One Sloop and Slow Match Read online

  Edward’s leg now ached mightily. The nearest natives, a Potawatomi and a Wyandot were gaining upon him, seeming to race each other in competition for a prize: his life. He reached the dune grass on the banks of the small creek, desperately flung aside the low branches and knew that he would within moments know if these trees were to become the site of his last stand. He considered whether he should pause and reload either his musket or his pistol as he would not have time for both. His second pistol, still in his sash and loaded and primed, might serve well for one of the warriors approaching. He glanced down at the large knife in his boot dreading the thought of that as his last instrument of defense against the other.

  But his instincts which had led him to the trees proved to be true. The low branches flung aside revealed what he expected and hoped for, what made perfect sense if one understood people living by the bounty of the inland sea. A birchbark canoe with a paddle was tucked away by the local natives for ease of frequent use.

  Edward hauled it from under the branches, hoisted it overhead and with his musket already lying along its bottom, he ran splashing into the waters of Lake Michigan. He boarded hurriedly, hearing the warriors now crying in rage and disappointment, and manned the paddle. Strangely, he thought, My days as Edward Morris are now past.

  Afloat once more with a parting shot from his enemies passing over his left shoulder, he was once again relying upon his skills as a waterman, honed since birth. He was now as he had been throughout most of his life, to everyone save Sarah, who insisted in calling him by his Christian name; one of the few who had ever cared to ask. He paddled for his life, paddled as well as he ever had and soon, in deep, though not so distant waters from the mayhem now diminishing on shore, it was not Edward Morris but simply a man called Trove who turned the canoe to the beach to observe and reflect.

  Trove witnessed the death of William Wells. He was decapitated in celebration of such a notable kill, even while his corpse was mutilated still. The famous frontiersman had initially fought against European expansion until realizing the bond of his roots. Switching sides, he served as a scout for General ‘Mad Anthony’ Wayne. He was present at the negotiation of the Treaty of Greenville. He had enthralled Trove just the night before with stories of his services rendered to Governor and General William Henry Harrison. Remarkably, amid all of that bravado, he also offered advice to Trove on matters of love, noting Trove’s obvious feelings for Sarah.

  “Tell her how you feel.” Wells glanced at Sarah as he stood to retire and nodded to Trove, who followed his gaze.

  Sarah’s graceful figure bent in her rough gingham dress as she completed her preparations for the long march. At that moment, Trove resolved to do as Wells suggested.

  Now, as Trove watched the diminishing conflict from the canoe, he deeply regretted he had not done so, thinking of course there would be time enroute to Detroit.

  At that moment, however, the rising level of water within his canoe brought his thoughts back to the present crisis. There would be ample time, he hoped, to somehow come to grip with the events of the last few hours, if not days.

  Some of the canoe seams were weeping, which was to be expected given the season and the likelihood the canoe had been kept dry for some time. Some would swell and close, over time. One seam in particular, at the bow, however, was nearly spurting water and was of immediate concern. He attempted to bail with his fur hat, considered spilling the contents from his pack and use it as a flexible bucket of sorts, but knew he could not both bail and paddle. Drifting about with natives watching eagerly from ashore, all while discharging a steady stream of water over the side, would only encourage them to continue to harass him, or find their own craft and give chase.

  The answer, at least for the instant crisis, came to him somewhat belatedly and he scolded himself and thought of the truth of the adage, often repeated by Captain Lee, “Men and ships rot in port.” He mused at the thought of his stolen canoe as a ship, even as he implemented his instinctive solution.

  He simply moved from his position about two-thirds back from the bow, to the aft thwart, against which he leaned with his buttocks and lower back. He kneeled on the bottom, leaving his pack in the center for the moment to see if adjusting the trim would have the desired effect and having the added benefit of allowing his gear to remain dry. Instantly, the new trim raised the bow from the water, largely lifting the troublesome seam to a new elevation above the waterline, while the water inside the canoe flowed aft, beyond his pack and gear and was at that moment not so deep as to cover the floor ‘amidships’. While this solution left him kneeling in water, his hat could now collect the water more effectively. Soon, between paddle strokes, Trove had the canoe bailed reasonably dry without the natives who were yet still studying him from ashore with some frustration noticing his vulnerability.

  Trove studied the captives, what few there were, as they were marched along the shore or deeper into the woods. He recognized some, even at a distance, by their clothing, but counted very few uniforms. He thought sadly of the friends he had made among the soldiers with whom he sailed down Lake Michigan and wondered if they had all simply sailed to a destination offering nothing but their death. He could not see Sarah, or any of her family, including her uncle, John Kinzie. Trove wondered if Mr. Kinzie’s good trading relations with the natives would be of any assistance to his family.

  After some time, only those lying motionless among the looted property and broken wagons remained to be seen. The beaches were silent once again. Birds began to circle. It was time to consider his future.

  Trove took stock of the contents of his pack, the condition of his canoe and the severity of his wound, now throbbing. He recognized instantly that he had survived thus far only in so far as the sea was near calm.

  Soon enough, he knew well on these Lakes, the wind could rise, the seas would soon follow and the open seam in the bow would be his undoing. His life hung entirely upon the necessity of the continuation of fair weather. He studied the sky, as he had since a lad when his father and clan had taught him and Captain Lee had explained. Again, his experience and instincts were valuable even if his scientific understanding was lacking. The heat would dissipate and with some luck he would enjoy a calm night afloat.

  He paddled southeast, only because that had been the direction of the column and he knew their plan was to largely follow the Old Saulk Trail all the way to Detroit. But of course he could not do that by water. If he were to proceed alone by land, discarding his command such as it was, he also knew that he stood little chance of making many miles along a native trail as a single white youth in a time of conflict.

  Just about dusk, his anxieties overcame his usual optimism and confidence. He suddenly realized he knew little of his whereabouts and was entirely cut off from everyone he had ever known or come to care about. His family and clan, if such could be considered caring of his fate, were at least the length of two inland seas distant. Captain Lee and his son, James, were leagues from him, safe, he was certain, upon a well found and fast merchant sloop. Her owner, Mr. Williams, who had shown Trove every kindness as they grew familiar as occasional shipmates, was likely at that moment caring for his wife and family in his fine home in Detroit. None of these persons had any reason to worry for Trove. Sarah and her family were unable to assist him and had far more problems this evening than did he. Trove acknowledged the fact, even as he sweated and breathed quickly, that he may well never see any of those persons again.

  Trove was near panic as the sun set, But he resolved he would not allow himself to fall into that state twice in one year, let alone twice in one day. Instead, he focused forcibly upon the positives. He was alive, relatively safe, and surrounded by nature’s bounty. His skills were strong especially while afloat, and he would not starve, he was certain. He began to cheer, but then saw lightning to the Northwest. Realizing he had little strength left, he determined as darkness fell to lay the canoe closer to shore, before he drifted, literally, to sleep.

>   He slept for but a short time before thunder woke him. He oriented himself on this dark night, clouds obscuring the moon, and calculated the lightning, while closer, was to the north and slightly to the east, over the open waters of Lake Michigan. Something else puzzled his orientation at first. What was that glow to the Northwest?

  He studied the glow for some moments before the realization swept over him with a chill on a warm summer’s night. Fort Dearborn was ablaze. He was morbidly impressed with the height and brightness of the flames. Even from this distance he could make out the tower of sparks dulled by plumes of smoke. He thought of the captives and tried not to think of Sarah. Gradually, he realized the bonfire of what had been an American settlement at the edge of the inland sea was a warning, portending the likely fate of all such settlements.

  Come dawn he would repair his canoe while remaining as isolated as possible. He would employ all of his skill and conjure every trick he had learned so to cross a vast, unsettled wilderness; the Michigan Territory. There was no time to sleep. Trove manned his paddle and settled into a rhythmic, numbing, mechanical stroke along the shore revealed to him more by the angle of the small waves against his craft and the sound of those lapping on the beach than by what little light the cloud cover allowed.

  Trove awoke amid a stand of young trees and dune grasses, not unlike the spot under which he discovered the canoe. On this occasion, however, and for some weeks to come, Trove lay underneath his vessel, for both cover and protection. He slept furtively, no longer than for some few hours. His back and arms ached but the pain in his leg, throbbing the day before, subsided. The morning was heating quickly. It was time to get to work. This day would determine if his vessel, the instrument that just the day before had delivered him his life, would now deliver him, in large part, to Detroit.

  Trove splashed some water upon his face at the Lake’s edge, armed himself fully with his weapons and walked cautiously into the woods. He looked for pine, as his first choice was tar or pitch, but lacking finding any, he soon found some young birch saplings. He cut and peeled the bark from the trunk with his knife and mixed its shavings with carefully selected plant roots. He then searched the area and determined to take the largest risk of the day. He built a small fire next to the canoe, which he took care to feed with fuel that he knew would emit as little smoke as was possible. He stewed the roots, bark and some berries in what little cookware he owned and carefully mixed the ingredients until, just more than an hour later, a thick, tarry substance achieved the consistency that he adjudged would serve him well. He doused the fire, detected no visitors approaching and spread the goo upon a thin slice of bark, the circumference of which most closely matched the curvature of the bow where the seam had opened. Lastly, he stitched the patch to its adjacent pieces along its edges with several long pieces of dune grasses, braided together for strength.

  The patch was completed and while it cured, in accordance with a finely tuned sense of priorities, he instantly set off so to attend to his next most urgent need. While he had some food in his pack, bread and cheese, he knew these would keep and he may need both when no other was available, perhaps while afloat. He soon found berries and wild fruit. It would have to do. He dared not discharge his weapon and did not want to take the time to trap. He was still much closer than he desired to that small plume of smoke rising lazily in the northwest along the shoreline; the smoldering remains of Fort Dearborn.

  Deliberately, he spoke aloud. He even wondered why he had not done so the day before. Perhaps he had remained silent because he was too frightened to be lonely. Today, the gravity of his undertaking was settling in. He knew that to steel himself to what lay ahead, good conversation, even if one sided, would help immensely as it always had when he found himself so completely alone. He had more experience with that than most his age, even among those on the frontier.

  Trove determined to christen his canoe. Suspicion and luck could not be discounted when commencing a voyage. “Alright, Sarah, serve me well and we will make this trip, together, as we planned.” He welled up just a bit at the thought of her, but hoisted his craft, walked into the waters, launched her gently and began the sea trials. The patch held and after some deliberate circles and punching her into the largest waves now assaulting the shore, he was certain the ooze would remain dry enough not to wash away, yet pliable so to stretch and move slightly to account for the natural flex from the stress upon the skin in a seaway. “Excellent work, my boy!” he declared as he paddled from the shore.

  His wake revealed a reciprocal course, not along the shoreline, as like the day before, but rather some degrees off, just north of east. Accounts overheard while at Fort Dearborn of a large river on that heading suggested a possible route, one that would allow this waterman of considerable skill an efficient route inland.

  Captain Trove of the Sarah, no longer a mere survivor fleeing crisis and danger, was accepting all risks, well known and deliberately regarded. As with seamen before him for millennia, in leaving the shore astern, he declared by simple and quiet deed his intent to persevere and overcome.

  The following dawn revealed the river mouth visible only from the crests of the rising sea and jostled about constantly in the circular field comprising his inexpensive long glass. The optics was clouded and the lens chipped, but it was a gift from Sarah, found among her uncle’s inventory of trade goods. Whoever its original owner and by what circumstance the item arrived on the Northwest frontier, Trove would never know. But the long glass, not nearly so elegant and powerful as that owned by Captain Lee, was nonetheless treasured by Trove this day, allowing him to scout the river mouth without being seen by the numerous natives on shore.

  The rough seas would keep the native fishing canoes on the beach, of that he was certain. Still, there was too much activity at the river mouth, which was to be expected, to allow him entry—at least in daylight. This coming night, under a waxing three quarter moon, he would attempt to slip upriver undetected.

  That night, standing well out from shore and paddling quickly from such quadrant as the moonlight would not reflect on his foray, Sarah slipped undetected into what Trove believed was the St. Joseph River. Life was already old along its banks. Under its third flag, the French presence dated back well more than one hundred years. Trove understood from Mr. Williams, while sailing south to Fort Dearborn, that the original fort some distance upriver had long since been abandoned, but at least the presence of a white man would not be regarded by the locals as highly unusual.

  Trove paddled much of the remaining night upriver, passing numerous campfires and small native villages which gradually grew less frequent. He made certain to be well hidden and tucked away amid the ample brush by dawn. He slept hard, if not well. Excepting short naps, sometimes inadvertently induced by the rolling sea even while trying to paddle onward and maintain a heading without compass or charts, it was his first real sleep in three days. So far, his instincts and skill had served him well. Thus, the most challenging part of his journey, the inland traverse of the southern Michigan Territory, began with an essential deep sleep.

  The next several weeks were marked by quiet but tense night paddles upriver, exhausting portages through thick forest and brush and even more suspenseful hunting and trapping expeditions. Trove never allowed himself to stray far from a river bank which afforded the option of a speedy escape should he be detected. Unquestionably, he was sighted by natives from time to time, but slunk away at his first opportunity and maintained a minimal presence.

  More than ten days into his journey Trove encountered two French trappers, trading at a ford across what they informed him was the Kikalemazo River, which translated into the ‘place where the water boils’. The trappers confirmed for him that he was as yet traversing lands inhabited by Potawatomi. They drew a crude map and offered him rough suggestions as to how to portage between the rivers that would most quickly begin flowing east. They seemed exceedingly surprised to encounter a white youth, alone, with few provisions
and no real sense of direction and invited him to linger. One word of the native tribe, however, and Trove quickly begged his leave.

  The fish and game were plentiful, but the fires were few and relaxation non-existent. Trove caught bass and trout, rabbit, muskrat and squirrel. He saw numerous deer, signs of bear, but rarely fired his weapon so to minimize the risk of detection or cause hostility from his mere presence. The fish were large and healthy, the product of a pure and closed ecosystem. The Great Lakes together with its connecting rivers had never been exposed to species of salt water or their drainage basins. For thousands of years the native people lived in such manner as would have no or nominal impact upon the natural environment. Rather, the native populations preferred to carefully study, adapt to and take full advantage of nature’s bounty.

  The forests were old, tall and the undergrowth managed by a balance finely tuned by nature as only it can when left alone by man. The wetlands and swamps were thick and numerous, but filtered well and easily sheltered the natural world and a great diversity of its species so that birds, mammals and reptiles were abundant.

  The insects, while equally in balance, were not nearly so appreciated. The mosquitoes and flies were very thick and Trove resorted to grease and oils mixed with muck to protect his skin from both the sun and bites. He easily melded with and certainly smelled like the natural world of which he was so much a part. If Sarah could only see and smell him now, he often commented to himself.

  Just about the time when he felt he could paddle against the current no longer, despite the rivers gradually narrowing to creeks and streams, and at the end of a particularly difficult portage, he launched Sarah yet again in waters that this time, at least for a length that seemed promising, suggested to him that he should proceed downstream. While he had been tricked just two days before and cruelly disappointed by many twists and bends, wasting time until realizing his error, this day the hint was true. The rivers were now flowing, over time and twists and turns, east instead of west. He took heart that his journey was at least half over and in fact he was closer to Detroit than he realized.