CHAPTER XVIII
THE TEST
The people of Wareville had good reason alike for pride and for sorrow,pride for victory, and sorrow for the fallen, but they spent no time ineither, at least openly, resuming at once the task of founding a newstate.
Henry Ware, the hero of the hour and the savior of the village, laidaside his wild garb and took a place in his father's fields. The workwas heavy, the Indian corn was planted, but trees were to be felled,fences were to be cut down, and as he was so strong a larger share thanusual was expected of him. His own father appreciated these hopes andwas resolved that his son should do his full duty.
Henry entered upon his task and from the beginning he had misgivings,but he refused to indulge them. He handled a hoe on his first day fromdawn till dark in a hot field, and all the while the mighty wildernessabout him was crying out to him in many voices. While the sun glowedupon him, and the sweat ran down his face he could see the deep coolshade of the forest--how restful and peaceful it looked there! He knew asheltered glade where the buffalo were feeding, he could find the deerreposing in a thicket, and to the westward was a new region of hills andclear brooks, over which he might be the first white man to roam.
His blood tingled with his thoughts, but he never said a word, onlybending lower to his task, and hardening his resolve. The voices of thewilderness might call, and he could not keep from hearing them, but heneed not go. The amount of work he did that day was wonderful to all whosaw, his vast strength put him far ahead of all others and back of hisstrength was his will. But they said nothing and he was glad they didnot speak.
When he went home in the dusk he overtook Lucy Upton near the palisade.She was in the same red dress that she wore when she ran the gantlet andin the twilight it seemed to be tinged to a deeper scarlet. She waswalking swiftly with the easy, swinging grace of a good figure and goodhealth, but when he joined her she went more slowly.
He did not speak for a few moments, and she gave him a silent glance ofsympathy. In her woman's heart she guessed the cause of his trouble, andwhile she had been afraid of him when he appeared suddenly as the Indianwarrior yet she liked him better in that part than as she now saw him.Then he was majestic, now he was prosaic, and it seemed to her that hispresent role was unfitting.
"You are tired," she said at last.
"Well, not in the body exactly, but I feel like resting."
There was no complaint in his tone, but a slight touch of irony.
"Do you think that you will make a good farmer?" she asked.
"As good as the times and our situation allow," he replied. "Wanderingparties of the savages are likely to pass near here and in the course oftime they may send back an army. Besides one has to hunt now, as for along while we must depend on the forest for a part of our food."
It seemed to her that these things did not cause him sorrow, that heturned to them as a sort of relief: his eyes sparkled more brightly whenhe spoke of the necessity for hunting and the possible passage of Indianparties which must be repelled. Girl though she was, she felt again alittle glow of sympathy, guessing as she did his nature; she couldunderstand how he thrilled when he heard the voices of the forestcalling to him.
They reached the gate of the palisade and passed within. It was fulldusk now, the forest blurring together into a mighty black wall, and theoutlines of the houses becoming shadowy. The Ware family sat awhile thatevening by the hearth fire, and John Ware was full of satisfaction. Aworthy man, he had neither imagination nor primitive instincts and hevalued the wilderness only as a cheap place in which to make homes. Hespoke much of clearing the ground, of the great crops that would come,and of the profit and delight afforded by regular work year after yearon the farm. Henry Ware sat in silence, listening to his father'soracular tones, but his mother, glancing at him, had doubts to which shegave no utterance.
The days passed and as the spring glided into summer they grew hotter.The sun glowed upon the fields, and the earth parched with thirst. Inthe forest the leaves were dry and they rustled when the wind blew uponthem. The streams sank away again, as they had done during the siege,and labor became more trying. Yet Henry Ware never murmured, though hissoul was full of black bitterness. Often he would resolutely turn hiseyes from the forest where he knew the deep cool pools were, and keepthem on the sun-baked field. His rifle, which had seemed to reproachhim, inanimate object though it was, he hid in a corner of the housewhere he could not see it and its temptation. In order to create acounter-irritant he plunged into work with the most astonishing vigor.
John Ware, in those days, was full of pride and satisfaction, herejoiced in the industrial prowess of his son, and he felt that his owninfluence had prevailed, he had led Henry back to the ways ofcivilization, the only right ways, and he enjoyed his triumph. But theschoolmaster, in secret, often shook his head.
The summer grew drier and hotter, it was a period of drought again andthe little children gasped through the sweating nights. Afar they sawthe blaze of forest fires and ashes and smoke came on the wind. Henrytoiled with a dogged spirit, but every day the labor grew more bitter tohim; he took no interest in it, he did not wish to calculate the resultin the years to come, when all around him, extending thousands of miles,was an untrodden wilderness, in which he might roam and hunt until theend, although his years should be a hundred.
It was worst at night, when he lay awake by a window, breathing the hotair, then the deep cool forest extended to him her kindest invitation,and it took all his resolution to resist her welcome. The wind among thetrees was like music, but it was a music to which he must close hisears. Then he remembered his vast wanderings with Black Cloud and hisred friends, how they had crossed great and unnamed rivers, the days inthe endless forest and the other days on the endless plains, and of themighty lake they had reached in their northernmost journey--how cool andpleasant that lake seemed now! His mind ran over every detail of thegreat buffalo hunts, of those trips along the streams to trap the beaverand the events in the fight with the hostile tribe.
All these recollections seemed very vivid and real to him now, and thenarrow life of Wareville faded into a mist out of which shone only thefaces of those whom he loved--it was they alone who had brought him backto Wareville, but he knew that their ways were not his ways, and it washard to confine his spirit within the narrow limits of a settlement.
But his long martyrdom went on, the summer was growing old, with thework of planting and cultivating almost done and the harvest soon tofollow, and whatever his feelings may have been he had never flinched asingle time. Nourished by his great labors the Ware farm far surpassedall others, and the pride of John Ware grew. He also grew more exactingwith his pride, and this quality brought on the crisis.
Henry was building a fence one particularly hot afternoon, and hisfather coming by, cool and fresh, found fault with his work, chiefly toshow his authority, because the work was not badly done--Mr. Ware was agood man, but like other good men he had a rare fault-finding impulse.The voices in the woods had been calling very loudly that day andHenry's temper suddenly flashed into a flame. But he did not give way toany external outburst of passion, speaking in a level, measured voice.
"I am sorry you do not like it," he said, "because it is the last work Iam going to do here."
"Why--what do you mean?" exclaimed his father in astonishment.
"I am done," replied Henry in his firm tones, and dropping the fencerail that he held he walked to the house, every nerve in him thrillingwith expectation of the pleasure that was to come. His mother was there,and she started in fear at his face.
"It is true, mother," he said, "I am not going to deceive you, I amgoing into the forest, but I will come again and often. It is the onlylife that I can lead, I was made for it I suppose; I have tried theother out there in the fields, and I have tried hard, but I cannot standit."
She knew too well to seek to stop him. He took his rifle from itssecluded corner, and the feeling of it, stock and barrel, was good tohis hands.
He put on the buckskin hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins,fringed and beaded, and with them he felt all his old zest and pridereturning. He kissed his mother and sister good-by, shook hands with hisyounger brother, did the same with his astonished father at the door,and then, rifle on shoulder, disappeared in the circling forest.
That night Braxton Wyatt sneered and said that a savage could not keepfrom being a savage, but Paul Cotter turned upon him so fiercely that hetook it back. The schoolmaster made no comment aloud, but to himself hesaid, "It was bound to come and perhaps it is no loss that it has come."
Meanwhile Henry Ware was tasting the fiercest and keenest joy of hislife. The great forest seemed to reach out its boughs like kind arms towelcome and embrace. How cool was the shade! How the shafts of sunlightpiercing the leaves fell like golden arrows on the ground! How thelittle brooks laughed and danced over the pebbles! This was his worldand he had been too long away from it. Everything was friendly, the hugetree trunks were like old comrades, the air was fresher and keener thanany that he had breathed in a long time, and was full of new life andzest. All his old wilderness love rushed back to him, and now after manymonths he felt at home.
Strong as he was already new strength flowed into his frame and he threwback his head, and laughed a low happy laugh. Then rifle at the trail heran for miles among the trees from the pure happiness of living, butnoting as he passed with wonderfully keen eyes every trail of a wildanimal and all the forest signs that he knew so well. He ran many milesand he felt no weariness. Then he threw himself down on Mother Earth,and rejoiced at her embrace. He lay there a long time, staring upthrough the leaves and the shifting sunlight, and he was so still that ahare hopped through the undergrowth almost at his feet, never takingalarm. To Henry Ware then the world seemed grand and beautiful, and ofall things in it God had made the wilderness the finest, lingering overevery detail with a loving hand.
He watched the setting of the sun and the coming of the twilight. Thesun was a great blazing ball and the western sky flowed away from it incircling waves of blue and pink and gold, then long shadows came overthe forest, and the distant trees began to melt together into a giganticdark wall. To the dweller in cities all this vast loneliness anddesolation would have been dreary and weird beyond description; he wouldhave shuddered with superstitious awe, starting in fear at the slightestsound, but there was no such quality in it for Henry Ware. He saw onlycomradeship and the friendly veil of the great creeping shadow. His eyecould pierce the thickest night, and fear, either of the darkness orthings physical, was not in him.
He rose after a while, when the last sign of day was gone, and walkedon, though more slowly. He made no noise as he passed, stepping lightly,but with sure foot like one with both genius and training for thewilderness. He knelt at a little brook to slake his thirst, but did notstop long there. His happiness decreased in nowise. The familiar voicesof the night were speaking to him. He heard the distant hoot of an owl,a deer rustled in the bush, a lizard scuttled over the leaves, and herejoiced at the sounds. He did not think of hunger but toward midnighthe raked some of last year's fallen leaves close to the trunk of a bigtree, lay down upon them, and fell in a few moments into happy anddreamless sleep.
He awoke with the first rays of the dawn, shot a deer after an hour'ssearch, and then cooked his breakfast by the side of one of the littlebrooks. It was the first food that had tasted just right to him in manyweeks, and afterwards he lay by the camp fire awhile, and luxuriated. Hehad the most wonderful feeling of peace and ease; all the world was histo go where he chose and to do what he chose, and he began to think ofan autumn camp, a tiny lodge in the deepest recess of the wilderness,where he could store spare ammunition, furs and skins and find afrequent refuge, when the time for storms and cold came. He would buildat his ease--there was plenty of time and he would fill in the intervalswith hunting and exploration.
He ranged that day toward the north and the west, moving withdeliberation, and not until the third or the fourth day did he come tothe place that he had in mind. In the triangle between the junction oftwo streams was a marshy area, thickly grown with bushes and slim trees,that thrust their roots deep down through the mire into more solid soil.The marsh was perhaps two acres in extent; right in the heart of it wasa piece of firm earth about forty feet square and here Henry meant tobuild his lodge. He alone knew the path across the marsh over fallenlogs lying near enough to each other to be reached by an agile man, andon the tiny island all his possessions would be safe.
He worked a week at his hut, and it was done, a little lean-to of barkand saplings, partly lined with skins, but proof against rain or snow.On the floor he spread the skins and furs of animals that he killed, andon the walls he hung trophies of the hunt.
Two weeks after his house was finished he used it at its full value.Summer was gone and autumn was coming, a great rain poured and the windblew cold. Dead leaves fell in showers from the trees, and the boughsswaying before the gale creaked dismally against each other. But it allgave to Henry a supreme sense of physical comfort. He lay in his snughut, and, pulling a little to one side the heavy buffalo robe that hungover the doorway, watched the storm rage through the wilderness. He hadno sense of loneliness, his mind was in perfect tune with everythingabout him, and delighted in the triumphant manifestation of nature.
He stayed there all day, content to lie still and meditate vaguely ofanything that came of its own accord into his mind. About the twilighthour he cooked some venison, ate it and then slept a dreamless sleepthrough the night.
The rain ceased the next day but the air became crisp and cold, andautumn was fully come. In a week the forest was dyed into the mostglowing colors, red and yellow and brown, and the shades between. Theheavens were pure blue and gold, and it was a poignant delight tobreathe the keen air. Again he ranged far and rejoiced in the hunting.His infallible rifle never missed, and in the little hut in the marshthe stock of furs and skins grew so fast that scarcely room for himselfwas left. He hid a fresh store at another place in the forest, and thenhe returned to Wareville for a day. His father greeted him with someconstraint, not with coldness exactly, but with lack of understanding.His mother and his sister wept with joy and Mrs. Ware said: "I wasexpecting you about this time and you have not disappointed me."
He stayed two days and his keen eyes, so observant of material matters,noted that the colony was not doing well for the time, the droughthaving almost ruined the crops and there was full promise of scanty foodand a hard winter. Now came his opportunity. He had looked upon hismonth in the forest as in part a holiday, and he never intended to throwaside all responsibility for others, roving the wilderness absolutelyfree from care. He knew that he would have work to do, he felt that heshould have it, and now he saw the way to do the kind of work that heloved to do.
He replenished his supply of ammunition, took up his rifle again andreturned to the forest. Now he used all his surpassing knowledge andskill in the chase, and game began to pour into the colony, bear, deer,buffalo and the smaller animals, until he alone seemed able to feed theentire settlement through the winter.
He experienced a new thrill keener and more delightful than any that hadgone before; he was doing for others and the knowledge was mostpleasant. Winter came on, fierce and unyielding with almost continuoussnow and ice, and Henry Ware was the chief support of that littlevillage in the wilderness. The game wandering with its fancy, or perhapstaking alarm at the new settlement had drifted far, and he alone of allthe hunters could find it. The voices that had been raised against him asecond time were stilled again, because no one dared to accuse when hissingle figure stood between them and starvation.
He took Paul Cotter with him on some of his hunts, but never even toPaul did he tell the secret of his hut in the morass; that was to beguarded for himself alone. He was fond of Paul, but Paul able though hewas fell far behind Henry in the forest.
The debt of Wareville to him grew and none felt privileged to criticisehim now, as he appeared from the forest
and disappeared into it again onhis self-chosen tasks.
The winter broke up at last, but with the spring came a new and moreformidable danger. Small parties of Indians, not strong enough to attackWareville itself but sufficient for forest ambush, began to appear inthe country, and two or three lives that could be ill spared were lost.Now Henry Ware showed his supreme value; he was a match and more than amatch for the savages at all their own tricks, and he became the rangerfor the settlement, its champion against a wild and treacherous foe.
The tales of his skill and prowess spread far through the wilderness.Single handed he would not hesitate in the depths of the forest toattack war parties of half a dozen, and while suffering heavilythemselves they could never catch their daring tormentor. These taleseven spread across the Ohio to the Indian villages, where they told of ablond and giant white youth in the South who was the spirit of death,whom no runner could overtake, whom no bullet could slay and who ragedagainst the red man with an invincible wrath.
As his single hand had fed them through the winter so his single handprotected them from death in the spring. He seemed to know by instinctwhen the war parties were coming and where they would appear. Always heconfronted them with some devious attack that they did not know how tomeet, and Wareville remained inviolate.
Then, in the summer, when the war bands were all gone he came back toWareville to stay a while, although, everyone, himself included, knewthat he would always remain a son of the wilderness, spending but partof his time in the houses of men.