The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort DearbornReed, Myrtle
General
The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn
Reed, Myrtle
Chicago (Ill.) -- Fiction; Fort Dearborn Massacre, Chicago, Ill., 1812 -- Fiction
"Neither have I, and I don't want to. Do you remember the night you
came?"
Forsyth nodded.
"I can't get that out of my head--the way she looked at me when she
told me I should never have my heart's desire. Someway, it sticks."
"You're not superstitious, are you?"
"Not exactly, but it was rather uncanny, if you remember,--at least it
would have seemed so if she had said it to you."
"That's true," admitted Robert.
"I'm not afraid of anything in this world," resumed the Ensign; "but
I don't want to tackle the next before I get to it--if there is any
next."
"What do you think about the next world, anyway?"
"Well," answered Ronald, seriously, "I don't think much about it,
and that's a fact. Nobody knows any more about it than anybody else,
and I don't see why one man's opinion isn't as good as another's.
Personally, I have always felt that if I was decent and honest and
minded my own business, I'd get my share of anything good that night
be coming after I got through here. Actions, to my mind, are a good
deal more important than beliefs."
"That's so, too, but I've learned to keep pretty still about those
things, for I've been accused more than once of too much liberality."
"The chaplain at West Point was a nice old fellow, and he used to tell
us that if we were good soldiers and abided by the army regulations,
we wouldn't get into trouble after we died. I've always remembered it
and I've marched by it ever since."
"Let's go in now," suggested the other, after a long silence.
"All right--come on, Major!"
The sun was shining brightly on the water, and the dog barked joyously
as they plunged in. "Keep him here," said Ronald, "I'm going on out."
Robert watched him enviously as he swam north-east with a long, free
stroke, until he was almost out of sight. The dog was eager to be
after him, and, having no collar, was not easily controlled. When he
came back, aglow with life, it seemed to the other that he had the
clean-limbed beauty of a young Greek god.
"You go now," shouted Ronald, "and I'll amuse the pup."
Forsyth swam straight out, with an exultant sense of power in
breasting the waves, and his pulses thrilled with something so vital,
keen, and elemental that it seemed as if he could go on forever. When
he turned back, he saw the gleam of light far to the northward, where
the sun shone on the cross, and thought of Beatrice, happily, and of
the day in the woods. He was well in toward shore when his muscles
suddenly lost their strength--as if he had forgotten how to swim. He
called once, but faintly, then unutterable darkness surrounded him.
When he came to his senses he was lying on the sand, and Ronald was
rolling him over and over and pounding him vigorously. A whine sounded
indistinct and far, as if it were leagues away, even while the dog was
licking his face.
"My God, man," said the Ensign, with white lips, "I'd almost given you
up!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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