CHAPTER VII

57CHAPTER VIILISBETH WRITES FROM LONDON

From the filthy wigwam, into which Rodney Allison had been thrust by his captor, to the little home in Charlottesville the distance was more than three hundred miles, as the crow flies, and much farther for those that travelled on foot and not by wing, threading the winding forest trails, wading and swimming the fords and climbing the mountains. Yet the lad’s thoughts sped across like a flash of dawn.

He lifted his head––his surroundings had, for the moment, cast the spell of despair on him––and looked out. He seemed to see, not the woods that hemmed in the little Indian village, but his humble home in far away Virginia. Poor and shabby outside, inside, the “living” room was as neat as soap and water and sand and plenty of scrubbing could make it. The meagre furnishings were tidily arranged. He could see, “in his mind’s eye,” the faces of his mother, and Mam, and Thello; fancied he could hear the whinny with which Nat always greeted his entrance to the stable. He imagined just what familiar task each of58them might be doing. He knew Thello’s forehead was wrinkled, as always when working, that Mam was humming a melody, and his mother’s face was anxious. He could not know that she stood by the west window looking out toward the mountains and thinking of him and his father; nor could he see black Sam stop at the door and with an air of importance give to the “Missus” a letter, dingy and worn by its long journey across the ocean, the negro scraping and bowing as he did so.

Sam was saying: “Squar, he says, ‘Sam, you done tote dat yar letter right smart to Missus Allison wid my bes’ respec’s. She’ll be wantin’ ter read it.’ Spec’s it’s from Lunnon. Squar, he jes’ home from Willumsburg.”

“Thank you, Sam. The squire is indeed kind, and you will say that Mrs. Allison thanks him for his kindness.”

“Yass’m.”

To most people the arrival of any letter was an important event in those days, especially one from “the old country,” six long weeks by sailing vessel at best. Moreover, at that time, there was only a weekly mail between Philadelphia and Williamsburg, unless sent by special messenger, and then on to its destination by any chance carrier, each person along the route being helpful in forwarding it. So it was not surprising that Mrs. Allison eagerly opened the letter, breaking what she recognized as the Danesford seal.

The ink on that letter has dimmed with the long59years, but time has not obliterated a certain daintiness in the writing, for Lisbeth’s innate grace was somehow transmitted through the quill pen to the neat, clear characters fashioned by her hand. The reading of it, too, will assist the reader to a better understanding of the girl and the conditions surrounding her, and Lisbeth was a girl worth knowing, though she may yet need excuses, and those will be the more easily made after reading.

“Dear Aunt Harriet:––I know you keep promises and so I address you as ‘aunt.’ I’m sure you remember one day when I came to you in tears. I didn’t often come that way, did I? I was so lonely, I’ll never forget how lonely, just because it suddenly occurred to me that most little girls had mothers and aunts, and I had never seen one that belonged to me. You took me in your arms and said you would be my aunt, that you had been thinking how nice it would be to have a little girl for a niece, and I went home comforted and actually believing you had wanted me for a niece all the time.“Well, I’ve got a real aunt now, Aunt Mogridge, and sometimes I think neither of us is real glad it is so. I’m a wicked girl for writing that, and would scratch it out only I somehow want you to know how I feel. She is just as kind as any aunt could be, but, well, she doesn’t care for the things I do, and––vice versa, as the books say. Now, while I’m sighing for a glimpse of the Old Dominion, and papa, and you60and––and all of them, Aunt Mogridge is sighing because she can’t have a new dress for Lady D–––’s to-morrow night, and worrying lest I say something I ought not to, because there is to be a real live duke there. I have met dukes before, and found them very uninteresting, although I suppose there are various kinds.“What wouldn’t I give, this dismal afternoon, to jump on the back of Moleskin and ride like the wind and hear solemn old Jeremiah clattering behind, his black face turned white with fear lest I fall off! Instead I’ve been listening to old Lady Brendon retail the latest gossip. She’s a wheezy old lady, so fat her chairmen’s faces always shine with perspiration, and all she cares about is the latest gossip: ‘Lord So-and-So has wagered his last farthing at White’s or the Chocolate House,’ until I want to say, like black Susan, ‘Jolly fuss!’ You should have heard Aunt Mogridge tell Lady Brendon about what a rich man papa is. I used to think, to hear him talk, that if the crops failed he’d never be able to pay his debts.“I saw the king at the theatre the other night. He looks just like some of the German farmers papa and I saw in Pennsylvania. They say he is very pious, and frowns on gambling, as well he might for the good of his kingdom, and that he is determined to do as his mother told him and be a real king. He doesn’t look as though he’d exactly know how. You should have heard him laugh over a little silly joke, when one of the actors sat in a chair on a make-believe baby and61a ventriloquist squalled just like a baby. But they says he’s obstinate and the colonies can’t make him yield to their demands.“People here think just as dear papa does, that England has helped fight the battles of the colonies and protect them with the strong arm of England––I tell ’em there are strong arms in the colonies––and that they should help pay the taxes.“It’s all too profound for me, though I am sixteen and should be, they tell me, a dignified young lady. Indeed aunt is planning to have me introduced at court.“I must tell you what a bore little Lord Nobury is getting to be. It’s partly Aunt Mogridge’s fault. Anything with a title she loves and, though she deplores the way young men gamble, and I think her beautiful son––he’s yet in Virginia, thank Heaven––hasn’t much money to squander, she boasts of his losses at ‘hazard’ to Lord Nobury.“He was the first specimen, Nobury, I mean, that I met. I hadn’t been at aunt’s more than a day before he called. I’d been awfully seasick on the voyage and the sight of him nearly brought on another attack. It seemed that aunt had been singing my praises to him before I arrived. Well, he bowed very low and, had he remained in that posture, I might have liked him, for his clothes were gorgeous; a coat of creamy velvet, a wonderful waistcoat with gold embroidery, black velvet breeches, white silk stockings, shoes with gold buckles and the lace at his wrists and neck was so fine I was actually envious.62“He began to talk right away about the theatres. Of course I was so ignorant of it all that I could only listen. He said I must see Garrick at the Drury Lane and I hope I may.“The little ‘macaroni’ is so short that he wears very high heels and has his hair done up high in front. You ought to see the wonderful and fearful things they do with their hair, both ladies and gentlemen.“After learning I didn’t know anything about the theatres, though of course I had read about them at home, he seemed at a loss what to talk about, and his face looked so blank and pasty I wished old Doctor Atterbury could have been there to prescribe for his liver.“I turned the conversation to horses by telling him I thought those in the Old Dominion were much superior to those in England and then went on to tell him about the time I got on Moleskin’s back against orders and how he ran away with me when he heard the baying of Squire Dupont’s hounds. The little lord declared with a smirk that I must have looked like an aboriginal Indian princess. I asked him why not rather like an original one, and he stared and fingered his little sword; a sword on such as he makes me wonder how black Tom would look in the beadle’s wig. But here am I running on about lords and ladies when I hate the sound of their names and am wishing I were back in Virginia where the sunshine isn’t strained through fog and the logs burning in the big fireplaces, are fragrant and cheerful.63“I suppose Naomi is a big girl and so you won’t feel the need of nieces to write long letters about nothing. Is Rodney talking war? Poor papa, he was worrying, when I left him in New York, about the talk being made against our rightful sovereign. Well, I now will write him a long, cheerful letter, so thank you for being an aunt to me once more.“Your ob’t and affectionate niece,“Elizabeth Danesford.”

“Well, I’ve got a real aunt now, Aunt Mogridge, and sometimes I think neither of us is real glad it is so. I’m a wicked girl for writing that, and would scratch it out only I somehow want you to know how I feel. She is just as kind as any aunt could be, but, well, she doesn’t care for the things I do, and––vice versa, as the books say. Now, while I’m sighing for a glimpse of the Old Dominion, and papa, and you60and––and all of them, Aunt Mogridge is sighing because she can’t have a new dress for Lady D–––’s to-morrow night, and worrying lest I say something I ought not to, because there is to be a real live duke there. I have met dukes before, and found them very uninteresting, although I suppose there are various kinds.

“What wouldn’t I give, this dismal afternoon, to jump on the back of Moleskin and ride like the wind and hear solemn old Jeremiah clattering behind, his black face turned white with fear lest I fall off! Instead I’ve been listening to old Lady Brendon retail the latest gossip. She’s a wheezy old lady, so fat her chairmen’s faces always shine with perspiration, and all she cares about is the latest gossip: ‘Lord So-and-So has wagered his last farthing at White’s or the Chocolate House,’ until I want to say, like black Susan, ‘Jolly fuss!’ You should have heard Aunt Mogridge tell Lady Brendon about what a rich man papa is. I used to think, to hear him talk, that if the crops failed he’d never be able to pay his debts.

“I saw the king at the theatre the other night. He looks just like some of the German farmers papa and I saw in Pennsylvania. They say he is very pious, and frowns on gambling, as well he might for the good of his kingdom, and that he is determined to do as his mother told him and be a real king. He doesn’t look as though he’d exactly know how. You should have heard him laugh over a little silly joke, when one of the actors sat in a chair on a make-believe baby and61a ventriloquist squalled just like a baby. But they says he’s obstinate and the colonies can’t make him yield to their demands.

“People here think just as dear papa does, that England has helped fight the battles of the colonies and protect them with the strong arm of England––I tell ’em there are strong arms in the colonies––and that they should help pay the taxes.

“It’s all too profound for me, though I am sixteen and should be, they tell me, a dignified young lady. Indeed aunt is planning to have me introduced at court.

“I must tell you what a bore little Lord Nobury is getting to be. It’s partly Aunt Mogridge’s fault. Anything with a title she loves and, though she deplores the way young men gamble, and I think her beautiful son––he’s yet in Virginia, thank Heaven––hasn’t much money to squander, she boasts of his losses at ‘hazard’ to Lord Nobury.

“He was the first specimen, Nobury, I mean, that I met. I hadn’t been at aunt’s more than a day before he called. I’d been awfully seasick on the voyage and the sight of him nearly brought on another attack. It seemed that aunt had been singing my praises to him before I arrived. Well, he bowed very low and, had he remained in that posture, I might have liked him, for his clothes were gorgeous; a coat of creamy velvet, a wonderful waistcoat with gold embroidery, black velvet breeches, white silk stockings, shoes with gold buckles and the lace at his wrists and neck was so fine I was actually envious.

“He began to talk right away about the theatres. Of course I was so ignorant of it all that I could only listen. He said I must see Garrick at the Drury Lane and I hope I may.

“The little ‘macaroni’ is so short that he wears very high heels and has his hair done up high in front. You ought to see the wonderful and fearful things they do with their hair, both ladies and gentlemen.

“After learning I didn’t know anything about the theatres, though of course I had read about them at home, he seemed at a loss what to talk about, and his face looked so blank and pasty I wished old Doctor Atterbury could have been there to prescribe for his liver.

“I turned the conversation to horses by telling him I thought those in the Old Dominion were much superior to those in England and then went on to tell him about the time I got on Moleskin’s back against orders and how he ran away with me when he heard the baying of Squire Dupont’s hounds. The little lord declared with a smirk that I must have looked like an aboriginal Indian princess. I asked him why not rather like an original one, and he stared and fingered his little sword; a sword on such as he makes me wonder how black Tom would look in the beadle’s wig. But here am I running on about lords and ladies when I hate the sound of their names and am wishing I were back in Virginia where the sunshine isn’t strained through fog and the logs burning in the big fireplaces, are fragrant and cheerful.

“I suppose Naomi is a big girl and so you won’t feel the need of nieces to write long letters about nothing. Is Rodney talking war? Poor papa, he was worrying, when I left him in New York, about the talk being made against our rightful sovereign. Well, I now will write him a long, cheerful letter, so thank you for being an aunt to me once more.

“Your ob’t and affectionate niece,“Elizabeth Danesford.”

Did she but know it, her father stood in need of cheerful letters, for the bitterness of the rising war spirit was daily making feuds between former friends, and all who talked loyalty to the king and condemned Henry, Jefferson and Washington soon discovered they were champions of an unpopular cause.

64CHAPTER VIIITHE CHIEF WHO DEMANDED THE TRUTH

Four days of intense excitement, without proper food or sleep, subjected to peril of life, would test the hardiest person. Rodney Allison felt like breaking down and weeping hysterically. To add to his discomfort he believed the hut to be alive with vermin, not an uncommon condition in any Indian’s wigwam, and this one looked filthy.

His unpleasant reflections were interrupted by the return of the little boy, Louis, who cried, “Ahneota, he say you come right away.”

“The redskin who threw me in here said he would kill me if I left.”

“Ce n’est rien, Ahneota says come.”

Under the circumstances Rodney decided to run the risk, for evidently the little chap was the only friend he had found, so he said, “Well, you don’t want me killed, do you?”

“Non.I will have you to play with me. Ahneota is my friend. He will give you to me.”

They went to a wigwam at the farther end of the65village and found awaiting them an old chief. He was tall and gaunt. His face was long, the nose sharply aquiline, and his eyes were as keen and bright as those of a youth. The chief’s manner was very, dignified, even stern. Louis began his plea, but was ordered to call the Indian, Caughnega. Then, turning to Rodney, the chief asked: “Why come to Indian country and kill game? White man’s game below big river.”

Rodney hesitated. What could he say? He feared to confess that he already had escaped from Indians, it would not be a helpful introduction, to say the least; neither would he lie.

“I was lost and hungry. The bear was hungry, too. I had to shoot,” he finally said.

The searching look of the Indian embarrassed him.

“The pigeon dropped by the eagle spoke not truth but said he fell.”

Rodney flushed under the fierce gaze of the bright eyes of the aged chief. Then lifting his head he resolutely replied: “I have told you the truth, but not all of it. I am here through no fault of my own and am trying to get back to the big river and my people.”

“The big river is many days’ journey. There is blood on the pigeon,” replied Ahneota, pointing to Rodney’s wrists, which yet bore the marks of the thongs with which he had been bound.

“That is the work of Indians. I was on my way down the Ohio to meet my father near the Great Kanawha. The party I was with landed for supper66and was attacked by Indians, who killed some and made me a prisoner. I escaped from them and am here. Neither I nor my father ever wronged an Indian.”

“The land north of the big river belongs to the Indian. The Great Father gave it to the Indian and the palefaces smoked the pipe of peace with the red man. Now they would come and kill our game and the red man must die.”

“Our party was not seeking land north of the river when the Indians cruelly attacked us.”

“The Wyandottes are at peace with the Shawnees and do not take away their captives.”

“You all are at peace with the whites and have no right to make me a prisoner,” was Rodney’s reply, so boldly spoken he feared its effect might be bad.

“Young braves will not always obey their chiefs,” was the rather evasive reply of the old man, and the boy instinctively felt he had not displeased Ahneota by his bold speech.

“Ahneota has one brother. He left the palefaces and is an Indian.”

The boy understood this to mean that he might, by forsaking his people, find safety as a member of the tribe. Every tie of affection bound him to his own people. He knew, moreover, that if an adopted member of the tribe ever deserted it the offence was regarded as a most serious one; that on the contrary he would be expected, if need be, to fight against his own people. He made no reply.

“Will paleface be Ahneota’s brother?”

Thought of home almost brought tears to the boy’s eyes. He gulped down his emotion, for he knew the Indians look with contempt on any display of one’s feelings.

“It would be deserting my people,” he finally replied. “My father and mother and sister are living. I thank you for the––the kindness. I hope you will permit me to go to them. My people are at peace with your people.”

“The palefaces speak words of peace but their deeds are war.”

There was silence for a few moments and then the old chief spoke with Rodney’s captor. They talked in the Indian tongue. Little Louis, standing by, evidently knew what they were saying, for, as the Indian who claimed Rodney spoke more loudly, he interrupted, claiming, as afterward appeared, that the prisoner was his, that he had first seen him and wanted him for a playmate.

The old Indian did not speak for a time, evidently being puzzled what to do. Then, addressing Rodney, he said: “Young paleface will not be the Indian’s brother; he cannot find his way to the big river. He may share the Indian’s lodge and meat.” Saying this he turned and entered his lodge.

“Come.”

It was Louis who spoke and, taking Rodney by the hand, he led him away, while Caughnega, with a sullen look on his face, went his way.

Louis was a handsome little fellow, affectionate in his manner and delighted with his success in obtaining a new playfellow. As they went along they met one that at first Rodney thought to be an Indian but on closer inspection decided was a white man; the fellow was, in fact, none other than Conrad, whose capture has already been related.

“Ah, Conrad!mon ami. I have a new friend,” exclaimed Louis.

“I suppose you are one of his old ones,” remarked Rodney with a smile. Conrad made no reply, but looked inquiringly while Louis rattled off an account of the events of the morning.

The news did not appear to be agreeable to Conrad, who walked away without comment; but the little fellow was too full of the novelty of his experiences to heed Conrad’s manner, and they went on to a lodge on the edge of the village and Louis led his companion into where, seated on a bear skin, was a woman weaving mats out of rushes. She looked up quickly, and Rodney saw at a glance that she was superior to any Indian women he had ever seen, evidently a half-breed. The blanket she wore and her surroundings looked clean, and her face showed intelligence much beyond the ordinary; but there was something in the look she gave him that warned Rodney she would be his implacable enemy.

The little fellow’s tongue ran on in a mingled jargon of French, Indian and English and Rodney comprehended, rather from the looks and gestures of69the woman and child than from the words, that Louis was determined the newcomer should live with them, while she objected, whereat Louis began to wail imperiously, and the glance of dislike she gave Rodney was not reassuring.

“I will build a lodge, you can show me how to do it, and then you can have one more home to go to,” said Rodney, trying to soothe the troubled feelings. This idea pleased Louis, who dried his eyes and was for beginning on it right away, but “Maman,” as he called the half-breed woman, did not appear to like this plan any better than the first, and her beady eyes snapped ominously; but she said nothing. Rodney wished he might lie down on one of the clean mats before him and sleep, for he was so tired he scarcely could keep awake even while walking. He shrank from asking the woman for a place to sleep, but finally did so, and she grunted assent.

While Rodney slept the sleep of exhaustion, Louis went in search of Conrad, and asked him to build his new friend a wigwam.

Conrad scowled and replied that the new boy wouldn’t live long enough to need it, and Louis cried, “They can’t kill him, Ahneota won’t let them.”

“Vat for you vant him, yet? Conrad your friend is.”

“I want him, too; he’s white like Jules. Papa said: ‘Jules is a good boy and you may play with him all day.’ You don’t play with me all the time, but go away hunting and will not let me go, too.”

“He need will have to eat, und to hunt, I tink, alretty.”

Louis was so insistent that Conrad finally assisted him in cutting poles for the proposed wigwam and setting them in place. By this time Rodney, who had been waked by the woman, joined them and worked as hard as his sore muscles would permit. By night he had a shelter of bark and boughs. Louis brought a mat and there the weary captive lay down for the night, hungry and sore. Later, the little fellow brought him some dried venison and showed him the spring that supplied the village with drinking water.

The following morning Rodney chanced to see the half-breed, “Maman,” as Louis called her, though Rodney felt sure she was not his mother, talking very earnestly with Caughnega and their talk ceased when he approached, which aroused his suspicion. He made inquiries of Louis and learned that Caughnega was the “medicine man” of the village and possessed influence. Ahneota was the more influential and the boy shrewdly guessed that Caughnega was jealous.

A chief of a tribe maintained his influence through no laws, for the Indians had none. The position might be strengthened by the chief having influential relatives, but this did not appear to be true of Ahneota. Generally speaking, a chief retained his place because the tribe trusted and respected him, as it was evident they did Ahneota. Not only members of his tribe,71but other Indians, came and held counsel with him. At first Rodney hesitated about calling on the chief but gradually became a daily visitor at his lodge.

One of the accomplishments which Rodney had learned from Thello was fishing. When leaving home he had taken a good linen line and several iron hooks. Indians speared or netted most of the fish they took, but occasionally angled for them with bone hooks and lines made of twisted fibre. The boy obtained permission to fish and in this way often contributed to the food supply of the village.

Food was held in common. Any one having it was expected to share equally with the others. When luck smiled on the boy he was careful to have a nicely broiled fish to take to Ahneota. He also attempted to make friends with Conrad but always met with a surly reception.

Louis was so friendly as to be almost a nuisance, especially as Rodney believed the little fellow’s fondness for him was a cause for the dislike of Conrad and “Maman.” The little boy, whenever he could escape the watchfulness of “Maman” would pay a visit to Rodney’s wigwam, which had been made quite substantial, being covered with strips of elm bark. Louis was always clamouring for stories about white people and one evening, Rodney replied: “I have told you all my stories. Now you must tell me some; tell me of the place where you lived before you came here. Is ‘Maman’ your real mother and is your father living?”

A startled look came into the lad’s big brown eyes. He peered about in the growing dusk, then he said: “You will not tell? Maman says she will kill me if I tell. Maman is not my mother. She had eyes like flowers and papa, he wasgentilhomme, would carry her in his arms when she was sick. He was tall like Ahneota, only his eyes were not so black. Mamma called him her soldier.”

“Where is he now?” asked Rodney, thoroughly interested.

“He went away after mamma died and I went to live withgrandmereabove Lachine. Marie, that’s Maman, she says I must call her that, she was a servant forgrandmere, who died last harvest. She was not sick a long time like mamma, but only a few days. Marie said it was small-pox, and we must go away and find papa, but we have not found him. I want to see my papa,” and Louis threw himself sobbing on the ground.

Rodney stroked his long yellow hair and called him “Yellow Locks,” but the little chap peevishly exclaimed, “I like Louis better. I don’t want to be called ‘Yellow Locks.’”

A faint noise behind caused Rodney to turn quickly. There stood Marie, the half-breed!

How much had she heard? the boy asked himself; but he was learning to control his feelings, and he said pleasantly enough, “Good evening, Maman. Louis is tired and I reckon wants to be in bed.”

“I want to sleep here,” exclaimed the child.

“Not to-night,” replied Rodney. “You are too tired and the bed in Maman’s lodge is softer.”

She took the little chap up in her arms and carried him away. It was evident she was fond of him, which might account for her having stolen him, as it appeared she had; also for her jealousy. What would be the end of the muddle? Rodney asked himself. He thought of the stake and the frenzied villagers dancing around the fire with blood-curdling yells. Would he be able to endure the torture? He hoped so, for the boy was proud of his race. But why borrow trouble? All around him were signs of peace and savage contentment. The little camp-fires twinkled in the gathering dusk. Some of the squaws sang bits of a wild lullaby to their children and he could hear, in droning refrain:

“Wau, wau, tee, say.Wau, wau, tee, say,”

sung as a lullaby by one of the squaws, who had slung the wicker-work frame, into which the papoose was strapped, across the limb of a tree and swung it back and forth while she sang, as one would rock a cradle.

“Poor little mummy,” thought Rodney. “No wonder Indians can endure pain. Tied into that framework straight as an arrow and unable to brush away a mosquito or help themselves, they ought to learn to endure anything.”

74CHAPTER IXA WHITE BOY ADOPTED BY THE INDIANS

It already has appeared that Conrad’s wish that he might be adopted by the Indians, a thought which comforted him as he lay bound on the first night of his captivity, had been realized; also that he had been adopted by the old chief, Ahneota, who now wished to adopt Rodney.

As Conrad’s experiences were such as the other lad might expect, should he finally yield to the old Indian’s desire, a brief account of them may be found interesting.

Following the night of Conrad’s capture the party travelled for two days in a westerly direction. Just at dusk on the second day they came to a small river. Here canoes were brought from hiding and all, save one Indian who swam across with the horse, paddled to the other side in the canoes.

Arriving on the other bank several guns were discharged, followed by lusty yells that soon were responded to with like yells from over a wooded ridge near the river. Within a few minutes squaws and papooses came running to meet them.

Though Conrad was a stolid lad his pulse quickened, for he had heard many tales of tortures inflicted by the savages. The Indian dogs snapped at his heels; the children and some of the squaws tormented him by pinching, slapping and threatening, to all of which the men paid no heed and the boy tried to appear indifferent.

As they came near the village all the spectators formed in two lines, between which he was ordered to run.

He was to run the gauntlet! For an instant his heart stopped beating, the next, a sharp blow from a stick set the blood inherited from a brave ancestry tingling through his veins.

Lowering his head he charged, as a mad bull charges, warding off what blows he might with his sturdy arms. He was thwacked with clubs, jabbed with sharpened sticks, tripped and pommelled till it seemed that not an inch of his body escaped. One old hag threw a handful of sand in his eyes and he stumbled, but crawled the few feet remaining between where he fell and the wigwam toward which he had run. Once inside, his tormentors left him. He was so sore that he almost wished he could die. After a time he slept and thought his mother came to comfort him, but it was only a young squaw who brought him food. Then one of the men came and the boy complained of the rough treatment. The Indian said that running the gauntlet was the custom, that he had been brave and the Indians would adopt him into the tribe, and76Conrad could have cried for joy, only that he was a boy who did not cry.

Conrad never forgot the day he was formally adopted into the tribe. First in the ceremony was washing away his white blood and, it seemed to the boy, at least a part of his skin as well.

In full view of the assembled tribe, whose ideas of modesty differed much from those of civilized people, he was stripped and led into a pool in the river and there thrust under the water and then stood upon his feet and scoured with sand. This was the most thorough scrubbing Conrad ever was to have. Life with the Vuysens had not been conducive to cleanliness and Indians in those days were not noted for bathing.

Following the bath came the process of greasing him from head to foot and decorating his face with pigments, after which he was clad in breech-clout and moccasins. This done, he was seated upon the bank for a no less severe ordeal.

This consisted in plucking out the hair of his head, all but a tuft, or scalp lock, to which coloured feathers were tied. An Indian did the work, dipping his fingers in ashes that he might get better hold. Conrad never winced or made outcry throughout the various ordeals.

A blanket was given to the boy, who was then led into a wigwam, where an old Indian conducted ceremonies, on which Conrad looked with awe, though understanding but little of them. Their solemnity, however, impressed him deeply and it is very doubtful77whether, after they were over, he would have dared run away had he been so inclined.

The boy’s eyes were light blue and his hair was yellow; but his cheekbones were high, his face stolid, so that now, when paint and grease had been added to sunburn, and he stood clothed in full Indian garb, no one would think him other than an Indian but for those tell-tale blue eyes.

The Wyandottes, of which people he now considered himself one, occupied territory in what is now the north-central portion of Ohio.

The year was 1772, not long ago in history, but measured by change, very long ago. Then, the country was little different from what it had been for thousands of years. Now, it seems another world and the map of it shows great cities where were forests and connecting these are what at first resemble spiders’ webs, but which are highways. Few white men then came to that region, where now few red men are seen, indeed none living the life they then lived. Such whites as came were a few French voyageurs and Jesuit missionaries and hunters and traders from the English colonies. The traders did not scruple to exchange, for valuable furs, guns, tomahawks and ammunition, which they knew would be turned against the whites of the frontier in time of war; and many of them sold the savages liquor, knowing an Indian would sell his soul for it and having drank it would become a fiend incarnate.

On the south flowed the Ohio River, along which78white men were pushing their way, and settling on land in what is now Kentucky and Tennessee, and looking with covetous eyes on the land between that river and the lakes, but which the Indians claimed had been reserved to them by treaty. The shrewder among the Indian leaders foresaw the time when they would have to fight and overwhelm the intruders or submit to their hunting grounds being spoiled by the white man. This feeling of uneasiness was spreading among the tribes, and the younger warriors were eager to fight and not infrequently were guilty of marauding expeditions.

One day a party of young braves had returned from a hunting expedition down in what was called “the dark and bloody ground,” Kentucky, which the Indians of the North and the Cherokees and Chickasaws of the South made common use of for a hunting place. Frequent were the bloody skirmishes fought by these hostile tribes in this territory, though none of the Indians made permanent homes there. This party had brought back several scalps and among them Conrad noted two torn from the heads of white men. Ahneota had looked grave and the boy shuddered, and for the first time his dreams about his future were not as bright as they had been.

One day there had come to the village a Frenchman, clad in the picturesque garb of a voyageur, wearing a gaudy handkerchief about his head and a gay capote, or blanket coat which the savages much admired. With him was a half-breed woman and Louis, then79not quite ten years old. Conrad thought this boy the most attractive person he had ever met and the little fellow, clad in the softest of deerskin tastefully ornamented and wearing a jaunty cap of the same material, was indeed a handsome lad. Conrad had attached himself to the boy as does a dog to his master. When Rodney arrived, and the little fellow preferred him to his former companion, then Conrad, who in one year of the wild life had become an Indian in looks, became one at heart.

80CHAPTER XHATING, BUT WAITING

Ahneota was an Indian of superior intelligence and varied experience. As the summer advanced, and the corn and tobacco which the squaws had planted in the meadow put forth glossy leaves and promise of the harvest, the boy’s visits to the old chief became more interesting as well as more frequent. Rodney recognized in him his only safety and instinctively knew that the Indian liked him.

The more he learned of the aged man’s wisdom and his kindness toward the people of the village, the greater his wonder at the ferocious expression in the face of this savage when persuaded to recount his exploits. There could be no mistaking that this otherwise kindly old man bore the whites a bitter hatred, though more tolerant of the French than of the English.

In his youth Ahneota had been taught by a Jesuit missionary, indeed had been regarded as a convert. He had retained, however, many of the superstitions of the savage; believed in all sorts of evil as well as81good spirits, thought animals had spirit existence after death, had faith in dreams, and, though he had little to do with the arts of the “medicine man,” so great was his dislike of Caughnega, Rodney became convinced the chief also believed in them, to some extent, at least.

“The French,” he said, “treat the Indian like a man who is weak; the English treat him like a dog they despise. Both cheat him, but the Englishman kicks him after he has robbed him, or kills him and takes his scalp.” He declared that the traders robbed the children of the forest, and that every frontiersman wanted the Indians killed so as to get the land. He had known of Indians being shot in time of peace by trappers, who murdered them for their furs and took their scalps and kept them so as to get bounty on them whenever there should be war with the red men.

“But you would kill an innocent white woman and torture her children, in revenge for the wickedness of the traders.”

“Palefaces do not punish palefaces, but honour them for the bad deeds done to the Indian, and must we suffer alone?”

“It’s impossible for us to punish these traders for deeds we white people know nothing about.”

“Ugh!” and there was bitter scorn in the old savage’s exclamation, “you do not open your ears. The trader boasts and white men laugh.”

Rodney felt there was much of truth in what the old savage said, moreover he feared to excite him by82further controversy, so to turn the conversation he remarked, “You must have been with the French in the great war?”

“Ahneota brought many scalps to the French,” he replied, proudly. “Frenchmen give us many presents for our furs. They do not steal our land and drive away our game.”

Reminded of those fearful scenes during the war, he stood erect and, pointing his long arm toward the southeast, said, “Ahneota fought Braddock. At Bushy Run his bullets made white men sleep, but Colonel Bouquet was wise and fooled Indians. Ahneota go with Pontiac, and cut off his gun so to hide it under his blanket and go inside Fort Detroit. He was a chief at Bloody Run. The French promise much. They make fool of Indian and tell him Great Father across big water had slept, but was awake and would come and help his friends, the red men, and bring beads and brandy and shining cloth.”

“Do you think the Indians did right in pretending to be friends of the English in order to kill them?”

“You think trader right when steal Indian’s furs? Soldiers killed our women and children. They scared away the game and we must starve. They say they brothers of Indian; they lie. They make us old women so to steal our land. They fool the Delawares. What does ‘Little Knife’ say when they kill good Indians at Conestoga and make dogs of Moravians? Ahneota declares paleface and Indian can never live together.”

The hatred displayed in the face of the old savage was unmistakable, yet the boy did not fear him.

“You must have seen Colonel Washington in the Braddock campaign?”

“I have seen him. The Great Spirit keeps him and turns the bullets away from him.”

“He is much respected in Virginia. He inherited a big estate, Mount Vernon, with much land and many slaves.”

“Like all palefaces he wants more. He sends men into the Indian country to take more land.”

“The Indian does not use the land as do the English. The Indians want to roam and hunt over it. The white man works hard and builds a home and lives on much less land than does the Indian.”

“He scares away the game and the squaw and pappoose must cry in hunger. The Great Spirit made this country for Indian and he must hold it or follow the sun.”

Rodney did not know but that he had said too much, yet he liked a good argument and was curious to learn how the Indians felt and what they believed. “Do the Indians want to dig up the tomahawk and make war on the whites?”

“The young braves do, but Ahneota fought with Pontiac. No chief was ever obeyed by so many Indians, by Ottawas, Wyandottes, Pottawattomies, by the Ojibwas of the far north, all took the war belt and made their faces black. Some day another great chief84will bring the war belt and the red men will follow where he may lead, but he has not come. The signs are not right. Already the Great Father of the English says to his children, ‘I have made peace with much wampum with the Father of the French. Give me wampum.’ The children grow angry; they kick away the peace belt and will not smoke the pipe. Then the Indian will rise from the ground like the leaves in a big wind and blow in their faces. When father and children quarrel, the eagle comes down like fire from the sky, and the wolves howl in the forest.”

The boy sat looking into the wild face of the savage and shuddered. He knew the Indian hated and waited, and, when the storm burst, he would be like a wild beast.

Notwithstanding the bitter hostility displayed by the old man, his counsel was for peace and it was evident he feared a conflict would be precipitated before the Indians could be ready. He scowled at all reports of disturbance. The capture of Rodney worried him. Whenever the subject was mentioned he would say: “Shawnees. The spirit of evil is upon the red man and the paleface.”

One day the chief asked the boy if he knew Daniel Morgan, who lived at Winchester, and from the Indian’s manner of speaking it appeared he had great respect for the man’s fighting qualities. He told of an attempt to ambush Morgan, in which he took part. They shot him, the bullet entering the mouth and coming out on the left side, taking the teeth along with it.85Morgan was on horseback. He reeled in the saddle but clung to the horse’s mane and urged him forward. Ahneota ran after him, thinking to seize the horse, as he was a swift runner. Failing in this, he threw his tomahawk. He failed to hit Morgan, though his skill at throwing the hatchet was great. He declared the evil spirit turned the tomahawk aside that Morgan might live and persecute the Indians. After the war, such was his curiosity, he visited Winchester to learn more about Morgan, and told the boy many things, which the latter was to recall.

A few days later François, who had brought “Maman” and Louis to the village, came back to buy furs, offering in exchange blankets, knives and hatchets, powder and ball, also he had several bottles of brandy. The “fire-water” was, of course, the most attractive of his wares and by afternoon several Indians were drunk, among them Ahneota. When Rodney learned this his heart sank, for his old friend was helpless to protect him. He looked for Caughnega and noticed that he was sober. That fact indicated he intended mischief. Unless an Indian had a very strong purpose in mind, he would not refuse liquor. Later, Caughnega and Marie were seen talking together, and then the trader joined them. Rodney was walking past, and when near them Caughnega noticed him and made a signal to the others and they lowered their voices. Out in front of the village the young braves had built a fire, and were dancing around it and yelling like fiends.

“Do they intend to burn me?” was the question which arose in the boy’s mind.

“I’ll die trying rather than waiting,” said the boy to himself. He hastened to his wigwam, and taking some dried meat and parched corn, arming himself with knife and hatchet, also bow and arrows, he stole unobserved out of the village and into the woods.

Most Indians of that day had become unaccustomed to the use of bow and arrow, and were dependent on the whites to furnish them with guns and ammunition. This was a fact which the old chief bemoaned. Rodney, being deprived of the use of a rifle, shrewdly induced the old Indian to show him how to make a bow and arrows and how to use them and he already had acquired considerable skill.

A little distance away in the forest stood a large tree with a hollow trunk, inside which a tall man might stand up straight, though the opening was small. Once he and Louis had made a sort of perch in the upper part to which a boy might crawl and be safe from observation, unless one went to the trouble of crawling into the hollow and looking up.

Rodney made his way to the tree as best he might in the gathering dusk and hid himself on the perch. There he remained throughout the night, with dismal thoughts for companions and the cries of the night hawk to cheer him. Toward morning he fell asleep. He was awakened by a slight noise and, looking down, saw the face of Caughnega peering in!

Fortunately for both, the savage did not see the87perch and went away. Later, Rodney, cramped and sore, crept out in quest of a drink of water. On his return a sound inside attracted his notice and listening, he heard sobbing. It was Louis. With a cry of joy the little fellow threw himself into Rodney’s arms, saying, “I thought you had run away. Caughnega said you had. He was hunting for you last night, and this morning I told him about this place but he came back and said you were not here.”

“Don’t you ever tell him where I am when he’s hunting for me. He hates me and would like to kill me. But how came you here?”

“Maman was cross like a bear and François whipped me.”

“And she let him do it?”

“Non, but she was so cross I wouldn’t tell her. François was tipsy.”

“The drunken dog! I’d like to horsewhip him. Well, you run back, and when Ahneota is sober tell him I’ve not run away but will come back when the carousal is ended. Don’t say anything to any one else about me. If François beats you again tell Maman.”

Louis turned back toward the village and, at a turn in the path, met the tipsy François. Rodney saw the meeting, and concealed himself behind a tree.

The voyageur had no arms other than the knife in his belt. When he saw Louis he cried, “Hé bien! Tiens! prends cela,” slapping the little fellow’s face and knocking him down.

Seeing this Rodney was infuriated and forgot all88caution. In a few bounds he reached the voyageur and, as the latter turned, hit him a stinging blow on the nose, following it with a well directed one on the Frenchman’s chin. The fellow went down like a log and Rodney on top of him. He rolled the dazed man on to his face and bound his arms behind his back with a leather thong he carried.

“I’ll fix you if you ever strike Louis again. You get back to the village and, if you want to live, you behave yourself.”

François was a sorry sight with the blood streaming from his nose. He was sobered and scared but he was to have revenge.

“HE ROLLED THE DAZED MAN ON TO HIS FACE AND BOUND HIS ARMS BEHIND HIS BACK.”

89CHAPTER XIFATHER MOURNING FOR SON

What of David Allison’s fortunes? Weeks had lengthened into months and no word had come back to Charlottesville from the man whom the great woods had swallowed.

After several weeks of weary travel, through forest and by river, the party had reached the location they sought. It was one that would attract even the most practical and stolid of frontiersmen: a plain of several hundred acres surrounded by the forest, a detached part of those great plains farther west, which stretched hundreds of miles with scarcely a tree to dot the expanse.

Along each of two sides of the plain a small stream ran, the two uniting in quite a respectable little river that joined the Great Kanawha River a few miles distant. Through the tall grass of this little prairie were great “traces” or paths beaten by the feet of passing buffalo, elk and deer. Fish swam in the streams and the wild turkey’s call was heard in the forest.

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