Proposing to prevail on Winnebeg to obtain for him a meeting with her on the morrow, when the remains of her husband should have been consigned to their rude resting-place, he returned towards his party, whom he found in the act of covering up the bodies which they had, unmolested by the Indians, brought in from the different points where they had fallen. The grave was soon filled up—a short and mournful prayer read by the officer from memory, and the party returned full of gloom, and with hearts bowed down by sorrow, to the dismantled and desolate-looking fort.
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
“This act is an ancient tale twice told.”
—King John.
The wretchedness of that night who can tell! the despondency that filled the hearts of all, not so much in regard to the present as from apprehension for the future, who, untried in the same ordeal, can comprehend? but the feelings of the remnant of that little band, who were indebted for their safety to their own bravery, were not selfish. They lamented as deeply the fate of the fallen, as the dark and uncertain future that awaited themselves—uncertain because, although the chiefs had promised, and with sincerity, that they should be given up as prisoners of war at the nearest post, they had seen too much of the falsehood of the race generally to rely implicitly on its fulfilment by the warriors. Alas! where were their comrades—friends, nay, brothers of yesterday? Where was the brave, the noble-hearted Wells—where the once gay, ever high-spirited Ronayne—where poor Von Voltenberg—the manly Sergeant Nixon, a Virginian also—the faithful Corporal Green—and nearly two thirds of the privates of the detachment? The very fact of being in the fort again, and everywhere surrounded by objects rendering more striking the contrast between the past and the present, was agony in itself. There was scarcely a man among them who would not have preferred bivouacking, in the wild wood, amid storm and tempest, and the howling of beasts of prey, to resting that night within the polluted precincts of what had so recently been their safeguard and their pride.
Fortunately, the two surviving officers were, in some measure, exempt from these mortifications. True to his word, Winnebeg had caused Mrs. Headley and Mrs. Elmsley to be conveyed undercover of the darkness from their place of concealment to the mansion of Mr. McKenzie, which, from the great popularity of the trader with the whole of the Indian tribes, had been left untouched—he himself having been looked upon as a non-combatant, and, therefore, spared from all personal outrage.
The meeting between the husbands and their wives—both the former also slightly wounded during the day—was, as may be supposed, most affecting. Neither had ever expected, on parting in the morning, to behold each other; and now, although more or less injured, to find those who were preserved, as it were, by a miracle from a cruel death, with a prospect of future happiness, the past was for the moment forgotten, and gratitude to God for their preservation the dominant feeling of their souls. The examination of the wounds of the heroines was the next consideration. Most fortunate was it that of all the wounds received by the ladies—seven by Mrs. Headley and three by Mrs. Elmsley—not one was of a nature to disable or impede the motion of their lower limbs. A ball that had lodged in her arm, however, gave the former great pain; but, alas! there was no Von Voltenberg to cut it out. In this extremity, Winnebeg said he knew an Indian who was very expert at incision, and that he would procure his attendance.
Meanwhile the party were enabled to partake of some refreshments which had been ordered on the departure of Winnebeg for his charge; and exhausted as all had been by intense anxiety and emotion, from the moment of their setting out almost to the present, this was truly acceptable, especially to the two officers.
In the course of the repast, allusion was made to the gallantry and suffering of the unfortunate. Ronayne, when, on Captain Headley asking, for the first time, what had been done with the body, Lieut. Elmsley proceeded to relate all that he had heard and witnessed a few hours previously.
This singular detail excited not only surprise but pain, especially in Mrs. Headley, whose deep friendship for, and interest in, both husband and wife had already been so strongly exhibited. It is not often that, in the hour of our keenest suffering, we have much sympathy to bestow upon others; but the noble woman had known the ill-fated Maria too intimately—known her too well—not to feel deep sorrow for the double affliction under which she labored. In the confession, if such it can be called, which he had committed to writing and subsequently transmitted by Wau-nan-gee, as well as in her wild and unconnected language on the day of the fatal occurrence itself, she had alluded to something terrible—an attempt at outrage, but in those vague terms of violated modesty which left the extent only to be surmised. No one of those who knew the contents of her communication, had suspected or presumed the worst, and had it not been for the avowal by Ronayne of his vengeance for the avowed fulfilment of the hellish and sacrilegious lust of the hideous monster, and the strange admission that fell in her despair from Mrs. Ronayne herself, the secret must have died with themselves.