Chapter VI In Which the Pioneers Hear Alarming News
Their Fourth of July spent in Springfield was a day long to be remembered by the Peniman family. The children talked of it many days as the canvas-covered wagons rumbled slowly along the dusty, rutted Illinois roads, and years later, when the events then being so darkly foreshadowed on the horizon had come to be matters of fact, it helped to shape the destiny of Joshua Peniman’s sons.
Joe had something new to think about now as he sat in the wagon holding the reins in his hands while the horses plodded on through the long, hot, silent days, and his mind was often busy with the future that lay before him, while plans, dreams, ambitions began to unfold themselves in his mind.
They passed through Beardstown and camped on the Illinois River, then struck off again to the west, and twelve days later sighted the Mississippi River.
It was Lige who first caught sight of the great brown swiftly-flowing waters.
“Look,” he cried, breaking into Joe’s day-dream by poking him in the ribs, “look what a big river we’re coming to! Wonder what river it is?”
“Mighty big one—and a mighty dirty one, too,” commented Sam, hanging away out of the wagon to get a better look at it. “Look at the whopping big bridge across it!” he whooped, pointing at the great bridge that spanned the muddy waters. “Hey, Father, what river is that? It’s a mighty big one!”
Mr. Peniman turned and looked back with a smile.
“What river is that? That’s a great question for a boy your age to ask! Don’t you know where we are? What have you studied geography for if you don’t know what river that is?”
“Oh, I know!” shouted Ruth, “I know, Father! It’s the Mississippi! This is Illinois, that State over there is Iowa, and that is the Mississippi that flows between!”
“Ah, good girl!” applauded her father. “Of course! The Mississippi—the great Father of Waters. And the boundary line “—he continued thoughtfully, speaking more to himself than the children,—“between the old East and the new West.”
“The Mississippi at last—hurray!” shouted Joe.
“Huh, I knew it all the time,” grunted Sam. “Ruth needn’t think she’s so smart. Golly, when I got kept in last winter ’cause I couldn’t tell what States were bounded by the Mississippi I didn’t think I’d be crossing it so soon!”
They spent the night at Rock Island, then the terminus of the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad, and the next day crossed the Mississippi at Davenport, on the first bridge built across the river, which had been completed but a few weeks before. They stayed there that night, then started on, and two days later drove into Iowa City, then the capital of the State.
As the two wagons progressed slowly through the bare, wide clayey streets, which were flanked on either side by one-story unpainted buildings, as if dumped unceremoniously into their present location with no view to permanency, they observed groups of men gathered together talking excitedly. Presently a troop of cavalry dashed through the streets, followed by a company of infantry.
“Soldiers!” ejaculated Lige. “Wonder what soldiers are doing out here?”
As they drew up before the bare, unpainted general store Mr. Peniman turned to the boys and told them to stay in the wagons.
This was most unusual, as the boys were always glad to get out at these stops, stretch their legs, buy candy and gum, and exchange greetings with the boys and dogs they generally found congregated about the door.
“Aw, why not, Father?” protested Sam. But his protestations were cut short by his father’s uplifted hand and the expression on his face.
“Because I wish you to,” he said with unusual curtness, and disappeared within the store.
“Don’t see why he wouldn’t let us get out,” grumbled Sam, “I wanted to buy some candy.”
It seemed a long time before their father returned to the wagons, and when he did Joe noticed that he looked pale and grim and that his lips were compressed into a close, white line.
He went from store to store swiftly, with absorbed attention, and greatly astonished the occupants of the wagons by coming back with a new Enfield rifle in his hand, followed by a man carrying a keg of powder and a big box of cartridges.
“Who’s the new gun for, Father—me?” cried Joe with delight.
“Yes, you can shoot well enough now to be trusted with a gun. Lige can use the old rifle. I bought one of those new Colt’s revolvers for you, Mother.”
“For me, Joshua?” Hannah Peniman opened her blue eyes very wide. “Why, dear man, thee knows that I could never use a gun. I am deathly afraid of them.”
“We are going away into the wilderness, Hannah,” he said very gravely, “thee must learn.” And the words were spoken in a tone and with an expression that made her start and look at him closely.
When they were once more upon their way she turned to him and asked in a low voice, “What is it, Joshua?”
They had never had any reservations from one another, and though he wished now with all his heart that he might spare her he knew that he stood in need of her courage, her help, her calm, cool judgment.
“There has been a massacre of whites by the Indians not far from here,” he told her. “The white settlers along the Little Sioux have been obliged to flee, and many of them have been murdered. I cannot tell thee the horrible details. They are sending out State troops. It was all brought about by the treachery of a white man, they tell me, but——” He broke off abruptly and sat gazing into her horrified face.
“They say,” he continued, “that most of the Indians around here are friendly, but a white trader deceived and murdered the brother of Chief Inkpaducah, and he has roused his whole tribe to vengeance.”
“And they have killed the settlers—and women—and children?” she gasped, every vestige of color leaving her face.
“They killed the children. They have carried the women away into captivity.”
“Oh, God, have mercy on us!”
“In God’s care and mercy alone can we trust, Hannah,” he answered. “We will never give these red brothers cause for anger against us, and perhaps we may escape harm at their hands. But I must confess it has given me a great shock. I wish——”
“The children—the children——” she whispered in anguish. “Oh, Joshua, I wish we had never come to this terrible country. I wish we had stayed at home——”
“I have been wishing the same thing. But it is too late now. We have come too far on our way. Thee—thee would not advise that we turn back now, would thee, Hannah? When we are so near the goal?”
For a moment she sat silent, her sweet blue eyes, wide and filled with horror, fixed upon the western horizon, her arms clasped tightly about the baby, which she pressed almost fiercely to her breast. After a time she turned to her husband and laid her hand on his arm, saying bravely:
“No, Joshua. My heart is filled with fears, but thee has sacrificed too much to turn back now. We can only go on, and pray that Almighty God will protect us.”
“My brave, noble wife,” he whispered, and kissed her.
That night when they made their camp the two wagons were drawn close together and the cow and horses instead of being picketed out were placed beside them. No camp-fire was built that night, and the supper was prepared over as small a fire as possible, a piece of sacking placed over the top of the stove-pipe to absorb and keep down the smoke. Before they retired their father gave each of the three older boys a gun and ammunition.
“We have reached the real West now, lads,” he told them, “and must be prepared for some of the adventures you have been looking forward to for so long. I have no idea that you will have occasion to use those guns to-night, but like good pioneers you must keep them ready and in order for whatever might happen.”
A thrill passed through the hearts of Joe and Lige as they listened to his words. Not even then did they appreciate the menace they portended.
That night Joshua Peniman did not sleep in the wagon as he had been accustomed to do, but with Spotty beside him and a loaded musket at hand lay down beside the wagons wrapped in his blanket.
There was little sleep for the elders of the party. The children, who had been allowed to hear nothing of the horrors of the massacre, slept tranquilly, but Joshua Peniman patrolled his camp all night, while his wife lay among her little ones in the wagon with her heart like an ice-cold stone within her breast.
They were now traveling through an almost uninhabited part of western Iowa, where settlers were far apart and shade and water grew scarcer and farther apart every day.
The weather had grown intensely hot, and the poor animals, forced to travel all day through the heat of the sun without sufficient water, suffered greatly.
The cow especially seemed to feel the strain, and after one intensely hot day, during which the pioneers had all suffered, she gave but a small portion of milk, and lay down when they made camp refusing to graze.
That night the baby was taken ill. Both father and mother did all that they knew for her, but she grew steadily worse, and two days later, while they were traveling over a barren, desolate expanse of country with no living creature in sight but themselves, she passed away.
They stopped and made a little grave in the desolate prairies, over which they placed a tiny cross marked with her name and age. Then the bereaved parents went on their way, with what agony of spirit only those who have lost a precious little one may know.