The Sun Maid: A Story of Fort Dearborn

For a space after that neither spoke. Then Wahneenah rose and set a candle in a niche of the wall and lighted it. By its flame she could see to move about and she presently had brought some food in a dish and placed a gourd of water by the chief’s side.

The water he drank eagerly and held the cup for more; but the food he pushed aside, relapsing into another silence.

Finally, Wahneenah spoke.

“Has the father of his tribe no message for his sister?”

“Over what the ear does not hear, the heart cannot grieve.”

“That is a truth which contradicts itself.”

“The warrior of Wahneenah judged well when he chose this cavern for a possible home.”

“It is needed, then? As the Black Partridge foretold.”

“It is needed. There is no other.”

The words were quietly spoken; but there was heart-break in each one.

“Our village? The home of all our people? Is it not still safe and a refuge for all unfortunates among the nations?”

“Where Muck-otey-pokee laughed by the waterside, there is now a heap of ruins. The river that danced in the sunlight is red with the blood of the slain and of all the lodges wherein we dwelt, not one remains!”

“My brother! Surely, much brooding has made you distraught. Such cannot be. There were warriors, hundreds of them in the settlement and before their arrows the pale-faces fall like trees before the woodman’s axe.”

“If the arrows are not in the quiver, can the warrior shoot? Against the man who steals up in the rear, can one be prepared? It was a short, sharp battle. The innocent fell with the guilty, and the earth receives them all. Where Muck-otey-pokee stood is a blackened waste. Those who survived have fled, to seek new homes wherever they may find them. In her pathways the dead faces stare into the sky as even yet, among the sandhills, lie and stare the unburied dead of the Fort Dearborn massacre. It is fate. It is nature. It is the game of life. To-day one wins, to-morrow another. In the end, for all – is death.”

For a while after that, Wahneenah neither moved nor spoke, and the Black Partridge lapsed into another profound silence. Finally, the woman rose, and going to the fireplace, took handsful of its ashes and strewed them upon her head and face. Then she drew her blanket over her features, and thus, hiding her sorrow even from the witness of the night, she sat down again in her place and became at once as rigid and impassive as her brother.

Thus the morning found them. Despite their habit of wandering from point to point, the village of Muck-otey-pokee was the rallying-place of the Pottawatomies, their home, the ancient burial-ground of their dead. Its destruction meant, to the far-seeing Black Partridge, also the destruction of his tribe. Therefore, as he had said, his spirit was broken within him.

But at the last he rose to depart, and still fasting. With the solemnity of one who parted from her forever, he addressed the veiled Wahneenah and bade her:

“Put aside the grief that palsies, and find joy in the children whom the Great Spirit has sent you. They also are homeless and orphaned. There are left now no white soldiers to harry and distress. This cavern is warmer than a wigwam, and there is store of food for many more than three. Remain here until the springtime and by then I may return. I go now to my brother Gomo, at St. Joseph’s, to counsel at his fireside on what may yet be done to save the remnant of our people. You are safer here than in any village that I know. Farewell.”

But, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, the Black Partridge for once forgot his native caution; and without waiting to reconnoitre, he mounted his horse and rode boldly away from the shelter of the brush into the broad light of the prairie and so due north toward the distant encampment of his tribesmen.

Yet the glittering eyes of a jealous Indian were watching him as he rode. An Indian who had been sheltered by the hospitality of the great chief, and for many months, in Muck-otey-pokee; but who had neither gratitude nor mercy in his heart, wherein was only room for treachery and greed.

As Black Partridge rode away from the cave by the river, the other mounted his horse and rode swiftly toward it.

CHAPTER XI.

UNDER A WHITE MAN’S ROOF

The log cabin of Abel and Mercy Smith stood within a bit of forest that bordered the rich prairie.

As homes went in those early days, when Illinois was only a territory, and in that sparsely settled locality, it was a most roomy and comfortable abode. The childless couple which dwelt in it were comfortable also, although to hear their daily converse with one another a stranger would not so have fancied. They had early come into the wilderness, and had, therefore, lived much alone. Yet each was of a most social nature, and the result, as their few neighbors said, of their isolated situation was merely “a case of out-talk.”

When Mercy’s tongue was not wagging, Abel’s was, and often both were engaged at the same moment. Her speech was sharp and decisive; his indolent, and, to one of her temperament, exceedingly aggravating. But, between them, they managed to keep up almost a continuous discourse. For, if Abel went afield, Mercy was sure to follow him upon various excuses; unless the weather were too stormy, when, of course, he was within doors.

However, there were times when even their speech lagged a little, and then homesickness seized the mistress of the cabin; and after several days of preparation she would set out on foot or on horseback, according to the distance to be traversed, for some other settler’s cabin and a wider exchange of ideas.

On a late November day, when the homesickness had become overpowering, Mercy tied on her quilted hood and pinned her heavy shawl about her. She had filled a carpet bag with corn to pop and nuts to crack, for the children of her expected hostess and had “set up” a fresh pair of long stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stable into the living room to hear her last remarks.

“If I should be kep’ over night, Abel, you’ll find a plenty to eat. There’s a big pot of baked beans in the lean-to, and some apple pies, and a pumpkin one. The ham’s all sliced ready to fry, and I do hope to goodness you won’t spill grease ’bout on this rag carpet. I’m the only woman anywhere ’s round has a rag carpet all over her floor, any way, and the idee of your sp’ilin’ it just makes me sick. I – ”

“But I hain’t sp’iled it yet, ma. You hain’t give me no chance. If you do – ”

“If I do! Ain’t I leavin’ you to get your own breakfast, in case I don’t come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an’ then where’d I be?”

“Right where you happened to be at, I s’pose,” returned Abel, facetiously.

But it was wasted wit. The idea of being storm-stayed now filled the housewife’s mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption; but her husband “was a born botch.” True, he could split a log, or clear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richly fertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified to his ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman’s work to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboard when she should return and the amount of cream he would probably spill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgave her and she began slowly to untie the great hood.

“I believe I won’t go after all.”

“Won’t go, ma? Why not?”

“I’m afraid you’ll get everything upset.”

“I won’t touch a thing more ’n I have to. I’ll set right here in the chimney-corner an’ doze an’ take it easy. The fall work’s all done, an’ I’d ought to rest a mite.”

“Rest! Rest? Yes. That’s what a man always thinks of. It’s a woman who has to keep at it, early an’ late, winter an’ summer, sick or well. If I should go an’ happen to take cold, I don’t know what to the land would become of you, Abel Smith.”

“I don’t either, ma.”

There was a long silence, during which Mercy tied and untied her bonnet-strings a number of times; and each time with a greater hesitancy. Finally, she pulled from her head the uneasy covering and laid it on the table. Then she unpinned her shawl, and Abel regarded these signs ruefully. But he knew the nature with which he had to deal; and the occasional absences that were so necessary to Mercy’s happiness were also seasons of great refreshment to himself. During them he felt almost, and sometimes quite, his own master. He loafed, and smoked, and whittled, and even brought out his old fiddle and just “played himself crazy” – so his wife declared. Even then he was already recalling a tune he had heard a passing teamster whistle and was longing to try it for himself. He abruptly changed his tactics.

Looking into Mercy’s face with an appearance of great gladness, he exclaimed:

“Now ain’t that grand! Here was I, thinkin’ of myself all alone, and you off havin’ such a good time, talkin’ over old ways out East an’ hearin’ all the news that’s going. There. Take right off your things an’ I’ll help put ’em away for you. You’ve got such a lot cooked up you can afford to get out your patchwork, and I’ll fiddle a bit and – ”

“Abel Smith! I didn’t think you’d go and begrudge me a little pleasure. Me, that has slaved an’ dug an’ worked myself sick a help-meetin’ an’ savin’ for you. I really didn’t.”

“Well, I’m not begrudging anybody. An’ I don’t s’pose there is much news we hain’t heard. Though there was a new family of settlers moved out on the mill-road last week, I don’t reckon they’d be anybody that we’d care about. Folks have to be a mite particular, even out here in Illinois.”

Mercy paused, with her half-folded shawl in her hands. Then, with considerable emphasis, she unfolded it again, and deliberately fastened it about her plump person.

“Well, I’m goin’. It’s rainin’ a little, but none to hurt. I’ve fixed a dose of cough syrup for Mis’ Waldron’s baby, an’ I’d ought to go an’ give it to her. Them new folks has come right near her farm, I hear. If you ain’t man enough to look out for yourself for a few hours, you cert’nly ain’t enough account for me to worry over. But take good care of yourself, Abel. I’m goin’. I feel it my duty. There’s a roast spare-rib an’ some potatoes ready to fry; an’ the meal for the stirabout is all in the measure an’ – good-by. I’ll likely be back to-night. If not, by milkin’ time to-morrow morning.”

Abel had taken down the almanac from its nail in the wall and had pretended to be absorbed in its contents. He did not even lift his eyes as his wife went out and shut the door. He still continued to search the “prognostics” long after the cabin had become utterly silent, not daring to glance through the small window, lest she should discover him and be reminded of some imaginary duty toward him that would make her return.

But, at the end of fifteen minutes, since nothing happened and the stillness remained profound, he hung the almanac back in its place, clapped his hands and executed a sort of joy-dance which was quite original with himself. Then he drew his splint-bottomed chair before the open fire, tucked his fiddle under his chin, and proceeded to enjoy himself.

For more than an hour, he played and whistled and felt as royal and happy as a king. By the end of that time he had grown a little tired of music, and noticed that the drizzle of the early morning had settled into a steady, freezing downpour. The trees were already becoming coated with ice and their branches to creak dismally in the rising wind.

“Never see such a country for wind as this is. Blows all the time, the year round. Hope Mercy’ll be able to keep ahead of the storm. She’s a powerful free traveller, Mercy is, an’ don’t stan’ for trifles. But – my soul! Ain’t she a talker? I realize that when her back’s turned. It’s so still in this cabin I could hear a pin drop, if there was anybody round hadn’t nothin’ better to do than to drop one. Hmm, I s’pose I could find some sort of job out there to the barn. But I ain’t goin’ to. I’m just goin’ to play hookey by myself this whole endurin’ day, an’ see what comes of it. I believe I’ll just tackle one of them pumpkin pies. ’Tain’t so long since breakfast, but eatin’ kind of passes the time along. I wish I had a newspaper. I wish somethin’ would turn up. I – I wouldn’t let Mercy know it, not for a farm; but ’tis lonesome here all by myself. I hain’t never noticed it so much as I do this mornin’. Whew! Hear that wind! It’s a good mile an’ a half to Waldron’s. I hope Mercy’s got there ’fore this.”