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 THE TENTS OF GRACE ** 
 
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 HARRY EDWIN MARTIN 
 
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The Tents of Grace 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 A Tragedy 
 And Four Short Stories 
 
 Harry Edwin Martin 
 
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 CINCINNATI: 
 PRESS OF JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 
 

 Copyrigh', iQit\ 
 
 by 
 
 Harry Edwin Martin 
 
 ©ClA-278077 
 
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 YOU, DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME, FILLED 
 WITH THE CHILDREN OF MY YOUTH- 
 FUL BRAIN, IN TOKEN OF MY 
 LOVE AND HONOR THROUGH 
 ALL THE YESTER-YEARS 
 AND ALL THE DAYS 
 TO BE. 
 
Table of Contents 
 
 Preface, 9 
 
 The Tents of Grace— ^ Tragedy, n 
 
 The Voice in the Primitive- 
 Story, 51 
 
 After Many Years— Story, . . 59 
 
 The Monster— Story, 79 
 
 "The Port of the Unexpected" 
 
 —Story, 85 
 
" Whoever thinlcs a faultless piece to see, 
 Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be." 
 
 "Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
 And be each critic the good-natured man." 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Man's inhumanity to man has often traced 
 a border of black around many of the fairest 
 pages in the annals of universal history. 
 The fields are green, the flowers bloom, the 
 birds sing, but man — man alone is vile. 
 Perhaps we might prefer to record only 
 those events which show forth the beauti- 
 ful, the noble, the true; but it is only in 
 the realm of fancy that all things may take 
 a happy course, and just so long as man is 
 man the historian must ever report the bit- 
 ter with the sweet, the evil with the good. 
 
 Wherefore it has seemed good to the 
 author of this little volume to present to 
 the public the story, forgotten save by a 
 few, of the founding, the life, and the cul- 
 minating tragedy of old Gnadenhiitten. 
 
 It is not questioned that many, many tales 
 might be found concerning the early days 
 when the stalwart pioneers were blazing a 
 trail through the forests of Ohio, yet it is 
 doubtful whether any could be brought for- 
 
Preface 
 
 ward which would equal in human interest 
 and simple pathos this incident of the mar- 
 tyrdom of the Moravian Indians in the 
 "Tents of Grace." 
 
 Each of the stories that go to make up 
 the second part of this book has been pub- 
 lished before, primarily for a small circle 
 of readers. But the varied criticisms have 
 been so kind and the praise so sincere that 
 all have been deemed worthy of a wider 
 circulation. 
 
 The author does not doubt that you who 
 read may sometimes find that which is 
 prosy, and yet he hopes here and there you 
 may come upon some bits of honest pathos, 
 touches of human interest, and a smatter- 
 ing of art. 
 
 That you may find herein a story of an 
 almost forgotten historical incident which 
 I)rovcs to be enlightening and interesting, 
 and that you may further find the four short 
 stories to be of some interest and delight, is 
 the sincere wish of the author. 
 
 Harry Edwin Martin. 
 
 Scio College, Sci'o, Ohio. 
 September 2g, igto. 
 
 lO 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 A Tragedy 
 
 Resting peacefully in the scenic Tuscara- 
 was Valley, in Ohio, is the town of Gnaden- 
 hiitten. A stranger visiting the village will 
 note the beautiful site; the wide, shaded 
 streets ; the pretty, flower-dotted lawns ; the 
 neat homes ; and the thrifty, genial inhabit- 
 ants and their tranquillity ; but unless he is 
 very familiar with the early history of Ohio 
 he utterly fails to comprehend why the town 
 is called Gnadenhiitten, nor will he realize 
 that this is an historic, almost sacred, spot. 
 Here, where peace and happiness now pre- 
 dominate, one of the saddest tragedies of 
 all history occurred — a tragedy of pathos 
 unsurpassed and involving Christian forti- 
 tude akin to martyrdom. Here at the clos- 
 ing of the eighteenth century a dream of 
 Christian empire came true for half a score 
 of years — and then ended in annihilation. 
 
 II 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 It was late in the summer of the year 1772 
 that two companies of Moravian missiona- 
 ries and their Indian followers, after many 
 and severe vicissitudes, arrived upon the 
 banks of the Tuscarawas River — then 
 known as the Muskingum. They came 
 from Fricdenshuetten, on the Susquehanna 
 River, and from Friedenstadt, in the Alle- 
 gheny region, both within the bounds of 
 Pennsylvania, and they migrated to the new 
 Ohio country, hoping there to make homes 
 wliich would be free from the encroach- 
 ments of the unfriendly white man. The 
 first company to arrive, under the leadership 
 of the missionaries, David Zeisberger and 
 John Heckewelder, stopped about two miles 
 south of the present city of New Philadel- 
 phia and founded the village Schonbrunn, 
 or "Beautiful Spring'" named thus because 
 of the small lake which was nearby. By 
 October 9, 1772, the second company had 
 reached the valley and farther down the 
 river had begun the building of a town 
 which the builders aptly christened Gnaden- 
 hiitten, or "Tents of Grace." 
 
 The Tuscarawas \^alley was an ideal 
 
 12 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 place for the founding of such a religious 
 empire as the devout missionaries planned. 
 It was then inhabited almost solely by the 
 Delaware tribe, who will be remembered as 
 among the clans of red men with whom 
 William Penn made his famous peace treaty 
 in the long ago. These peaceful Indians, 
 feeling their inability to check the westward 
 advance of white civilization, had moved 
 from Penn's colony several years before and 
 had established their headquarters in the 
 beautiful Tuscarawas Valley. One of the 
 leading Delaware villages, but ten miles be- 
 low Gnadenhiitten, was King Newcomer's 
 Town, situated where now stands the town 
 of almost similar name. Other than these 
 friendly neighbors, who had invited the 
 Moravians to dwell in the valley, the Chris- 
 tians found everything congenial and de- 
 lightful. Nature was here prodigal of all 
 her stores. Fine woodlands covered many 
 a hill and hollow, and great fertile fields 
 stretched away on every side. Forest and 
 field abounded in game of numerous kinds, 
 and the little river was full of fishes of va- 
 rious sizes. The climate was excellent — 
 
 13 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 warm in summer and mild in winter — and 
 the air was pure and wholesome. 
 
 The company founding the "Tents of 
 Grace" was under the leadership of Joshua, 
 a Mohican elder, and was composed mainly 
 of ^lohican and Delaware Indians, all of 
 whom had emhraced Christianity. The only 
 white persons dwelling here were two or 
 three teachers and their families. Sur- 
 rounded by such peaceable neighbors and 
 with such delightful natural environments 
 Gnadenhiitten soon became a pleasant and 
 prosperous hamlet. It was well laid out. 
 but had only one principal street, which was 
 long, wide, and straight. The houses and 
 chapel, as in all of the new settlements, were 
 built of rough and hewn logs. Each of the 
 homes contained only one room, but usually 
 had an attic overhead and a cellar under- 
 neath, and was enclosed by a picket fence. 
 The crude doors swung on wooden hinges, 
 the small windows were made of greased 
 paper, the rustic furniture was hand-made, 
 and through a hole in each door hung the 
 necessary latchstring as a token of welcome 
 to friend or stranger. None but professing 
 
 14 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 Christians were allowed to make their 
 homes here, yet notwithstanding this ban 
 the population steadily increased ; for many 
 of the neighboring Indians buried the battle- 
 ax, accepted the white man's religion, and 
 became men, not savages. 
 
 In this little kingdom so far from Eastern 
 civilization, industry and order were neces- 
 sary. Under these two guiding principles 
 the inhabitants became well-to-do farmers 
 with now and then a proficient tradesman. 
 Joshua, the leader, was an expert cooper 
 and canoe-maker. The wide and fertile 
 bottoms on either side of the river gave 
 ample opportunity for labor, and visitors 
 from Pennsylvania and from the savage 
 tribes living farther north and west mar- 
 veled at the sight of the large, waving fields 
 of grain, the patches of vegetables, and the 
 hills dotted with cattle and poultry. In- 
 deed, civilization had seemingly let down 
 her mantle here in the blossoming wilder- 
 ness, and Christianity had leavened the sav- 
 age heart. 
 
 Generosity and kindness were also 
 marked characteristics that classed the Mo- 
 
 IS 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 ravians wholly apart from the other Indians. 
 Whenever possible the red men from afar 
 would journey to Gnadenhiitten in order to 
 be recipients of the kindness and the gifts 
 of its inhabitants. All visitors were treated 
 with Christian courtesy, and food in abun- 
 dance was offered to them. And oftentimes 
 the Moravians gladly ransomed prisoners 
 when their savage captors passed through 
 the town on their return from a marauding 
 expedition along the frontier. 
 
 These simple red men were earnest and 
 sincere in their religious zeal. Each day 
 the bell on the mission church called the 
 people to prayer, and while the men and 
 boys were busy in the fields, hunted game, 
 or fished, and while the women did their 
 household duties or assisted the men. the 
 children were being taught by their faithful 
 white teachers to read, to write, and to 
 honor God in all things. The government 
 of the village, it might here be said, was ad- 
 ministered by the missionaries and their 
 helpers who were selected from among the 
 more educated of the Indians. Questions of 
 great moment, of course, were always sub- 
 
 i6 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 mitted to the people. At all times, let it be 
 known, the Bible was the great statute book 
 of the "Tents of Grace." 
 
 Such, indeed, was the daily life of the 
 meek Moravian Indians. As we look upon 
 the Indian of yesterday all of this seems one 
 vast Utopian dream. But the facts of his- 
 tory — immutable as they are — prove it all 
 a reality. Under the influence of Christian- 
 ity, guided by their white brethren, these 
 wild men of the forest put aside the toma- 
 hawk, learned to forego revenge, and left 
 off unchastity and drunkenness to become 
 obedient, honest, and industrious toilers. 
 As we give thought to them and their tragic 
 story we should venerate them not as sav- 
 ages, but as civilized men, faithful and un- 
 affected in their Christian beliefs. We 
 should honor them further because reflect- 
 ing from their lives are lights that even to 
 this day have not been extinguished. They 
 lived and they perished as Christian men. 
 
 It is an interesting fact that the first white 
 
 child born in Ohio was John Lewis Roth, 
 
 who opened his eyes to the light of day on 
 
 the 4th of July, 1772, at Gnadenhiitten. 
 
 2 17 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 Historians have differed as to who really 
 was the first white child born within the 
 bounds of Ohio, but no authentic record of 
 a birth previous to this date has so far been 
 found. The rip:ht of Roth to be Ohio's first 
 son is found in the official diary of the 
 Gnadenhiitten mission, now preserved in 
 the archives of the Moravian Church at 
 Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, which reads: 
 "J"ly 4, 1773. To-day God gave to Brother 
 and Sister Roth a youns^ son. He was bap- 
 tized into the death of Jesus, and named 
 John Lewis, on the 5th instant, by Brother 
 David Zeisberci^er." 
 
 The opening of the Revolution marked 
 the beginning of the hardships of the mis- 
 sion town. These afflictions, however, 
 proved to be only the foreboding shadows 
 of the crisis — the cataclysm. The year of 
 1775 had been a most prosperous one, both 
 in a spiritual and in a temporal sense; but 
 by 1777 progress in the development and 
 expansion of all the mission towns along 
 the Tuscarawas Valley had come to a halt. 
 The Christian Indians and missionaries be- 
 ing opposed to war, thinking it wrong, re- 
 
 18 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 mained neutral. In so doing they, perhaps 
 unknowingly, were the silent allies of the 
 Americans, because their peaceful attitude 
 influenced a great part of the Delaware 
 tribe to refrain from taking the warpath in 
 behalf of the English. The Detroit com- 
 mandant and his faithful accomplices, the 
 renegades and savage chiefs, did all in their 
 power to persuade, and afterwards to force, 
 the entire Delaware tribe to enter the serv- 
 ice of England, but failed. 
 
 Gnadenhiitten lay on the main trail be- 
 tween the British headquarters at Detroit 
 and the American post at Fort Pitt, which 
 made it a ver}^ desirable vantage-ground for 
 the English forces, if the aid of its inhab- 
 itants could be secured. Several of the con- 
 verts did yield to persuasion and joined the 
 warring clans, but the great number of the 
 Christian red men were not moved by the 
 enticements of those who would have the 
 Moravians go back to barbarism in order 
 that they themselves might be amply re- 
 warded by the Red Coats of Detroit. Plots 
 were then laid to force the Christians to 
 array themselves under the Cross of St. 
 
 19 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 George ; but tlirough all intrigues and plots 
 they continued steadfast. They neither 
 took up the battle-club nor spilled the blood 
 of any man. Content to worship God and 
 treat all men as brethren, they went about 
 their daily tasks, patient in their persecu- 
 tions and all the while wholly unthoughtful 
 of what these plots and tricks of coercion 
 augured. 
 
 In August, 1 78 1, a band of about three 
 hundred savages, flying the English ensign 
 and commanded by the renegade Elliott and 
 a Wyandot chief, Pomoacan or Half King 
 l)y name, entered the Tuscarawas Valley 
 with the express purpose of removing the 
 obnoxious Christians. When near Salem, a 
 mission town founded shortly after the 
 building of the 'Tents of Grace," the Half 
 King sent a message to the Christian In- 
 dians, assuring them of his friendship and 
 asking which of their three settlements 
 would be most convenient for a council. 
 Gnadcnhiittcn was deemed the most suit- 
 able, and. acting accordingly, on August 
 nth the savages encamped on the west 
 side of that hamlet. Within a few days a 
 
 20 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 meeting was held, at which the Wyandot 
 chief advised a speedy removal, and in the 
 course of his address, as reported, we find 
 these words: "I am much concerned on 
 your account, seeing that you live in a dan- 
 gerous spot. Two powerful, angry, and 
 merciless gods stand ready, opening their 
 jaws wide against each other; you are be- 
 tween both and thus in danger of being de- 
 voured and ground to powder by the teeth 
 of either one or the other, or of both. It 
 is, therefore, not advisable for you to stay 
 here any longer.'' 
 
 The missionaries courteously replied to 
 this speech, but with their followers de- 
 clined to leave their pleasant homes until 
 they thought it more expedient. On hear- 
 ing this the majority of the savages evinced 
 a willingness to depart, but the renegade 
 and his two English comrades persuaded 
 them to continue faithful to the Detroit 
 commandant and to help remove the Chris- 
 tians as soon as conditions were favorable. 
 The days slipped by until September came, 
 when it unfortunately happened that two 
 Moravian Indians, whom the missionaries 
 
 21 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 had sent to Pittsburgh with information 
 concerning their precarious situation, were 
 captured by the savages. This event was 
 enlarged upon by Elhott as the conclusive 
 proof of his contentions, that the JMoravian 
 Indians were friendly to the rebelling colo- 
 nists, and that the missionaries were Ameri- 
 can spies. This gave things a turn. Half 
 King wavered in his friendliness towards 
 the Christian red men, and another meeting 
 of the leaders of both parties was called. 
 Still the Moravians persisted in their un- 
 willingness to desert their settlements. The 
 intruders insisted that this must not be. 
 The council broke up in confusion. The 
 missionaries were seized and made pris- 
 oners, and the greedy savages began plun- 
 dering the village. 
 
 By September loth the outrages of the 
 pillagers had become so distressing that the 
 Moravians consented to abandon their 
 homes and do the bidding of their perse- 
 cutors. On the following day with their 
 teachers they were ruthlessly driven toward 
 Detroit. With heavy hearts and intense 
 suffering the captives trudged on for one 
 
 22 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 hundred and twenty-four miles through the 
 trackless wilderness until Sandusky was 
 reached. Here the Christian Indians were 
 liberated and warned with many threats not 
 to wander back to their homes, while their 
 captors moved on to Detroit, taking with 
 them the missionaries, whom the savages 
 deemed dangerous should they be permitted 
 to remain with their followers. 
 
 This was a sad exile. The Moravians 
 had left behind three pleasant settlements — 
 Gnadenhiitten, Schonbrunn, and Salem — 
 their well-kept homes, their churches and 
 schools, their cattle and poultry wandering 
 in the fields, an abundance of corn in store 
 and three hundred acres of grain ripening 
 in the bottoms, great patches of vegetables, 
 and numerous valuables that had been hid- 
 den away in the cabins. Their books and 
 writings, which were used in the schools, 
 had been burned by their captors even be- 
 fore their northward march. Great was the 
 material loss of this forced removal to the 
 Moravians, but there was still a greater 
 loss. The glory, the hopes, and the bless- 
 ings of the Christian Kingdom on the little 
 
 23 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 Tuscarawas River constituted a volume 
 henceforth forever closed. 
 
 Left alone in the Northern forests, the 
 exiles began to be in want. The small stock 
 of provisions that had been brought with 
 them was soon consumed. Game was 
 scarce, corn was not to be obtained, and it 
 appeared that no means of sustenance could 
 be found. They wandered from place to 
 place, subsisting on whatever could be se- 
 cured that was at all edible, until finally 
 stopping at a place, afterwards known as 
 Captive's Town, they prepared to spend the 
 remainder of the winter. While the huts 
 of poles and bark were being built, a few 
 of the bravest Moravians dared to disregard 
 their restricted liberty and returned to the 
 Tuscarawas Valley for grain. Seven were 
 captured, while the few who escaped 
 brought back only about four hundred 
 bushels of corn. This supply was speedily 
 exhausted, and the ravenous wolf of starva- 
 tion stared them in the face. Something 
 must be done, and that right quickly. After 
 deliberation it was decided that a company 
 of men and their families should return to 
 
 24 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 their old homes to secure a good supply of 
 corn, which yet stood unharvested in the 
 fields. 
 
 Acting on this resolve, over one hun- 
 dred and fifty Indians with eager hearts set 
 out early in February, 1782, for the mission 
 towns. When the party arrived in the 
 valley it divided into three detachments, the 
 first going to Schonbrunn, the second to Sa- 
 lem, and the third to Gnadenhiitten — all 
 working for a common purpose, the secur- 
 ing of food for their starving brethren in 
 the barren wilderness. With joy they la- 
 bored, hastily husking, shelling, and sack- 
 ing the corn, ever anxious for the day to 
 draw near when they should have com- 
 pleted their task and would be able to hasten 
 back to their friends with that which alone 
 would give them renewed strength and life. 
 
 During the years between 1779 and 1782 
 the Wyandotte and other warlike tribes had 
 been on many marauding expeditions, at- 
 tacking the lonely cabins and hamlets along 
 the frontier and slaying their inmates and 
 inhabitants. Slaughter and destruction 
 were rampant everywhere. In 1779 some 
 
 25 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 seventy-live men, under the command of 
 Colonel Rodgers, were slain near where 
 now is the site of Covington, Kentucky, and 
 early in the summer of 1781 Colonel Loch- 
 ry's force of one hundred men was also 
 annihilated. These atrocities, linked with 
 the startling number of homes and families 
 destroyed, aroused the ire of the border- 
 men. And quite often, after perpetrating 
 many of these vicious crimes, the cunning 
 savages would make a hurried retreat in the 
 direction of Gnadenhiitten, causing many of 
 the unknowing to suspect the Moravian In- 
 dians as the principal culprits, and leading 
 others to think that they at least had a hand 
 in the depredations. 
 
 And so it appeared inevitable that every 
 event that transpired was but a stimulus to 
 the rising anger and ferocity of the Indian 
 fighters toward the humble Christian red 
 men. Conditions were driving fast in the 
 direction of chaos, tragedy, destruction. 
 Multitudinous and varied are the stories 
 that have been told and scattered broadcast, 
 purporting to give a cloak of justice or le- 
 gality to this black crime and to shield the 
 
 26 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 criminals. But truth, mighty, unalterable 
 truth strips bare the falsity of all these sto- 
 ries and leads the honest historian and stu- 
 dent to call the perpetrators of the terrible 
 massacre murderers of innocent men and 
 women and children. 
 
 One story, and perhaps the one most re- 
 lated, pertained to the murder of the Wal- 
 lace family in 1781, which event, the nar- 
 rators tell us, precipitated the movement 
 which consummated in the wiping out of 
 the mission kingdom on the banks of the 
 little Tuscarawas. The apologists have 
 cited with much warmth the burning of the 
 Wallace cabin and the capture of the mother 
 and her three children, whom the savages 
 led away toward Gnadenhiitten. An Indian 
 hunter named Carpenter, who had been cap- 
 tured by the savages, w^as being led over the 
 trail when he is said to have come upon the 
 body of the youngest child at the side of 
 the path where it had been impaled, to have 
 seen the mutilated body of the child's 
 mother, and also to have found, some 
 time later, the bloody garments hidden in 
 one of the cabins at Gnadenhiitten. Then 
 
 27 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 followed the assembling of Williamson's 
 men. 
 
 This story, after diligent search of rec- 
 ords and comparison of credited historical 
 accounts, is found to be only partly true. 
 First of all, the Christian Indians had noth- 
 ing whatever to do with the crime, be- 
 cause at the time of its perpetration, late 
 in the fall of 1781, they w^ere exiles in the 
 northern wilderness ; and furthermore, the 
 finding of the bloody dress in the village is 
 only traditional and, excepting Carpenter, 
 no evidence of its discovery has ever been 
 found. And Carpenter had his dates and 
 details so mixed that even some of his 
 friends doubted his veracity. It is true, 
 however, that the mother and baby were 
 slain in a cruel manner, but the other two 
 children were taken care of. one growing 
 to manhood and the other son dying a 
 natural death. Minus all its falsity, this 
 story is yet most tragic ; still it was not un- 
 like hundreds of such crimes in those days. 
 .\11 things, however, moved towards a cli- 
 max, for the frontiersmen were aroused and 
 thirsted for the life and scalp of the red 
 
 28 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 man, be he heathen or Christian. Only the 
 wreaking of vengeance would satisfy them. 
 
 At the coming of March, 1782, word was 
 passed along the border enjoining all men 
 to assemble and at once march to the Tus- 
 carawas Valley, for the sole purpose of 
 completely destroying the mission towns 
 and their inhabitants. Over the hills and 
 along the valleys of the frontier sped the 
 portending news. With all speed of horse 
 and foot the men hastened to Mingo Bot- 
 tom, the designated rendezvous, eager to 
 spill the red man's blood. They came 
 singly, in pairs, and in squads, and all were 
 men of brawn and daring. Some had hearts 
 of flint and faces that scowled in their in- 
 explicable hatred of the savage. A few 
 loved mercy, but the vast majority knew not 
 the meaning of such a word. 
 
 This company gathered without legal 
 authority, and consequently had no ap- 
 pointed leader. The officer in charge of 
 Fort Pitt, who at this particular time was 
 absent from his post, was kept in the dark 
 concerning the proposed raid and learned of 
 it only when the time for intervention had 
 
 29 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 passed. But with the self-assertion of fear- 
 less men they picked the one whom they 
 considered best suited for such an atrocious 
 task, and this man was none other than 
 Colonel David Williamson, of Pennsylvania. 
 He at once assumed leadership, and at the 
 appointed time the two hundred men who 
 bad assembled began the march. With 
 many ridin.c: and a few walking, the aven- 
 gers advanced carelessly and without order 
 along the trail leading to the "Tents of 
 Grace." No twang of conscience nor feel- 
 ing of fear bothered these men — they had a 
 villainous purpose, and boldly and arro- 
 gantly would they carry it out. 
 
 On Tuesday evening, March 5th, the 
 Pennsylvania militia, as these men called 
 themselves, neared Gnadenhiitten and 
 camped upon the farther side of the hill 
 overlooking the mission town. The follow- 
 ing morning the pioneers held their council 
 and decided to attack the hamlet and de- 
 stroy its inhabitants at once. They moved 
 nearer, and then the company was separated 
 into two detachments ; one was to go for- 
 ward to the river, cross over to the western 
 
 30 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 side, and capture the Indians at work in the 
 cornfields, while the other division was to 
 surround and take the village. 
 
 The first party, on coming near to the 
 river bank, found a lone halfbreed, whom 
 they instantly and mercilessly killed and 
 scalped, although upon his trembling knees 
 he had begged that they might spare his life. 
 They attempted to cross the river, which at 
 this time was somewhat swollen from recent 
 storms. Unable to find a canoe, only six- 
 teen succeeded in reaching the opposite 
 shore, and this they luckily accomplished by 
 means of a large wooden trough which had 
 formerly been used by the Moravians for 
 collecting sap from the maple trees. The 
 little band with more than usual caution 
 ascended the bank. Realizing the utter fu- 
 tility of attacking the large number of In- 
 dians in the fields, the sixteen frontiersmen 
 quickly changed their plans and quietly ap- 
 proached the laborers as friends and breth- 
 ren. They sympathized with the Moravians 
 in their suffering and banishment, and all 
 the while mingled with them as they joy- 
 ously gathered the grain. This was to be 
 
 31 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 the last day of gathering, as they expected 
 to begin the return to their fellow-Chris- 
 tians at Captive's Town on the following 
 rnorning. But, alas ! that was never to be. 
 After numerous and varied fraternal inqui- 
 ries and words of compassion and solicitude 
 the border-men told the Indians that they 
 should prepare for a journey to Pittsburgh, 
 where they and their starving brethren 
 would be given food and homes. Pitts- 
 burgh, or Fort Pitt, as it was then com- 
 monly called, was a very dear name to the 
 meek Moravian red men. The commandant 
 there had always shown his friendship for 
 them, and upon receiving such an invitation, 
 which apparently came from Colonel Gib- 
 son, of Fort Pitt, the Indians with one ac- 
 cord believed implicitly in the veracity of 
 the white men. Gladly giving expression 
 to their eagerness to comply with the wishes 
 of their professed friends, they immediately 
 laid aside their work and began the return 
 to the "Tents of Grace" to make ready for 
 the journey to what appeared to them to be 
 a land flowing with the milk of abundant 
 prosperity and the honey of unmolested 
 liberty. -^2 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 In the meantime the other division had 
 entered the village. At its outskirts some 
 of the men had found, hiding among the 
 hazel bushes, a defenseless man and his 
 wife, whom they quickly murdered. The 
 town being empty of all inhabitants, the 
 border-men took complete possession and 
 awaited the approach of their companions 
 and the Indians from the cornfields across 
 the river. When they did finally come near, 
 those occupying the hamlet noted the seem- 
 ing friendship that existed among the red 
 and white men, and intuitively grasping the 
 situation, also accosted the Moravians as 
 friends. After a profusion of further greet- 
 ings and questions the frontiersmen casually 
 suggested that if the Indians would give 
 their weapons over into the safe-keeping of 
 their white friends they could immediately 
 begin to get ready for the pilgrimage to 
 Fort Pitt. The Moravians agreed to this 
 suggestion, turned over all their arms, and 
 with a will set to work hunting up and gath- 
 ering together their belongings. 
 
 One of the Moravian teachers, John Mar- 
 tin, and his son on their way to Salem came 
 
 3 33 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 near Gnadenhiitten at this unlucky hour. 
 Noticing the presence of other people in the 
 valley than their brown brethren, the twain 
 rode nearer to the village. On seeing the 
 Americans going to and fro among the In- 
 dians, the missionary hastily concluded that 
 the blessing of protection and liberty had 
 come to his people — that for which he had 
 long hoped and prayed. Sending his son 
 to the ''Tents of Grace" to apprise the 
 Americans and his brethren that he had 
 gone to Salem with the good tidings of 
 temporal salvation, he hurried on with a 
 light heart, dreaming of better days for the 
 Moravian Indians. Salem, it must be re- 
 membered, was about five miles below Gna- 
 denhiitten, and its site was near the present 
 \illage of Port Washington. 
 
 After a short consultation with the Chris- 
 tian red men, Martin, accompanied by two 
 of the older and more educated men from 
 Salem, liastened back to the "Tents of 
 Grace." The trio, speaking in behalf of 
 their brethren, gladj^v accepted the proffered 
 protection of the Americans and asked that 
 a small guard bo sent with them to lead 
 
 34 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 back their fellow-Moravians from Salem. 
 This request was granted, but the sending 
 of the men was put off until the following 
 morning. The remainder of the day they 
 put to good use by helping the unsuspect- 
 ing Moravians to bring together all their 
 treasures and goods. Early Thursday 
 morning, March 7th, a band of the border- 
 men, with the two veteran Indians as guides, 
 marched off, purposing to bring back the 
 red men who had been laboring in the fields 
 near Salem. When the company reached 
 its destination the workers were found al- 
 ready assembled and anxiously waiting the 
 coming of their deliverers. With all speed 
 they began to return to Gnadenhiitten, from 
 which place the entire body of Moravians 
 v/as to start on the journey to Pittsburgh. 
 
 But back in the mission town of erstwhile 
 prosperity and peace things had taken a 
 turn. The valuable and treasured goods, 
 which the Moravians had hidden before 
 they were driven into the north some few 
 months previous, had -all been unearthed 
 and brought together, and everything was 
 in readiness for the departure. It would be 
 
 35 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 easy now for the avengers to accomplish 
 their purpose and then flee with the spoils. 
 This, indeed, was the border-men's oppor- 
 tunity. Without warning and w'ithout de- 
 lay they sprang upon the helpless Indians, 
 made them captives, and imprisoned them 
 in two houses : the men and boys were 
 placed in one, while the women and chil- 
 dren were thrust into another. 
 
 When the ^loravians from Salem came 
 upon the bloody spot where Schebosh, the 
 halfbreed, had been killed the day before, 
 they naturally were startled and amazed. 
 They turned to question their pretended de- 
 liverers, but before they could speak the 
 Americans had pounced upon them. Tying 
 their hands and otherwise making escape 
 impossible, the white men led them into the 
 villa.c^e. and immediately they were placed 
 in the caljins with their brethren. Now, in- 
 stead of the friendly words and the cordial 
 greetings, the Moravians heard only the 
 wild curses and diabolical taunts of their 
 villainous captors. The friendship of the 
 Americans was changed to the merciless 
 cruelty of enemies thirsting for the blo<id 
 
 ,16 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 of their captives. The insanity of insatiable 
 vengeance dominated. Justice had de- 
 parted, and mercy was dead. 
 
 Wilhamson's men held a council. What 
 should be done with their captives ? Should 
 they be taken direct to Fort Pitt as prison- 
 ers of war or should they at once be slaugh- 
 tered? The major number of the men out- 
 spokenly favored the latter plan, but there 
 were in the company a few who apparently 
 preferred the former. Due to the disagree- 
 ment that was in evidence, a long discussion 
 ensued, wherein every man had the privi- 
 lege of airing his opinions, and many did 
 so with no little profanity and a notable 
 paucity of logic. A trial then followed, 
 and a make-believe one it was, too ! The In- 
 dians pleaded their innocence of the charge 
 that they were criminals, explained their 
 honorable intentions, spoke of their friendly 
 interest in the American cause, reiterated 
 their simple belief in the Christian religion, 
 and enunciated their disbelief in war. Some 
 of the frontiersmen wavered at the red 
 men's honest plea, and no unanimous con- 
 clusion could be reached. The so-called 
 
 37 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 trial ended. To settle the discussion a vote 
 was decided on. All the men were drawn 
 up in line, and Colonel Williamson, in ring- 
 ing tones, commanded that all who favored 
 taking the Moravian Indians to Pittsburgh 
 as prisoners should step forward and form 
 a second rank. Of the two hundred men 
 only eighteen moved forward. The ques- 
 tion was settled, the die cast. Upon flimsy 
 allegations they were to murder innocent 
 Christians — men, women, and children, who 
 worshiped the same God and lived better 
 and purer lives than they, the assassins. 
 
 Several of the Americans desired to set 
 fire to the houses and at the same time cre- 
 mate all the Indians and completely wipe 
 out the village. The greater number, how- 
 ever, wished to kill and scalp the prisoners 
 one by one, and then, after this was done, 
 to set the cabins on fire. The purpose was 
 to proceed at once with the massacre ; but 
 the Moravians earnestly pleaded that as 
 Cliristians they be given until the following 
 morning to make ready for the grim death 
 that awaited them. The request was finally 
 granted, and the border-men prepared to 
 
 38 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 spend the night pleasantly, further deliber- 
 ating on the best means of accomplishing 
 their murderous intents and in giving them- 
 selves up to slumber and carouse. 
 
 At first the Indians were overwhelmed by 
 the announcement of the massacre. The 
 consternation that fell upon those meek and 
 credulous men and women, boys and girls, 
 can scarcely be described. Men and women 
 moaned and wept, while the voices of chil- 
 dren rose in strident cries and wails. All 
 repeatedly protested their innocence and 
 craved freedom. But all was in vain — no 
 ear heeded their pleadings. After the first 
 hour of bitter weeping and dread despair 
 the consciousness of their firm faith in God 
 and of their innocence gave them renewed 
 courage and strength when thus brought 
 face to face with their inexorable fate. 
 Such strength and courage came to the 
 Christian red men as came to the devout 
 martyrs who, in Nero's time, sang songs of 
 triumph while they waited, in the Roman 
 arena, for the hungry lions to pounce upon 
 them. And then conditions changed in the 
 two cabins, and all prepared to spend their 
 
 39 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 last hours of life in meditation, exhortation, 
 prayer, and song. 
 
 The night — black, portending night — 
 wore slowly on. Within the prison-houses 
 the Moravians in subdued and vibrant tones 
 sang their hymns and offered up their 
 prayers, beseeching the protection and care 
 of the Infinite One in their time of extrem- 
 ity. Some of the better-educated men and 
 women exhorted and gave encouragement 
 to their more timid friends, and those who 
 had harbored any ill-feelings against their 
 neighbors forgave and were forgiven. Al- 
 though the hours crept by but slowly, yet 
 they held not the fear and despair of the 
 hour just following the terrible death-edict. 
 And as the prayers and songs of faith and 
 triumph ever and anon reached the ears of 
 the wild and revengeful Americans many 
 grew strangely calm and thoughtful, while 
 some of the less heartless ones, believing in 
 and touched by the sincerity of the devo- 
 tions of the Moravians, slipped away 
 through the shades of darkness, climbed 
 the hill just back of the village, and spent 
 the night where they heard not the exhorta- 
 
 40 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 tions, prayers, and songs. But by the 
 greater number of the Americans the devo- 
 tions of their Christian prisoners were un- 
 heeded. Such worship touched no respon- 
 sive chords in the hearts of the border-men 
 who crowded about their commander. 
 Colonel David Williamson. 
 
 The new day dawned — it was Friday, the 
 memorable eighth day of March, 1782. The 
 day was fine, and neither shadow nor cloud 
 presaged the approaching tragedy. Coming 
 from the cabins still could be heard the fer- 
 vent supplications and trimphant hymns. 
 To the inquiry if they were ready to die, 
 the Moravian Indians gave this heroic re- 
 ply: "We are ready. Jesus, to whom we 
 have committed our souls, gives us the as- 
 surance that He will receive us." 
 
 Immediately the awful massacre began. 
 Two cabins were designated as "slaughter- 
 houses." One, the cooper-shop formerly 
 used by Joshua, the Mohican elder, was 
 selected in which to kill the men and boys, 
 and another building nearby was chosen in 
 which to slay the women and children. A 
 native Pennsylvanian, whose name has long 
 
 41 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 since been forgotten, had charge of the 
 massacring of the males, and it is told of 
 him that, on entering the cabin, he seized 
 a large mallet from the work-bench, re- 
 marking as he did so, ''This exactly suits 
 the business in hand." The captives, now in 
 a fair measure completely resigned to their 
 terrible fate, were bound and led into the 
 "slaughter-houses" two at a time. The first 
 to receive the deathblow from the mallet 
 was Abraham, the oldest of the victims, 
 whose long, shaggy gray hair had caused 
 some of the assassins to previously remark, 
 "What a fine scalp this will make !" One 
 after another of the doomed was roughly 
 brought forward, given the fatal blow, 
 scalped, and left lying upon the floor. 
 Upon receiving the first blow some of the 
 victims started up dazed and stunned, but 
 with a second blow they would reel, stag- 
 ger, and fall to the floor beside their dead 
 and dying comrades. 
 
 Some loudly begged for mercy, some 
 prayed, and still others remained silent as 
 the instrument of destruction was lifted 
 above their heads. The prayers and cries 
 
 42 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 of the doomed, the arrogant profanity of 
 the executioners, the dull, sickening thud 
 of the mallet or tomahawk as it sunk itself 
 in the skulls of the ^Moravians — all these 
 varied sounds intermingled most unharmo- 
 niously. 
 
 In both cabins the lifeblood of the Chris- 
 tian Indians discolored the puncheon floors 
 and ran in rivulets across the boards and 
 streamed through the cracks to the cavelike 
 cellars beneath. The males were slain 
 first, and then came the slaughter of the 
 women and the little children. The first one 
 of the females to be massacred was Judith, 
 an educated and beloved leader among the 
 women of the mission towns. It is also 
 authentically told that one woman, who 
 spoke English fluently, when led into the 
 chamber of death fell to her knees before 
 Williamson and begged for his mercy. He 
 scornfully replied, "I can not help you." 
 And thus without pause the horrible, blood- 
 chilling work went on until ninety persons 
 had been cruelly murdered: twenty-nine 
 men, twenty-seven women, eleven girls, 
 eleven boys, and twelve infants. In all 
 
 43 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 ninety-six were massacred, six of whom met 
 death at the hands of the Americans in or 
 about the towns previous to the general 
 slaughter. 
 
 The massacre was over, and an appalling 
 sight the ^'slaughter-houses" presented! 
 The floors of both buildings were covered 
 with lifeless bodies huddled indiscriminately 
 here and there in great pools of blood. In 
 one corner might be seen a father and in 
 another his son ; or here might be a mother, 
 and there, separated by a heap, perhaps, was 
 her babe of a few weeks. No just man 
 could have gazed upon that scene without 
 feeling, for the time at least, that there 
 was no justice and no mercy under the sun, 
 and that the innocent suffered for the sins 
 of the guilty. 
 
 But two boys, Jacob and Thomas, es- 
 caped. They were both scalped, but the 
 blov.'s from the mallet had only stunned 
 them. After loosing his bonds Jacob cau- 
 tiously slipped through a trap-door into the 
 cellar. Here, with the blood of his friends 
 slowly dripping upon him, and with terror 
 written on every ligament of his face, he 
 
 44 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 crouched in a corner until evening, when 
 he squeezed through the one small window 
 and fled into the woods. Thomas lay quiet, 
 feigning death, until nightfall, when he 
 carefully crept over the dead bodies of his 
 brethren and ran off to the forest, where he 
 came upon Jacob after a short search. To- 
 gether they hurried to Schonbrunn to warn 
 their friends at that place of the impending 
 danger and relate to them the tragedy of 
 the "Tents of Grace." Abel, another boy 
 who had only been stunned by the execu- 
 tioner's blow, was in the act of making his 
 escape when one of the murderers espied 
 him. A blow from a tomahawk quickly 
 laid low the last of the Indian martyrs. 
 Another lad, named Benjamin, younger 
 than either Jacob or Thomas, is said to have 
 been saved in some way, and tradition has 
 it that when the Moravians were captured 
 this youngster's comeliness so attracted the 
 attention of a young minister that he. 
 against the wishes of his companions, took 
 the lad from among the prisoners. The 
 sweetheart of the preacher had been mur- 
 dered by the savages, and he had joined the 
 
 45 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 border-men to avenge her death. (3n reach- 
 ing the mission town and hearing the story 
 of its inhabitants, however, he became con- 
 fident of the innocence of the Christian red 
 men and refused to take part in the mas- 
 sacre. It is further told that the minister 
 cared for the lad until he had grown to 
 manhood, at which time the call of his 
 heritage had become so loud and insistent 
 that he gave way to it and returned to his 
 tribe. 
 
 Others of the hundred and eighty-two 
 men voting for the slaughter of the inno- 
 cent, like the young divine, after more 
 thought hesitated upon taking an active part 
 in the annihilation. Consequently the num- 
 ber of men who actually did the work of 
 binding and leading forth, of slaying and 
 scalping the Moravians, was not nearly so 
 many as vauntingly had entered the Tusca- 
 rawas Valley for that purpose. However, 
 in this day and age we can not look upon 
 even the silent onlookers of such a mon- 
 strous deed with any degree of condescen- 
 sion, for while in the sight of a few they 
 
 46 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 may not be so mired in the crime, yet they 
 were part and parcel of the criminals. 
 
 After securing all the plunder possible, 
 they applied burning brands to every build- 
 ing in the town — nothing was to remain of 
 the mission town save its memory. As the 
 flames from the burning homes raised their 
 accusing light, the men in wild revelry rode 
 away, never dreaming that they had been 
 the perpetrators of a crime that would for- 
 ever mark the darkest and most disgraceful 
 page in the entire history of the white man's 
 treatment of his red brother. The curtain 
 had fallen, the tragedy had ended, and for 
 cold-blooded cruelty its equal has never 
 been enacted by civilized man. Thus the 
 fruit of ten years' arduous labor was appar- 
 ently lost. The dream of Christian empire 
 that had for so short a time come to reality 
 was no more — nor was it ever possible 
 again. 
 
 Bowed down under the burden of sadness 
 and scattered hopes which fell upon the mis- 
 sionary, David Zeisberger, after hearing of 
 the massacre, he was led to write in his 
 
 47 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 diary on April 8, 1872, these sentences: 
 "Nowhere is a place to be found to which we 
 can retire with our Indians and be secure. 
 The world is all too narrow. From the 
 white people, or so-called Christians, we 
 can hope for no protection, and among the 
 heathen we have no friends, such outlaws 
 are we!" 
 
 As to what finally became of the male- 
 factors, little is known. Finding the coun- 
 try at large detesting such inhumanity, 
 those who had a hand in the crime tried 
 to hold their knowledge of it in secret. 
 Nevertheless the particulars crept out in 
 odd ways and at divers times. The more 
 bold had circulated many stories of the Mo- 
 ravians in a strenuous effort to throw the 
 blame for the massacre from their own 
 shoulders, but the more conscientious and 
 timid told the truth ; and all these facts, 
 link'ed with the stories of the two escaped 
 boys, give ample authentic history of the 
 tragedy of the "Tents of Grace." 
 
 Some sixteen years later, 1798, kind 
 friends gathered up the bleached bones and 
 gave them decent burial at the eds^e of the 
 
 48 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 destroyed hamlet. An attempt at refound- 
 ing the mission was made in 1798 at 
 Goshen, near Schonbrunn, but the rapid 
 coming of the white settlers had such a de- 
 morahzing influence among the Indians that 
 they soon had to be taken elsewhere. The 
 white settlers founded the new Gnadenhiit- 
 ten the same year, and although it grew 
 slowly, yet it was a thrifty German farming 
 center. 
 
 To-day a tall shaft, erected in 1872, 
 marks the spot where the ninety martyrs 
 met death. Three grassy mounds point out 
 the resting-place of the bones of the In- 
 dians, the site of the old mission church, 
 and the spot where stood the cooper-shop 
 which had been used, you will remember, as 
 one of the ''slaughter-houses." A little far- 
 ther away, imbedded in concrete, is a part 
 of the tombstone that had been erected over 
 the grave of the beloved Joshua, the Mohi- 
 can elder of the "Tents of Grace," giving 
 the date of his death as August 5, 1775. 
 Here and there can also be seen two or 
 three depressions in the earth's surface 
 which once had been the cellars beneath the 
 
 4 49 
 
The Tents of Grace 
 
 homes of some thrifty Christian Indians. 
 And what was the site of old Gnadenhiitten 
 is the large and beautiful cemetery and 
 monument grounds of the Gnadenhiitten of 
 the present. 
 
 50 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 With wide-opened eyes and tightly-gripped 
 weapon the man halted, stooped, and peered 
 among the trees. A breaking twig, he 
 thought; and that, when no wind stirred, 
 proclaimed the presence of life. Perhaps 
 it was his victim. The blood leaped hot 
 within his veins demanding vengeance. He 
 strained his eyes, listened, and waited. Not 
 a sound fell upon his ears. The awesome 
 silence of the primeval forest alone was ap- 
 parent. It must have been a bird stirring 
 in one of the trees, thought the dark, keen- 
 eyed man as he hastened on through the 
 narrow valley, following even more closely 
 than ever the well-nigh hidden trail. 
 
 Long hours and many miles had been left 
 behind as he hurried on. Cunning as he 
 was he felt himself matched now, but still 
 the eternal hatred gave him renewed energ}' 
 to continue the hunt. Always he had 
 
 SI 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 thirsted for the blood of the red man. 
 Perhaps it was because of his ancestors — all 
 men of brawn and battle ; or, maybe, it was 
 the spirit of the border. But now he had 
 cause for a feeling of hatred an hundred- 
 fold more intense than ever before ; for not 
 twenty-four hours had left their marks of 
 intermingled sorrow and rage upon his 
 brow since some vagrant had touched a 
 brand to his little cabin and laid low his 
 young wife with a blow from the fatal 
 tomahawk. He had been up at Fort Pitt 
 securing some needed supplies, and at noon 
 had reached what was once his home, as 
 the dying flames derisively flung themselves 
 skyward. At once the frontiersman looked 
 about for some signs of the departed des- 
 peradoes, and strange as it seemed, so far 
 from an Indian village, the moccasin tracks 
 of but one person were discerned. So, fear- 
 ing little that he might come upon a band 
 of savages, he immediately had set out. 
 
 Hours ago he had left behind the Ohio 
 River flowing tranquilly on to the Father 
 of Rivers, and over many hills and along 
 numerous streams he had hurried after his 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 prey, until in the afternoon of the day fol- 
 lowing the crime he must have been more 
 than fifty miles from Fort Henry, not far 
 from which had been situated his home. 
 
 Harder and harder became the task of 
 keeping on the trail. Stratagems, he knew, 
 were being used to lead him away from his 
 proposed victim, but with the stubborn 
 tenacity of a great purpose, born of un- 
 quenchable hatred, he kept on. At last, 
 when the sun had almost hid itself, he came 
 to the base of a gently sloping hill and 
 halted. Bending, he examined the turf on 
 all sides, retraced his steps a few feet, and 
 came back, a sense of failure coming over 
 him. So far he knew he had followed the 
 trail closely, continually; but here at the 
 foot of the hill it seemed to end. No tracks, 
 no marks, no broken twigs or crushed 
 leaves gave evidence that any one had 
 passed beyond this point. Possibly his 
 enemy was hidden in the undergrowth on 
 the hillside waiting his approach; but no 
 bird uttered a note of fright nor fluttered 
 nervously about, as is usual when anything 
 other than bird and beast infests the forest. 
 
 S3 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 Without fear, and yet guardedly, he moved 
 eastward and then westward, hoping to 
 come upon some sign that would betray the 
 direction the savage had taken. This effort 
 was futile. Then he ascended the hill till 
 he came to an open place, not unlike a di- 
 minutive plain tucked away from its wonted 
 place and surrounded by trees. Disap- 
 pointed and chagrined at his inability to fol- 
 low his eneniy, the man raised his eyes from 
 the ground and looked about him — first at 
 the upturned bowl of sky, and then at the 
 rivulet and the woodland that stretched 
 away on every side, like some magnificent 
 garden of the Cyclops. 
 
 Suddenly and unexpectedly his gaze 
 ceased to wander and his face became rigid 
 and flushed — flushed with the fever of his 
 passion for the red man's blood. To his 
 right, not an hundred yards away, he saw 
 faint clouds of smoke floating up from 
 among the trees. There was his victim. 
 
 Again he was the Indian fighter, fierce, 
 bold, determined. Quietly, shrewdly he 
 hastened from the open place into the for- 
 est and, gliding from tree to tree, he crept 
 
 54 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 upon his foe, who doubtlessly was prepar- 
 ing his evening meal, wholly unaware of the 
 proximity of his enemy. On through the 
 undergrowth and among the trees he si- 
 lently sped until, not fifty feet away from 
 his hiding-place behind a great oak, the 
 hunter saw a solitary Indian sitting on his 
 haunches before a small fire. 
 
 The time for vengeance had come. He 
 raised his long rifle and steadied it against 
 his shoulder. His eye, following along the 
 sights of the barrel, rested on the breast of 
 his victim. His eye was true. Never had 
 he missed his aim. A moment more, and 
 the savage would be writhing in the death- 
 struggle. Then taking a full breath, with 
 finger against the trigger, he watched the 
 redskin as he sat before the fire of sticks 
 and leaves. How he despised the red man ! 
 His finger pressed more heavily against the 
 trigger. 
 
 A strange sound, a distant echo, now low 
 and soft, and now more distinct, came from 
 over and beyond the hill's crest. The 
 hunter's finger relaxed. Still came the 
 sound — tinkle, tinkle, tinkle ! Away back 
 
 55 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 in Boston in his boyhood days he had heard 
 similar sounds ; it was the ringing of a bell. 
 What did it mean? 
 
 Strange stories which he had heard at 
 Fort Henry came to his mind — stories of 
 the "Tents of Grace," beautiful hamlet of 
 the Moravians, and how each morning at 
 sunrise and each evening at sunset the bell 
 on the little mission church called the lowly 
 red men and women to prayer. 
 
 Wondering, the hunter turned to the sav- 
 age and again raised his rifle. Then, as his 
 eyes noted the details, the stories which he 
 had heard and thought of only as mythical 
 became realistic. 
 
 The Indian no longer sat in repose before 
 the blazing coals, but stood erect, with arms 
 folded and head bowed. No longer the un- 
 tamed red man of history, he understood 
 the call of the bell and gave heed — he 
 prayed to the white man's God. 
 
 Slowly the passion for the blood of this 
 Indian abated and was still. The frontiers- 
 man lowered the rifle, glanced at the Chris- 
 tian Delaware, and then hastened away, 
 
 S6 
 
The Voice in the Primitive 
 
 only a little later to find the lost trail and 
 hurry on over the hill, beyond the ''Tents 
 of Grace,'' and north toward the Wyandotte 
 town. 
 
 57 
 
After Many Years 
 
 The twilight fast gives way to the gather- 
 ing gloom of night's shadows. Another 
 day, after giving to Edward Hillmann its 
 full quota of health-building enjoyment, has 
 passed to Him who gave it; and now Hill- 
 mann sits, idly enough, in an easy rocker 
 upon the piazza of his boyhood's home. 
 The man's mind, however, is far from idle. 
 He is laying ingenious plans for the work 
 he is to do, the battles he is to fight, and the 
 victories he has vowed to win when this 
 life in God's out-doors shall have given 
 him back the superb physical manhood of 
 yesterday. 
 
 In the house Hillmann's sister busies her- 
 self with her usual after-dinner tasks. 
 When these are finished she throws aside 
 her apron and passes into the parlor, there 
 to commune with her beloved piano. And 
 no sooner did the girl's skillful fingers be- 
 gin to draw from the instrument the di- 
 vine soul of melody, which God Himself 
 
 59 
 
After Many Years 
 
 must have placed therein, than Hillmann's 
 plans are cast aside for future consideration 
 and he has no longer any power or sense 
 save an ear to hear and a soul to appreciate. 
 Then, as the girl begins playing an old, 
 sweet selection, a favorite of another day, 
 the man gains another sense — even an eye 
 to see, to see, not the present or the future, 
 but a scene from the archives of his past. 
 
 There is a far-away village, there is a 
 stately mansion, there is a parlor sumptu- 
 ously yet modestly furnished, there is a 
 young man — Hillmann himself — comfort- 
 ably lounging amid the depths of a huge 
 rocker; and last, there is a girl seated at a 
 piano playing the same soft snatch of song. 
 
 To look into the young man's eyes as he 
 gazes at the girl is to know that, to him at 
 least, she is the maiden beautiful, the chef- 
 d'oeuvre of the Master Builder. 
 
 But love's path often takes a spiteful turn 
 and a multitude of rocks appear. And so 
 it is that after the selection is finished, and 
 while these young folks are talking, as all 
 lovers do and should, a trivial word is 
 spoken, a wrong construction is placed upon 
 
 60 
 
After Many Years 
 
 it, jealousy stalks in, a lively quarrel en- 
 sues, and in a few brief moments the girl 
 is lying on the floor crying as though her 
 heart has been broken, while the man, with 
 hands tightly clenched, is walking swiftly 
 away from the house which has held and 
 still holds — although he would not admit it 
 now — all that he holds dear. 
 
 Hillmann's sister has ceased playing and 
 taken her seat beside him on the wide pi- 
 azza, but he does not see her. The vision 
 of the past still holds sway over him and 
 he sees the events since that night of fate 
 pass, one by one, before him, this being 
 their purport: 
 
 He longed to ask her forgiveness and be 
 reinstated into her favor, but he was a 
 worthy descendant of a long line of un- 
 yielding men, and the days passed fruit- 
 lessly by. After a while business called 
 him to a permanent residence in a great 
 city many miles to the north, and soon 
 thereafter he heard that Marie Ayres had 
 gone abroad and so ended his knowledge 
 concerning her. He tried to forget her and 
 to imagine that they had but indulged in a 
 
 6i 
 
After Many Years 
 
 harmless flirtation. Although he appeared 
 to the world as a strong, genial man of af- 
 fairs, he knew that there must ever be an 
 aching void which the years could not en- 
 tirely fill. 
 
 Hillmann did find a peace, however, a tu- 
 multuous peace, which almost satisfied his 
 wants. Being well versed in politics and 
 having some ability as a speaker and writer, 
 he decided to give up his clerical position 
 and enter the political world, espousing a 
 rising reform party. Although stigmatized 
 a crank, a fanatic, and a fool, he enjoyed 
 his chosen work, and soon came to believe 
 that it was his calling. His past disappoint- 
 ments, he felt, were designed to show him 
 that he must labor in behalf of humanity, 
 be a friend of the oppressed. 
 
 As the weeks passed into months, and the 
 months into years, he worked harder and 
 accomplished the greater results. Becom- 
 ing noted as a vote-winner the scope of his 
 work broadened until he became well 
 known throughout his own State and those 
 surrounding it as a practical and sagacious 
 poHtician. 
 
 62 
 
After Many Years 
 
 The longer he remained in the service the 
 more fascinating it became, and he grew 
 ambitious for poHtical honors. Several 
 times he accepted his party's nomination for 
 minor offices, each time going down to de- 
 feat. But Hillmann was not discouraged, 
 for he saw the party slowly but surely grow 
 from a mere handful to a vast multitude 
 that would soon carry all the elections. 
 
 At last the time he had dreamed of drew 
 near, and Hillmann saw that his party's 
 prospects for carrying the coming State 
 election were most excellent, but his share 
 of the work which brought about these 
 prospects made it necessary that he should 
 consult his physician. 
 
 "Threatened with a complete physical 
 collapse ... a month's rest in the coun- 
 try," was the verdict; and being a man of 
 sense, Hillmann went back to his boyhood's 
 home, where he was now regaining his lost 
 vigor and trying not to care that this very 
 day had ushered in the convention which 
 was to have meant so much to him. 
 
 The pale moon grows brighter and 
 brighter as it sails slowlv, majestically 
 
 63 
 
After Many Years 
 
 across the dusky dome of sky. One by one 
 the twinkHng stars appear. TwiHght has 
 given place to the night, whose coming it 
 ever forecasts. 
 
 ''Mister ! Mister !" The words cause the 
 man to break forcibly away from his rev- 
 erie, and he sees a messenger standing be- 
 fore him. 
 
 "Are you Edward S. Hillmann?" 
 *'Yes," he answers, taking the message 
 the boy tenders. Entering the dimly-lighted 
 hallway, he turns up the gas, opens the tele- 
 gram, and reads: 
 
 "Edward S. Hillmann — Your presence at con- 
 vention imperative. You may be nominee. Come 
 at once. 
 
 McDowell, Chairman." 
 
 Hastily writing an affirmative reply, he 
 passes back to the piazza and hands it to 
 the messenger, who immediately disappears 
 in the gloom of the tree-lined driveway. 
 
 O, that it might be true that the great 
 honor he had expected to work for upon 
 the convention floor would now come to 
 him as an unsought reward for his years of 
 labor and sacrifice, and that upon the eve 
 
 64 
 
After Many Years 
 
 of victory ! With this thought in his mind 
 Hilhnann hastly prepares for his entrance 
 upon the scene of action. All lassitude and 
 weakness have passed from him, and in the 
 shortest possible space of time he is speed- 
 ing over the rails toward the State capital. 
 
 The train draws up at the depot, and Ed- 
 ward S. Hillmann, genial politician, steps 
 out of the smoking-coach and into a cab 
 that has been sent for his use. The sun, 
 four hours high, sheds a glorious warmth 
 through the cab's open window, bathing the 
 prospective candidate in a glow which 
 seems to him a presage of success. 
 
 A delegation of Hillmann's political 
 friends stands near the curb in front of the 
 convention building awaiting his coming. 
 He is conducted, at his request, by way of 
 a side entrance to a room back of the plat- 
 form. The chairman welcomes him almost 
 before he has time to enter the room. Their 
 hands meet in a long, strong clasp of friend- 
 ship. 
 
 ''Glad to see you, Ed ; your 're just in 
 time. Nominations come off soon. I 've 
 saved you a seat on the platform ; so come 
 on." 65 
 
After Many Years 
 
 "No, Will ; if it 's all the same to you, 
 I 'd rather rest here a few minutes. I 've 
 not yet gotten back my full health, and my 
 long ride has tired me." 
 
 A few moments are spent in conversing 
 about minor matters, then Chairman Mc- 
 Dowell goes upon the platform to attend 
 to the manifold duties of his office, leaving 
 Hillniann to follow at his pleasure. 
 
 The long ride has made the man tired, 
 indeed, and forgetting the high honors 
 which may be in store for him, he falls 
 asleep. An hour passing finds him still 
 sleeping soundly, but the awakening time is 
 near; for in the auditorium the people are 
 calling, "Hillmann ! Hillmann !" 
 
 McDowell himself passes into the ante- 
 room and awakens the sleeper. 
 
 ''Man! Man!" he whispers, as Hillmann 
 rubs his heavy eyelids, "you are the man 
 of the hour. Come, the people call for their 
 candidate." 
 
 As one in a dream, Hillmann follows the 
 chairman to the platform. He scarcely 
 hears the brief, well-chosen remarks of in- 
 troduction, nor yet the cheering which fol- 
 
 66 
 
After Many Years 
 
 lows as he takes his stand before the vast 
 audience. 
 
 What is it that these people expect of 
 him, that their eyes need be fastened so 
 steadily upon him? Then, as a realization 
 of the meaning of it all comes to him, he 
 trembles, and an overwhelming sense of his 
 utter unworthiness of this great honor ren- 
 ders him speechless. He has gained fame 
 as a fluent talker, but now he strives ear- 
 nestly to grasp from the unwonted empti- 
 ness of his mind a few appropriate words 
 to say, and cannot. 
 
 The people, however, note neither the 
 trembling nor the struggle; they only see 
 the man who is to lead their party to vic- 
 tory, and they rise to their feet, cheering 
 vociferously and waving hats and handker- 
 chiefs. 
 
 Hillmann smiles and bows his head in 
 appreciation. His heart is palpitating 
 loudly, and he blushes for fear that those 
 sitting near may hear it. 
 
 Eight thousand eyes are upon him, eight 
 thousand ears are alert to hear every word 
 he may utter. He gazes vacantlv at this 
 
 67 
 
After Many Years 
 
 great sea of humanity, and his heart, still 
 beating like a mighty trip-hammer, seems 
 to come up into his throat, choking him un- 
 til his breath comes only in long-drawn 
 gasps. He feels that he can never speak, 
 and yet he dares not fail. For a few mo- 
 ments his eyes roam aimlessly about, pass- 
 ing and repassing the numerous eyes before 
 him, then a particular pair of eyes attracts 
 him — and he is looking up into old familiar 
 depths of the long ago. 
 
 "My God !" he mutters beneath his 
 breath, ''it is Marie, Marie." 
 
 This sudden sight of the woman he has 
 loved — yes, and still loves — looking down 
 as she is from the front tier of seats in the 
 balcony into his face, seems to add the fin- 
 ishing touch to his helplessness. In an in- 
 stant, however, Marie turns her head, and 
 as she does so Hillmann thinks he sees a 
 tear glistening upon her dark lashes. The 
 tear appears to be just what he needs, for 
 as the people are beginning to wonder at 
 his silence, he speaks. 
 
 For fully an hour he talks, encouraging 
 his comrades to buckle tighter their armor 
 
 68 
 
After Many Years 
 
 and g'o into the campaign to win. From 
 desultory remarks he advances into flights 
 of oratory which hold his hearers spell- 
 bound as he moves on and on until he 
 reaches a powerful climax. Then the 
 crowd goes wild, and people rush pellmell 
 to the platform to grasp the hand of this 
 modern Cincinnatus, this man who has been 
 called from the ranks to be their leader. 
 
 But Hillmann cares not at all for this 
 applause and these handshakings. His 
 thoughts are love-songs to the woman who 
 inspired his speech, alternating with vows 
 that he will find her and claim her as his 
 own. 
 
 The remainder of the day is spent among 
 political friends and the evening is devoted 
 to a great banquet, but when the next morn- 
 ing is ushered in Hillmann begins his 
 search. The directory fails to disclose any 
 Miss Marie among the city's Ayers' so he is 
 compelled to turn to very uncertain and 
 tedious ways. Friend after friend he calls 
 aside, questioning each more skillfully than 
 a tactful woman could, naming and describ- 
 ing the woman in so casual a way that not 
 
 69 
 
After Many Years 
 
 one of them dreams that a favorable answer 
 would mean more to the questioner than the 
 satisfaction of a passing curiosity. Just as 
 he is beginning to fear that a house to 
 house canvass of the city will be necessary 
 his inquiries are successful. A friend, 
 recognizing the description as fitting a 
 woman he has seen upon the piazza of a 
 certain house, gives him the proper direc- 
 tions. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Hillmann wends 
 his way toward the house where dwells his 
 beloved. His nerves seem drawn tense and 
 his heart is filled with pleasant anticipations. 
 Can it be possible that just as he is about to 
 become the State executive he is to be 
 blessed with the greater joy of love's re- 
 turn? Verily, God's favors come in show- 
 ers. 
 
 Hillmann reaches the house, ascends the 
 steps leading to the veranda and presses the 
 button of the electric bell. The door is 
 opened by an elderly woman, who ushers 
 him into the drawing room. Handing the 
 woman his card he asks her to take it to her 
 mistress. 
 
 70 
 
After Many Years 
 
 As the moments pass Hillmann begins to 
 wonder if Marie really lives here. Suppose 
 his friend has been mistaken or he has mis- 
 taken his friend's directions ; what excuse 
 can he give for this intrusion? He hears 
 the rustle of skirts upon the carpet and he 
 sees a woman coming toward him. There 
 has been no mistake, for he is looking into 
 those eyes which he saw yesterday for the 
 first time since the happy days of the long 
 ago. 
 
 For a moment the two stand silent. Then 
 Hillmann springs forward with arms out- 
 stretched and clasps the woman in a pas- 
 sionate embrace. Marie does not resist. 
 She clings to him, her warm breath fanning 
 his flushed cheeks, her great eyes looking up 
 into his, telling over and over the old, old 
 story — the sweetest story ever told. Ah, 
 this is happiness of which the man has never 
 dreamed. Politics and political ways are 
 nothing ; fame and power are trivial things. 
 Love only is man's highest destiny. Love 
 is life. 
 
 But belated happiness sometimes strikes 
 a discordant note. Suddenly Marie's face 
 
 71 
 
After Many Years 
 
 grows livid with shame. Springing from 
 the arms which hold her in so fond an em- 
 brace, she drops into a chair, buries her face 
 in her hands and sobs bitterly. 
 
 Unable to comprehend the meaning of 
 these actions, though a vague sense of fail- 
 ure has come upon him, Hillmann bends 
 over her and implores her to tell him what 
 is wrong. Marie does not answer, only 
 sobs the more. He tries to take her hand, 
 but she snatches it from him. Then he 
 presses his lips against her hair, and the 
 woman springs to her feet and in a voice 
 filled with the agony of the mystery of pain 
 she cries : 
 
 ''Edward, my love, — God, forgive for 
 such words — why have you come to tempt 
 me?" Then pointing to a portrait of a 
 man hanging upon the wall, she resumes, in 
 the same voice. "That is my husband. Do 
 you understand me, Edward? ^ly hus- 
 band." 
 
 Hillmann's face takes on the pallor of her 
 own, and noting this the woman continues: 
 "Do n't look that way, Edward. God knows 
 how I loved you ; how I waited for you — 
 
 72 
 
After Many Years 
 
 waited, and wept and pra}-ed that you might 
 return. When I was compelled to give up 
 all hope I tried to forget, and when this man 
 came I listened to him and thought I had 
 forgotten. How I have suffered!" 
 
 Hillmann's mind is in an uproar and the 
 terrible meaning of her words overwhelms 
 him. He is drinking wormwood — a potion 
 more bitter than death. His mind burns in 
 the awful caldron of an earthly hell, and he 
 paces up and down the room, faster and 
 faster until it seems that he can never stop. 
 Surely he is going mad. He cares not ; in- 
 deed, he longs for a madness that forgets. 
 "Too late ! Too late !" in letters of fire 
 these words stand out before his mental 
 eye, and he gnashes his teeth, muttering be- 
 neath his breath, 'T have been a fool, a mis- 
 erable idiot. She is not to blame." 
 
 "Go," Marie is pleading all the while, 
 "Go, forget me and be a man. Your fellow- 
 men are looking to you for leadership, and 
 you must not, dare not fail them." 
 
 Hillmann does not heed her, in fact he 
 scarcely hears what she is saying, and he 
 continues to walk and mutter, mutter and 
 
 73 
 
After Many Years 
 
 walk. Then the power of his love over- 
 comes every consideration of manhood and 
 honor. He comes to a standstill just before 
 her and fiercely grasps her delicate wrists. 
 
 ''Come," he cries hoarsely, "what is your 
 husband to me, or to you ? I love you ; you 
 love me. Nothing else matters. Come!" 
 
 IMarie's answer comes soft and tremulous, 
 "Edward, come with me." 
 
 He follows her from the room into the 
 hall and up a stairway, his fierceness melt- 
 ing away in shame at his every step. Open- 
 ing a door near the head of the stairs, the 
 woman steps aside and Hillmann enters. 
 He has been ushered into a bedroom, and 
 beside the bed he sees a cradle and a baby 
 sleeping soundly within its quilted softness. 
 
 "Edward," the woman's voice is choked 
 with tears, "do you ask me to leave my 
 child ?" 
 
 Without a word Hillmann turns and 
 walks from the room and down the stairs. 
 Mechanically taking his hat from the rack 
 he passes out of the house. His future, his 
 impaired health, his candidacy — everything 
 is forgotten save the woman, as he trudges 
 
 74 
 
After Many Years 
 
 on and ever on. The city is left behind and 
 he walks along a suburban highway. He 
 feels tired and sits upon a large rock by the 
 roadside to rest. Looking at his watch he 
 sees that it is five o'clock. He has walked 
 continually for nearly three hours. Taking 
 a handkerchief from his pocket he wipes 
 away the great drops of perspiration gath- 
 ered upon his forehead. In returning the 
 cloth to his pocket he notices that he has 
 dropped a note. Picking it up he opens it 
 and reads : 
 
 "Executive meeting to-night to outline 
 the coming campaign. Your presence de- 
 sired, C Hotel parlors at eight o'clock. 
 
 "W. J. McDowell, Chairman." 
 
 What does it all mean? The words of 
 the note pass and repass through his brain 
 in a meaningless melange. He tries to 
 grasp some import from it all, but fails and 
 casts the note aside. 
 
 Then a sense of rest, such a feeling of 
 content and ecstasy as he has never known 
 before, comes to him, and he rises to go 
 back — he knows not where. He can not 
 walk, but wabbles like a man under the 
 
 75 
 
After Many Years 
 
 power of Bacchus and finally falls to the 
 grassy ground by the side of the road. 
 Still he is happy. A joy surges over him 
 like a beautiful tidal wave upon a sandy 
 beach. In the distance a sweet feminine 
 voice is singing a love lyric. From a tree 
 a thrush trills a merry greeting to his 
 mate, who promptly answers from a shrub 
 near by. 
 
 The sun, like a blazing beacon, lies close 
 to the horizon for a time, then hides itself 
 behind the distant hills. The twilight 
 comes on apace. Hillmann smiles. The 
 woman is coming — she must come. He 
 plucks a wild rose growing near and waits. 
 She comes and sits by his side. Soft, warm 
 hands caress his forehead ; soft, red lips 
 press upon his own, 
 
 "My love, my love," he whispers softly, 
 "we will flee, we will flee, we will flee — " 
 
 From "The C Press-Post:" 
 
 "Last evening about seven o'clock the 
 
 Honorable Edward S. Hillmann. the 
 
 candidate for Governor, was found near the 
 
 76 
 
After Many Years 
 
 pike north of the city, muttering inco- 
 herently and phicking wildly at the grass 
 * * * His mental powers are gone, and 
 recovery is doubtful. * * *" 
 
 77 
 
The Monster 
 
 His heart beat with the Hh of transcend- 
 ent joy that came with the consciousness 
 of the greater happiness. Ever battUng 
 with the obstacles common in the pathway 
 of the Hterary artist, he had tasted of the 
 wholesome things of life but lightly, and 
 now he was lifted to the highest pinnacle of 
 happiness. His den was a heaven as he sat 
 resting in his easy chair, thinking of the 
 abundant blessings of these days. His 
 heart hummed a lyric to her who had 
 given him her love and in the giving had 
 brought this joy of hfe. 
 
 All day literary friends and other ac- 
 quaintances had come and gone, each with 
 pleasing words of congratulation upon the 
 announcement of his approaching marriage 
 to a society leader of the city. Now, for a 
 few minutes, at the day's farewell, he was 
 alone, rapturously lost in the wonderland 
 of his dreams. Soon, very soon would be 
 
 79 
 
The Monster 
 
 the culmination, the realization of his 
 visions of abiding love — for in four and 
 twenty days he was to wed the fair Hilda, 
 goddess of his soul. 
 
 But he had forgotten. The Monster 
 loomed up before him in all its titanic ter- 
 ribleness — the Monster that dogged his 
 footsteps by day and haunted his bedcham- 
 ber by night. In other days, when he had 
 thought of it and his love a chilling fear 
 stole over him, but having turned a deaf 
 ear, it now gave him little trouble. He 
 argued that she would never know, never 
 see the skeleton which was a part of his life. 
 And so it was, lost in the ecstasy of his con- 
 suming love, he ever forgot. But as the 
 thought came at this time he trembled and 
 cried out bitterly against his heritage. 
 Then wath a laugh he thrust the image of 
 the Monster from his mind. 
 
 Finally he arose, entered his dressing 
 room and soon after passed into the street. 
 He was going to see Hilda, and together 
 they would plan the future. 
 
 An hour later with tlie full moon lighting 
 his way the man hurried up the tree-fringed 
 
 80 
 
The Monster 
 
 walk to the great veranda. Hilda herself 
 opened the door, and he stepped across the 
 threshold. 
 
 "Everett, you are late! What is the 
 cause?" 
 
 "Nothing, Hilda, save that I have 
 dreamed of you overmuch to-day." 
 
 The girl moved closer and as the light 
 from the chandelier fell across their faces 
 each gazed into the eyes of the other. 
 There was a silence fraught with many 
 sweet thoughts, but no words gave them 
 utterance. He smiled and grasped her 
 hand. She appeared more of a queen to- 
 night than ever before, a goddess to be 
 loved and cherished forever. What a 
 happy mortal he was, blessed with such a 
 love! 
 
 The evening passed away most pleas- 
 antly. Many were their hopes, many were 
 their plans. Then the topic of conversation 
 turned to himself and his work. 
 
 Like the cleaving of the heavens by the 
 lightning's flash, suddenly and without 
 warning, came the terrible thought of the 
 Monster. It filled his mind ; it crushed him 
 
 6 8l 
 
The Monster 
 
 to the earth. The conversation lulled and 
 became desultory. 
 
 Should he divulge his secret, or should 
 he marry her and keep silent? At the 
 former idea his mind revolted, and as to the 
 latter — God ! what could he do ? Should 
 he deceive her ? No, his love was too pure, 
 too sincere for deceit, and yet he dare not 
 disclose the curse of his life. Maddened, 
 he arose and paced the room. 
 
 "What troubles you, Everett?" she ques- 
 tioned abruptly in a constrained voice, her 
 eyes fused with anxiety. 
 
 ''It 's too awful ! I — I — " and he was 
 silent. 
 
 **What is it? Tell me," came the impera- 
 tive words. 
 
 "Don't, girl. I can't, I can't!" He 
 ceased his pacing to and fro, and stood be- 
 fore her. 
 
 "You must tell me, Everett. Be calm 
 and explain. Between you and me there 
 can be no secrets." She endeavored to re- 
 main calm, but fear made the words falter 
 and tremble as she spoke. 
 
 "I love you, Hilda; love you above every- 
 
 82 
 
The Monster 
 
 thing else this world or the next can give; 
 yet I can not, O ! I dare not tell you of this 
 curse. It is crushing me, and I can not for- 
 ever blight your life — I love you too much 
 for that. Forgive me, but it is best that 
 we — that I — " The tongue ceased in the 
 performance of its function and the man 
 stood mute, his face haggard and his eyes 
 lusterless with a despairing plea. 
 
 The girl breathed hard. A flame lit up 
 her cheeks and then was extinguished, leav- 
 ing them pale and drawn. She leaned for- 
 ward. 
 
 "Everett! Everett!" she moaned, her 
 chin quivering. 
 
 He attempted to speak, tried to loose his 
 tongue that he might better explain ; but 
 only one word, low and tremulous, fell from 
 his lips. 
 
 "Hilda !" 
 
 But she was sobbing and heard him not. 
 Turning he staggered into the hallway and 
 out into the avenue. 
 
 The woman and the world would never 
 know that through his veins coursed the 
 blood of the Ethiopian. 
 
 83 
 
''The Port of the Un- 
 expected" 
 
 Many minutes he had watched the girl with 
 approval and with pleasure. Having laid 
 the open magazine, which she had been 
 reading, down upon the bench by her side, 
 she looked out over the expanse of water to 
 the steep, wooded hills of the Little Moun- 
 tain State. Wakefield having noted her 
 beauty, moved away to the opposite side of 
 the deck, only to return a few minutes later. 
 Perhaps it was chance, maybe it was 
 providence; but just then a stronger breeze 
 than was wont to stir swept across the deck 
 of the little steamer which was moving 
 lustily down the Ohio, and tossed the maga- 
 zine from its resting place to the deck at 
 Wakefield's feet. Leaving his place, where 
 he sat upon the deck-railing, he picked it 
 up — and casually glancing at the open page, 
 noticed the title of the story. His face 
 flushed and he returned the magazine with- 
 out daring to face the owner squarely, fear- 
 
 8s 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 ing lest he might divulge his secret that 
 he — well, he did n't want the girl to know. 
 After acknowledging her thanks he ven- 
 tured a question : 
 
 "And you prefer viewing the scenery 
 along the river's borders to reading?" 
 
 She turned her eyes upon him. Wake- 
 field's eyes met hers, and for an instant he 
 was enthralled, enraptured, gazing as he 
 was into the depths of great limpid wells 
 of deep blue that held those enslaved who 
 dared look therein. 
 
 "I can hardly say, but, of course, it de- 
 pends on the scenery and on that which I 'm 
 reading," she answered in even tones, allow- 
 ing her gaze to wander to the West Vir- 
 ginia shore. 
 
 "I would rather have a mixture of the 
 two," he volunteered, continuing to admire 
 the large eyes, the resolute chin, the buoy- 
 ant countenance, and the great mass of sun- 
 wove hair arranged so bewitchingly upon 
 her head. 
 
 Still reticent, the girl hesitated, then turn- 
 ing again to the young man, she asked : 
 
 "What class of reading do you enjoy?" 
 
 86 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 "Strange to say, 1 favor the tragic and 
 those stories which deal with real life — life 
 that appeals to one's whole being, that stirs 
 and thrills one to the very finger tips." 
 
 "I, too, enjoy such stories. I have just 
 now finished such a one in this magazine," 
 she remarked, tendering the copy to Wake- 
 field, who had left the place on the railing 
 and taken a deck-chair. 
 
 "Have you read this story?" he ques- 
 tioned, pointing to the open page. 
 
 "Yes," she hastened to reply with zest, 
 "I have read 'The Port of the Unexpected,' 
 and think it by far the best story in the Au- 
 gust number. Indeed, it has been a long 
 time since I have read one so interesting. 
 The plot is simple and yet so original. It 's 
 certainly a great story." 
 
 "I 'm glad you enjoyed it," Wakefield re- 
 marked, a tremor of excitement in his voice 
 and a flush mantling his face. 
 
 The girl glanced at him in sudden won- 
 der. Conscious of his blunder, he quickly 
 added : 
 
 "I 'm acquainted with the author." 
 
 "Well, you are very fortunate. I can 
 
 87 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 but wish that I were permitted the privilege 
 of knowing such a dehghtful man as he 
 must be." 
 
 "He is an enterprising lawyer of my 
 home city in Ohio. At odd times, when at 
 leisure, he does some literary work," he con- 
 tinued recklessly, intoxicated with the girl's 
 words of commendation. 
 
 The conversation between the man and 
 the girl continued for over an hour, during 
 which time the various phases of literary 
 work were discussed, and their kindred in- 
 terests in the world of literature drew them 
 more and more into a friendly relationship. 
 Though never before had they met, one 
 would have taken them for old acquaint- 
 ances, so amiable and unabashed was their 
 conversation. 
 
 Then came a pause in the pleasant chit- 
 chat. The girl stirred slightly and looked 
 about as if searching for something. Being 
 unsuccessful, she arose and began to search 
 in earnest. 
 
 "Have you lost something?" Wakefield 
 inquired, rising. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, a frightened ex- 
 
 88 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 pression upon her face. "I 've lost my 
 purse !" 
 
 Without a word, he began looking about 
 where they had been sitting. Soon others 
 came up and lent their assistance. On all 
 sides they searched most carefully, but all 
 effort was futile — the purse could not be 
 found. The captain of the steamer, while 
 crossing the deck, noticing the crowd, came 
 near and, after inquiry, gave his attention 
 to the search. Wakefield, standing beside 
 the girl, still hopeful of recovering the lost, 
 did not look up until the officer was very 
 close, then he straightened up. 
 
 He was looking into the captain's face. 
 An instant there was utter silence — a quiet 
 that boded no good. Smiling, Wakefield 
 spoke and thrust forward his hand ; for be- 
 fore him stood an old acquaintance, the 
 bully of the little country school back in 
 Ohio some ten years since. The captain 
 did not smile nor notice the hand tendered 
 to clasp his own. Instead a dark scowl suf- 
 fused his visage and he muttered something 
 beneath his breath. With a short step he 
 was close to Wakefield. 
 
 89 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 "You! you here in this mix-up?" he 
 broke forth in such arrogant, insinuating 
 tones that the spectators fell back to look 
 on in amazement. 
 
 Taken unawares, Wakefield was so dum- 
 founded at the sudden outbreak that he 
 could only answer in the affirmative. 
 
 ''Why, sir, are you here? Why are you 
 taking such an interest in this girl's pocket- 
 book." The words were savage, harsh, 
 threatening. 
 
 ''Why am I here ! It 's very evident, 
 Captain Rinshaw, that I 'm going dow^n the 
 river on your steamer, and I 'm searching 
 for the young woman's purse, because it 's 
 only right that I should do so." 
 
 The answer seemed only to provoke the 
 other's wrath, and again he broke forth : 
 
 "You 're up to your old tricks now, eh ? 
 I know you too well !" Then he halted that 
 he might see how those standing about were 
 taking the proceedings. 
 
 The accused helplessly turned his eyes to- 
 ward the girl. Gazing into her face he 
 saw the friendly expression of the eyes fade, 
 fade until they emitted only coldness and 
 
 90 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 scorn. From the spectators he received 
 suspicious glances. His heart sank within 
 him as he once more turned to the captain, 
 and noting the look of hatred upon his ac- 
 cuser's face remembrance brought the rea- 
 son for the attack. Rinshaw in the old 
 days had held a grudge against him, and he 
 still harbored it, nursed it, and now the thing 
 crazed him. He was having his revenge. 
 
 ''Are you sure you have n't got that 
 pocketbook?" roared the captain, in his 
 coarse, mocking way. 
 
 A flush of anger mounted Wakefield's 
 cheeks and he raised his arm, but remem- 
 bering that any show of anger on his part 
 would add tenfold to the suspicion of the 
 onlookers, he let his arm fall to his side. 
 
 "No, I have n't the purse," he answered 
 in firm, tense tones, his eyes blazing at Rin- 
 shaw. The captain winced under the gaze 
 and his eyes fell. 
 
 ''Well— well, we '11 see about it." With 
 this parting shot he wheeled, ran up the 
 stairway and his footfalls could be heard as 
 he crossed the upper deck to the pilot house. 
 
 Dazed, overcome, Wakefield gazed wildly 
 
 91 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 about him, hoping for some sign of sym- 
 pathy, but there was none. He would 
 speak, would try to explain ; but facing the 
 suspicious glances of the passengers and the 
 look of scorn from the girl then turning 
 away, accompanied by an elderly woman, he 
 was speechless, and before the desired 
 words came he was alone. 
 
 Taking a deck-chair near to the railing, 
 he sat down and gazing sullenly at the danc- 
 ing ripples upon the Ohio's surface and 
 at the vista of valley and hill reaching 
 away to the horizon, he perceived not the 
 beauty or grandeur of either — his thoughts 
 were centered upon other things. He 
 wished he were a thousand miles awav. 
 Angry at himself for making this journey 
 by steamer when he could have reached his 
 destination by rail in less time, and remem- 
 bering that he was doing so merely for the 
 pleasure and recreation to be derived there- 
 from, he cursed his folly. Deep within 
 himself the terrible accusation ate into his 
 soul like a cauterizing iron into quivering 
 flesh. Yet, with a full realization of his in- 
 nocence, he was not blind to the logic of 
 
 92 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 the charge — he could not blame his fellow 
 passengers for their suspicions nor could 
 he censure the girl. He was a stranger to 
 them all, save to his accuser, and he alone 
 understood the motive of the captain's per- 
 secution. 
 
 And thinking thus he smiled a scornful 
 smile of indifference, and w^as even tempted 
 to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, 
 that he, a lawyer, honored and respected, 
 should be charged with stealing a young 
 woman's purse. 
 
 The Buckeye moved steadily down the 
 river, the passengers moved about more 
 freely, and all the while the westering sun 
 crept nearer its place of exit. 
 
 Wakefield, however, gave no thought to 
 the progress of the steamer nor to his sur- 
 roundings. He could think only of the ac- 
 cusation and the girl — the image of the girl 
 haunted his mind continually. Was it the 
 bev^itching eyes so fearless and yet so child- 
 like, or was it the pleasant personality ac- 
 centuated by her beauty that caused him to 
 muse so longingly upon the companion of 
 an hour now past? He had never thought 
 
 93 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 of a woman so before, yet somehow her 
 spirit permeated his being. But she, too, 
 beheved him guilty — even scorned him. 
 Probably she would never know of his in- 
 nocence. As this thought came, he was 
 tempted to revolt against the silence, go to 
 the captain, settle the score, and make him 
 confess his rascality. He had whipped him 
 in the old days, and certainly he could do it 
 again. Then his better manhood took pos- 
 session and he despised himself for coun- 
 tenancing such thoughts. ''Time," he mut- 
 tered under his breath, "will exonerate me." 
 
 And yet — and yet he hated the cloud that 
 hung over him. Innocent though he was, 
 still the very thought that perhaps the 
 months and years might intervene before 
 he would be free of all this foul calumny 
 haunted him. Doubt, ever the great, 
 shadowy skeleton of dying hope, stalked in, 
 and as the minutes slipped by he wondered 
 and doubted, doubted and wondered. Then, 
 finally, with a mighty effort he thrust these 
 gloomy thoughts from his mind. 
 
 For a moment he turned his attention to 
 his surroundings and saw familiar land- 
 
 94 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 scapes on both sides of the river. He was 
 within a short distance of his landing place. 
 
 Some one approached. Perhaps it was 
 the captain coming to gloat over his victory 
 or to further anger his victim. Wakefield 
 turned with a black look upon his face, but 
 when he saw who stood near, the scowl 
 gave place to a look of wonder, and he 
 moved nervously on his chair, awaiting 
 what she might say. 
 
 The girl at first was startled, but when 
 the man's frown had gone she moved nearer 
 and sat down. Her eyes, now grave, 
 sought his, but he looked beyond her at 
 the distant shore, scarcely knowing why he 
 did so. 
 
 "Can you ever forgive me? Can you 
 ever forget that I caused you so much 
 pain — that I 've brought all this upon 
 you — " her voice trailed away to silence and 
 her form convulsed slightly as if she would 
 sob. 
 
 He was now watching her every move 
 and hearing her every word. 
 
 She continued: "It was all a mistake — 
 a terrible mistake, and I 'm to blame. I 
 
 95 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 was the cause of the people aboard sus- 
 picioning you of — of taking my purse. O, 
 it was terrible! Thoughtlessly I had left 
 the purse in our stateroom, and mother just 
 found it. Can you — can you ever forgive 
 this mistake ?" 
 
 Her eyes were pleading, and as she 
 leaned forward, wrapt in the sincerity of 
 her plea, her hand lightly touched Wake- 
 field's sleeve. 
 
 A loud, coarse whistle came from the 
 steamer, followed by another and still an- 
 other. The man straightened up and for 
 an instant looked away toward the Ohio 
 shore. Then he turned to the girl, her 
 touch still thrilling him as he had never been 
 thrilled before by the touch of a woman's 
 hand. 
 
 "Forgive! There isn't anything to for- 
 give. I have held nothing against you ; you 
 were not to blame. The incident was but 
 a false play of fate. Certain that you know 
 that I am not guilty, I am happy." 
 
 Her words came with eagerness: ''I am 
 glad you hold nothing against me. It re- 
 moves such a burden from my mind. I 
 trust. Mr. " 
 
 96 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 ''Wakefield," he interpolated, "Sidney 
 Wakefield." 
 
 The boat neared the mooring and the 
 usual clamor accompanying the making of 
 a landing was borne to the ears of the pair. 
 He arose from his chair. 
 
 "Wakefield!" came from the girl ex- 
 citedly, her cheeks burning with timidity, 
 "why, you are the author of 'The Port of 
 the Unexpected,' the story we were talking 
 about. Can it be so?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered simply. "Here is my 
 landing. Good bye." 
 
 "O, such a day as I 've made of this !" she 
 murmured, then extended her hand. "Good 
 bye. I 'm sorry I caused you to suffer such 
 humiliation — such pain." Then she looked 
 straight away into the far distance. 
 
 Pressing her hand gently, Wakefield 
 turned, grasped his traveling bag. and 
 rushed down the stairway and over the 
 gangplank to tlie wharfboat. Briskly he 
 moved up the bank. Reaching the top, he 
 halted to give the steamer a last look. 
 
 In the light where the rays of the setting 
 sun fell across the deck stood the girl lean- 
 
 97 
 
The Port of the Unexpected 
 
 ing over the railing, a handkerchief flutter- 
 ing in her hand. He raised his hat, and as 
 the Buckeye disappeared around the bend 
 the flush upon his cheeks, dying out, gave 
 place to a serious expression, but all the 
 while his heart beat joyously with the 
 knowledge of a secret. 
 
 q8 
 
8 1910 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
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