6 A Forest Council

It was about noon when Osseo went into the forest, and I ate dinner with the scouts, still uncertain what to do next, though resolved to stay with the army and await the issue, hoping too that a successful battle would lead to a speedy rescue of Rose Carew.

I had seen my true kind again after many years, and though I had come in repellent guise to a harsh welcome, it was only to verify what the presence of Rose Carew in Kentucky had told me already. I could not change my nature, nor the character formed in all the years preceding manhood, and the honest and rough men with whom I now sat, though good friends, were of another breed. I had long prided myself on my forest skill, but all at once it seemed a little thing to the great world with which this army had again brought me in touch. Then I was ashamed of such thoughts, when I looked around at the brown hunters who refused to believe any ill of me.

I inquired what course the army would take. It seemed to me that we should have been on the march since dawn, but I learned that no movement would be made until the next day, because of trouble with some of the militia or raw troops. General St. Clair was now unable to leave his tent, owing to a violent attack of gout aggravated by worry; and General Butler and Colonel Sargent, his chief assistants, were seeking to overcome the difficulties, though the wilderness was a blank to them, and they sought none who could tell them its ways.

The gray and chilly day did not improve, nor did the troubled camp. Extremes met here—the stiff military discipline of the East and the absolute independence of the Western forester; while the honest but incompetent old general, whose duty it was to reconcile them, writhed with a swollen foot on his couch.

Osseo returned to the camp about dusk and sat down beside me in front of one of the fires, which were now a necessity, owing to the increasing cold. I handed him a piece of venison, and he ate it in silence. I, too, held my peace, knowing that he would speak in his own good time, and that when he did so speak it would be to much purpose.

“Indian sign,” he said at last. “Plenty of it.”

“Where, Osseo?” I asked.

“All around,” he replied. “Before, behind, on both sides. Wyandots and Miamis on right, Ottawas and Shawnees on left. General-who-never-walks should be General-who-never-sleeps. Forest full of danger—dangers as thick as those.”

He pointed toward the dying leaves, which were falling to the earth in showers before the keen north wind.

“I see, Osseo,” I replied, and I felt a deep sadness as I spoke, “but I am in no position to give advice to General St. Clair. God knows that no man ever needed it more than he!”

I was thinking then of the great hopes that rested upon St. Clair’s army: a whole people expected now an end to the cruelties that had so long ravaged the border; and there too was the rescue of Rose Carew which this force ought to further.

Osseo remained, after his brief report, in silence, pondering upon I knew not what. Winchester joined us presently. He, too, had heard my cousin’s tale about me, and his manner of handling it was according to his nature. “It’s an infernal lie, Lee!” he said. “I would not believe it if you yourself were to swear to me that it is true, and I do not want to hear a word about the matter.” Then he took his seat beside us in front of the coals and talked of other things. His mind moved slowly as a rule, but it moved in right channels.

Osseo and I bade Winchester good-night shortly after dusk, and taking our rifles, prepared to leave the camp. We could do as we chose in this particular, ours being the loose duty of scouts, which means freedom in the West. In truth, the scouts made their movements according to their own judgment. All their reconnoitring seemed voluntary. General St. Clair apparently was stupefied by the forest, which lay upon him like a wet cloth, and did not fill the woods with his spies.

Most of the men were asleep. Osseo looked at them a moment or two and then said:

“Only a fool sleeps without fear in the forest.”

We reached the fringe of the camp, and were about to pass the sentinel there, but he stopped us.

“You can not pass,” he said.

“We are scouts; we intend to examine the woods for Indian signs,” I said in some surprise.

“The Indian may go, but not you, Mr. Lee,” replied the man.

“Why?” I asked. His tone seemed to me to smack of insolence.

“Orders of Captain Lee, the officer of the guard.”

Captain Lee himself appeared a moment later, and explained in his usual suave manner.

“We are forced to distrust you, my gentle cousin,” he said. “Remembering what you were once, we fear that you are the same to-day. Now, I am quite sure that if you go into the forest there you go merely to confer with the Indians our enemies.”

“Jasper Lee,” I replied, “you know that you lie!”

He flushed and raised his hand as if he would strike me, but in a moment recovered himself—he knew better than to deal me a blow—and then said, quite coldly:

“Have it as you please; I can afford to take any sort of abuse from you. You are too far below me for me to answer you.”

“Perhaps,” I said, stung somewhat by his taunt, “when you were dispensing news about me to the camp to-day, you did not tell how much you had profited by my condemnation. My outlawry and disappearance have enabled you to enjoy what were mine.’”’

“And rightly so,” he replied with some heat. “You were the traitor, not I.”

“Be it as you say,” I continued; “I warn you not to interfere with me. As you see, I have friends here, and if a contest should come between us I might not be the one to suffer the more. Still I do not seek it.”

He looked at me wonderingly, as if fearing that I possessed some hidden weapon, and then he turned carelessly to the sentinel.

“Let him pass,” he said.

Osseo and I left the camp behind us and entered the forest. We stood a few moments in the shade of a great oak tree, and looked back at the smouldering fires. Then we proceeded a little farther, and turning again, saw no light behind us. The wilderness had received the army and hidden it as it could have hidden one a hundred times larger. Around us stretched the loneliness of desolation, and a silence broken only by the rustle of the dying leaves as they fell. We renewed our journey and passed a herd of deer feeding quietly in a little open space.

“The Indian has not been here, or the deer would not be so quiet,” said Osseo.

We turned toward the left, and after ten minutes’ walking heard the faint hoot of an owl to the southward. It was answered from another point perhaps a mile distant. Clearly the savages were alert if General St. Clair was not.

“Wyandots,” said Osseo. “They have passed this way.”

He pointed to faint traces on the earth, visible in the moonlight.

I suggested to him that we pursue the band and perhaps we could steal near enough to hear their talk, his assent being given at once. So we followed the trail in the moonlight through the forest, over hills and across little brooks and through thickets, but never losing it for a moment. Engaged upon this intent and delicate business, all my old sanguine feelings returned I was again in the woods, free to go where I chose; the world was mine, and the most trusty of all comrades was by my side.

Soon we beheld a subdued light in the forest, as if those who kindled it did not wish to be seen afar. Lying down among the bushes and creeping with hand and knee, we drew near enough to discern about twenty warriors sitting in a glen and talking with great earnestness. Among them were two of our Chickasaw scouts—not prisoners, but most evidently on good terms with our inveterate enemies.

The little circle of Indians, sitting there in the forest and holding such grave converse, gave the impression of dignity. They were mostly men of importance, as I could tell by their dress, which in every instance was elaborate and rich according to the Indian ideas. Their moccasins were of the finest and neatest-fitting deerskin, and as they sat the seamless soles were turned up to the fire. Their leggings were of blue or red cloth, purchased at the British forts, decorated around the bottom and up one side with a border of beads, and trimmed in two or three cases with tiny bells. Their hunting shirts also were made of blue or red broadcloth or fine, tanned deerskin, the bottom and front covered with an embroidery of many-coloured beads, the fringe of the shirt falling to the knee.

Each carried around him, with all the gravity and grace of a Roman senator wearing the toga, a blanket of blue or red or yellow, made of the finest broadcloth, and about two yards square. Two or three wore headdresses after the fashion of the Iroquois, which consisted of a close-fitting splint band with a cross band curving over the top, from which hung a cluster of feathers, while another and larger feather was set in the centre of the head-dress and waved defiantly aloft. This was the war plume. The weapons in every case were a rifle, tomahawk, and knife.

“War chiefs in council,” whispered Osseo. “When they talk thus together there will soon be wailing in the settler’s cabin.”

I knew full well the truth of his words, but I did not withhold admiration from the circle that made the brilliant and impressive picture before me. Theirs was truly a life in all its wildness and freedom that many a man might covet. We crept a little nearer, but still we could not understand what they were saying, and we dared not attempt a further approach, as Indian ears are so cunning that, near by, no skill may deceive them. The Wyandot chief Hoyoquim, whom I recognised, had been talking, but at this moment the warrior next to him, a man of great age, but still strong and erect, arose and began to make a formal address after the Indian custom, speaking with much eloquence, a quality not at all rare among the tribes. As he raised his voice we could hear his words.

He was an Iroquois named Haqua, and he told of the fate that befell the Six Nations because they did not unite against the white invaders. He urged the Western tribes to avoid a similar mistake, speaking with a forest eloquence that soon drew murmurs of approval.

“The warriors of the West are brave,” said Haqua in conclusion, “and they are many. They have come even from the far shores of the greatest lake, and their most famous chiefs lead them. Let none go home until we strike and destroy the army that the General-who-never-walks leads through the forest. Then the white man will be sent beyond the Ohio, and he will not dare to come again into the land which you have said with your rifle and tomahawk is yours and shall remain yours. Hero koué.”

When he uttered his guttural cry “Hero koué,” which means, in the Iroquois, “This is the end,” the murmur of approval became a subdued cry, it being evident that there was but one mind among them all. Hoyoquim next sprang to his feet, and made a fiery speech, in which he seconded all that the old Iroquois had said, and two others also spoke.

The council was now over and the chiefs rose. We, too, turned away, and our self-chosen expedition lasted throughout the night, taking us in a wide circuit around the camp. Everywhere we found Indian signs. The army of General St. Clair advanced through many dangers. We met Joe Grimes and Dick Bates near morning, and they made the same report. Old Joe shook his head ominously.

“I don’t like it, Lee—I don’t like it,” he said, “We could tell General St. Clair that the warriors are gathering, but you might as well sing psalms to a dead horse. He’ll think we’re just stuffing mush in his ears.”

I feared that he was right, but, right or wrong, we took our way back to the army at rise of sun, intending to report what we had seen.

The camp presented a cheerful aspect in the early morning light, the blaze of many fires rising in the crisp, frosty air. The men were preparing to make an early start, and for once they showed zeal.

The officer in charge of the guard was Captain Hardy, and he did not object when I told him that I wished to see General St. Clair, being the bearer of important information. The general, he said, was up betimes from his bed, and was in a fairly good humour, his swollen foot having been relatively kind to him the night before. Captain Hardy’s bearing toward me was neither hostile nor friendly, its general note being that of one who reserved his decision for a future which should be determined by my conduct. I cared much for the good opinion of this officer, as his frank, honest manner was so evidently the index of a fine nature, and silently I thanked him for withholding his verdict.

General St. Clair was in his tent, eating his breakfast, which was served by an orderly, and with him were his second in command, Major-General Richard Butler, whose yellow face and pinched features told of illness; his adjutant general, Colonel Winthrop Sargent; and my loving cousin, Captain Jasper Lee. Jasper, by one of those curious turns of his nature, welcomed me with seeming great frankness.

“General, it is my cousin, Mr. Lee,” he said. “No doubt he has a busy night’s work to relate.”

My tale was quickly told. General St. Clair listened with surprise, which soon turned, as I saw by the expression of his face, into incredulity. He was more than half suspecting that I sought to deceive him. Jasper’s sharp eyes too caught the fact, and his look soon became an imitation of the general’s; but when I met my cousin’s gaze I stared so steadily at him, prompted as I was by indignation and the sense of right, that his eyes fell. Nevertheless I continued my tale to the end, keeping to the straight of it, and determined that he should hear all I knew.

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lee,” said General St. Clair when I finished, “that the forces of the savages are on all sides of us, and that you have listened to one of their war councils?”

It was certainly so, I replied, and I cited the absence of all the Chickasaws from the camp, a fact that I had noted immediately upon my return. The general sent his orderly for confirmation of my report, and the soldier soon returned with the news. General St. Clair’s face clouded and his look became depressed.

“The Chickasaws no doubt have deserted us,” he said, “and it is a grave defection at such a time.”

“But perhaps they will return before nightfall,” said Jasper insinuatingly. “They may be on only a scouting expedition. No doubt many besides my cousin have noted their absence from the camp.”

“That is true,” said the general more cheerfully.

Then I saw his face harden and all his stubbornness concentrate in his brow. It was idle to proffer advice to General St. Clair at that moment, however humbly, but I did it nevertheless, calling attention to the numbers and warlike ardour of the Northwestern warriors and our own isolated position in the huge forest. And all the time Cousin Jasper stood by, with his ironic face, but not saying a word. General Butler and Colonel Sargent occasionally made a comment, though they took no active part.

“I don’t wish to wrong you, Mr. Lee,” General St. Clair finally said, “and so I again give you the benefit of the doubt. I thank you for your report if it should be correct. I appreciate also your anxiety for the success of the army, but be assured that I shall take all the measures necessary to win victory.”

And with that I felt myself dismissed, quite sure that I had made a mistake when I came to General St. Clair with ominous news.

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