by Lois Lenski
At the end of the hard day’s march through the pouring rain, night came and with night, rest. For the first time, the Indians laid a good fire and built a shelter of boughs. The children huddled close to warm their chilled, shaking bodies and to dry out their dripping clothes.
The days passed one after the other until Molly Jemison lost count. Each was like the last in the haste, the infrequent stops, the hurried meals. With Straight Arrow leading the way, the Frenchmen, the other Indians and the children followed, walking single file in strictest silence, moving fast but always with great caution. No hunting was allowed, no gun was fired, no unnecessary noise was made to betray their whereabouts. It was indeed a silent, ghostly passage. Behind the children Bow-Legs walked, whip in hand. His constant presence told Molly, as nothing else could, that the Indians were their masters and there was but one thing to do—obey.
The fog lifted, it grew colder and a light snow began to fall, but even that did not slow up their pace. Molly and Davy ran all the time to keep up. Davy seemed to grow stronger from the strenuous exertion, but it was not so easy for Molly.
Snow fell in earnest as they made their weary way over the mountains, climbing the steep heights and running down the abrupt slopes, wading rocky brooks and waist-deep streams. Nowhere was there any sign of a road. Molly wondered how the Indians found their way or whether they knew where they were going. She thought of tales she had heard of the dangers of crossing the great mountains to the westward and she knew she was crossing them herself on foot.
Her blue jeans gown caught on branches and brambles. Her bare legs were lashed and scratched by thorns. Her yellow hair hung tangled and uncombed. She remembered how long ago she had studied her reflection in the shining bottom of a tin pan at home. But now she gave no thought to her appearance. She forgot that people washed their faces and combed their hair. All she lived for was to push on, ever on—to sleep for a while and eat sometimes to gain strength to push on again.
Blinding snow drove in their eyes and the wind whipped their clothing tight about them. Molly knew they were in the heart of the mountains now—only at a great height could there be so much snow in April. Her strength fast failing, a vague hope upheld her—the hope of reaching the lower plains and somehow there to find warmth and rest.
At times she was conscious that someone was kind to her and it was always the old Indian. With their bare bodies and red-painted faces the others all looked alike, but the old one was different. Once when she fell, tripping on the string of her moccasin, he stopped, picked her up and tied the strings for her. Once when she could not rise from fatigue as the word to march was given, she saw the shadow of an arm uplifted, holding a tomahawk over her head.
At the moment she wished the blow would fall to end her misery. But when the old Indian quickly knocked the weapon from the hand and gave its owner a kick, she was strangely grateful. Although she did not realize it, his friendly smile was a constant encouragement and she thought of him as trusty and dependable, like a strong, straight tree—a shagbark hickory, the straightest in the forest—a tree to lean upon.
At last she could go no farther and it was the old Indian, Shagbark, who insisted upon rest. Though the others seemed unwilling, at his orders they stopped, and built a more permanent shelter. Shagbark wrapped the girl warmly in a blanket and while she slept, sat by and watched. There they stayed for three days and she rested and regained her strength. On the last day a deer was killed, dressed and roasted, and they all ate heartily.
Just as they left the shelter to resume their march, another party of Indians joined them—a raiding party like themselves, six Indians returning from the Pennsylvania frontier. They brought with them one white captive, a young man of twenty.
Molly stared at the newcomer and hope—the hope of escape returned. He was a full-grown man, he was strong, he could speak English, he would know how to help. Her eager thoughts tumbled over themselves in anticipation. When they were left alone for a moment, she questioned him. But the young man sat dejected, and exhausted from the weight of the heavy burden on his back. He looked up at her with blank eyes and did not answer. And Molly knew that he was more in need of help than she; that only she could help him.
3
Fort Duquesne
OH MOLLY, ARE WE never going to stop walking?” asked Davy, looking down at his feet. The once bright-colored embroidery on his moccasins was faded now and covered with mud.
“I wish I knew,” said Molly sadly. “I feel as if we’ve been walking all our lives…But see how tough our feet have grown!”
“Why did they make us run so fast?” asked Davy.
“They were afeard of being followed, I think,” replied Molly “Like as not they knew there were white men on our trail. Like as not John and Tom ran to Neighbor Dixon and he gathered the neighbors from Marsh Creek Hollow together…”
“Oh, why didn’t they come to save us?” wailed Davy.
“They couldn’t catch up,” answered Molly slowly, “we…went…so fast…”
She stole a glance at the young man captive, whose coming had brought back her hope. If only she could rouse him…He talked a little now, as they walked down the mountain side. He said his name was Nicholas Porter and he came from Piney Mountain near Shippens Town, only a few miles as the crow flies from Marsh Creek Hollow.
He told how one morning his mother wanted squirrel for pot-pie. He insisted that squirrel pot-pie, made by his mother, was the best dish in the land. He told how he went out hunting to take a few squirrels for pot-pie and how he’d been caught like a squirrel himself, by hunters stronger than he. He kept on talking about the squirrel pot-pie that his mother would never make again and he himself would never, never eat. He told the tale so often that Molly wearied of it. If only he could forget his suffering—there were more important things to think of. If only he could fasten his mind on the idea of escape…
All the time now the slopes went downward, as the highest mountains were left behind. Though the party moved at more moderate pace and no attempt was made to conceal the trail, they rarely paused or stopped. A day came when the hills behind were but a blue haze in the distance and they walked across a wooded plain.
At the brink of a steep hill they halted to gaze on a wandering stream below—but only for a moment. Down the rough, precipitous trail they plunged to the red clay shore of Turtle Creek. The current was strong and the waters were high from recent springtime freshets, but not even an angry stream could hold them back. The Indians brought out a bark canoe which they found concealed near the shore and the creek was crossed in safety. Another climb up the steep hill opposite, and the party came out on the plain again, following in single file the trail that skirted the shore of the Allegheny River.
One day in mid-afternoon they saw ahead across the flat river bottoms a large log stockade. To Molly the sight was welcome. She wondered what fort it was. Eagerly she watched the lips of Frenchmen and Indians, hoping to catch its name. Then she heard it—two words she had heard before on the lips of the white trader, Old Fallenash. There, before her, on the point of land between the arms of two great rivers, the Allegheny and the Monongahela, touched by the afternoon sun, lay Fort Duquesne. This, she knew, was the fort which the French had built only a few years before, when they claimed for their own the whole vast territory drained by the River Ohio.
Fort Duquesne! Fort Duquesne! What fate did it hold in store for Molly Jemison, the white girl captive brought over the mountains from Marsh Creek Hollow? She shaded her eyes with her hand to keep out the sun and stared at the uninviting, harsh, gray walls. At the corners, the garrison-houses loomed up, emblems of strength and terror, making bold, stark patterns against the blue April sky.
“It’s Fort Duquesne we’ve come to,” Molly whispered to Davy Wheelock. Davy stood beside her, wearing the same brown-checked home-spun garments, torn and shabby now, that he wore when snatched from his mothers side. She gripped his hand tightly in her own. “If there’s any help comin
g, we’ll find it here,” and she began to tremble at the prospect.
At the end of the village the Indians halted and Molly, too, was obliged to stop, restraining her impatience.
She stood there in the pathway, looking hard at the fort which she knew held for her either freedom or captivity. Dirty, disheveled, browned by exposure, with her clothing torn to shreds, she shifted from one tired foot to the other, as she stared at the fort. The setting sun picked up glints of light in her tousled yellow hair and shone into her eyes to blind them. She tried to read a message in the cold, hard stockade walls, but they gave no hint of their secret.
Then she saw that the time to enter had not yet come and she must wait. Preparations of some kind were being made by the Indians, so she sat down, doubling her knees beneath her and watched.
The Indians laid a fire and gathered wood to pile upon it. A pole was raised near by, tomahawks were struck into it, and a string of wampum—a belt of beads with design of sacred meaning—was hung at the top. The twelve Indians stood about the fire, smoking peacefully, while the Frenchmen and the three captives waited. The smoke signal seen, an Indian messenger soon advanced from the village. Seeing the peaceful intent of the newcomers, he bade them welcome and the ceremony was concluded, but still the party was not ready to advance.
The old Indian, Shagbark, friendly as before, approached Davy and Nicholas and motioned them to sit down. He brought out a crude bone comb from his pack and painstakingly combed their blond hair. He combed out briars and tangles, then shaved their heads clean except for a strip from forehead to neck, which he dressed in Seneca fashion.
Molly’s hair he left hanging loose and free about her shoulders, a shower of shining gold. Then he mixed paint in a shallow stone mortar and with the cloth-covered end of a stick dauber painted broad streaks of red across the captives’ faces.
Molly put up her hands and hid her face in shame. Then she looked at Davy and Nicholas, scarce recognizing them. A strange picture the three captives made—a young man, a half-grown girl, a little boy—their white, white faces streaked with red. What did it mean? What was going to happen? Were they being prepared for something worse?
“All we need now is black hair!” said Davy, bitterly.
“And black hearts!” added Nicholas, with a flash of insight.
“They can change our faces,” said Molly, “but our hearts they cannot change.” She looked down at the red paint which had rubbed off on her hands, and the tears rose to her eyes. They stopped for a moment upon the banks opposite the stockade gate for further parley and the captives watched the two mighty rivers as they flowed into one. There it lay, the great divided river, shining bright and peaceful in the sun. On all the shores the hills were lined with forests—forest trees in the first full burst of tender green. At the river’s edge, the trees grew downward, reflected in the mirror of the silent, peaceful waters.
“The French call it the River Beautiful,” said Nicholas Porter. “O—hi—o! River Beautiful!”
“It is beautiful!” exclaimed Molly, watching it thoughtfully. “But how do you know?”
“‘La Belle Riviere,’” Nicholas repeated to her surprise. “I heard them say it in French.”
“Do you understand French?” asked Molly.
“A little,” replied Nicholas, falling into silence again.
The Indians came to take them into the fort. The walls grew taller as Molly approached. They grew taller and more unfriendly, until she felt they would fall and crush her. For one wild moment she wanted to rush away—anywhere, back to the wilderness, anywhere to get away. She would live in the forest, eat of its roots and berries, be a friend to the wild beasts. Her thought that moment sprang to action and quickly her feet obeyed. Before her masters suspected her intention, away she rushed from their grasp. Round the corner like a whirlwind she dashed on flying feet that scarcely touched the ground.
But her escape was only a vain hope, for stronger pursuers followed close. She felt the jerk of a cruel hand that threw her prostrate and the lash of a stinging whip about her legs. With wild tears falling and body shaking, she was dragged back to the spot from which she had run. There, still standing motionless, Davy and Nicholas welcomed her back with eyes that spoke pity.
Then Molly found herself walking across the drawbridge. Inside the log stockade there was a deep ditch and on its banks thick walls of squared logs and earth rose up. Store-houses, dwellings and barracks built of logs lined the side walls between the tall garrison look-outs. A six-sided stone building stood in one corner. The buildings were bustling with people and a babble of men’s voices, speaking in French, could be heard. All these things Molly scarcely noticed as she entered the fort enclosure, but other things she did.
Certain things, certain little things she saw and always remembered long afterward when Fort Duquesne had faded to a dim and uncertain memory. An outdoor bake-oven and several well-sweeps stood before the row of doorways. A boy carried a pailful of water across the yard. Near a corner, from a log building, two cows put out their heads, mooing contentedly. A Frenchman went whistling past the door, carrying hay on a wooden pitchfork. Beside the barn was a tiny garden where plants and fruit trees grew in rows. One of the trees was a peach tree and because it was April, the tree was in blossom.
Molly’s homesick heart gave a leap as she saw it. Silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, the beauty of the pink blossoms overwhelmed her. There had been a peach tree long ago beside the log cabin at home, a peach tree that stood so close you could touch the blossoms from the doorstep. She stared at the blossoming tree in the fort yard. She could only stare at it—stare at it so hard she would never forget it. She had no time to touch a pink blossom now, to smell its delicate fragrance. Impulsively she reached out her hand—and saw red paint upon it. She turned quickly, for the sight of it filled her with horror.
Important-looking French soldiers and Indian chiefs in full regalia bustled out of the largest cabin to meet the arriving band. Words passed and the three captives were hustled indoors without delay. They were taken down a damp hatchway into the cellar of one of the garrisons. Bread was brought, the door was closed and locked, and they were left alone.
All night long the captives sat on a hard wooden bench, staring into darkness. They dared not sleep for fear they might be wanted for some unknown purpose. They talked a little, to cheer each other with the comfort of human words. For a time they were hopeful and dreamed of freedom—the happy thought of walking out of the fort without their masters—the thought of home and family, food and comforts. Then they wondered what they could do with freedom if they had it—where could they go if they were free? To the westward and on all sides lay an unexplored wilderness. To the eastward, behind them, were the mountains which they had just crossed. They knew—sane reason told them—they could not go back alone, defenseless, following unknown trails, surrounded by wild beasts. So hope died within them.
Back to their tired minds came thronging all the stories they had heard of Indian punishments and tortures, and they wondered if they’d been brought thus far to suffer such a fate. After a time, Davy began to cry for his mother and Nicholas to talk of his hunting trip. With a heavy heart, Molly took a hand of each in hers and cheered them as well as she could.
Morning came at last. The door opened and their Indian masters entered, beckoning Davy Wheelock and Nicholas Porter to come out with them. Obediently they rose and followed.
Molly walked behind them as far as the hatchway door and watched. She saw that the two boys were turned over to a group of strange blue-coated Frenchmen—Frenchmen like the others who wore lace ruffles on their sleeves. Little Davy looked up inquiring, but Nicholas walked as in a daze.
Their backs turned toward her, without a sign or gesture, Molly watched them go, never guessing it was for the last time she had looked upon their faces. Those dear friends who had suffered with her and looked to her for comfort—if she had known, could she have let them go? But they never kne
w it was a parting, nor did she, till they had passed without the gate. Then she ran back to the wooden bench, buried her face in her hands and fell sobbing to the ground.
Alone she lay there, but for how long she neither knew nor cared. The loss of her companions seemed unbearable and yet she knew that she must bear it.
She prayed to God for strength and guidance on the long, dark path that lay before her. She repeated to herself her mother’s last words and admonitions and after a while she dropped asleep. She wakened to hear the sound of whispered voices. Looking up, she saw two figures at the door—women’s figures, bunched in clothing; the first women she had seen since she parted from her mother. The light behind them threw dark shadows on their faces and the words they spoke were strange. They stood a while, looking at her keenly, talking to themselves. Then they came closer and she saw that their faces were not white faces but Indian.
The women walked toed-in, bent forward, with shuffling gait. No white woman ever did that. They wore buckskin leggings like men and embroidered moccasins on their feet. No white woman, even in the wilderness, did that. O for the sight of a full-gathered homespun gown with snow-white kerchief and apron! O for the sight of blue eyes of a white woman, eyes of pity and love in a white woman’s face. Would she never see that again?
The faces that came so close and peered so keenly were not white—they were Indian. The eyes that looked out were not blue but brown—dark brown, and they showed neither pity nor love, only cold appraisal. The two women lifted the girl from the ground, set her for a moment upon the bench, then bade her rise. She stood still and let them examine her. Why should she care what happened now? Like a frontier farmer looking over a horse or cow he meant to buy, so they looked her over. Were they about to buy her too? They noted her strength of limb and body, the toughness of her muscles, the firmness of her skin. They pinched her cheeks, they looked into her mouth and counted her even white teeth. They kept nodding their heads with approval, smiling shyly and making low soft sounds.