Jasper and for a moment anger stabbed him as he thought of his wife’s foolish disregard of his order never to leave the door of the cabin unbarred when he was away or out of sight of the house.
But in an instant love replaced anger with immense pity as he read the anguish of maternity reflected in the eyes that rested on her child. It touched his heart how haggard trial had turned the beauty that had been his delight and because of this he loved her the more.
He found the strength to whisper, “It is better so. If we do their bidding they may adopt the child into the tribe and thus he will live.” In this manner he tried to comfort her. He blamed himself for their plight. He had had no right to expose someone so young and innocent to such a wild and savage land and the dangers of the wilderness. It had been the proximity of the familiar gentle feast of Christmas and the endearing femininity of Dorcas that had been their undoing.
That bright clear sunny morning Jasper had disappeared into the woods to shoot a turkey for their dinner and again admonished her to caution. She had watched him cross the clearing and vanish into the forest with a smile of fond indulgence for his endless warnings. They had lived there for over a year now without so much as a sight of a hostile Indian. The Iroquois were friendly and traded with them or carried news or messages.
The day had been so fine, the sun in the cloudless sky so warm, almost like summer in the still air. Dorcas had moved Asher’s crib outside the cabin to let the child bask some of the winter pallor from his cheeks. Nearby was the pile of holly, mistletoe and pinecones that Jasper had gathered to decorate their cabin. For tomorrow was Christmas, their first since the new house that Jasper had built was finished and she bethought herself how she might make herself attractive and please her husband on this holy and happy Christmas Day.
On an impulse she had climbed up into the loft where the smoked hams hung with the flitches of bacon, bags of filberts and hickory nuts and bundles of dried herbs and in the corner next to the heap of winter apples she had gone delving into the horsehide box she had brought with her all the way from England and where the treasures of her girlhood were stored.
And there she had been trapped, musing over a bit of lace and the matching of some silk ribands to go with the red of the holly berries and the white of the mistletoe, when the raiding Algonkin stormed in. With the child already in their hands it was hopeless. She had fought bravely and desperately and had been brutally subdued. The rising column of smoke from their burning home brought Jasper running from the woods and into the ambush. He had not even time to fire his fowling piece before the Indians were upon him and beat him almost into insensibility with their pogamoggans, as their crooked, knob-headed war clubs were called. They had stopped just short of killing him. Quanta’s orders had been to bring in the captives alive—if possible. Now, on the way back, the Indian leader had not expected to be handicapped by a man hardly able to walk.
And so the captives moved onwards through the snowy forest pierced occasionally by the bright night and slowly approached the end of their resources. Only his determination to save the life of his son if he could and the incredible will to survive that animated the men of those days enabled Jasper to continue the pace. And Dorcas, the weaker vessel, faltered now. As the Indians reckoned time they marched for an hour and rested five minutes. It was not sufficient to restore her and she moved like an automaton, following the child, stumbling, and once Jasper heard her murmur as though her mind was wandering and she thought herself safe at home at her fireside.
At the head of the march, Quanta-wa-neh wrestled with the exigencies. Beneath his furs, his paint, feathers, beads and medicine bags, he was a human being beset by most of the problems
But in an instant love replaced anger with immense pity as he read the anguish of maternity reflected in the eyes that rested on her child. It touched his heart how haggard trial had turned the beauty that had been his delight and because of this he loved her the more.
He found the strength to whisper, “It is better so. If we do their bidding they may adopt the child into the tribe and thus he will live.” In this manner he tried to comfort her. He blamed himself for their plight. He had had no right to expose someone so young and innocent to such a wild and savage land and the dangers of the wilderness. It had been the proximity of the familiar gentle feast of Christmas and the endearing femininity of Dorcas that had been their undoing.
That bright clear sunny morning Jasper had disappeared into the woods to shoot a turkey for their dinner and again admonished her to caution. She had watched him cross the clearing and vanish into the forest with a smile of fond indulgence for his endless warnings. They had lived there for over a year now without so much as a sight of a hostile Indian. The Iroquois were friendly and traded with them or carried news or messages.
The day had been so fine, the sun in the cloudless sky so warm, almost like summer in the still air. Dorcas had moved Asher’s crib outside the cabin to let the child bask some of the winter pallor from his cheeks. Nearby was the pile of holly, mistletoe and pinecones that Jasper had gathered to decorate their cabin. For tomorrow was Christmas, their first since the new house that Jasper had built was finished and she bethought herself how she might make herself attractive and please her husband on this holy and happy Christmas Day.
On an impulse she had climbed up into the loft where the smoked hams hung with the flitches of bacon, bags of filberts and hickory nuts and bundles of dried herbs and in the corner next to the heap of winter apples she had gone delving into the horsehide box she had brought with her all the way from England and where the treasures of her girlhood were stored.
And there she had been trapped, musing over a bit of lace and the matching of some silk ribands to go with the red of the holly berries and the white of the mistletoe, when the raiding Algonkin stormed in. With the child already in their hands it was hopeless. She had fought bravely and desperately and had been brutally subdued. The rising column of smoke from their burning home brought Jasper running from the woods and into the ambush. He had not even time to fire his fowling piece before the Indians were upon him and beat him almost into insensibility with their pogamoggans, as their crooked, knob-headed war clubs were called. They had stopped just short of killing him. Quanta’s orders had been to bring in the captives alive—if possible. Now, on the way back, the Indian leader had not expected to be handicapped by a man hardly able to walk.
And so the captives moved onwards through the snowy forest pierced occasionally by the bright night and slowly approached the end of their resources. Only his determination to save the life of his son if he could and the incredible will to survive that animated the men of those days enabled Jasper to continue the pace. And Dorcas, the weaker vessel, faltered now. As the Indians reckoned time they marched for an hour and rested five minutes. It was not sufficient to restore her and she moved like an automaton, following the child, stumbling, and once Jasper heard her murmur as though her mind was wandering and she thought herself safe at home at her fireside.
At the head of the march, Quanta-wa-neh wrestled with the exigencies. Beneath his furs, his paint, feathers, beads and medicine bags, he was a human being beset by most of the problems
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