What followed was long a famous story on the border, and I have even read it written out most carefully in books purporting to tell the history of those troublous times. None of them have it as I recall the details of the incident, although it all occurred so rapidly that I myself can hardly tell just how 't was done.
I know that I scrambled again to my knees, resting half in the water, my purpose being to fling myself into the river in an effort to regain the boat. But it was already out of sight in the dense gloom, while not the slightest sound reached me for guidance. Beyond this, I had no time for much save action. Above me, upon the high bank not three yards away, I saw several Indian forms peering over; and then others, three or four, I am uncertain which, sprang lightly down within a yard of where I crouched in waiting.
My father gave me a frontier maxim once, which ran, "If you must fight, strike first, and strike hard." The words flashed in my memory, and I put them to the test straightway. These prowling savages were apparently unaware of my predicament; their sole thought was with the boat floating away lakeward down the stream. At all cost, they must be blocked in any purpose of pursuit. These were the thoughts that darted through my brain like fire through stubble. How many opposed me, how desperate would be the struggle, were matters of which I did not stop to think. I could at least busy them until the fugitives were safe; after that, it was God's affair, and theirs. My rifle was wet and useless from my recent tumble; but before the group at the water's edge even saw me I was fairly upon them, striking fiercely with my gunstock, and two savages went down, shrieking from pain and surprise, before so much as a return blow reached me.
It was not a noisy battle; from the outset it was too fierce and rapid for any waste of breath. Never did I need my strength of body more, nor did the long training of my father come in better play. I made that long rifle-barrel both club and sword, knife and axe in one, striking, thrusting, clubbing, in the mad fury with which desperation bids a man battle for his life. I had no thought to live, but was determined that if I went down to earth many a painted savage should lie there with me. The enshrouding darkness proved a friendly help; for as I backed in closer against the bank, I gained a fair view of my opponents, while keeping myself more hidden. Again and again they charged upon me, joined now by the others from above; but the circling iron I swung with tireless arms formed a dead-line no leaping Indian burst through alive.
Once a hurtling tomahawk half buried itself in my shoulder; a long knife, thrown by a practised hand, pierced the muscles of my thigh, and stuck there quivering, till I struck it loose; and twice they fired at me, the second shot tearing the flesh of my side, searing it like fire. Yet I scarcely realized I was touched, so fiercely was the battle-blood now coursing through my veins, so intense the joy with which I crushed them back. I grew delirious, feeling the rage to slay sweep over me as never before, giving me the crazed strength of a dozen men, until I lost all sense of defensive action, and sprang forth into their midst as might an avenging thunderbolt from the black sky. Never had I swung flail in peaceful border contest as I did that murderous iron bar in the dark of the river-shore, driving them back foot by foot against the high bank which held them helpless victims of my wrath. I struck again and again, my teeth set together in bulldog tenacity, my breath coming in gasps, the streaming blood from a deep cut over my eyes half blinding me, yet guided by fierce instinct to find and smite my foes. I trod on limp bodies, on writhing forms, and felt my weapon clash against iron rifle barrels and clang upon uplifted steel; but nothing stopped me,—no cry of terror, no plea for mercy, no clutching hand, no deadly numbing blow.
God knows the story of that fight,—how long it lasted, by what miracle 't was won. To me it is—and was—little more than a dim haze of strange leaping figures, of fierce dark faces, of maddened cries of hate, of uplifted hands, of dull-clashing weapons. I seemed to see it all through a red fog whence the blood dripped, and I lost consciousness of everything save my unswerving duty to strike hard until I fell. At last out from the maelstrom of that wild mêlée but a single warrior seemed to face me; and some instinct of the fight caused me to draw back a pace and wipe the obscuring blood away, that I might see him better. It came to me that this was to be the end,—the final duel which was to decide that midnight battle. He and I were there alone; and the stars bursting through the clouds gave me faint view of him, and of those dark, silent forms that lined the shore where they had fallen.
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 God 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 shore until assured 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 shore 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 God 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 clashing 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 God 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."
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 shore, lined with infuriated savages, and found safe passage 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 ElsaMatherson?" 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 massacre. 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 God 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.
"And 't was Sister Celeste who told you whom I sought?" I asked, for lack of courage to say more.
"Yes, to-night, while we waited for you beside the ruins of the old factory. Oh, how far away it all seems now!" and she pointed backward across the voters. "Poor, poor girl! Poor Captain de Croix! Oh, it is all so sad, so unutterably sad to me! I knew them both so well, Monsieur," and she rested her bowed head upon one hand, staring out into the night, and speaking almost as if to herself alone; "yet I never dreamed that he was a nobleman of France, or that he had married Marie Faneuf. She was so sweet a girl then,—and now to be buried alive in that wilderness! Think you that he truly loved her?"
"I almost have faith that he did, Mademoiselle," I answered gravely. "He was greatly changed from his first sight of her face, though he was a difficult man to gauge in such matters. There was a time when I believed him in love with you."
She tossed her head.
"Nay," she answered, "he merely thought he was, because he found me hard to understand and difficult of conquest; but 't was little more than his own vanity that drew him hither. I trust it may be the deeper feeling that has taken him back now in face of death to Marie."
"You have indeed proved hard to understand by more than one," I ventured, for in spite of her graciousness the old wound rankled. "It has puzzled me much to understand how you so gaily sent me forth to a mission that might mean death, to save this Captain de Croix."
It was a foolish speech, and she met it bravely, with heightened color and a flash of dark eyes.
"'T was no more than the sudden whim of a girl," she answered quickly, "and regretted before you were out of sight. Nor did I dream you would meet my conditions by such a sacrifice."
"You showed small interest as you stood on the stockade when we went forth!"
"You mean when Captain de Croix and I leaned above the eastern palisades?"
"Ay, not once did your eyes wander to mark our progress."
Her eyes were smiling now, and her face archly uplifted.
"Indeed, Master Wayland, little you know of the struggles of my heart during that hour. Nor will I tell you; for the secrets of a girl must be her own. But I marked each step you took onward toward the Indian camp, until the night hid you,—the night, or else the gathering tears in my eyes."
The sudden yawing of the boat before a gust of wind drew my thought elsewhere, and kept back the words ready upon my tongue. When once more I had my bearings and had turned back the plunging bow, she sat silent, deep in thought that I hesitated to disturb. Soon I noted her head droop slightly to the increased movement of the boat.
"You are worn out!" I said tenderly. "Lean here against me, and sleep."
"Indeed, I feel most weary," was her drowsy reply. "Yes, I will rest for a few moments."
How clear remains the memory of those hours, while I sat watchful of the helm, her head resting peacefully on my lap, and all about us those lonely tossing waters! What a mere chip was our boat in the midst of that desolate sea; how dark and dreary the changeless night shadows! Over and over again I pictured the details of each scene I have here set forth so poorly, to dream at the end of a final homecoming which should not be alone. It was with heart thankful to God, that I watched the slow stealing upward of the gray dawn as the early rays of light crept toward us across the heaving of the waters. It was typical of all I had hoped,—this, and the black shadows fleeing away into the west. Brighter and brighter grew the crimsoning sky over the boat's bow, where Burns lay sleeping, until my eyes could distinguish a far-off shore-line heavily crowned with trees. I thought to rouse her to the glorious sight; but even as I glanced downward into the fair young face, her dark eyes opened in instant smile of greeting.
"'T is the morning," she said gladly, "and that dark, dark night has passed away."
"For ever, Mademoiselle; and there is even a land of promise to be seen out yonder!"
She sat up quickly, shading her eyes with her hand as she gazed with eagerness toward where I pointed.
"Think you we shall find shelter and friends there?"
"The half-breed chief said there were yet white settlers upon the Saint Joseph, Mademoiselle; and the mouth of that river should be easily found."
She turned toward me, a slight frown darkening her face.
"I wish you would not call me Mademoiselle," she said slowly. "It is as if we were still mere strangers; and you said Elsa Matherson was to be as your sister."
I bent over her suddenly, all my repressed love glowing in my face.
"Toinette!" I whispered passionately, "I would call you by a dearer name than that,—by the dearest of all dear names if I might, for you have won my heart in the wilderness."
For a single instant she glanced shyly up into my face, her own crimson at my sudden ardor. Her eyes drooped and hid themselves behind their long lashes.
"Those who sent you forth seeking a sister might not thus wish to welcome Elsa Matherson," she said softly.
"'Tis a venture I most gladly make," I insisted, "and would seal it with a kiss."
Her eyes flashed up at me, full of sudden merriment.
"The unpaid wager leaves me helpless to resist, Monsieur."
* * * * * *
The soft haze of Indian summer rested over the valley of the Maumee. We rode slowly along the narrow winding trail that hugged the river bank; for our journey had been a long one, and the horses were wearied. Burns was riding just in advance of Toinette and me, his cap pulled low over his eyes, his new growth of hair standing out stiff and black beneath its covering. Once he twisted his seamed face about in time to catch us smiling at his odd figure, and growled to himself as he kicked at his horse's flanks.
It was thus we rounded the bend and saw before us the little clearing with the cabin in the centre of its green heart. At sight of it my eyes grew moist and I rested my fingers gently upon the white hand that lay against her saddle-pommel.
"Fear not, dear heart!" I whispered tenderly.
"It is home for both alike, and the welcome of love awaits you as well as me."
She glanced up at me, half shyly as in the old way, and there was a mist of tears clinging to the long lashes.
"Those who love you, John, I will love," she said solemnly.
It was Rover who saw us first, and came charging forth with savage growl and ruffled fur, until he scented me, and changed his fierceness into barks of frantic welcome. Then it was I saw them, even as when I last rode forth, my father seated in his great splint chair, my mother with her arm along the carved back, one hand shading her eyes as she watched our coming.
This is not a memory to be written about for stranger eyes to read, but as I turned from them after that first greeting, their glances were upon her who stood waiting beside me, so sweet and pure in her young womanhood.
"And this, my son?" questioned my father kindly. "We would bid her welcome also; yet surely she cannot be that little child for whose sake we sent you forth?"
I took her by the hand as we faced them.
"You sent me in search of one whom you would receive even as your own child," I answered simply. "This is Roger Matherson's daughter, and the dear wife of your son."
What need have I to dwell upon the love that bade her welcome? And so it was that out of all the suffering and danger,—forth from the valley of the shadow of death,—Toinette and I came home.