Indian Captive (6 page)

“Let’s go back to Marsh Creek Hollow then,” said Davy. “My father will be there by now with the troops. He’ll chase the Injuns away.”

“Davy,” Molly spoke slowly, “we could never travel in the wilderness without a path or guide. We’d die…we’d starve with no food to eat. If we stay, the Indians will feed us, I think…”

“But I can’t walk on again tomorrow,” protested Davy. “My feet are sore and bleeding.”

“The nice soft moccasins will help,” said Molly. “Yours are prettier than mine.”

“Oh, won’t I ever see my mother again?” cried Davy.

“The others may catch up with us in the morning,” replied Molly, but she said it with a sinking heart, remembering her mother’s farewell words.

“Molly, I don’t want to go with the Indians, I’m afeard…” wailed Davy.

“Don’t be afeard, Davy, don’t be afeard!” said Molly. She remembered how great was her mother’s fear of the Indians before they came; and how, when they came, she met them with calm courage. Courage was better than fear, Molly said to herself. Courage helped not only yourself but others. She must have courage, not only for herself but for Davy. “Don’t be afeard, Davy, I’m here with you.” She urged him to lie still until morning and was relieved when at last the boy fell fast asleep.

The next morning there was no sun and fog patches were everywhere. The Frenchmen and Indians who had been left behind came up, and Molly and Davy saw that their families were no longer with them. What had become of them? They pressed questions on the pitiless Frenchmen, on the old Indian who had spoken the few words of English, but received no answer. After a breakfast of meat and bread, rain began to fall, but it did not stay their progress. The Indians led the two children on as fast as they could travel, still taking every precaution to conceal their trail.

At the end of the hard day’s march through the pouring rain, night came and with night, rest. For the first time, the Indians laid a good fire and built a shelter of boughs. The children huddled close to warm their chilled, shaking bodies and to dry out their dripping clothes.

The days passed one after the other until Molly Jemison lost count. Each was like the last in the haste, the infrequent stops, the hurried meals. With Straight Arrow leading the way, the Frenchmen, the other Indians and the children followed, walking single file in strictest silence, moving fast but always with great caution. No hunting was allowed, no gun was fired, no unnecessary noise was made to betray their whereabouts. It was indeed a silent, ghostly passage. Behind the children Bow-Legs walked, whip in hand. His constant presence told Molly, as nothing else could, that the Indians were their masters and there was but one thing to do—obey.

The fog lifted, it grew colder and a light snow began to fall, but even that did not slow up their pace. Molly and Davy ran all the time to keep up. Davy seemed to grow stronger from the strenuous exertion, but it was not so easy for Molly.

Snow fell in earnest as they made their weary way over the mountains, climbing the steep heights and running down the abrupt slopes, wading rocky brooks and waist-deep streams. Nowhere was there any sign of a road. Molly wondered how the Indians found their way or whether they knew where they were going. She thought of tales she had heard of the dangers of crossing the great mountains to the westward and she knew she was crossing them herself on foot.

Her blue jeans gown caught on branches and brambles. Her bare legs were lashed and scratched by thorns. Her yellow hair hung tangled and uncombed. She remembered how long ago she had studied her reflection in the shining bottom of a tin pan at home. But now she gave no thought to her appearance. She forgot that people washed their faces and combed their hair. All she lived for was to push on, ever on—to sleep for a while and eat sometimes to gain strength to push on again.

Blinding snow drove in their eyes and the wind whipped their clothing tight about them. Molly knew they were in the heart of the mountains now—only at a great height could there be so much snow in April. Her strength fast failing, a vague hope upheld her—the hope of reaching the lower plains and somehow there to find warmth and rest.

At times she was conscious that someone was kind to her and it was always the old Indian. With their bare bodies and red-painted faces the others all looked alike, but the old one was different. Once when she fell, tripping on the string of her moccasin, he stopped, picked her up and tied the strings for her. Once when she could not rise from fatigue as the word to march was given, she saw the shadow of an arm uplifted, holding a tomahawk over her head.

At the moment she wished the blow would fall to end her misery. But when the old Indian quickly knocked the weapon from the hand and gave its owner a kick, she was strangely grateful. Although she did not realize it, his friendly smile was a constant encouragement and she thought of him as trusty and dependable, like a strong, straight tree—a shagbark hickory, the straightest in the forest—a tree to lean upon.

At last she could go no farther and it was the old Indian, Shagbark, who insisted upon rest. Though the others seemed unwilling, at his orders they stopped, and built a more permanent shelter. Shagbark wrapped the girl warmly in a blanket and while she slept, sat by and watched. There they stayed for three days and she rested and regained her strength. On the last day a deer was killed, dressed and roasted, and they all ate heartily.

Just as they left the shelter to resume their march, another party of Indians joined them—a raiding party like themselves, six Indians returning from the Pennsylvania frontier. They brought with them one white captive, a young man of twenty.

Molly stared at the newcomer and hope—the hope of escape returned. He was a full-grown man, he was strong, he could speak English, he would know how to help. Her eager thoughts tumbled over themselves in anticipation. When they were left alone for a moment, she questioned him. But the young man sat dejected, and exhausted from the weight of the heavy burden on his back. He looked up at her with blank eyes and did not answer. And Molly knew that he was more in need of help than she; that only she could help him.

O
H
M
OLLY, ARE WE
never going to stop walking?” asked Davy, looking down at his feet. The once bright-colored embroidery on his moccasins was faded now and covered with mud.

“I wish I knew,” said Molly sadly. “I feel as if we’ve been walking all our lives…But see how tough our feet have grown!”

“Why did they make us run so fast?” asked Davy.

“They were afeard of being followed, I think,” replied Molly “Like as not they knew there were white men on our trail. Like as not John and Tom ran to Neighbor Dixon and he gathered the neighbors from Marsh Creek Hollow together…”

“Oh, why didn’t they come to save us?” wailed Davy.

“They couldn’t catch up,” answered Molly slowly, “we…went…so fast…”

She stole a glance at the young man captive, whose coming had brought back her hope. If only she could rouse him…He talked a little now, as they walked down the mountain side. He said his name was Nicholas Porter and he came from Piney Mountain near Shippens Town, only a few miles as the crow flies from Marsh Creek Hollow.

He told how one morning his mother wanted squirrel for pot-pie. He insisted that squirrel pot-pie, made by his mother, was the best dish in the land. He told how he went out hunting to take a few squirrels for pot-pie and how he’d been caught like a squirrel himself, by hunters stronger than he. He kept on talking about the squirrel pot-pie that his mother would never make again and he himself would never, never eat. He told the tale so often that Molly wearied of it. If only he could forget his suffering—there were more important things to think of. If only he could fasten his mind on the idea of escape…

All the time now the slopes went downward, as the highest mountains were left behind. Though the party moved at more moderate pace and no attempt was made to conceal the trail, they rarely paused or stopped. A day came when the hills behind were but a blue haze in the distance and they walked across a wooded plain.

At the brink of a steep hill they halted to gaze on a wandering stream below—but only for a moment. Down the rough, precipitous trail they plunged to the red clay shore of Turtle Creek. The current was strong and the waters were high from recent springtime freshets, but not even an angry stream could hold them back. The Indians brought out a bark canoe which they found concealed near the shore and the creek was crossed in safety. Another climb up the steep hill opposite, and the party came out on the plain again, following in single file the trail that skirted the shore of the Allegheny River.

One day in mid-afternoon they saw ahead across the flat river bottoms a large log stockade. To Molly the sight was welcome. She wondered what fort it was. Eagerly she watched the lips of Frenchmen and Indians, hoping to catch its name. Then she heard it—two words she had heard before on the lips of the white trader, Old Fallenash. There, before her, on the point of land between the arms of two great rivers, the Allegheny and the Monongahela, touched by the afternoon sun, lay Fort Duquesne. This, she knew, was the fort which the French had built only a few years before, when they claimed for their own the whole vast territory drained by the River Ohio.

Fort Duquesne! Fort Duquesne! What fate did it hold in store for Molly Jemison, the white girl captive brought over the mountains from Marsh Creek Hollow? She shaded her eyes with her hand to keep out the sun and stared at the uninviting, harsh, gray walls. At the corners, the garrison-houses loomed up, emblems of strength and terror, making bold, stark patterns against the blue April sky.

“It’s Fort Duquesne we’ve come to,” Molly whispered to Davy Wheelock. Davy stood beside her, wearing the same brown-checked home-spun garments, torn and shabby now, that he wore when snatched from his mothers side. She gripped his hand tightly in her own. “If there’s any help coming, we’ll find it here,” and she began to tremble at the prospect.