Chapter 12: The Canoe on the River

Two more weeks passed and de Peyster’s conduct in regard to Henry was regulated again by fits and starts. Sometimes he was allowed to walk in the great court within the palisade. On the fourth night he heard the signal cry once more from the Canadian woods. Now, as on the first night, it was the voice of the owl, and he answered it from the window.

On the sixth day he was allowed to go outside, and, as before, Holderness was his escort. He noticed at once an unusual bustle and all the signs of extensive preparations. Many Indians of the various tribes were passing, and from the large brick building, used as a storehouse of arms and ammunition, they were receiving supplies. Despite their usual reserve all of them showed expectancy and delight and Henry knew at once that the great expedition under Timmendiquas, Caldwell and Girty was about to depart. If he had not known, there was one at hand who took a pleasure in enlightening him. Braxton Wyatt, in a royal uniform, stood at his elbow and said:

“Sorry to bid you good-by, Henry, because the stay at Detroit has been pleasant, but we go to-morrow, and I don’t think much will be left of Kentucky when we get through. Pity that you should have to spend the time here while it is all going on. Timmendiquas himself leads us and you know what a man he is.”

Lieutenant Holderness, who was with Henry, eyed Wyatt with strong disfavor.

“I do not think it fitting, Captain Wyatt, that you should speak in such a manner to a prisoner,” he said.

But Wyatt, at home in the woods and sure of his place, had all the advantage. He rejoined insolently:

“You must realize, Lieutenant Holderness, that war in the American woods is somewhat different from war in the open fields of Europe. Moreover, as a lieutenant it is hardly your place to rebuke a captain.”

Holderness flushed deeply and was about to speak, but Henry put his hand on his arm.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Lieutenant,” he said. “He’s a sort of mad dog, ready to bite anything that gets in his way. Come on, let’s take another look at the river.”

Holderness hesitated a moment, and then went with Henry. Wyatt’s face was black with anger, but he did not dare to follow them and create a scene. While they were in the court the tumult was increased by an unexpected arrival at the western gate. Private Doran, unarmed, his hands bound behind him, his eyes bandaged, but otherwise undamaged, had suddenly appeared in the village, and was at once taken to the fort. Now, surrounded by a curious crowd, he seemed to be dazed, and to be frightened also. Henry saw at once that his fear was of his officers, and that it had not been caused by any suffering in captivity. In truth, Private Doran looked very well, having suffered no diminution of either girth or ruddiness. His fears in regard to his officers were justified, as he was taken at once before Colonel de Peyster, who examined him with the greatest severity.

But Private Doran’s apprehensions gave him ready and clear answers. He had been taken, it was true, but it was by men of superhuman skill and intelligence. Then, blindfolded and arms bound, he had been driven away in the woods. How far he traveled he did not know, but when a camp was made it was in a dense forest. Nor did he have any idea in what direction it lay from Detroit. He was joined there by Private Myers who had been abducted in the same way. Their four captors had told them that they were held as hostages, and had many terrible threats, but they had not really suffered anything. One man called Shif’less Sol by the others had been menacing them with strange punishments of which they had never heard before, but with the juice of some herb he cured Private Myers of a bruise that he had received in the struggle when he was captured.

This examination was held in public in the court and Henry heard it all. He smiled at the mention of Shif’less Sol, knowing his flow of language, and his genuine aversion to all forms of cruelty. Finally, according to the continuation of Doran’s tale, they had decided that the hostages were no longer necessary. Evidently they believed their friend had suffered no ill treatment, or some important movement was pending. Accordingly he was blindfolded, his arms bound, and he was led away in the night by the two men called Long Jim and Silent Tom. They left him toward morning, saying that the other captive would be delivered on the day following. When curs began to snap at his ankles he knew that he was near the village outside Detroit, and he shouted for help. The rest told itself.

Doran, after a severe rating, was sent about his business. Henry was very thoughtful. Private Doran had not told of crossing any river and hence the camp of his comrades must be on this side of the Detroit. But all the signals had come from the far shore. Doubtless Shif’less Sol had crossed over there to utter the cries and they must possess a boat, a supposition that chimed in well with the warning to him to watch the river. Reflection only deepened his conviction, and he resolved if possible to avoid the anger of de Peyster, as to be shut up again might ruin everything. He felt that the time to act, although he did not know just how and where, was coming soon.

A strong watch was set about both fort and village in order to trap the four the following night, when they came to deliver Private Myers. Both Girty and Blackstaffe told Colonel de Peyster that the forest runners would keep their promise, and the commander was exceedingly anxious to take the impudent rovers who had annoyed him so much. Henry heard something of it from Holderness and, for a moment, he felt apprehension, but he recalled all the skill and craft of his comrades. They would never walk into a trap.

The night turned quite dark with fleeting showers of rain. There was no moon and the stars were hidden. But about two hours before daylight there was a great outcry, and the sentinels, running to the spot, found a white man blindfolded and hands bound, tied in a thicket of briers. It was Private Myers, and his tale was practically the same as that of Private Doran. He had been led in the night, he knew not whither. Then, one of his captors, which one he could not say, as he was blindfolded, gave him a little push and he neither saw nor heard them any more. He had tried to come in the direction in which he thought Detroit lay, but he had become tangled among the briers, and then he had shouted at the top of his voice.

Colonel de Peyster was deeply disgusted. He addressed stern reproofs to the wretched private, who was not to blame, and bade him join his comrade in disgrace. The best Indian trackers were sent to seek the trail of the forest runners, which they found and followed only to end against the wide and deep river. The Indian trailers concurred in Henry’s belief that the four had secured a boat, and they felt that it was useless to search on the other side.

Henry heard of it all very early, and that day during his hours of liberty in the court he kept a close watch on the river, but nothing occurred. Evidently the hour had not come for his friends to make whatever attempt they had in mind. He was convinced of it when from the palisade he saw that de Peyster had instituted a patrol on the river. Several Indian canoes, containing warriors, were constantly moving up and down. Henry’s heart sank at the sight. He had felt sure all the time that his line of escape lay that way. Meanwhile Timmendiquas, the renegades and their powerful force were marching southward to destroy what Bird had left. He was seized with a terrible impatience that became a real torture. He learned that the patrol on the river had been established as a guard against the dreaded George Rogers Clark, who had made the threats against Detroit. Clark was so crafty that he might circle above the town and come down by the river, but in a week or so the alarm passed.

Henry spent the period of alarm in his prison, but when de Peyster’s fears relaxed he was allowed the liberty of the court again. Neither Holderness nor Desmond was visible and he walked back and forth for a long time. He had grown thinner during his imprisonment, and much of the tan was gone from his face, but he did not feel any decrease of strength. As he walked he tested his muscles, and rejoiced that they were still flexible and powerful like woven wire. That morning he heard the call of the wolf from the Canadian shore, but he did not dare reply. A half hour later Colonel de Peyster himself accosted him.

“Well,” said the commander in a tone of irony, “I see, young Mr. Ware, that you have not yet escaped.”

“Not yet,” replied Henry, “but I shall certainly do so.”

Colonel de Peyster laughed. He was in great good humor with himself. Why should he not be? He had smoothed away the doubts of Timmendiquas and now that formidable chieftain was gone with a great force against Kentucky. The settlements would be destroyed, men, women and children, and de Peyster would have the credit of it.

“You are surely a confident youth,” he said. “This boast of yours was made some time ago, and I do not see that you have made any progress. I’m afraid that you’re a great talker and a small performer.”

Henry was stung by his words, but he did not show any chagrin.

“I’m going to escape,” he said, “and it will not be long, now, until I do so.”

Colonel de Peyster laughed again and more loudly than before.

“Well, that’s a proper spirit,” he said, “and when you’ve gone you shall tell your friends that on the whole I have not treated you badly.”

“I make no complaint,” said Henry.

“And now, to show my generous feeling toward you,” continued de Peyster, in whom the spirit of humor was growing, “you shall have luncheon with me in honor of your coming escape.”

“I’m willing,” said Henry, adapting himself to his mood. A life such as his and wonderful natural perception had endowed him with a sort of sixth sense. He began to have a premonition that what de Peyster intended as a joke would be the truth, and it made him all the more willing to join in what the commander intended should be a mockery.

De Peyster led the way to the room in which the first banquet with the Indian chiefs had been held, but now only Henry and he were present, except a soldier who brought food from the kitchen and who waited upon them.

“Sit down, Mr. Ware,” said de Peyster with a flourish of both hand and voice. Henry quietly took the seat indicated on the opposite side of the table, and then the commander took his own also, while the attendant brought the food and drink. Henry saw that de Peyster was in an uncommon mood, and he resolved to humor it to the full.

“I regret more than ever that you’re not one of us, my young friend,” said the commander, surveying his prisoner’s splendid proportions. “Expert as you are in the woods, you could soon rise to high command.”

“Having started in on one side,” said Henry lightly, “I cannot change to the other.”

“Wyatt, who I understand was a youthful comrade of yours, has done it.”

“Pray do not ask me to imitate any example furnished by Braxton Wyatt.”

Colonel de Peyster laughed again.

“He is not an attractive youth, I confess,” he said, “but you would count for much more than Braxton Wyatt with us.”

“I shall never count at all,” replied Henry. “I am for my own people always.”

Colonel de Peyster, the Tory, flushed, but he continued:

“Think of the rewards under the King. This is a vast and fertile continent, and those who hold it for him will surely receive vast estates. Any one of us may be as great a feudal lord as Sir William Johnson has been.”

“If you triumph,” said Henry, although he spoke purposely in a light tone.

“There is no ‘if’; we are bound to succeed, and now, sir, as we have eaten we shall drink to your escape.”

The attendant poured two glasses of wine and Colonel de Peyster raised his, looking for a minute or two at the little bubbles as they broke.

“Here’s to your escape,” he said, casting an ironical glance over the edge.

“Here’s to my escape,” said Henry, meeting his gaze firmly and earnestly.

Then they drank.

“Upon my word, I believe that you mean what you say.”

“Certainly.”

De Peyster looked curiously at Henry.

“Come,” he said, “we’ll go outside. I think I’ll keep my own eye on you for a little while.”

When they emerged from the house a long plaintive howl came from the Canadian forest. A sort of shiver, as if he were looking into the future, ran through Henry’s veins. All his premonitions were coming true.

“Did you hear that wolf?” asked de Peyster. “It is but a wilderness after all, and this is merely a point in it like a lighthouse in the sea. Come, we’ll walk that way; it’s about the only view we have.”

Again that strange quiver ran through Henry’s veins. Colonel de Peyster himself was leading exactly where the captive wished to go.

“I have often noticed you walking on the palisade with Lieutenant Holderness,” said Colonel de Peyster; “now you can go there with me.”

“I thank you for the invitation,” said Henry, as the two climbed up one of the little ladders and stood side by side on the palisade. “Does not this view of the great river and the limitless forest beyond appeal to you, Colonel?”

“At times,” replied Colonel de Peyster in a somewhat discontented tone. “It is the edge of a magnificent empire that we see before us, and I like the active service that I have been able to do for the King, but there are times when I wish that I could be back in New York, where I was born, and which the royal troops occupy. It is a trim city, with wealth and fashion, and one can enjoy life there. Now I wonder if that is one of the Indians whom I have had on watch on the river.”

A light canoe containing a single warrior put out from the farther shore, where evidently it had been lying among the dense foliage on the bank. No particular purpose seemed to animate the warrior who sat in it. Both Colonel de Peyster and Henry could see that he was a powerful fellow, evidently a Wyandot. With easy, apparently careless strokes of the paddle, he brought his canoe in a diagonal course to a point near the middle of the stream. Then he began to play with the canoe, sending it hither and thither in long, gliding reaches, or bringing it up with a sharp jerk that would have caused it to overturn in hands less skillful. But so keen was the judgment and so delicate the touch of the warrior that it never once shipped water.