5 A Gentleman in Red
The skies took the gray hue of my own mind. The brilliant foliage of Indian summer was dropping from the trees, and the dying leaves rustled as they fell. I repeated to myself that all the years since then had not softened the bitterness of exposure. And yet I had not really sought to hide. I had stayed in the forest because I loved it, and I had borne my own name because I was proud of it—the name John Lee. No one could truthfully say that I had sought a disguise.
I felt a light hand upon my shoulder. It was Osseo. He had been sitting beside me in silence for more than an hour. When I looked around he rose to his feet, and never had I seen him look taller and more impressive. He pointed to the northwest, where the forest stretched away a thousand miles.
“Come, my brother,” he said. “Our home is there.”
The Indian’s eyes were flashing. I think it was the first time that I had seen him show emotion.
“Come,” he continued. “Lee is accused of a crime by those of his own race, and he does not deny it. Osseo will never believe that he did it, but even if he was a traitor to his race, as the Long Knives have said, it does not change my heart. Come! all the wilderness is ours; we know it and we do not fear it. We may go where we choose.”
He swept with his arm the whole semicircle of the west as he stood before me, his mighty chest heaving and his eyes still glittering. The spirit in me again leaped into life as I looked at him and listened to his words. In truth, Osseo was a gentleman, a gentleman in red, the finest gentleman I ever met. His invitation was most tempting, too. He spoke the truth when he said that we knew the forest and did not fear its shadows; it had many joys for those who were able to tread the wilderness road. But I shook my head at last. I could not go when I was on trial.
“No, Osseo,” I said; “God knows that I thank you for many things, but I can not leave this army now. I must stay with it until it meets the tribes.”
This, too, despite the danger of Rose Carew and the wan face of that woman in Kentucky who had put her faith in me.
“If Lee does not go I do not go either,” he said quietly, and sat down again by my side, resuming his silence, his face once more impassive, the man motionless, as if he were a block of reddish-brown marble. I did not thank him, feeling the uselessness of words in such a case, and knowing, too, that he would not wish them, but he had lifted me from the depths of depression. Nor was he my only friend. It happens sometimes that we do not learn in what esteem we are held by those who know us best until we fall into ill repute with the majority. The old scouts and borderers in this camp whose opinion I respected, and with most of whom I had shared dangers, were not backward in showing their faith.
Old Joe Grimes was the first to seek me. Old Joe was not handsome to look upon; in truth, he was so ugly that his appearance was humorous, being as broad as he was long, with features devoid of system or arrangement. But he was nearly as skilful in the woods as Osseo, and a more honest man in intent wind and hail never beat upon. Now he came to me and extended his huge hand as a sign of friendship, saying:
“I don’t believe a word of the durned yarn, John. You might as well whistle jigs to a milestone as tell me it’s true. I can’t forgit how you helped beat off the Shawnees that time they come against my cabin, and helped save the old woman and the gals from the red rascals. Put ’er thar, John.”
And I put my hand inside his, receiving a grip that would have made a bear wince. “It’s some lie of these durned soldiers,” he said. “Guv’mints are always doin’ such things. I don’t believe in guv’mints nohow. They’re slower’n molasses anyway, and so far as we of the West are concerned, we are just children in the house of a stepmother.”
And the others came, too, with word or act of friendship—Dick Bates, Ben Strong, Sam Peabody, Swiftfoot Tom Houck, the fastest runner in the West, and all the others who knew me. Their manner strengthened my resolve to remain with General St. Clair’s army while the expedition lasted. This, I gathered from the conversation about me, could not be much longer. The general intended to march immediately against the Miami towns on the Wabash, sweeping out of his way such bands as sought to impede him, and the necessity of speedy action was apparent, as winter, which in our Northwestern woods is often a bitter winter indeed, would soon be at hand. I saw about me all the signs of early cold weather. The north wind which was blowing that morning had an unusually keen edge. The leaves were beginning to lose some of their vivid tints and curl up at the edges. They were falling in showers, too, before the blast.
Many of the raw Eastern soldiers shivered and hovered more closely around the camp fires, casting anxious glances at the unbroken forest, which curved about them. I fancy that this seemed a strange campaign to them, so far from cultivated land and the homes of men. Even the two little companies of regular troops, disciplined, steady fellows, were not free from the sombre influence. It was unknown ground to them; they had learned none of the secrets of the wilderness, and everywhere they found it strange and gloomy.
“There will be snow soon,” said Osseo, speaking at last, “and the march will be hard for the Long Knives.”
“Yes, Osseo,” I replied, “and this is not the place for the drilled and stiff soldier of the old country. If we could only trade them all for half their number of good foresters!”
“The General-who-rides-on-the-shoulders-of-his-men does not think so,” he replied.
I could not discern whether there was the intent of irony in his speech, but such was its effect upon me.
Twenty Indians were gathered around a fire near by, talking in low tones in their own language. They were friendly Chickasaws, warriors from the far South, whom General St. Clair had brought with him as scouts and skirmishers. Osseo watched them for awhile with a contemplative eye, but did not speak. He rose presently, and without explanation entered the woods.