9 A Dance by Torchlight

The sun went down on the forest, which now hid the black tragedy of St. Clair’s defeat, but those who lay behind the walls of Fort Jefferson still beheld the tomahawk in every bush. They looked fearfully over their scanty numbers, and saw that half were gone. They quivered at the lightest sound, and told each other that they had not come from New York and Philadelphia to fight invisible demons for two dollars a month, thus mingling unconscious comedy with such real tragedy. I felt true pity for men who had been led blindly into a situation with which they were so little fitted to cope, and one could not afford to despise even the fraction that had shown cowardice. Better troops both of our own nation and others, taken in surprise by the savages, had fled more than once, and mingled with these, the only thought of whom had been flight, were the many who had risked their lives over and over again to save the army from destruction. But my duty there was done, and it was not for me to linger at Fort Jefferson.

I refilled my bullet pouch and powder-horn, and sought Osseo, finding him by the palisade, leaning against it, with his eyes almost closed, yet watching the forest. He was resting, permitting himself to float upon the border-land of sleep, and yet not dulling his senses so far that he could not watch for enemies. Winchester was near him; he had seen the defeat, and as he stood there with closed eyes I knew that he was thinking of the great tragedy.

“Osseo,” I said, “it is time to go, and I need your help.”

“I am ready,” he replied I knew from the first that he would be waiting.

“And so am I,” said Winchester quietly.

“You!” I exclaimed. “Why, Winchester, this is no work of yours!”

“It is,” he said in the same quiet but stubborn tone. “I know that you are going for Miss Carew, and I want to help. Besides, I’ve been thinking, Lee, how I’d feel if the girl at home in England—there’s one, you know—were in her place. I don’t understand as much about this forest business as you and the Indian, but I might be handy in case of a fight. I’m going.”

This was a long speech for Winchester, but there was no bluster about him, the firm temper of the man speaking in his voice.

“The Englishman is brave,” said Osseo, “and he is ready to give his life for his friend. He shall go with us.”

When our gratitude is strongest we like but little to speak of it, and so I merely said to Winchester:

“I owe you for much, Winchester, and the debt is growing.”

He made a slight gesture as if he would wave the matter aside, and with that it was settled.

Although the work for which I had volunteered was done, and we of the West, as I repeat, were a very free people, I thought it right, inasmuch as I had served with St. Clair through a most arduous affair, to secure a formal leave of absence, and with such intention I sought an officer empowered to give the necessary authority. I was passed from one to another until I reached my cousin, Jasper Lee.

“And so,” he said with peculiar insolence, “you wish to leave us upon some vague adventure, which for all we know may be a traitorous expedition to the savages.”

“I doubt whether the savages would look upon me as a friend, Jasper, after the history of to-day,” I replied, “and, moreover, I seek the rescue of Miss Carew. I also wish to inform you that if I do not obtain your permission I shall go without it.”

But he kept his countenance fairly well.

“I shall seek Miss Carew myself,” he said. “I have always had it in mind. Only my duty here has delayed me. It is fitting that I should do so, and with an armed force. You can not accomplish anything.”

“The more numerous the rescuing parties the better it will be for Miss Carew,” I said, “and I wish to tell you again, Jasper, that I shall depart within the half hour on my errand.”

“Go talk to General St. Clair,” he replied in an ill humour. “He is within there. The affair is not mine in any particular, and I will have naught to do with it.”

He jerked his finger over his shoulder, as he spoke, toward the door of an inner room, which I pushed open and entered when I received the reply “Come,” in response to my knock. It was merely a rude log chamber, such as one would expect to find even as the commandant’s office in a frontier fort, and General St. Clair sat in a chair near the window which looked out upon the courtyard. I say “sat” through courtesy, as his appearance was more like that of a dead man placed in a sitting position, and though his eyes were turned upon the courtyard he saw nothing. His heavy features had fallen, the usually ruddy face was pallid, and the lids drooped over his eyes. The same blanket coat that he had worn throughout the battle, pierced now by eight bullets, still hung from his shoulders. This man, the grandson of an earl, full of preconceived opinions, despising his enemy, having all the faults of the class to which he had been born in the Old World—faults which he transplanted with himself to the New—was now, despite his courage, crushed by his great disaster. Perhaps he was thinking then, in turn, of the massacre that he had just beheld, and the warning given to him by the great President back there in the East who repeated over and over again: “Beware of an ambush! Beware of an ambush!” I felt a certain pity and sympathy for him, and it was mingled with anger, too, because he had brought such a terrible misfortune upon the border.

He did not see me, or, if seeing me, it made no impression upon his mind, and I stood there a few moments, determined to uphold my own dignity as a free ranger of the Western woods and my own master in all things. But his manner and speech were contrary to my expectations.

“What is it, Mr. Lee?” he asked at last in a most gentle tone. “Is it possible that I can now do anything for anybody?”

I related to him briefly the story of Miss Carew’s capture, and my wish to rescue her if possible.

“I thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Lee,” he said with the greatest and most sincere politeness. “I know well that you need not ask me for such permission, and I know still better that if I had heeded your words I would, not now be here behind these logs, mourning my men, lying scalped and mutilated there in that hideous forest. Oh, my poor lads!”

He put his face in his hands, as if he would hide from his eyes the sight upon which they had looked that morning, and I, feeling an increase of sympathy, and knowing there was nothing more to be said, slipped from the room, leaving General St. Clair to his remorse.

It was a cold moonlit night when we three—Osseo, Winchester, and I—left Fort Jefferson and entered the, forest, going back upon the trail of the stricken army. A few hundred yards from the fort the lights disappeared, and with them all sound. Again the wilderness, lone and bare, stretched around us. The white skim of snow was yet on the earth and the trees, and the air was so still that the dry leaves gave forth no rustle.

“The warriors rejoice over their triumph,” said Osseo, “and it is easy for us to pass through the woods.”

We followed for many miles the broad road over which the army had fled, passing now and then horses dead of their wounds, and came after awhile to the point where the pursuit had ended.

I was sure that the Indians would gather at the battlefield, rejoicing there over their victory, and we advanced cautiously in that direction, searching the forest for the lightest noise or other sign that would indicate the presence of our foes or danger of an ambush. But we saw nothing, and no sound save the ordinary voices of the night came to our ears. We veered more than once from the woods and approached the road over which the army had advanced and fled alike, beholding now the ghastly traces of the rout, the dead and scalped bodies of our soldiers, and bands of wolves gathering already for the feast. But we saw no Indians. Nor was it needful to them to throw out scouts lest our army should return and seek with some sudden blow vengeance upon the victors. A force cut up as ours had been could not strike back for many a month.

We drew near to the fatal field, still following a slow course, by choice, through the densest undergrowth, pressing as close as we could, and lying down at last in a thick clump of bushes, whence we could see the lights of torches dancing in the open, where our camp had been, and hear the chant of the Indian song of triumph. I judged that it was the old squaws hanging upon the rear of the savage army who sang, while the warriors occupied themselves with collecting the spoil—the weapons, provisions, clothing, and scalps—a rich booty, the finest that they had taken since Braddock’s defeat, so like St. Clair’s.

The number of torches increased by and by, and the light grew better. We saw hundreds of warriors passing and repassing while the chant of the Indian women went on.

“The warriors make merry,” whispered Osseo. “It is not often that a leader like the General-who-never-walks comes against them.”

Not often, fortunately!

“Let us creep a little closer,” I said.—“Be careful, Winchester! A sound no lighter than that made by the squirrel as he trips over the bark might betray us.”

“Don’t be afraid that I’ll be rash,” he replied. “I don’t want to fall into the hands of those yelling devils, at least not until I have a chance to prove that I’m an Englishman.”

We crept a rod or two farther, lying almost flat upon our faces, and unmindful of the light veil of snow that covered the earth, stopping at last at the crest of a tiny hill crowned with bushes, where we could see the battlefield, and ourselves lie hidden.

“What a sight!” said Winchester.

“Yes,” I replied. “’Tis a bad thing enough to war with Christians, but ’tis the ghastliest of all to war with savages, always bearing in mind that such gentlemen as Osseo here are not savages.”

More than a hundred torches illuminated the stretch of open that had been our camp, and was the scene, too, of our greatest slaughter, but it was a fantastic light that they made as they were moved about by the warriors and the old squaws, who were now dancing the scalp dance. Well had they the right, their ways considered, to dance it. The chant of the women was monotonous, hardly ever varying in tone, but the warriors often broke into a shout like unto the war-whoop as they waved aloft the horrid trophies which I shall not name nor describe.

Three or four fires were burning, but the dancing warriors, despite the coldness of the weather, wore only the breech clout, and their brown bodies appeared and reappeared in the fantastic and fitful light like shadows; truly they had fought us that day like a phantom, but none the less terrible, host. Others stood about, laden with their spoil—rifles, muskets, pistols, swords, blankets, and all the other supplies of an army. The cannon which we had spiked and abandoned stood near; and everywhere—between the feet of the dancers, among those who looked on, and in the edge of the wood—lay our dead, hundreds of them.

“I thank God,” whispered Winchester,“that I shall never again see such a sight, and yet it is well to have seen it.”

I saw presently the man for whom I was looking. Hoyoquim, the Wyandot—in the full panoply of his rank, the battle stains gone from him, his blanket thrown over his shoulder, an officer’s splendid sword, taken from its fallen owner, swinging at his side—walked among the warriors, grave, dignified, and most evidently a king of his kind. I knew that the breast of the savage throbbed with a mighty exultation; and this, too, was the captor of Rose Carew.

Hoyoquim presently joined Little Turtle, the head chief of the confederation, and to them soon came other chiefs. They drew apart, and after talking earnestly for a little while gave some orders to the warriors. The dancing then ceased abruptly, most of the torches were extinguished, and each man taking his spoil began to put it in most convenient shape.

“The warriors are about to depart for their villages,” said Osseo.

It was even so. The Indian army was scattering with the same facility with which it had gathered, each band going to its own wigwams, and already some were departing. We lay very close, but we were in rough ground where the savages were not likely to pass, and we had little fear. In a few moments all the noises ceased, and the last warrior vanished in the forest.

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