The Sun Maid: A Story of Fort Dearborn

by Evelyn Raymond

  CHAPTER XI.

  UNDER A WHITE MAN'S ROOF.

  The log cabin of Abel and Mercy Smith stood within a bit of forestthat 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 andcomfortable abode. The childless couple which dwelt in it werecomfortable also, although to hear their daily converse with oneanother a stranger would not so have fancied. They had early come intothe wilderness, and had, therefore, lived much alone. Yet each was ofa most social nature, and the result, as their few neighbors said, oftheir isolated situation was merely "a case of out-talk."

  When Mercy's tongue was not wagging, Abel's was, and often both wereengaged at the same moment. Her speech was sharp and decisive; hisindolent, and, to one of her temperament, exceedingly aggravating.But, between them, they managed to keep up almost a continuousdiscourse. For, if Abel went afield, Mercy was sure to follow himupon various excuses; unless the weather were too stormy, when, ofcourse, he was within doors.

  However, there were times when even their speech lagged a little, andthen homesickness seized the mistress of the cabin; and after severaldays of preparation she would set out on foot or on horseback,according to the distance to be traversed, for some other settler'scabin 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, forthe children of her expected hostess and had "set up" a fresh pair oflong stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stableinto 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 togoodness you won't spill grease 'bout on this rag carpet. I'm the onlywoman 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 youdo--"

  "If I do! Ain't I leavin' you to get your own breakfast, in case Idon't come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an' then where'd Ibe?"

  "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 thehousewife's mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption;but her husband "was a born botch." True, he could split a log, orclear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richlyfertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified tohis ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman'swork to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboardwhen she should return and the amount of cream he would probablyspill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgaveher 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 thechimney-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 whohas 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 landwould become of you, Abel Smith."

  "I don't either, ma."

  There was a long silence, during which Mercy tied and untied herbonnet-strings a number of times; and each time with a greaterhesitancy. Finally, she pulled from her head the uneasy covering andlaid it on the table. Then she unpinned her shawl, and Abel regardedthese signs ruefully. But he knew the nature with which he had todeal; and the occasional absences that were so necessary to Mercy'shappiness were also seasons of great refreshment to himself. Duringthem 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 alreadyrecalling a tune he had heard a passing teamster whistle and waslonging to try it for himself. He abruptly changed his tactics.

  Looking into Mercy's face with an appearance of great gladness, heexclaimed:

  "Now ain't that grand! Here was I, thinkin' of myself all alone, andyou 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 thingsan' I'll help put 'em away for you. You've got such a lot cooked upyou can afford to get out your patchwork, and I'll fiddle a bitand----"

  "Abel Smith! I didn't think you'd go and begrudge me a littlepleasure. Me, that has slaved an' dug an' worked myself sick ahelp-meetin' an' savin' for you. I really didn't."

  "Well, I'm not begrudging anybody. An' I don't s'pose there is muchnews we hain't heard. Though there was a new family of settlers movedout on the mill-road last week, I don't reckon they'd be anybody thatwe'd care about. Folks have to be a mite particular, even out here inIllinois."

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

  "Well, I'm goin'. It's rainin' a little, but none to hurt. I've fixeda 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, youcert'nly ain't enough account for me to worry over. But take good careof yourself, Abel. I'm goin'. I feel it my duty. There's a roastspare-rib an' some potatoes ready to fry; an' the meal for thestirabout is all in the measure an'--good-by. I'll likely be backto-night. If not, by milkin' time to-morrow morning."

  Abel had taken down the almanac from its nail in the wall and hadpretended to be absorbed in its contents. He did not even lift hiseyes as his wife went out and shut the door. He still continued tosearch the "prognostics" long after the cabin had become utterlysilent, not daring to glance through the small window, lest she shoulddiscover him and be reminded of some imaginary duty toward him thatwould make her return.

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

  For more than an hour, he played and whistled and felt as royal andhappy as a king. By the end of that time he had grown a little tiredof music, and noticed that the drizzle of the early morning hadsettled into a steady, freezing downpour. The trees were alreadybecoming coated with ice and their branches to creak dismally in therising 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' fortrifles. But--my soul! Ain't she a talker? I realize _that_ when herback's turned. It's so still in this cabin I could hear a pin drop, ifthere 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. ButI ain't goin' to. I'm just goin' to play hookey by myself this wholeendurin' day, an' see what comes of it. I believe I'll just tackle oneof them pumpkin pies. 'Tain't so long since breakfast, but eatin' kindof 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 muchas I do this mornin'. Whew! Hear that wind! It's a good mile an' ahalf to Waldron's. I hope Mercy's got there 'fore this."

  Abel closed the outer door, and crossed to the well-stocked cupboard.As he stood contemplating its contents, and undecided as to whichwould really best suit his present mood, there came a sound ofsomebody approaching the house along t
he slippery footpath. This wasso unexpected that it startled the pioneer. Then he reflected: "Mercy.She's come back!" and remained guiltily standing with his hand uponthe edge of a pie plate, like a school-boy pilfering his mother'slarder.

  "Rat-a-tat-a-tat!"

  "Somebody knockin'! That ain't Mercy! Who the land, I wonder!"

  He made haste to see and opened the heavy door to the demand of ayoung boy, who stood shivering before it. At a little distance furtherfrom the house was, also, a woman wrapped in a blanket that glistenedwith sleet, and which seemed to enfold besides herself the form of alittle child.

  "My land! my land! Why, bubby! where in the world did you drop from?Is that your ma? No. I see she's an Indian, an' you're as white as thefrost itself. Come in. Come right in."

  But the lad lingered on the threshold and asked with chattering teeth,which showed how chilled he was:

  "Can Wahneenah come too?"

  "I don't know who in Christendom Wahneeny is, but you folks all comestraight in out of the storm. 'Twon't do to keep the door open solong, for the sleet's beating right in on Mercy's carpet. There'd bethe dickens to pay if she saw that."

  Gaspar, for it was he, ran quickly back toward the motionlessWahneenah, and, clutching the corner of her blanket, dragged herforward. She seemed reluctant to follow, notwithstanding herhalf-frozen condition and she glanced into Abel's honest face withkeen inquiry. Yet seeing nothing but good-natured pity in it, sheentered the cabin, and herself shut the door. Yet she kept her placeclose to the exit, even after Gaspar had pulled the blanket apart andrevealed the white face of the Sun Maid lying on her breast.

  "Why, why, why! poor child! Poor little creatur'. Where in the worlddid you hail from to be out in such weather? Didn't you have ary hometo stay in? But, there. I needn't ask that, because there's Mercy offtrapesing just the same, an' her with the best cabin on the frontier.I s'pose this Wahneeny was took with a gossipin' fit, too, an' set outto find her own cronies. But I don't recollect as I've heard of anyIndians livin' out this way."

  By this time the water that had been frozen upon the wanderers'clothing had begun to melt, and was drip-dripping in little puddlesupon Mercy's beloved carpet. Abel eyed these with dismay, and finallyhit upon the happy expedient of turning back the loose breadth of theheavy fabric which bordered the hearth. Upon the bare boards thusrevealed he placed three chairs, and invited his guests to take them.

  Gaspar dropped into one very promptly, but the squaw did not advanceuntil the boy cried:

  "Do come, Other Mother. Poor Kitty will wake up then, and feel allright."

  The atmosphere of any house was always uncomfortable to Wahneenah.Even then, she felt as if she had stepped from freedom into prison,cold though she was and half-famished with hunger. Personally, shewould rather have taken her bit of food out under the trees; but thethought of her Sun Maid was always powerful to move her. She laidaside the wet blanket, and carried the drowsy little one to thefireside, where the warmth soon revived the child so that she sat upon her foster-mother's lap, and gazed about her with awakeningcuriosity. Then she began to smile on Abel, who stood regarding herwonderful loveliness with undisguised amazement, and to prattle to himin her accustomed way.

  "Why, you nice, nice man! Isn't this a pretty place. Isn't it beau'fulwarm? I'm so glad we came. It was cold out of doors, wasn't it, OtherMother? Did you know all the time what a good warm fire was here? Wasthat why we came?"

  "I knew nothing," answered Wahneenah, stolidly.

  "But I did!" cried Gaspar. "As soon as I saw the smoke of your chimneyI said: 'That is a white man's house. We will go and stay in it.' It'sa nice house, sir, and, like Kitty, I am glad we came. Do you livehere all alone?"

  "No. My wife, Mercy, has gone a visitin'. That's why I happen to behere doin' nothin'. I mean--I might have been to the barn an' notheard you. You're lookin' into that cupboard pretty sharp. Be youhungry? But I needn't ask that. A boy always is."

  "I am hungry. We all are. We haven't had anything to eat in--days, Iguess. Are those pies--regular pies, on the shelves?"

  "Yes. Do you like pies?"

  "I used to. I haven't had any since I left the Fort."

  "Left what?"

  "The Fort. Fort Dearborn. Did you know it?"

  "Course. That is, about it. But there ain't no Fort now. Don't tellstories."

  "I'm not. I'm telling the truth."

  If this was a refugee from that unhappy garrison, Abel felt that hecould not do enough for the boy's comfort. He could not refrain hissuspicious glances from Wahneenah's dark face, but as she kept her owngaze fixed upon the ground, he concluded she did not see them. In anycase, she was only an Indian, and therefore to be treated with scantcourtesy.

  Mercy would have been surprised to see with what handiness her husbandplayed the host in her absence and now he whipped off the red woollencover from the table and rolled it toward the fireplace. But she wouldnot have approved at all of the lavishness with which he set beforehis guests the best things from her cupboard. There was a cold rabbitpatty, the pot of beans, light loaves of sweet rye bread, and a pat ofgolden butter. To these he added a generous pitcher of milk, andbeside Gaspar's own plate he placed both a pumpkin and a dried-applepie.

  "I'd begin with these, if I was you, sonny. Baked beans come bynature, seems to me, but pies are a gift of grace. Though I must saymy wife don't stint 'em when she takes it into her head to gogallivantin' an' leaves me to housekeep. 'Pears to think then I musthave somethin' sort of comfortin'. I'd start in on pie, if I was alittle shaver, an' take the beans last."

  This might not have been the best of advice to give a lad whose fasthad been so long continued as Gaspar's, but it suited that youngperson exactly. Indeed, in all his life he had never seen so wellspread a table, and he lost no time in obeying his entertainer'ssuggestion. But he noticed with regret that his foster-mother did nottouch the proffered food, and that she ministered even gingerly toKitty's wants.

  Yet there was nobody, however austere or unhappy, who could longresist the happy influence of the little girl, and least of all thewoman who so loved her. As the Sun Maid's color returned to her face,and her stiffened limbs began to resume their suppleness, something ofthe anxiety left Wahneenah's eyes, and she condescended to receive abowl of milk and a slice of bread from Abel's hand.

  The fact that she would at last break her own fast made allcomfortable; and as soon as Gaspar's appetite was so far appeased thathe could begin upon the beans, the settler demanded:

  "Now, sonny, talk. Tell me the whole endurin' story from A to Izzard.Where'd you come from now? Where was you bound? What's your name? an'her's? an' the little tacker's? My! but ain't she a beauty! I neversee ary such hair on anybody's head, black or white. It's gettin' dry,ain't it; an' how it does fly round, just like foam."

  "I'm not 'sonny,' nor 'bubby.' I'm Gaspar Keith. I was brought up atFort Dearborn. After the massacre, I was taken to Muck-otey-pokee.I--"

  But the lad's thoughts already began to grow sombre, and he became soabruptly silent that Abel prompted him.

  "Hmm, I've heard of that--that--Mucky place. Indian settlement, wasn'tit? Took prisoner, was you?"

  "No. I wasn't a prisoner, exactly. I was just a--just a friend of thefamily, I guess."

  "Oh? So. A friend of an Indian family, sonny?"

  "If you'd rather not call me Gaspar, you can please say 'Dark-Eye.'That's my new Indian name; but I hate those other ones. They make methink I am a baby. And I'm not. I am a man, almost."

  "So you be. So you be," agreed Abel, admiring the little fellow'sspirit. "I 'low you've seen sights, now, hain't you?"

  "Yes, dreadful ones; so dreadful that I can't talk about them toanybody. Not even to you, who have given us this nice food and let uswarm ourselves. I would if I could, you see; only when I let myselfthink, I just get queer in the head and afraid. So I won't even think.It doesn't do for a boy to be afraid. Not when he has his mother andsister to take care of."

  There was the faintest lightening
of the gloom upon the Indian woman'sface as Dark-Eye said this. But he was, apart from his terror ofbloodshed and fighting, a courageous lad, and had, during their pastdays of wandering, proved the good stuff of which he was made. Many aday he had gone without eating that the remnant of their food might besaved for the Sun Maid; and though it was, of course, Wahneenah whohad taken all the care of the children, if it pleased him to considertheir cases reversed he should be left to his own opinion.

  "You're right, boy. I'll call you Gaspar, easy enough. Only, you see,I hain't got no sons of my own an' it kind of makes things seem cosierif I call other folkes's youngsters that way. Every little shaver thisside of Illinois calls me 'Uncle Abe,' I reckon. But go on with youryarn. My, my, my! Won't Mercy be beat when she comes home an' hearsall that's happened whilst she was gone. Go on."

  So Gaspar told all that had occurred since the Black Partridge partedfrom his sister in the cavern and rode away toward St. Joseph's. Howthat very day came one of the visiting Indians who had been staying atMuck-otey-pokee and whose behavior toward the neighboring whitesettlers had been a prominent cause of bringing the soldiers' raidupon the innocent and friendly hosts who had entertained him.

  The wicked like not solitude, and in the train of this traitor hadfollowed many others. These had turned the cave into a pandemonium andhad appropriated to their own uses the stores which Black Partridgehad provided for Wahneenah. When to this robbery they had addedthreats against the lives of the white children, whose presence at theIndian village they in their turn declared had brought destructionupon it, the chief's sister had taken such small portion of her ownproperty as she could secure and had set out to find a new home orshelter for her little ones.

  Since then they had been always wandering. Wahneenah now had a fixeddread of the pale-faces and had avoided their habitations as far asmight be. They had lived in the woods, upon the roots and driedberries they could find and whose power to sustain life the squaw hadunderstood. But now had come the cold of approaching winter and theSun Maid had shown the effects of her long exposure. Then, at Gaspar'spleading, Wahneenah had put her own distrust of strangers aside andhad come with him to the first cabin of white people which they couldfind.

  "And now we're here, what will you do with us?" concluded the lad,fixing his dark eyes earnestly upon his host's face.

  Abel fidgetted a little; then, with his happy faculty of putting offtill to-morrow the evil that belonged to to-day, he replied:

  "Well, son--bub--I mean, Gaspar; we hain't come to that bridge yet.Time enough to cross it when we do. But, say, that little creatur'looks as if she hadn't known what 'twas to lie on a decent bed in amonth of Sundays. She's 'bout dried off now; an' my! ain't she apretty sight in them little Indian's togs! S'pose your squaw-ma putsher to sleep on the bed yonder. Notice that bedstead? There ain'tanother like it this side the East. I'll just spread a sheet over thequilt, to keep it clean, an' she can snooze there all day, if shelikes. I'll play you an' Wahneeny a tune on my fiddle if you want meto."

  Gaspar was, of course, delighted with this offer but the chief'ssister was already tired of the hot house and had cast longing glancesthrough the small window toward the barn in the rear. That, at least,would be cool, and from its doorway she calculated she could keep aclose watch upon the door of the cabin, and be ready at a second'snotice to rush to her children's aid should harm be offered them.Meanwhile, for this dark day, they would have the comfort to whichtheir birthright entitled them. So she went out and left them withAbel.

  The hours flew by and the storm continued. Abel had never been happiernor jollier; and as the twilight came down, and he finally gave up allexpectation of Mercy's immediate return, he waxed fairly hilarious,cutting up absurd antics for the mere delight of seeing the Sun Maidlaugh and dance in response, and because, under these cheerfulconditions, Gaspar's face was losing its premature thoughtfulness androunding to a look more suited to his years.

  "Now, I'll dance you a sailor's hornpipe, and then I must go out andmilk. If ma'd been home, it would have been finished long ago. Butwhen the cat's away the mice will play, you know; so here goes."

  Unfortunately, at that very moment the "cat" to whom he referred,Mercy, in fact, approached the cabin from a direction which evenWahneenah did not observe, and opened a rear door plump upon thisunprecedented scene.

  Abel stopped short in his jig, one foot still uplifted and his fiddlebow half drawn, while the Sun Maid was yet sweeping her most gracefulcurtsey; and even the serious Gaspar had left his seat to prance aboutthe room to the notes of Abel's music.

  Mercy also remained transfixed, utterly dumfounded, and doubting theevidence of her own senses; but after a moment becoming able toexclaim:

  "So! This is how lonesome you be when I leave you, is it?"