The Sign of the Prophet: A Tale of Tecumseh and Tippecanoe
9781465684660
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
It was a hot, sultry morning in the latter part of August, 1811. A dugout canoe containing two occupants was swiftly speeding down the Scioto, at a point near which the city of Columbus now stands. The clear green water wimpled musically at the bow of the vessel, and a frothy wake bubbled and eddied at the stern. The surface of the stream lay cool and dark in the shadow of the overhanging trees; but where the red rays of the rising sun shot through the dense foliage and fell upon the pulseless bosom of the sluggish tide, they gave it the metallic luster of burnished copper. Great trees ranged themselves as stalwart sentinels along the shores, a part of the grand army that stretched away to the far distance on either hand. Their leaves were dark green and glossy. Yellow and purple wild flowers lifted their fair faces to the morning sun and nodded a welcome. Feathered songsters fluttered among the gray boughs and chirped and warbled merrily. A venturesome fish popped several feet out of the water—just ahead of the swiftly flying dugout—and flashed its silver scales in a tantalizing manner. The occupants of the canoe gave little heed to the beauties of the scene. Seated in the bottom of their quivering, rocking craft, they rapidly and rhythmically dipped their light paddles. At each stroke the frail vessel lifted itself and sprang forward, like a thing of life. The forest receded from the western bank of the river, and low lying fields of tall, rank corn took its place. Walled in by the growing maize, lay the straggling village of Franklinton—a cluster of rude log huts. Cleared spaces appeared in the woods upon the eastern shore; and several cabins stood out against the background of encircling trees—the germ, the nucleus of the Capital City of to day. The two paddlers looked neither to the right, nor to the left, but laboriously bent to their work. Suddenly a man parted the bushes upon the western shore and, stepping down to the water’s edge, called lustily: “Hello! That you, Ross Douglas?” “Yes,” answered the man in the stern of the dugout. “What do you want?” Both paddlers ceased their efforts and allowed the craft to drift with the lazy current. “W’y, y’r dog come to my cabin this mornin’—all wet an’ draggled as though he’d swum the river,” returned the voice from the shore. “He ’peared to be tuckered out an’ hungry—an’ went whinin’ ’round as if he was huntin’ fer you. I fed him, an’ then tied him up in the cabin. Do you want him?” The paddler in the bow of the canoe turned his head and looked at his companion, at the same time uttering a grunt of surprise and incredulity. “You may keep him until I come back,” called the man who had answered to the name of Ross Douglas, lifting his paddle and preparing to resume his journey.
