. I heard many words of discontent. Perhaps they were lamenting the gin and rum in the taverns of New York and Philadelphia. Farther on a dozen Kentuckians in fringed hunting shirts were declaiming against the military discipline of General St. Clair, a rule irksome and offensive to all borderers. The conditions in this camp, as I well knew from my brief inspection, were like the meeting of fire and tow, but perhaps the gouty general in his litter saw only through military glasses, which most seldom reveal all the phases of an affair. My mind reverted from these matters to my cousin, and I was sure now, as I had supposed, that he had much influence in St. Clair’s army.

Osseo seemed to divine that trouble rested upon my mind, and, with the instinctive delicacy always shown by him, asked no questions, remaining in complete silence. We sat there by the fire a long time enjoying the luxury of rest after an arduous journey.

I was aroused from my thoughts by loud laughter, followed by loud talking, both proceeding from a group of officers gathered at the centre of the camp. The words were made indistinct by the distance, but I saw the men looking toward me as they laughed, and my cousin was among them. It was my fancy, perhaps, but I detected the sneer in both laugh and speech, and I was sure the old tale was being told again. They walked near me presently, led by Jasper, and still laughing—that is, part of them; some were silent and grave, and most evidently their glances rested upon me as if they were examining a rare animal just brought into captivity. I gave them no notice save once to meet the look of my cousin with a gaze into which I tried to put all the dislike and contempt that I felt, in which I may have succeeded, as he dropped his eyes, though laughing louder than before.

These things could not escape the notice of Osseo, and with his acute perceptions he must have made some guess at their meaning, but his manner did not change, and he spoke only once.

“Lee will stay with the soldiers, will he not?” he asked.

“Such is my intent,” I answered.

“Then I too will stay,” he said. “Where Lee goes Osseo goes too.”

Deep in my soul I thanked him for his confidence, but I said nothing. We arose after awhile and strolled through the camp, noting the signs of discontent and confusion. Nearly all the troops were sullen—the Eastern soldiers, who constituted the great bulk of the army, because they were underpaid and engaged in a service of which they knew nothing; and the Kentuckians because they revolted at the methods of the old Continental general, believing that encroachments were made upon their independence. As far as they were concerned a mutiny seemed perilously near, and my sympathies were divided, knowing so well the strength that was in the contention of both borderer and Continental; it was merely a difference in the point of view, but that difference was very wide.

Some one tapped me on the shoulder. It was Captain Hardy.

“General St. Clair would like to see you in his tent again,” he said. The captain’s manner had changed; it was no longer genial, but cold and reserved, yet not actively hostile. He had beyond a doubt heard Jasper Lee’s tale, but I was equally sure that he reserved his opinion.

“I am willing to go to the general at once,” I said, “but I should like to take Osseo with me.”

“I know of no objection,” he replied.

He led the way, and once more we were in the commander in chief’s tent. General St. Clair, merely irritable before, was now distinctly suspicious. The look that he gave me was even longer and more critical than the one that he had bestowed upon me when I was first in his presence. There was something, too, in his gaze that made my face flush and every combative instinct in me rise.

“I have had news of you since morning, Mr. Lee,” he said dryly, “which makes me change somewhat my opinion of you—that is, if it be true.”

“I presume that your news comes from my cousin, Mr. Lee.”

“You are correct in your surmise; it comes from Captain Jasper Lee. I can not on the whole call him a very cousinly cousin, but perhaps he was right in telling me this; at least I should know it, since I intended to proceed to some extent upon the strength of the information that you gave me this morning. Captain Lee said to me that you were drummed out of the Continental army for treason, and that you fled shortly afterward to this Western wilderness to hide your face from those who knew you. Is it true, Mr. Lee, that you were drummed out of the Continental army for treason?”

His gaze as he asked me this question was keen and curious, and in spite of myself I felt the blood rise to my face. But the emotion lasted only a moment.

“Such was the charge,” I replied steadily.

“You of course deny the truth of that charge.”

“Do not all men declared guilty of a crime, General St. Clair, claim their innocence?”

“Then you admit that you were guilty?”

“I have not said so.”

He looked at me in doubt and perplexity.

“But surely there were extenuating circumstances.” he continued. “You were only a boy then; perhaps it was some rash act, done under hot impulse?”

“It is true that I was a boy then,” I replied, “but I knew perfectly well what was and what was not treason.”

He swore an impatient oath—an oath that did not have its origin in his gouty foot.

“Mr. Lee,” he continued, “you are a strange man. When this charge is brought against you, you neither affirm nor deny. How can I trust you in the face of such a thing? If you were a traitor then, it is quite likely that you are a traitor now. There are white renegades among the Indians—Girty and Blackstaffe and others; how do I know that you are not such yourself, and that you are not seeking to lead us into a trap?”

“You do not know it, General St. Clair,” I replied, and I said it with pride—the opening of old wounds is not pleasant, and it incites one to anger.

“And yet, so I hear, you have served the border well,” he said. “That is in your favour, and a man may commit a wrong act and be sorry for it. Probably poor Arnold—I say poor Arnold purposely—has repented ten thousand times of his own treason. Mr. Lee, I am absolutely sure that you were a rash and foolish boy carried away by angry impulses. You thought that a wrong had been done you, and you rushed into folly.”

“It is not so,” I replied stubbornly.

“I repeat that it is so,” he said in a loud and choleric tone. “Do not dare to contradict me, sir; I am the commander in chief of this army. I insist that you were a thoughtless boy, who, smarting under some rank injustice, did a thoughtless deed. Now, listen, sir. You and your Indian friend can have the liberty of this camp, but you will be watched, closely watched—I can do nothing else under such circumstances—and perhaps you will have a chance to redeem yourself upon the battlefield. By God, sir, if I were in your place I should jump at the opportunity!”

“I shall stay, general,” I replied quite calmly—to stay seemed best to me—“and I thank you for your consideration.”

Then we left the tent and walked through the camp, intending to sit by one of the fires on the outskirts. The officers whom we passed turned their backs on me. Captain Hardy, who had been with us in the tent, went away silently. I had not understood until then, even after so many years, how bitter it would be, and I sank down by the fire in a fit of deep depression.

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