When Wilderness Was King Part 36

A chief, a Pottawattomie,--this much I knew even in that hasty shrouded glance. Writers of history affirm my opponent was Peesotum, the same fierce warrior whose cruel hand slew the brave Captain Wells and wrenched his still beating heart from out the mutilated body. All I realized then were his broad sinewy shoulders, his naked brawny body, his eyes ablaze with malignant hate. He was the first to close, his wild cry for vengeance piercing the still night; and before I knew it, the maddened savage was within the guard of my rifle-barrel, and we were locked in the stern grapple of death.

It was knife to knife, our blades gleaming dull in the dim light of the stars, each man gripping the up-lifted wrist of the other, putting forth each last reserve of strength, each cunning trick of fence, to break free and strike the ending blow. Back and forth we strove, straining like two wild animals, our moccasined feet slipping on the wet earth, our muscles strained, and sinews cracking with intensity of effort, our breath coming in labored gasps, our bodies tense as bow-strings. Such merciless strain could not endure forever, and, strong as I was in those young days, the savage was far stronger and less exhausted by the struggle, so that inch by inch he pressed me backward, battling like a demon, until I could see the cruel gleam of his eyes as I gave slowly down. It was G.o.d who saved me, for as I fell I struck the sharp shelving of the bank, and the quick stoppage swung the savage to one side and below me, so that, even as he gave vent to an exulting yell of triumph, wrenching his hand loose from my weakening clasp to strike the death-blow, I whirled and forced him downward, his face buried in the stream.

Those who write history say the rescuing warriors discovered him alive.

I know not; but this I swear,--I held him there until every struggle ceased, until answering yells from the westward told me others were already close at hand, and then, breathless and trembling from the struggle, blinded by blood and faint from wounds, I sprang forward into the night-shadows, dimly conscious that my sole hope for escape lay lakeward. I ran but feebly at first, skirting the partially destroyed stockade of the old Fort, with its litter of debris, and stumbling constantly in the darkness over the obstructions that lined the river bank. As my breath returned, and I somewhat cleared my eyes of blood, I saw better; and at last ran from the darker soil on to the white sand of the beach.

There were now many stars in the sky, with the moon struggling feebly to break through the haze; but to my anxious glance nothing was visible upon, the water. Surely the boat must have floated to the river-mouth by this time,--surely the force of the current would have accomplished that; nor was it likely that Ol' Burns would draw far away from sh.o.r.e until a.s.sured of my fate. The wild shouting told me that savages from the camp had already found their dead. A moment more would place them on my trail, hot for revenge; and there was no course left me but to take the water, before their keen eyes found me out. I waded out, seeking thus to get far enough from sh.o.r.e to baffle their search, when suddenly a quick spark of light winked from the blackness in front of me. Surely it could be nothing less than a signal, the swift stroke of flint on steel,--no doubt in the faint hope it would prove a beacon to me in my need.

Desperate as the chance was, it was still a chance, and to my mind the only one. I glanced behind; a dim figure or two dotted the white sand, and my heart lifted a silent prayer to G.o.d for guidance. A second later I was beyond my depth, breasting the unknown waters, swimming steadily toward the place where that mysterious spark had glimmered.

Once again it flashed, the barest glimpse of light through the intense gloom; and I pressed on with new vigor, certain now it was a real beacon. But I was so weakened by wounds and spent from exertion, and such desperate work is swimming fully clad, that my progress proved slow; and twice I was compelled to pause, paddling slowly on my back, in the buffeting of the waves, in order to gain strength to renew the struggle. I almost lost heart in the black loneliness, as the swirling water swept me back and confused me with its ever-tossing motion. Once I went down from sheer weakness, choking in a cloud of spray that swept my face; and doubtless I should have let the struggle end in despair even then, had not the spark leaped up once more through the deep haze; and this time so close was it that my ears caught the clas.h.i.+ng of the flint and steel.

With the new hope of life thus given me, I pushed grimly forward, using the silent Indian stroke that never tires, my eyes at the surface level where the light of the moon glimmered feebly. At last I saw it,--the black lumpy shadow of the boat. I must have splashed a little in my weakness and excitement, for I plainly perceived the figure of a man hastily leap to his feet, with an oar-blade uplifted threateningly above his head.

"Don't strike, Burns!" I managed to cry aloud. "It's Wayland."

The next moment, with scarce so much as a breath remaining in my battered body, I laid hand upon the boat's side, and clung there panting and well-nigh spent. I felt his hands pressed under my arms, and then, with the exercise of his great strength, he drew me steadily up, inch by inch, until I topped the rail, and fell forward into the bottom of the boat. An instant I rested thus, with tightly closed eyes, my head reeling, my breath coming in sobs of pain, every muscle of my strained body throbbing in misery. Scarcely conscious of what was being done about me, I could still realize that arms touched my neck, that my head was gently lifted to a softer resting-place, and that a hand, strangely tender, brushed back from my forehead the wet tangled hair. The touch was thrilling; and I unclosed my wearied eyes, looking up into the sympathetic face of Mademoiselle. The faint moonlight rested upon it gently, touching her crown of hair with silver; and within the dark depths of her eyes I read clearly the message I had waited for so long.

"Toinette!" I murmured, half conscious.

She bowed her head above me, and I felt a sudden plash of tears that could not be restrained.

"Do not try to speak now, John!" she whispered softly, her finger at my lips. "I can only thank the good G.o.d who has brought you back to me."

I made no effort to say more; I could only lie in silence and gaze up at her, pressing the hands resting so frankly within my own. Indeed, we needed no words in that hour; our hearts had spoken, and thenceforward we were one.

Suddenly the heavy boat lurched beneath us, to some quick impetus that sent a shudder through every inch of it; and I heard a heavy splash alongside, which instantly brought me upright, anxiously grasping the rail.

"May Heaven help him!" cried Burns excitedly, and pointing out at the black waters. "The Frenchman has gone overboard!"

"Overboard?" I echoed, striving to regain my feet. "Did he fall?"

"Fall? No; it was a dive off the back seat here. Save me! but he went into it like a gull."

We sought for him long and vainly, peering over those dark swirling waters, calling his name aloud, and striking flint on steel in hope to guide him by the spark. Nothing appeared along the rolling surface, no answering cry came from the black void; De Croix had disappeared into the depths, as desperate men go down to death. Suddenly, as I leaned over, sick at heart, peering into the dimness, Toinette drew near and touched me softly.

"Let us not mourn," she said, in strange quietness. "No doubt 't is better so."

"How?" I questioned, shocked at her seemingly heartless words. "Surely you cannot rejoice at such a loss?"

"'T is not a loss," she answered firmly, and the soft moon-rays were white upon her face. "He has only gone back to her we left behind; it was the beckoning hand of love that called him through the waters. Now it is only ours to pray that he may find her."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

IN THE NEW GRAY DAWN

My anxious glance wandered from the face I so dearly loved, out where those dark restless waters merged into the brooding mystery of the black night. How unspeakably dreary, lonely, hopeless it all was!

Into what tragic unknown fate had this earliest comrade of my manhood been remorselessly swept? Was all indeed well with him? or had the Nemesis of a wrong once done dealt its fatal stroke at last? The voices of the night were silent; the chambers of the great tossing sea hid their secret well. Had this gallant and reckless young soldier of France, this petted courtier of the gayest court in Europe, whose very name and rank I knew not, succeeded in his desperate deed? Had he reached yonder blood-stained sh.o.r.e, lined with infuriated savages, and found safe pa.s.sage through them to the side of the woman he had once called wife, and then forgotten? Or had he found, instead, the solemn peace of death, amid the swirling waters of this vast inland sea, so many leagues to the westward of that sunny land he loved? These were the thoughts that shook me, as I leaned out above the rail, her dear hand always on my shoulder. Never have the circling years found voice, nor the redeemed wilderness made answer.

"Possibly it might be done," I admitted slowly. "'T is scarce farther than I swam just now, and he is neither weary nor wounded."

We all realised it was a useless peril to remain there longer, and I sat at the helm and watched, while Burns, who developed considerable knowledge in such matters, fitted the heavy sail in place. With the North Star over the water for our guidance, I headed the blunt nose of the boat due eastward into the untracked waters.

I confess that my memory was still lingering upon De Croix, and my eyes turned often enough along our foam-flecked wake in vague wonderment at his fate. It was Mademoiselle who laid hand softly on my knee at last, and aroused my attention to her.

"Why did you tell Sister Celeste that you came to Dearborn seeking Elsa Matherson?" she questioned, her clear eyes intently reading my face.

"I had even forgotten that I mentioned it," I answered, surprised at this query at such a time. "But it is strictly true. While upon his death-bed Elsa Matherson's father wrote to mine,--they were old comrades in the great war,--and I was sent hither to bring the orphan girl eastward. I sought her as a brother might seek a sister he had never seen, Mademoiselle; yet have failed most miserably in my mission."

"How failed?"

"In that I have found no trace of the girl, and beyond doubt she perished in the ma.s.sacre. I know not how, but I have been strangely baffled and misled from the first in my search for her, and it was all to no purpose."

For the first time since I had fallen dripping into the boat, a slight smile was visible in the dark eyes fronting me.

"Why hid you from me with such care the object of your search?"

"I hid nothing, Mademoiselle. We spoke together about it often."

"Ay, indeed you told me you sought a young girl, and your words led me to think at first it must be Josette, and later still the Indian missionary. But not once did you breathe the name of the girl in my ears. The dwellers at Dearborn were neither so many nor so strange to me that I could not have aided you in your search."

"You knew this Elsa Matherson?"

"I am not so sure of that, Master Wayland." she returned gravely, her eyes wandering into the night. "Once I thought I did, but she has changed so greatly in the last few days that I am hardly sure. A young girl's life is often filled with mystery, and there are happenings that turn girlhood to womanhood in a single hour. Love has power to change the nature as by magic, and sorrow also has a like rare gift. Do you still greatly wish to find this Elsa Matherson?"

"To find her?" and I gazed about me incredulously into those flitting shadows where the waves raced by. "Ay, for I have dreamed of her as of a lost sister, and it will sadly grieve those at home to have me return thus empty-handed. Yet the thought is foolishness, Mademoiselle, and I understand not why you should mock me so."

She drew closer, in the gentle caressing way she had, and found my disengaged hand, her sweet face held upward so that I could mark every changing expression.

"Never in my useless life was I farther removed from any spirit of mockery," she insisted, soberly; "for never before have I seen the presence of G.o.d so clearly manifest in His mysterious guidance of men.

You, who sought after poor Elsa Matherson in this wilderness, looking perchance for a helpless orphan child, have been led to pluck me in safety out from savage hands, and yet never once dreamed that in doing so you only fulfilled your earlier mission."

I stared at her, grasping with difficulty the full significance of her speech.

"Your words puzzle me."

"Nay, they need not," and I caught the sudden glitter of tears on her lashes; "for I am Elsa Matherson."

"You? you?" and I crushed her soft hand within my fingers, as I peered forward at the quickly lowered face. "Why, you are French, Mademoiselle, and of a different name!"

She glanced up now into my puzzled face, a bit shyly, yet with some of the old roguishness visible in her eyes.

"My mother was indeed French, but my father was an American soldier,"

she said rapidly, as if eager to have the explanation ended. "You never asked my name, save that one night when we first met amid the sand, and then I gave you only that by which I have been most widely known. None except my father ever called me Elsa; to all others I was always Toinette. But I am Roger Matherson's only child."

It was clear enough now, and the deception had been entirely my own, rendered possible by strange chances of omission, by rare negligence of speech--aided by my earlier impression that she whom I sought was a mere child.