The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn. Reed Myrtle
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now, that depends on what coffee really is. Of course they called it that, but it isn't to be mentioned in the same breath with Mrs. Mackenzie's." Robert noted that there was an extra cup on the table, and surmised that the delicate hint was not infrequent.
"Thank you," continued the visitor in a grateful tone; "you've saved my life."
"I wish I had a dollar for every time I've saved your life," laughed Mrs. Mackenzie.
"So do I, for you are a good and beautiful woman, and you deserve a fortune, if anybody ever did."
"Go away, you flatterer. You remind me of a big, motherless chicken."
"Gaunt and chicken-like I may be, but never motherless while you live. A little bread and butter, please, to go with the coffee."
"Wouldn't you like some bacon?" asked Mackenzie, hospitably.
"Well, perhaps – a little. Mrs. Mackenzie cooks it beautifully."
"Ellen," said her mother, "get another plate."
"You're so good to me," murmured the Ensign, drawing his chair closer to his hostess. "Are those doughnuts?"
"They are."
"I remember once, when you gave me a doughnut, just after drill. I can taste it yet."
"Is that so? I'd forgotten it."
"Now that I think of it, you didn't, but you said you would, some time."
She laughed and pushed the plate toward him.
"Ye gods!" he exclaimed, sinking his white teeth into a doughnut, "what cooking! What a woman!"
"I think I'll ask to be excused," said Mackenzie, rising and pushing back his chair.
"Certainly," responded the soldier, with a gesture of elaborate unconcern. "Don't stay on my account, I beg of you. Think of real cream in your coffee!" he sighed, scraping the pitcher with a spoon. "I could drink cream."
"You're not going to," put in Mrs. Mackenzie, pointedly.
"I know it," he answered sadly; "I only wish I were."
When the last scrap of food had disappeared from the table, he stopped eating, but not before.
"That makes a man feel better," he announced, "especially a suffering and dying invalid like me. Come on, Forsyth, I'm going to take you over to the Fort for a bit."
It did not occur to Robert to question the mandates of this lordly being. "All right, wait till I get my coat and hat. I'll be back in a few minutes, Aunt Eleanor, to open school."
"The devil you will," observed Ronald, as they left the house. "What a liar you are!"
The path which led to the gate was well trodden, early morning though it was. "Indian tracks," said the Ensign, pointing to a narrow line on the snow; "you can always tell 'em. They keep their feet in single file – no company front about their walking."
An unpainted fence surrounded the Mackenzie premises, and at the right and left of the gate were four tall Lombardy poplars, two on each side. Brown sparrows chattered and fought in the bare branches, scorning to fly away at their approach. The house had been built on a point of land which projected into the river and turned it sharply from its course. Between the patches of snow the ice glittered in the sun.
"Salubrious spot," commented George, as they struck the frozen surface of the stream. "Don't get too near that hole. It's my bath-tub and it's weak around the edges."
Near the middle of the river was a large, jagged space in the ice and on the snow around it were finger-marks and footprints.
"Rather looked for you out this morning," Ronald continued. "Was disappointed."
Robert shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
"That happy architectural combination which we now approach," his guide went on, professionally, "is Fort Dearborn. Intoxicated party drew the plans and other intoxicated parties followed 'em. I could improve it in several places, but I'm obliged to make the best of it. The flag-pole, in the middle of the parade-ground, is seventy-five feet high, though you wouldn't suspect it, on account of the heroic proportions of the other buildings, and it interferes most beautifully with everything.
"Regular fort, though. Officers' quarters, barracks, offices, guard-house, magazine, and other modern inventions. Commanding officer has a palatial residence to himself. The Lieutenant is supposed to live in half of it, but he doesn't. Those warts at the south-east and north-west corners are block-houses, made after a Chinese diagram. The upper story overhangs to give a down range for musketry and keep the enemy from setting fire to the Fort. The double stockade is where the genius comes in, however. See how it slants and balances to corners. Makes the thing look like a quilt pattern. Would wear on the mind of a sensitive person.
"Hello, Charley! Here's where we get in. You see there's a sunken road to the river and there's a subterranean passage also, with a well in it, which insures the water-supply in case of a siege. We've got three pieces of light artillery – six-pounders – and our muskets, bayonets, and pistols. That's the Agency House outside. Your uncle is Government Indian Agent and sutler for the garrison and trader on his own account. This is where the Captain lives."
He pounded merrily at the door, then entered unceremoniously, and Robert followed him, awkwardly, into the room where the Captain and his wife sat at breakfast.
Captain Franklin was a grave, silent man on the sunny side of forty, who never spoke without cause, and his wife was a pretty little woman, with dark, laughing eyes. She brightened visibly when Robert was presented to her, for guests did not often appear at the Fort.
"Coffee?" remarked Ronald, with a rising inflection. "You're a lucky man, Captain, to have such coffee as Mrs. Franklin makes, every blessed morning of your life. I only wish I were as fortunate," he added impersonally.
Robert bit his lips to keep from smiling as the Ensign's wants were promptly supplied. "Won't you have some too, Mr. Forsyth?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Franklin. I've been to breakfast."
The emphasis on the personal pronoun caused George to look at him meaningly, as he asked if he might have a bit of toast and an apple. While he ate, Mrs. Franklin talked with Forsyth and the Captain listened in silence.
"Are you going to stay?" she inquired.
"Yes, I hope so. I am going to teach my young cousins and help my uncle in any way I can. I graduated from Yale last year and went from there to Detroit, but as soon as I heard that Aunt Eleanor was willing to take me in, I started and got here yesterday, just before the storm."
"Did you have a pleasant journey?"
"Yes, fairly so. I came by way of Fort Wayne, with Indian guides and relays of horses."
"Any news?" asked the Captain.
"No, only the usual symptoms of discontent among the Indians. The officers in Detroit think there may be another outbreak soon."
"I don't – there's no earthly reason for it."
"Indians aren't particular about reasons," put in Ronald. "Come along, Robert, we're going over to the Lieutenant's."
When they entered, Mrs. Howard was clearing away the breakfast dishes, and after the introductions were over, Ronald did not hesitate to express his disappointment.
"Get that starving kid some coffee, Kit," said the Lieutenant, and Ronald gladly accepted the steaming cup, with polite regret at the trouble he was causing and with profuse praise of the beverage itself.
"Sugar?" asked Mrs. Howard.
"No, thank you – just put your dainty finger in for a moment, if you will be so kind. Your hand would sweeten the bitterest cup man is called upon to drink. Seems to me I smell pancakes."
He grinned appreciatively at Forsyth as Mrs. Howard went to the iron griddle that swung in the open fireplace. "Not many," he called to her, "six will do very nicely. I don't want to be a pig."
"You are, though," Forsyth assured him in an undertone.
"Shut up!" he replied concisely.
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