In the preceding chapter we closed the minuter narrative
with a scene at the Hut, in the spring of 1765. We must
now advance the time just ten years, opening, anew, in the
month of May, 1775. This, it is scarcely necessary to tell
the reader, is bringing him at once up to the earliest days
of the revolution. The contest which preceded that great
event had in fact occurred in the intervening time, and we
are now about to plunge into the current of some of the
minor incidents of the struggle itself.

Ten years are a century in the history of a perfectly new
settlement. The changes they produce are even surprising,
though in ordinary cases they do not suffice to erase the
signs of a recent origin. The forest is opened, and the light
of day admitted, it is true; but its remains are still to be
seen in multitudes of unsightly stumps, dead standing trees,
and ill-looking stubs. These vestiges of the savage state

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usually remain a quarter of a century; in certain regions
they are to be found for even more than twice that period.
All this, however, had captain Willoughby escaped, in consequence
of limiting his clearing, in a great measure, to that
which had been made by the beavers, and from which time
and natural decay had, long before his arrival, removed
every ungainly object. It is true, here and there a few acres
had been cleared on the firmer ground, at the margin of the
flats, where barns and farm buildings had been built, and
orchards planted; but, in order to preserve the harmony of
his view, the captain had caused all the stumps to be pulled
and burnt, giving to these places the same air of agricultural
finish as characterized the fields on the lower land.

To this sylvan scene, at a moment which preceded the
setting of the sun by a little more than an hour, and in the
first week of the genial month of May, we must now bring
the reader in fancy. The season had been early, and the
Beaver Manor, or the part of it which was cultivated, lying
low and sheltered, vegetation had advanced considerably
beyond the point that is usual, at that date, in the elevated
region of which we have been writing. The meadows were
green with matted grasses, the wheat and rye resembled
rich velvets, and the ploughed fields had the fresh and mellowed
appearance of good husbandry and a rich soil. The
shrubbery, of which the captain's English taste had introduced
quantities, was already in leaf, and even portions of
the forest began to veil their sombre mysteries with the delicate
foliage of an American spring.

The site of the ancient pond was a miracle of rustic
beauty. Everything like inequality or imperfection had
disappeared, the whole presenting a broad and picturesquely
shaped basin, with outlines fashioned principally by nature,
an artist that rarely fails in effect. The flat was divided
into fields by low post-and-rail fences, the captain making
it a law to banish all unruly animals from his estate. The
barns and out-buildings were neatly made and judiciously
placed, and the three or four roads, or lanes, that led to
them, crossed the low-land in such graceful curves, as
greatly to increase the beauty of the landscape. Here and
there a log cabin was visible, nearly buried in the forest,
with a few necessary and neat appliances around it; the

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homes of labourers who had long dwelt in them, and who
seemed content to pass their lives in the same place. As
most of these men had married and become fathers, the
whole colony, including children, notwithstanding the captain's
policy not to settle, had grown to considerably more
than a hundred souls, of whom three-and-twenty were able-bodied
men. Among the latter were the millers; but, their
mills were buried in the ravine where they had been first
placed, quite out of sight from the picture above, concealing
all the unavoidable and ungainly-looking objects of a saw-mill
yard.

As a matter of course, the object of the greatest interest,
as it was the most conspicuous, was the Hutted Knoll, as
the house was now altogether called, and the objects it contained.
Thither, then, we will now direct our attention, and
describe things as they appeared ten years after they were
first presented to the reader.

The same agricultural finish as prevailed on the flats
pervaded every object on the Knoll, though some labour had
been expended to produce it. Everything like a visible
rock, the face of the cliff on the northern end excepted, had
disappeared, the stones having been blasted, and either
worked into walls for foundations, or walls for fence. The
entire base of the Knoll, always excepting the little precipice
at the rivulet, was encircled by one of the latter, erected
under the superintendence of Jamie Allen, who still remained
at the Hut, a bachelor, and as he said himself, a happy
man. The southern face of the Knoll was converted into
lawn, there being quite two acres intersected with walks,
and well garnished with shrubbery. What was unusual in
America, at that day, the captain, owing to his English
education, had avoided straight lines, and formal paths;
giving to the little spot the improvement on nature which is
a consequence of embellishing her works without destroying
them. On each side of this lawn was an orchard, thrifty
and young, and which were already beginning to show signs
of putting forth their blossoms.

About the Hut itself, the appearance of change was not
so manifest. Captain Willoughby had caused it to be constructed
originally, as he intended to preserve it, and it
formed no part of his plan to cover it with tawdry colours.

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There it stood, brown above, and grey beneath, as wood or
stone was the material, with a widely projecting roof. It
had no piazzas, or stoups, and was still without external
windows, one range excepted. The loops had been cut, but
it was more for the benefit of lighting the garrets, than for
any other reason, all of them being glazed, and serving the
end for which they had been pierced. The gates remained
precisely in the situation in which they were, when last
presented to the eye of the reader! There they stood, each
leaning against the wall on its own side of the gate-way,
the hinges beginning to rust, by time and exposure. Ten
years had not produced a day of sufficient leisure in which
to hang them: though Mrs. Willoughby frequently spoke of
the necessity of doing so, in the course of the first summer.
Even she had got to be so familiarized to her situation, and
so accustomed to seeing the leaves where they stood, that
she now regarded them as a couple of sleeping lions in stone,
or as characteristic ornaments, rather than as substantial
defences to the entrance of the dwelling.

The interior of the Hut, however, had undergone many
alterations. The western half had been completed, and
handsome rooms had been fitted up for guests and inmates
of the family, in the portion of the edifice occupied by the
latter. Additional comforts had been introduced, and, the
garners, cribs and lodgings of the labourers having been
transferred to the skirts of the forest, the house was more
strictly and exclusively the abode of a respectable and well-regulated
family. In the rear, too, a wing had been thrown
along the verge of the cliff, completely enclosing the court.
This wing, which overhung the rivulet, and had, not only a
most picturesque site, but a most picturesque and lovely
view, now contained the library, parlour and music-room,
together with other apartments devoted to the uses of the
ladies, during the day; the old portions of the house that
had once been similarly occupied being now converted into
sleeping apartments. The new wing was constructed entirely
of massive squared logs, so as to render it bullet-proof,
there being no necessity for a stone foundation, standing, as
it did, on the verge of a cliff some forty feet in height. This
was the part of the edifice which had external windows,
the elevation removing it from the danger of inroads, or

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hostile shot, while the air and view were both grateful and
desirable. Some extra attention had been paid to the appearance
of the meadows on this side of the Knoll, and the
captain had studiously kept their skirts, as far as the eye
could see from the windows, in virgin forest; placing the
barns, cabins, and other detached buildings, so far south as
to be removed from view. Beulah Willoughby, a gentle,
tranquil creature, had a profound admiration of the beauties
of nature; and to her, her parents had yielded the control
of everything that was considered accessary to the mere
charms of the eye; her taste had directed most of that
which had not been effected by the noble luxuriance of nature.
Wild roses were already putting forth their leaves in
various fissures of the rocks, where earth had been placed
for their support, and the margin of the little stream, that
actually washed the base of the cliff, winding off in a
charming sweep through the meadows, a rivulet of less than
twenty feet in width, was garnished with willows and alder.
Quitting this sylvan spot, we will return to the little shrubadorned
area in front of the Hut. This spot the captain
called his glacis, while his daughters termed it the lawn.
The hour, it will be remembered, was shortly before sunset,
and thither nearly all the family had repaired to breathe the
freshness of the pure air, and bathe in the genial warmth of
a season, which is ever so grateful to those who have recently
escaped from the rigour of a stern winter. Rude,
and sufficiently picturesque garden-seats, were scattered
about, and on one of these were seated the captain and his
wife; he, with his hair sprinkled with grey, a hale, athletic,
healthy man of sixty, and she a fresh-looking, mild-featured,
and still handsome matron of forty-eight. In front, stood a
venerable-looking personage, of small stature, dressed in
rusty black, of the cut that denoted the attire of a clergyman,
before it was considered aristocratic to wear the outward
symbols of belonging to the church of God. This was
the Rev. Jedidiah Woods, a native of New England, who
had long served as a chaplain in the same regiment with the
captain, and who, being a bachelor, on retired pay, had
dwelt with his old messmate for the last eight years, in the
double capacity of one who exercised the healing art as well
for the soul as for the body. To his other offices, he added

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that of an instructor, in various branches of knowledge, to
the young people. The chaplain, for so he was called by
everybody in and around the Hut, was, at the moment of
which we are writing, busy in expounding to his friends
certain nice distinctions that existed, or which he fancied to
exist, between a tom-cod and a chub, the former of which
fish he very erroneously conceived he held in his hand at
that moment; the Rev. Mr. Woods being a much better
angler than naturalist. To his dissertation Mrs. Willoughby
listened with great good-nature, endeavouring all the while
to feel interested; while her husband kept uttering his “by
all means,” “yes,” “certainly,” “you're quite right, Woods,”
his gaze, at the same time, fastened on Joel Strides, and
Pliny the elder, who were unharnessing their teams, on the
flats beneath, having just finished a “land,” and deeming it
too late to commence another.

Beulah, her pretty face shaded by a large sun-bonnet,
was superintending the labours of Jamie Allen, who, finding
nothing just then to do as a mason, was acting in the capacity
of gardener; his hat was thrown upon the grass, with his
white locks bare, and he was delving about some shrubs,
with the intention of giving them the benefit of a fresh
dressing of manure. Maud, however, without a hat of any
sort, her long, luxuriant, silken, golden tresses covering her
shoulders, and occasionally veiling her warm, rich cheek,
was exercising with a battledore, keeping Little Smash, now
increased in size to quite fourteen stone, rather actively employed
as an assistant, whenever the exuberance of her own
spirits caused her to throw the plaything beyond her reach.
In one of the orchards, near by, two men were employed
trimming the trees. To these the captain next turned all
his attention, just as he had encouraged the chaplain to persevere,
by exclaiming, “out of all question, my dear sir”—
though he was absolutely ignorant that the other had just
advanced a downright scientific heresy. At this critical
moment a cry from Little Smash, that almost equalled a
downfall of crockery in its clamour, drew every eye in her
direction.

“What is the matter, Desdemona?” asked the chaplain,
a little tartly, by no means pleased at having his natural
history startled by sounds so inapplicable to the subject.

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“How often have I told you that the Lord views with displeasure
anything so violent and improper as your out-cries?”

“Can't help him, dominie—nebber can help him, when
he take me sudden. See, masser, dere come Ole Nick!”

There was Nick, sure enough. For the first time, in
more than two years, the Tuscarora was seen approaching
the house, on the long, loping trot that he affected when he
wished to seem busy, or honestly earning his money. He
was advancing by the only road that was ever travelled by
the stranger as he approached the Hut; or, he came up the
valley. As the woman spoke, he had just made his appearance
over the rocks, in the direction of the mills. At that
distance, quite half a mile, he would not have been recognised,
but for this gait, which was too familiar to all at the
Knoll, however, to be mistaken.

“That is Nick, sure enough!” exclaimed the captain.
“The fellow comes at the pace of a runner; or, as if he
were the bearer of some important news!”

“The tricks of Saucy Nick are too well known to deceive
any here,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, who, surrounded by
her husband and children, always felt so happy as to deprecate
every appearance of danger.

“These savages will keep that pace for hours at a time,”
observed the chaplain; “a circumstance that has induced
some naturalists to fancy a difference in the species, if not
in the genus.”

“Is he chub or tom-cod, Woods?” asked the captain,
throwing back on the other all he recollected of the previous
discourse.

“Nay,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously, “I do
think he may have some intelligence! It is now more than
a twelvemonth since we have seen Nick.”

“It is more than twice twelvemonth, my dear; I have
not seen the fellow's face since I denied him the keg of rum
for his `discovery' of another beaver pond. He has tried to
sell me a new pond every season since the purchase of
this.”

“Do you think he took serious offence, Hugh, at that
refusal? If so, would it not be better to give him what he
asks?”

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

“I have thought little about it, and care less, my dear.
Nick and I know each other pretty well. It is an acquaintance
of thirty years' standing, and one that has endured
trials by flood and field, and even by the horse-whip. No
less than three times have I been obliged to make these
salutary applications to Nick's back, with my own hands;
though it is, now, more than ten years since a blow has
passed between us.”

“Does a savage ever forgive a blow?” asked the chaplain,
with a grave air, and a look of surprise.

“I fancy a savage is quite as apt to forgive it, as a civilized
man, Woods. To you, who have served so long in
His Majesty's army, a blow, in the way of punishment, can
be no great novelty.”

“Certainly not, as respects the soldiers; but I did not
know Indians were ever flogged.”

“That is because you never happened to be present at
the ceremony—but, this is Nick, sure enough; and by his
trot I begin to think the fellow has some message, or news.”

“How old is the man, captain? Does an Indian never
break down?”

“Nick must be fairly fifty, now. I have known him more
than half that period, and he was an experienced, and, to
own the truth, a brave and skilful warrior, when we first
met. I rate him fifty, every day of it.”

By this time the new-comer was so near, that the conversation
ceased, all standing gazing at him, as he drew near,
and Maud gathering up her hair, with maiden bashfulness,
though certainly Nick was no stranger. As for Little
Smash, she waddled off to proclaim the news to the younger
Pliny, Mari', and Great Smash, all of whom were still in
the kitchen of the Hut, flourishing, sleek and glistening.

Soon after, Nick arrived. He came up the Knoll on his
loping trot, never stopping until he was within five or six
yards of the captain, when he suddenly halted, folded his
arms, and stood in a composed attitude, lest he should betray
a womanish desire to tell his story. He did not even
pant, but appeared as composed and unmoved, as if he had
walked the half-mile he had been seen to pass over on a
trot.

“Sago — Sago,” cried the captain, heartily — “you are

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

welcome back, Nick; I am glad to see you still so active.”

“Sago”—answered the guttural voice of the Indian, who
quietly nodded his head.

“What will you have to refresh you, after such a journey,
Nick—our trees give us good cider, now.”

“Santa Cruz better,”—rejoined the sententious Tuscarora.

“Santa Cruz is certainly stronger,” answered the captain
laughing, “and, in that sense, you may find it better. You
shall have a glass, as soon as we go to the house. What
news do you bring, that you come in so fast?”

“Glass won't do. Nick bring news worth jug. Squaw
give two jug for Nick's news. Is it barg'in?”

“I!” cried Mrs. Willoughby—“what concern can I have
with your news. My daughters are both with me, and
Heaven be praised! both are well. What can I care for
your news, Nick?”

“Got no pap-poose but gal? T'ink you got boy—officer—
great chief—up here, down yonder—over dere.”

“Robert!—Major Willoughby! What can you have to
tell me of my son?”

“Tell all about him, for one jug. Jug out yonder; Nick's
story out here. One good as t'other.”

“You shall have all you ask, Nick.”—These were not
temperance days, when conscience took so firm a stand
between the bottle and the lips.—“You shall have all you
ask, Nick, provided you can really give me good accounts
of my noble boy. Speak, then; what have you to say?”

“Say you see him in ten, five minute. Sent Nick before
to keep moder from too much cry.”

An exclamation from Maud followed; then the ardent
girl was seen rushing down the lawn, her hat thrown aside,
and her bright fair hair again flowing in ringlets on her
shoulders. She flew rather than ran, in the direction of the
mill, where the figure of Robert Willoughby was seen rushing
forward to meet her. Suddenly the girl stopped, threw
herself on a log, and hid her face. In a few minutes she
was locked in her brother's arms. Neither Mrs. Willoughby
nor Beulah imitated this impetuous movement on the part
of Maud; but the captain, chaplain, and even Jamie Allen,

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hastened down the road to meet and welcome the young
major. Ten minutes later, Bob Willoughby was folded to
his mother's heart; then came Beulah's turn; after which,
the news having flown through the household, the young
man had to receive the greetings of Mari', both the Smashes,
the younger Pliny, and all the dogs. A tumultuous quarter
of an hour brought all round, again, to its proper place, and
restored something like order to the Knoll. Still an excitement
prevailed the rest of the day, for the sudden arrival
of a guest always produced a sensation in that retired settlement;
much more likely, then, was the unexpected appearance
of the only son and heir to create one. As everybody
bustled and was in motion, the whole family was in
the parlour, and major Willoughby was receiving the grateful
refreshment of a delicious cup of tea, before the sun set.
The chaplain would have retired out of delicacy, but to this
the captain would not listen; he would have everything
proceed as if the son were a customary guest, though it
might have been seen by the manner in which his mother's
affectionate eye was fastened on his handsome face, as well
as that in which his sister Beulah, in particular, hung about
him, under the pretence of supplying his wants, that the
young man was anything but an every-day inmate.

“How the lad has grown!” said the captain, tears of
pride starting into his eyes, in spite of a very manful resolution
to appear composed and soldier-like.

“I was about to remark that myself, captain,” observed
the chaplain. “I do think Mr. Robert has got to his full
six feet—every inch as tall as you are yourself, my good
sir.”

“That is he, Woods—and taller in one sense. He is a
major, already, at twenty-seven; it is a step I was not able
to reach at near twice the age.”

“That is owing, my dear sir,” answered the son quickly,
and with a slight tremor in his voice, “to your not having
as kind a father as has fallen to my share—or at least one
not as well provided with the means of purchasing.”

“Say none at all, Bob, and you can wound no feeling,
while you will tell the truth. My father died a lieutenant-colonel
when I was a school-boy; I owed my ensigncy to
my uncle Sir Hugh, the father of the present Sir Harry

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Willoughby; after that I owed each step to hard and long
service. Your mother's legacies have helped you along, at
a faster rate, though I do trust there has been some merit
to aid in the preferment.”

“Speaking of Sir Harry Willoughby, sir, reminds me of
one part of my errand to the Hut,” said the major, glancing
his eye towards his father, as if to prepare him for some
unexpected intelligence.

“What of my cousin?” demanded the captain, calmly.
“We have not met in thirty years, and are the next thing
to strangers to each other. Has he made that silly match
of which I heard something when last in York? Has he
disinherited his daughter as he threatened? Use no reserve
here; our friend Woods is one of the family.”

“Sir Harry Willoughby is not married, sir, but dead.”

“Dead!” repeated the captain, setting down his cup, like
one who received a sudden shock. “I hope not without
having been reconciled to his daughter, and providing for
her large family?”

“He died in her arms, and escaped the consequences of
his silly intention to marry his own housekeeper. With
one material exception, he has left Mrs. Bowater his whole
fortune.”

The captain sat thoughtful, for some time; every one else
being silent and attentive. But the mother's feelings prompted
her to inquire as to the nature of the exception.

“Why, mother, contrary to all my expectations, and I
may say wishes, he has left me twenty-five thousand pounds
in the fives. I only hold the money as my father's trustee.”

“You do no such thing, Master Bob, I can tell you!” said
the captain, with emphasis.

The son looked at the father, a moment, as if to see whether
he was understood, and then he proceeded—

“I presume you remember, sir,” said the major, “that
you are the heir to the title?”

“I have not forgot that, major Willoughby; but what is
an empty baronetcy to a happy husband and father like
me, here in the wilds of America? Were I still in the army,
and a colonel, the thing might be of use; as I am, I would
rather have a tolerable road from this place to the Mohawk,
than the duchy of Norfolk, without the estate.”

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“Estate there is none, certainly,” returned the major, in
a tone of a little disappointment, “except the twenty-five
thousand pounds; unless you include that which you possess
where you are; not insignificant, by the way, sir.”

“It will do well enough for old Hugh Willoughby, late a
captain in His Majesty's 23d Regiment of Foot, but not so
well for Sir Hugh. No, no, Bob. Let the baronetcy sleep
awhile; it has been used quite enough for the last hundred
years or more. Out of this circle, there are probably not
ten persons in America, who know that I have any claims
to it.”

The major coloured, and he played with the spoon of his
empty cup, stealing a glance or two around, before he answered.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Hugh—my dear father, I mean—
but—to own the truth, never anticipating such a decision
on your part, I have spoken of the thing to a good many
friends—I dare say, if the truth were known, I've called you
the baronet, or Sir Hugh, to others, at least a dozen times.”

“Well, should it be so, the thing will be forgotten. A
parson can be unfrocked, Woods, and a baronet can be un-baroneted,
I suppose.”

“But, Sir William”—so everybody called the well-known
Sir William Johnson, in the colony of New York—“But,
Sir William found it useful, Willoughby, and so, I dare say,
will his son and successor, Sir John,” observed the attentive
wife and anxious mother; “and if you are not now in the
army, Bob is. It will be a good thing for our son one day,
and ought not to be lost.”

“Ah, I see how it is, Beulah; your mother has no notion
to lose the right of being called Lady Willoughby.”

“I am sure my mother, sir, wishes to be called nothing
that does not become your wife; if you remain Mr. Hugh
Willoughby, she will remain Mrs. Hugh Willoughby. But,
papa, it might be useful to Bob.”

Beulah was a great favourite with the captain, Maud being
only his darling; he listened always to whatever the
former said, therefore, with indulgence and respect. He
often told the chaplain that his daughter Beulah had the true
feelings of her sex, possessing a sort of instinct for whatever
was right and becoming, in woman.

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