The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn

The Shadow of Victory / A Romance of Fort Dearborn by Myrtle ReedCHAPTER I. THE PROPHECYIt was a long low room with a fireplace roughly built of limestone at one end of it. The blazing logs illuminated one corner and sent strange shadows into the others while the winter wind moaned drearily outside. At the right and left of the fireplace were rude counters hewn from logs resting on stumps of unequal height and behind them were shelves packed with the sordid miscellany of a frontier trading-post. A closed door on either side seemingly led to other apartments but there was no sound save the wind and the crackle of the flames.A candle thrust into the broken neck of a bottle gave a feeble light to a little space around one end of the counter on which it stood. The rafters were low—so low that a tall man standing on tiptoe might easily unhook the smoked hams and sides of bacon that hung there swaying back and forth when the wind shook the house.Walls ceiling and floor were of logs cut into a semblance of smoothness. The chinks were plastered with a bluish clay and the crevices in the floor were filled with a mixture of clay and small chips. At the left of the chimney was a rude ladder which led to the loft through an opening in the ceiling. Fingers of sleet tapped at the glass swirling phantoms of snow drifted by pausing for a moment at the windows as if to look within and one of the men moved his chair closer to the fire.You fed the cattle didn't you Chan? The half-breed grunted assent.It was the eldest of the three who had spoken. His crouching position in his chair partially concealed his great height but the firelight shone full upon his iron-grey hair and the deep lines seamed upon his kindly face. His hands were rough and knotted his fingers straight and square at the tips—hands without beauty but full of strength.The hand which rested on the arm of the chair next to him was entirely different. It was fair and smooth and slender with tapering fingers and with the outer line of the palm delicately curved; instinct with strength of another sort yet gentle almost to the point of femininity. The hand accorded ill with the deep melodious voice of the man when he said:Uncle you don't know how glad I am to be here with you and Aunt Eleanor. I feel as if I had come home at last after many wanderings.You're welcome my boy was the hearty answer. I'm glad you got through before this storm came 'cause travellin' 'cross country isn't good in February as a rule. Things will be closed up now till Spring.And then—what? asked the young man.Trains of pack-horses from Rock River and the Illinois. Canoes and a bateau from Milwaukee in charge of Canadian engagés. Then the vessel from Fort Mackinac with goods for the trade and Indians from all over creation. The busy season begins in the Spring.Chandonnais the half-breed was audibly asleep in his warm corner and the guest arose to walk nervously about the room. He was clad in rusty black broadcloth which had seen all of its best days and some of its worst and clung closely to his tall lank figure as though in fear of the ultimate separation. His hair was black and straight his eyes deep brown and strangely luminous his mouth sensitive and his face very pale. He was not more than twenty-five or six and looked even younger.John Mackenzie quietly watched him in his uneasy march back and forth. At last he came to the fire stopped short and put a questioning finger upon the limestone. Here's some initials he said. J. B. P. D. S.—what does that stand for?Jean Baptiste Pointe de Saible I reckon replied Mackenzie. He built this cabin. The Indians say that the first white man here was a negro.P. L. M.—continued the young man. Who was he?Pierre Le Mai I guess—the French trader I bought the place from.You should put yours here too Uncle.Not I my boy. I have come to stay—and my children after me.